Stan puked his heart out in a bathroom stall.

His arm braced against the stall wall, sliding down and gripping the guide bar when torrents of his stomach acid evacuated him. His eyes shut tightly to the burning in his throat, the bitter taste and quaking in his chest at each contortion of his gut.

There he kneeled, racking with the relentlessness his body shared in its self destruction.

Why don't you ask Craig?

Another wave of nausea, another unrelenting rushing of fluid hitting the toilet bowl.

What a fool, he thought on repeat. His stomach twisted in knots, ink blots of white blurring his vision with every purge. Knuckles turning white on the rim of the seat.

He hated it, he wished for it to just end. Heartbroken, and it was him to do so. His foolishness brought him to that prayer position alone in the school restroom. He held a hand to his stomach, eyes dripping into the sickness of the water inches from his face, the putrid smell of it all.

The toilet flushed. Finding the strength to stand, and his knees locking to keep him sturdy, He turned to the door and pushed his wait out.

He thankfully found himself alone, as much of the ache in his heart, it wouldn't compare to students coming in to find him in such a pitiful state. He could only turn to the reflection of his hurting self in the stretched mirror over the row of sinks.

His eyes bloodshot red and throat raw from the vomit, Stan walked over to turn the knobs and drink water in his cupped hands he drank from greedily to coat his burning throat.

As the cool liquid rolled over on his tongue, he spat it back out into the sink. The off color of it swirled down the drain bringing him to turn back to the mirror in shame.

"What have you done?" The reflection's eyes seemed to say.

Without a second glance, he shut off the sink and turned to leave.

—

Rainfall came with a vendetta against the windshield, wipers squeaking every ten seconds. Stan counted each time. Tiny raindrops racing each other down to the dashboard, gaining pace with each of their siblings they consumed along the way.

His fingers gripped the steering wheel tight, as if daring to let go would mean falling backwards into a great cavernous abyss. He sat outside of the McCormick residence, hoping that his friend would be coming out any moment.

He had left following lunch, feeling his presence a nuisance with every passing second with in the halls holding his friend, and the classes they shared seemed like torture rather than academic.

His time since the argument had been churning away in his gut, Kyle's voice and the look in his eyes congealing his stomach acid. Hours after and still, the image of his boyfriend leaving him in a constant state of nausea. Nauseating, he thought.

He was brought out his thoughts as three quick knocks sounded at his passenger door, a blur of orange hidden by drops and streaks on the glass.

He reached over and unlocked the door, and Kenny hopped in. A wet cigarette hung loose in his lips, before being tossed out behind him shutting the door.

"You know if you were going to play hooky, at least let me know." Kenny said, settling into the passenger seat. "All I had was poor Butters having to team up with Cartman on a worksheet."

Stan said nothing in response, only looking up to nod, having missed what was said.

"So, What's up, man?" Kenny asked, "Kyle left in a hurry earlier, so I figured he was with you?"

"I had to leave." Stan stated. "Couldn't stop puking. It's been…ugh," he cringed, "it's been a rough day."

The blonde sighed. "Alright," Kenny breathed and crossed his arms, kicking his feet up on the dashboard. "Then here's what we'll do-I'll sit here, and you talk when you want to."

Stan sighed, hands sliding off the wheel to fall into his lap. They sat in silence, Stan leaning back and shutting his eyes. His hands trembled, his breath uneasy. Kenny saw the wet collar of his shirt, shaking his head and turning to the rain fall.

Stan reached for a bottle under his and twisted the top, before Kenny snatched it from him. "Seriously?"

Stan sighed, leaning back and closing his eyes. Kenny stared at the bottle in his hands.

Kenny turned back to Stan, only to again receive silence from his friend. "Ya know, I get jealous of you sometimes."

Stan gave him a side eye, Kenny sheepishly grinning. "No, really."

"Why?" Stan groaned.

"You're the only guy I know that pukes himself to getting abs."

"Not," Stan said quietly, "helping."

Kenny shrugged, opening the bottle himself. "Wouldn't be your friend if I did," he commented, before taking a hearty swig of the burning liquid.

"I fucked up bad, Ken." Stan spoke in tired tones. "I don't think he'll ever speak to me again."

"Now, now. Let's not be dramatic." Kenny wiped his mouth, eyeing the label. "Jesus, could you have some fucking taste?" He muttered to himself.

"You don't get it!" Stan smacked the wheel, startling the blonde. "He has no reason to trust me or forgive me or anything."

"Stan, you still haven't told me what happened."

Stan bit his lip. "Remember when I said I came to your house and you weren't here?" Kenny nodded, "well Craig was."

Kenny laughed, "what the hell was he doing out here?"

Stan grimaced, "I think he wanted to apologize to you."

Kenny's laughter died down, his eyes falling to the bottle as Stan continued, "So whatever you two foght about, doesn't compare to me ending up fucking him at Stark's and-" Stan stopped, turning to Kenny. "…this is the part where you swing at me."

Kenny sighed. "I uh…kinda knew about that."

Stan blanked, before shouting. "What? How?"

"Long story." Kenny shook his head, "but How did Kyle find out?"

Stan sighed, "He just kept asking about it…I couldn't keep it from him forever."

"That's tough," Kenny frowned. "Smart kid."

"Yup."

The two sat in silence for a while. At some point, Kenny caved and handed Stan the bottle as he drank it greedily. Kenny kicked up his feet on the dashboard and kissed his teeth.

"So," he started, "got a big mess."

"Yup." Stan replied. "But I mean, I was stupid to think I could try and ignore everything. To get Kyle to coexist with someone I know meant more to me than I let on."

"So you like Craig, too?" Kenny pinched the bridge of his nose. "Stan, I'm sorry but why the fuck is that dick still getting any of your attention?"

Stan remained silent, Kenny eyed the bottle instead. "After all this time, I would think you'd be more committed to the one person who's gone to bat for you when no one would."

"I know, Kenny." Stan glowered. "I know."

"I don't think you do, actually." Kenny spat back. "I think you're just coasting. I think you're fine with having a back up plan for when you lose a crutch."

Stan huffed, crossing his arms. "You don't know shit about that!"

"Oh don't I?" Kenny asked, feigning surprise and shaking the bottle in his grasp. "Let's think about that, Stan. Who was there when Wendy first dropped your ass back in elementary?"

"Kyle."

"Who was there when she did it again," Kenny pestered, "and then again? Stan you spend more time crying about your fucking problems then confronting them-"

Stan snapped to Kenny, fist slamming on the armrest. "What the fuck is this? I came here because-"

"Because what, Stanley?" Kenny glared, now turned completely to meet Marsh's eyes with his own icy stare. "What did you think I was going to do?"

Stan shook, glancing down and grimacing. "You thought I was going to give you a massage and comfort you," Kenny snapped, leaning closer, "after you hold out some dickbag with your best friend who has held himself up through all of this? You sit there in a puddle of fucking pity, know damn well you don't deserve it."

Stan just sat there, Kenny above him chest tightening. "I fought for you, man. I stood up to Craig for you. I stood up to Wendy, for you. God knows what you would have done if Kyle wasn't there when for some reason she came to apologize."

"Don't say that," Stan warned. "I wouldn't have done anything."

Kenny sat back, huffing. "Of course not, Stan. You know why I know that? Because you don't think. You act, a fucking actor."

Kenny flinched as the bottle was snatched out of his hands and pointed at his face. "And what makes you so fucking perfect, Ken? You hated Craig before this, you got yourself involved out of spite! You so gladly brag about these stupid fucking tattoos that now might not mean anything, all because of what huh?"

Kenny sat in silence, glaring past the lowering glass before him.

"You don't get to say that," Stan spat, "You don't get to say you fought for me, I didn't need you to, and neither does Kyle."

Kenny snatched the bottle out of Stan's hand, pointing it back at the jock. "Kyle is probably home feeling worse than you, you fucking idiot! You came here expecting me to tell you it'll be alright so you could maybe work up some fucking nerve to go and beg to have your best friend back when in all this time you haven't even figured out what you want."

"I do know what I want-"

"Then what is it?!" Kenny shouted, "Because I'm sick of it! I'm sick of you moping, sick of Craig's dumbass phone, sick of his stupid buddies…" Kenny breathed, lowering his voice and swallowed, "And I'm sick of how it affects Kyle. He loves you, man."

The truck went silent, raining again making its presence known as heavier volleys began to blanket the dirt roads and truck bed. Stan to a deep breath, followed by Kenny doing the same.

Stan licked his dry lips, jaw sore. "I'm sorry."

Kenny sighed, rubbing his forehead. "I don't need you to apologize to me. I'm not going anywhere," he jabbed a finger into Stan's shoulder, "but you have to figure this shit out. You have to do something, because moping around in your truck isn't going to change anything."

Stan nodded, staring down at the bottle in his lap.

"So now what are you going to do?" Kenny asked.

Stan swallowed, shaking his head. "I don't know, wait I guess. Just don't expect to see me for a bit."

"While you do what exactly?" Kenny asked, annoyed.

Stan glared at the windshield, his friend shaking his head and turning to exit the truck. "Hey ken."

Kenny stopped, head turning back into the truck with rain at his back.

Stan sighed, "Don't say anything to Kyle." He asked, "please."

Kenny eyed the teen, his head pounded and fingers drumming where he sat. His eyes dropped to the wood paneling of the dashboard and let out a breath. "I won't mentioned we talked, but Stan," his eyes hardened, "I need you to get a fucking grip and really, really think about what you want."

He slammed the door shut, and turned to walk back towards his home as the rain fell.

—

"Kyle?"

"Here."

"Kenny?"

"Present."

"Stan?"

Silence.

"Stan Marsh?" The instructor called again, to no answer amongst the class. Kenny sat near the window, head propped up on hands and shook his head at his own reflection. It had been three days since he'd spoken to Stan, and they almost dragged him up to this point. His sleep would often be interrupted by the runon texts of his smarter friend.

He turned to an empty seat beside him, and beyond the ginger sitting in the middle row. His eyes shimmered and kept pasted to one of his notebooks, mindlessly drawing circles over the cover. His empty hand gripped a stack of papers beneath, fingers closing around the crumpled edges.

Kenny watched the teen, reaching into the desk and balling up a tiny ball to toss over at Kyle's desk. He eyed the ball for a while, before glancing over to see Kenny trying a smile. His eyes were tired, and lips formed the best he could muster before returning to the circles he scribbled.

"Craig Tucker?"

Kenny then frowned, following the lack of a callback. He turned, finding the quiet teen asleep at his desk. Copying his position, Craig laid his head on a hand and was fast asleep two desks behind him.

"Craig!" The instructor called again, spotting the boy asleep.

Shaking awake, Craig rubbed his eyes and glared at the instructor, but found the poor blonde's eyes staring back. "What? I'm here."

"If I catch you sleeping one more time, I'm writing a referral!"

Craig rolled his eyes, turning to look out the window. He scanned the outside before seeing the reflections of his fellow classmates and one Kenny McCormick.

He turned forward to find the blonde having turned away, leaving him to shoot a glare at the back of his head and turning to his phone. He had a few missed texts-one from Clyde, which he decided to answer when he saw him, and two from Token.

He went into his contacts and closed in on Stan's number, unlabeled to avoid suspicion from his friends. He went into the last message he had sent.

-Don't talk to me

He gulped, looking up and seeing Kyle's head down as the instructor began the lesson. He turned to Kenny, who had turned back to the window and bit his lip. Something was up, he thought to himself, and if Stan wasn't there he'd have to figure it out himself.

He stuffed his phone into his pocket, and glared back out the window.

—

*tap, tap*

"Go away."

Kenny pulled open the bedroom window, peeking in to see Kyle in bed with his bedroom lights shut off.

"It's late, Kenny." Kyle groaned, tugging his comforter over his head. "I don't want to talk."

"I'm just checking in on you," Kenny said, stepping through and landing at the foot of the bed. "You know, before you text me at three a.m.?"

"There's nothing to check on," Kyle's voice muffled by the fabric. "I'm fine, everything's fine really."

Kenny walked around to kneel by the bed, resting on the carpeted floor. He watched as Kyle's form shifted beneath the covers. "Come on, buttercup. It's me, you can talk to me."

Kyle fell silent, Kenny leaned back to touch his head to the nightstand beside the bed. The ceiling decorated in the remnants of glow in the dark stars the teen had pasted up back when they were kids. He turned back to the teen beneath the blankets.

Kyle had then pulled the blanket down, the whites his lush green eyes pink and cheeks still wet. "I miss him."

Kenny reached out and grabbed Kyle's hand. "Hey, no worries. I know."

Kyle laughed, rubbing his eyes. He then sat up and pouted at the opposite wall. "Why can't it be simple, Ken?"

Kenny sighed in the darkness. "I dunno, man. Stan's stan." He turned back to him, "and he does care for you, you do know that?"

Kyle leaned back, his head thudding lightly against the headboard. "Maybe this was stupid, Kenny. Everything has been working against Stan and I being together and trying to make it work," he hugged his knees up to his chest, "maybe I should let it go. If he wants to be with Craig, I should let him.."

"No no" Kenny sat up, clutching his hand. "You don't mean that."

"But what else am I supposed to do?" Kyle sniffled, "He obviously doesn't we're working out if he can't help how he gets with someone else? What if he's better off with someone else?"

"Then that would be the dumbest thing he ever did," Kenny explained. "And it's not like he doesn't know what he did. He's staying home, because he feels like a sack of shit-which he should."

Kyle shook his head in doubt. "I don't know…"

"I think you just need a break, man. Let me figure it out."

Kenny patted Kyle's hand and rose from the floor. "Get some rest, Tiger. I'll see you tomorrow."

Kyle watched as Kenny climbed back out the window, before he poked back in and pointed to Kyle.

"And again, a key under the mat, Broflovski!"

And out he went.