A little late, but whatever, I'm over it. The story should pick up some from here, and this chapter is a lot of talk but it's a necessary transition just so nothing starts happening too fast. Point out mistakes or errors if you spot any, I edit my own stuff and I do miss little silly things from time to time. Thank you thank you for reading!


It's well over an hour before anyone is called down.

They settle on their own accord. Wendy is drawn to the bookshelf with its expansion of books that seems better than the one she brought along, and she settles on the couch. Kenny curls up in a large chair that matches the couches and drops his head on the arm. Stan and Kyle join Wendy on the couch and they play Cat's Cradle with Stan's shoelace. Craig sits at the other couch and plays Solitaire. Butters sits at a table for a minute or two, but he finds the chairs uncomfortable and the fact that everybody else has defaulted to the couches lonely, so he moves to Craig's couch, but on the far side. Craig looks up to notice him, and then looks back to his phone. Butters wishes he had brought his iPod with him, but it's in a bag in his room, and he's not sure he's allowed to go back and get it.

He likes the formation of the seating. The couches are both tilted inward to face a nicely sized TV in the center. Good for movie nights. The fact that he can see everyone's faces just by looking up is nice. No strenuous neck-stretching.

Sometimes he amazes himself by just how much time can pass when you don't think about time. He leans his head on his hand and looks out the big glass doors and he thinks about the weather, the lawn, the trees and how they just haven't budded yet. He'd like to go outside, but every time he works up the nerve to go up to the door and walk outside for a breath of fresh air, some stupid thought pops into his head to discourage him.

(okay I'll get up right now oh it's pretty cold outside actually guess I won't)

Nearly fifteen minutes go by just working up and letting go of the nerve to get up from the couch. There's a clock on the wall behind him; he has to turn around to see it, but the minor energy expended beats talking to Craig, who quite frankly scares him. He sees the counter and its refuge of hot water and tea and coffee. This new distraction, with its reward of a hot beverage to scald his tongue and pass the time with, is where he redirects his attention. He'd stand up and get some, but he hates the way everyone jerks up to see what he's doing when they hear him shift on the cushions. Standing up might give them all heart attacks. The way this is going (okay get up now! oh never mind) makes him decide that he should make a goal for himself: the next time somebody talks, he'll get up and make some tea.

It's amazing how slow time can go when you're waiting for something to happen.

He tries to go back to thinking about the weather, but he can't, because every single though is harmonized by gee, is somebody going to talk or what. He switches to making lists; all the Miley Cyrus songs he can think of; sexual slang for every letter of the alphabet; his favourite books, in order. But every list disintegrates, working alright up until the fourth item or so (the sexual slang list goes on a little longer) and then just fading away.

"No, Kyle, I don't know what you're trying to do, but it's Diamonds, then Cat's Eye," Stan says suddenly, untangling string from Kyle's fingers.

"I know, Stan, I just made a mistake, okay? God," Kyle huffs, taking the string back. "I'll start."

That's Butters' cue. He gets up and walks to the counter before he has the time to be insecure.

"Hey dude, where you going?" Kenny asks, picking his head up.

"I'm, uh, getting some tea, cuz you know, there's a hot water thingy back here," Butters says, feeling as awkward as the words fall out.

"Oh. Is there coffee?"

Butters glances over, and then says, "Yup."

"You wanna get me some, sugar? One scoop, splash of milk," he says, smiling lazily.

"Sure, Ken," he says, and takes two mugs. He drops a peppermint tea bag in one and fills the other with coffee and milk, and to instruction, one scoop of sugar.

Sugar. The nickname changes hands sometimes, sometimes referring to Butters and then to Kenny's girlfriends, sometimes to Wendy, but it seems recently he's pretty well claimed the name. Though he's not exclusively "sugar", Kenny doesn't really use the name with anyone else. Not that Butters minds at all; he likes the names Kenny tosses around. They make him feel truly included, liked. He knows there aren't any romantic behind them, but they still make him feel a little giddy.

Butters used to fancy Kenny liked him. He's not sure there was ever any substance behind it, but the way Kenny drops pet names and lacks a sense of personal space always made him wonder. Nowadays, he's sure it was just him being a little too hopeful, because Kenny flirts with everyone, from his friends to his friends' parents (always vague enough to ensure they don't take him too seriously), waitresses and salespeople.

He carries Kenny's coffee to him and receives a thank-you and a smile. Kenny takes a long drink of it, and then hands it to Craig to hold.

"Come sit, Butters, I wanna play with your pretty hair," Kenny says, changing positions so he's sitting cross-legged in the chair, knees against the sides, motioning to the carpet in front of him.

Butters moves to his assigned spot and tips his head back a little. Kenny's fingers work into his hair, and soon enough they begin twisting and kinking the long hair on top, petting the short bits on the side and rubbing his scalp gently.

"Swear to god, I'd think you were a couple if I didn't know better," Craig says, drinking Kenny's coffee.

"Don't hate, man," Kenny says.

"I'm not. You just look really gay. Just saying."

"You a homophobe?"

"No, Kenny. Jesus Christ," Craig groans.

"You sure?" Butters can hear the smile in his voice; he's teasing.

"We wouldn't really be friends if I was."

"Are you dating Kenny?" Kyle says, looking up, a mess of string on his fingers. "Not like we haven't seen it coming for like, ever."

"Just like we're all waiting for you to admit you're fucking Stan. Or Stan's fucking you," Craig adds.

"We're not fucking!"

"Nor are we dating."

"Dude, it's my turn," Stan says, pawing at the shoelace.

Kyle sneers and turns back to Stan. He mutters under him breath, Craig fucking Tucker Jesus fuck why do I bother, and Stan murmurs back something quiet and encouraging. He looks at Wendy, but she's immersed herself in a Tom Clancy novel. Kenny looks back down to Butters' head and continues scratching his hair. Butters turns his head and notices Craig has more or less claimed the coffee he made for Kenny.

Thirty some-odd minutes have gone by since the doctor left them to themselves, and Butters can't say he hasn't been noticing every minute that's passed. Even in his dreamy time-eating thoughts of the world beyond the glass door would be punctuated by hey, a minute has passed. He can't see the clock from this position, but he can make a pretty decent guess.

What he honestly thinks would pass the time best is conversation, but the air in the room doesn't invite pleasantries. Wendy has the right idea, finding a book and settling in. When she looks up, she probably thinks, whoa, half an hour gone by already? Kenny too, creating activity for his hands. Time flies when you're having fun.

He wonders why any culture ever bothered with torture devices anyway. Being forced to watch every minute pass is the worst punishment he can imagine. He imagines a man alone in a box with nothing but a clock, ticking away; unfathomable.

Kenny hands run down to the nape of his neck and he can't help but sigh. If he were a man in a box with another pair of hands running through his hair, he thinks it might be a little more tolerable.

"Hey Craig, what time is it?" Wendy asks, laying her book on its pages.

"10:24," he says.

"How long have we been here?"

"Bit less than forty minutes, I think."

She groans and leans back in the cushions. "God, is he going to take forever or what? Jesus Christ, how long does it take to organize some files?"

"Read your book, Wendy," Stan says, Candles position suspended.

"Tom Clancy is so boring, though. Like, you know when you talk about the legal system in school and how fucking boring it is? Now, think of that, but imagine reading about it for nine hundred pages."

"So pick a new one," Stan says with a shrug. Kyle picks up strings and creates Manger position.

"I'm so done with reading. I can't focus anymore." She leans on the arm of the couch and buries her head in her crossed arms.

Butters looks over to her, with her flushed face and messy hair, and just wants to tell her it'll be alright. But getting up to console her would mean leaving these lovely hands, so he settles for sipping his tea and making a sympathetic face.

"So whattaya suppose he's gonna talk about?" Kenny says to anyone who will answer.

"I've been trying to think of it," Kyle says. "I think it'll probably be like what our feelings towards being here are, how we're reacting so far, you know. Shit like that. I think it might be long, though."

"Long as in fifteen minutes or long as in an hour?"

"More like half an hour, I think."

Butters realizes he's hardly been thinking about the meeting with Dr. Kelly at all. He's been waiting for something to happen, but unlike Kyle, he hasn't been preoccupying himself with the questions Kelly might ask, the answers he might give. If he had to pin an emotion to the whole thing, he might go with impatient. Everything just takes so long.

"So, you've been rehearsing answers?" Kenny asks.

"I've been trying, but it's hard to concentrate. And it's really hard to think of answers to serious questions when Stan's breathing down my neck to take the strings."

"It's my shoelace, man, show some respect," Stan throws in.

"God, this is a really shitty place we're in," Kenny sighs. "I'm just waiting for tomorrow."

"Tomorrow will be worse," Craig says.

"That's the not the point, asshole. Times passes. Someday, I'll be looking back on this day, and that's what I'm looking forward to. Being able to look back," Kenny retorts. Butters guesses it's going to be the deepest thing he says all day (all week?). But who knows, maybe he's deeper with Craig. He wonders what they talk about sometimes; maybe they both have these philosophical sides and they debate life and death; maybe they just talk about how late they stayed up last night and how much they hate History; maybe they don't talk much at all. God, who fucking knows.

Between these thoughts and the hands that push his hair in circles, time creeps by.

"What time is it, Craig?" Kenny asks. He's stopped playing with Butters' hair because of his fingers cramping up, but Butters is still sitting there, head leaning lightly on Kenny's legs, now uncrossed because they were cramping too.

There's the quietest click of his phone waking up (he ditched it some minutes ago in favour of attempting to take a nap), and then, "10:43."

"Wow. It's been pretty much an hour now, hasn't it?"

"Mm."

"Think it's gonna take much longer?"

"Fucked if I know," Craig says, studying a fingernail and scratching the skin around it experimentally. "Getting impatient?"

"Of course," Kenny murmurs, flopping forward and dropping his chin on Butters' head. "You think it's gonna be much longer, Butters?"

"Ah, I dunno. Impossible to tell, I think," he replies.

"Goddamn."

A beat of silence, and then: "Could Butters Stotch please come down to Dr. Kelly's office, Butters Stotch, thank you." It's over an intercom that Butters didn't know existed before looking skyward nearly fast enough to cause whiplash and seeing a speaker mounted on the ceiling. He knocks Kenny's chin in the process and Kenny shoots back in his seat.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" Kenny yelps, hands suspended and clueless as to where to land. Everyone else jerks and their eyes go wide, but beyond a gasp or two, Kenny is the only audible reaction. Stan has ruined his intricate string model, having been in the middle of a transfer and tugging too hard out of surprise, and Kyle is looking around in alarm, the ruins of Stan's shoelace on his fingers.

Butters rips his look from the intercom on the ceiling and looks at the floor, saying nothing. A vacuum forms in his throat and robs him of saliva and breath and words altogether.

They clue in and stare in at him. The stares soften from panic to sorry sympathy.

"Oh, shit," Wendy says shakily, curling her hands on her jeans. Butters can feel his eyes burn with the onset of tears.

"You're first, man," Stan says blankly.

Kenny leans forward and wraps his arms around Butter's neck. He kisses the top of his head quickly (and poof! a stupid, pointless explosion of nervous butterflies) and lingers for a second before letting go, his arms still loose around Butters' shoulders. "It'll be okay, sugar. Nothin's gonna hurt you."

There are no words that can be said; Butters' entire vocabulary – from the handful of long, beautiful words he drops like bright coins to the short connectors that piece together his thoughts – has retreated to the sides of his head and are falling out of his ears in a waterfall of language escaping like air out of a punctured balloon. The two that remain are awful, shitty words; first and fuck.

(first fuck fuck fuck first)

And he chokes out, "Move." The word is forced and feels awkward.

"Right," Kenny says, and his arms slide off and into his lap. His legs follow and he sits with his knees up against his chest.

Butters rises to his feet and stumbles away from his spot on the floor and takes a minute to look at everyone while he remembers how to walk. Kenny's eyes are saturated with worry, as are Wendy's. Stan is full of fear, Kyle still looks alarmed, and Craig seems uneasy, his eyes darting around like there's much more going on inside his head than he's letting on.

His legs are functional, finally, and he steps away from the little nests they've made to find his way to the office. He steps around the couches and towards the hall and his head is beginning to clear, and Kyle says, "Good luck."

And shit, that hurts. Good luck. You know, just in case there's something horrible behind that door. It makes his stomach hurt. He murmurs a weak, "Thanks, Kyle," and continues down to the hallway. When he enters the mouth of it, he looks around blankly. There are doors, but he's not sure which he's supposed to go into. They all have names on them, but none of them are Dr. Kelly. He wanders down a bit farther, all the way to the end of the hall, and finally, the right door appears. It's open a crack, and it sports a plaque that says "Dr. Glenn Kelly". He ponders this for a second. Dr. Kelly doesn't look much like a Glenn to him, more like a Pat or a Tom. Something with three letters, anyway.

"Dr. Kelly?" he says, somehow not expecting a response.

"Yes, come on in, Butters." He pushes the door open all the way and is greeted by a small office with powder blue walls, a large oak desk cluttered with too many papers and files to count, and a chair facing the desk.

Kelly looks up from his computer (PC; he can't say Kelly struck him as a Mac guy) and smiles widely. "Have a seat," he offers. Butters does, and he looks everywhere but Kelly's face, instead noticing the photo frames nestled among the papers, the fancy gold-plated pen perched in his hand, the boring prints on the wall. Is this guy just hard for landscape watercolours, or did he just happen along a buy-one-get-one-free sale? "This is just going to be a quick meeting. You're going to introduce yourself, and then we're going to talk about why you're here. Okay? It won't take more than ten minutes, I promise."

You promise, do you, Butters wants to say, but instead he says, "Okay." He hesitates for a second, for two seconds, for three. Then he begins. "Well, uh, my name is Butters Stotch, and I'm sixteen. I like hanging out with my friends and, uh, I'm in Theater, so I sing, I dance, I act, and, uh," he searches his brain for other things he likes doing, "I read, I guess." He's about to go into detail about what kind of books he reads before he realizes that they're all chick-lit with pretty girls and handsome boys dealing with drama and romance. They have titles like The Pastel Heart and The End of the Wild Summer.

"Good. Do know why you're here, Butters?"

"Ah, I'm here because I've got globophobia, the fear of balloons. You guys are supposed to help with that," Butters says, twisting his fingers. There, it's out in one breath. Kelly knows this, surely, but does anyone else? He's certain the nurses the nurses do, but who cares about the nurses? He's thinking about how you tell your peers that you're afraid of fucking balloons. Jesus Christ.

"Right. Now, how long have you been afraid of balloons?"

He pauses. "Hmm, I don't really know."

(liar liar)

"How about a rough guess?"

(six years and five months old to the day)

"I think since I was about seven."

Dr. Kelly types something on the laptop sitting in front of him. He clears his throat. "Okay. Was this sparked by a bad incident or is it irrational?"

(of course it was sparked by something fuckhead we were at that party and then)

Butters looks at the ground. He doesn't even care if Kelly knows he's lying. "I dunno."

"Do you believe it interferes with your life much?"

(every birthday every grand opening every event everything)

"A bit, I guess. I mean, I-"

(cold sweat heart pounds can't think about anything else world goes dark)

"-I guess I freak out a bit."

Dr. Kelly looks at him incredulously. "Just a bit?"

Butters nods, but his head isn't really into it. Maybe he just twitches.

"If you insist. Now then, do you believe it impacts other people? Your family, maybe?" he continues coolly, looking at Butters, folding his hands on his desk. This man has clearly practiced maintaining a perfectly smooth face in the mirror.

"I guess. I mean, they don't buy balloons for my birthday, but that's not all that big a deal." He doesn't say that his parents are not the balloon-buying type. He also doesn't mention that the last time he got a balloon for his birthday, it was in seventh grade and it was from Kenny, who stole it from a display outside a store's grand opening. He doesn't mention that he started crying while Kenny looked on with a confused look, going on about how he couldn't really afford anything else, and how he was really just trying to be nice, honest.

(the way he scoffed Sorry if you hate it, Butters, I'm not exactly Mr. Millionaire here. Jesus.)

(the way he let it go into the sky)

(the way his face fell when he realized you weren't upset because it was a cruddy happy birthday gesture it was because you were scared)

God, that memory is burned in his mind. It's one among many like it, but that one rises to the surface of his churning thoughts quite often.

"It's affected my friends, sometimes," he mumbles. Kelly taps away at his keyboard, satisfied with this answer.

"Okay, Butters. Last question; do you think you have the will to get better?"

(can't get better you don't just forget stuff like that)

"Yeah, I think- I think I do. I mean, nothing's impossible," he says. This is something he's been told all his life, but he's not really sure if he believes it.

Dr. Kelly taps his keyboard for another few seconds. Then, he looks up and nods, wearing a small smile like they've just had a pleasant conversation about football or something.

"Thank you, Butters, you may go now."

"Thanks, Dr. Kelly," Butters says, rising out of his seat. "I'll see ya later, I guess."

"You'll see me tomorrow, where we'll talk more," Kelly says, leaning back in his chair. "Okay?"

"Alrighty, bye, doctor," Butters says, turning around and leaving the office. When he swings the door shut behind him, he's instantly seized by nausea, tumbling in his stomach and shooting up his throat faster than he can stop. He lurches forward onto his knees and claps his hands tight around his mouth, like a lock. His last meal at the back of his throat, he can taste it, feel it. But he doesn't let it go; he swallows it. The act of swallowing his own vomit is disgusting in itself, but at least it's safe inside his stomach and not splattered on the carpet. It takes a couple of seconds for him to recover, but when he does, he shifts up and sits against the wall. He hasn't thought about

(the balloons how many there were at the party)

that event in forever. Of course he can't face his fears; Butters knows he can't. If lying, let alone truth, can make him just about puke his guts up, what chance does he have of silencing the past and letting it go?

(none)

(this whole thing the hospital the therapy they ain't gonna help no not one bit)

These thoughts sneak in like intruders; they always do when he's reminded of it all, all the shit in his life that likes to sit at the bottom of the bottle and float around when he's all shaken up. He sits against the wall and looks at the plain paint on the walls until his thoughts settle and he's feeling better. By the time he re-enters the common area, he looks almost normal. He walks around to the front of the couch and everyone lifts their heads.

"Jesus, that was fast. We thought you'd be gone for half an hour for sure." Kenny says. He's moved onto the couch with Craig, and he's leaning against Craig's shoulder while they play some sort of game on Craig's phone. Butters sits down next to Kenny and thinks that they're the ones that look like a couple now.

"How'd it go?" Wendy asks, elbows on her knees, looking past Stan and Kyle to see his face.

"What'd he say?" Kyle prods.

"Shit, you look okay," Craig says. He puts his phone to sleep and looks at him with steady eyes, but there's concern written on his face, which Butters appreciates.

"So how'd it go?" Wendy asks again. "We were pretty worried."

"Um," Butters thinks, trying to form an answer that will answer all their questions. "Well, it went okay, actually. He just asked me to introduce myself and say why I was there, I guess."

"Nothing else?" Kyle breathes.

"Nope, it was just quick. Like a shot."

They stare in an odd mix of awe and scepticism and pride. Butters shifts a little. There's a long silence while he gets comfortable.

"You're not really okay, are you," Craig says quietly. It's not a question, just a statement, perhaps the most sensitive statement he's ever heard from Craig.

Butters' gut clenches up again, the burn in his eyes comes back with a vengeance. He covers his face with his hands and bends over, his forehead near to his knees. The tears come quickly, dripping through his hands and falling onto the worn denim of his jeans. They make him feel like such a fucking failure. You go and talk to a doctor for ten minutes and you start crying the second you come back. Well done, kid. Well done. He hiccups and snorts back mucus as quietly as he can, which isn't quiet at all, really. His face feels red, his nose feels sticky, and he feels as though he might just never come up from the safety of his hands. If only to be one of those attractive criers like in the movies; one solitary tear sliding down a dry cheek, heaven forbid they flush awkward colours or produce mucus. He hates Hollywood for promising this fantasy of looking pretty while you cry.

Kenny pushes off Craig and runs a hand down Butters' back. His fingers skitter like lizards, lightly, fleetingly.

"Fuck," he murmurs, "it's okay, baby. Just tell us what happened. We're all on your side."

Butters sobs into his hands for a while. He'd hate to rise and have a line of snot hanging from his hand to his nose. He coughs and sniffles a bit, and then picks his head up, rubbing his face with the back of his hands. When his hands are too wet to help anymore, he wipes them on the couch.

"It's nothing – hic – he did or-or said. It just brought up a bunch of b-bad memories."

"D'you wanna tell us what?" Kenny soothes. "You don't have to."

"No, I'd r-rather not," Butters sniffs.

"That's fine, baby, that's fine."

Butters takes another few seconds to calm himself to the point of clear and coherent sentences, and then takes a shuddery breathe in. He says, "He's gonna be talking to everyone, s-so somebody's gonna be c-called down real soon."

"I wonder when?" Stan muses. "I mean, if it took an hour for him to get you together, than how long will it take for-"

"Could Kyle Broflovski please come down to Dr. Kelly's office, thank you." This time, nobody yelps, but everyone jumps a bit.

"There's your answer," Craig deadpans.

Kyle looks at Butters with dread on his face. "You sure it wasn't that bad?"

"No, it was okay. Well, not okay. But more okay than we we'd been thinking, if that's comforting at all." Butters knows it's not, and Kyle's face reflects that.

"You should go, man," Stan says.

"I will," Kyle snaps. Stan makes a face and looks the other direction. Kyle gets up, and Butters notices his hands are shaking.

"Good luck, Kyle," Kenny says uncertainly, and Butters is sure Kyle's stomach plummets just like his did. He hopes it plummets, really. Good luck is such a shit thing to say. But how would they know until somebody says it to them? Kyle's eyes flick around and land at his shoes.

"Fuck you guys," he mumbles, walking briskly away. Nobody watches him go.

"He's just trying to be tough," Stan says, almost laughing. He doesn't quite make it, and makes a noise that sounds a bit like panting.

"Fuck, man, I wonder how he's gonna come out," Kenny muses aloud, settling next to Craig again. Butters scoots against Kenny, though gingerly. Kenny smile encourages him to shift into comfort, and Craig says nothing. Good enough for him.

"What's he scared of, Marsh?" Craig asks, picking at a stray cuticle. His eyes are tilted in a perpetual frown, though.

"Oh, damn, I should know this," Stan says, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Mmm, he said it once . . . shit, it was some sort of animal, I think. Hippos or something."

"You're fucking me. Hippos?" Craig snorts. "I can't think of anything more non-threatening than a hippo."

"Go play with yourself, Craig. God, it was something like that. I feel like a bad friend."

"Since when was Kyle ever even associated with a hippo?" Kenny asks dubiously.

"Guys, seriously, I'm trying. Fuck, what was it? H . . . Hippos . . ." Suddenly, his face lights up. "Horses! That was it! Kyle got kicked by a horse when he was like, ten or something. Guess it kind of scarred him."

"That was when he, uh, broke his leg, right?" Butters asks. He feels better now, but this exchange makes him realize they probably did the exact same thing while he was gone. Somebody asked an open question, hey, what's Butters scared of? He's sure Kenny offered what he knew.

"Worse, dude, he broke his femur," Stan says, touching his upper thigh to indicate where. "He had to get a rod put in there and everything. They did all sorts of rehab and operations and stuff. He was in crutches for like, three months, and then he had a cane or something for a month or so. He says it still hurts sometimes."

"Christ, that's right. I remember," Kenny says. "We all kept borrowing his crutches. That was actually pretty funny."

"Actually, it kind of was. But seriously, he was limping for like, a year."

"Hippos," Craig says more to himself than anything, but clearly loud enough for Stan to overhear. Amusement plays around his voice and his eyes.

"Would you just let the hippo thing go? It was a mistake, okay?" Stan groans.

"Hippos is Greek for horse," Wendy clips. "You'd know that if you did any sort of studies into origins of the English language."

Craig looks at her sceptically. "And you have?"

"For a matter of fact, yes," she answers purposely. "We studied it in Honors English, which none of you are taking."

"I had Honors English first semester," Craig says just as loftily. "We studied literature."

She looks at him with a sort of injured dignity. Stan squeezes her hand nervously, and Kenny reaches to scruff Craig's hair. "Be civil, Craig," he chides playfully.

It would be interesting to watch them argue for real about something, Butters has always thought. He's nothing if not observant, and he's observed them over the years. Wendy has this aloofness that she adopts when she's defensive, and she takes on an air like she's better than you. Craig has eyes that never fucking move off of yours, and the tone of voice he adopts makes it sound like he knows what you're saying is utter bullshit. He's the only person Butters knows that can destroy your entire sense of self-confidence without saying a word against you. Wendy is quick to go on the defensive, where Craig tends to wait until there's a real threat as opposed to an implied threat. Neither are loud arguers, both relying on good old-fashioned wordplay. Wendy speaks quickly and in long words that are meant to leave you dazzled at the beginning while she's dashing off to the finish line. Craig says as little as possible, but just enough to let you muddle yourself up. They both aim for leaving their opponent confused and lost, but Wendy does it all herself, and Craig lets them do it. He thinks it would be an interesting dynamic.

"When d'ya think Kyle'll be back?" Kenny says.

"Can we stop talking about time?" Wendy groans, rubbing her temples. "It makes it seem so damn long."

"Fine."

The stream of conversation ends there, but it means Butters starts counting minutes again. It's not for too long, though; Kyle comes back in ten minutes, give or take, and they all perk up to see him.

"Kyle! How'd it go?" Kenny says almost enthusiastically. Stan grins until he realizes happiness isn't the best emotion in such a situation, and then he backs off. It's clear he's still happy to see him, though.

"It went okay." He takes a seat next to Stan and turns to put his feet in Stan's lap.

"Just okay?"

"It was fucking fine, okay Kenny?" Kyle snaps, startling Kenny into submission. Wendy spares him enough empathy not to stare, but looks down to Butters, Kenny and Craig with a puzzled and worried look, as if to ask, What should I do? Stan unlaces Kyle's shoes and drops them on the floor, then proceeds to begin a foot massage. He works the ball of Kyle's foot for a few seconds before he clears his throat, bringing up the nerve to say what's on his mind.

"Did he talk about the fe-"

"Yes, he fucking mentioned the femur and no, I don't want to fucking talk about it." Stan frowns but restrains himself from speaking further, rubbing Kyle's toes instead. Kyle's reaction is inconsolable. It's easy enough to deal with crying people. All you have to do is pat their backs and give them hugs, maybe whisper some nice phrases. You don't even have to tell the truth. You just have to talk. But angry people see right through lies, and they make themselves see shit in nice things. You can't touch them, you can't talk, but you can't shut up either or they start feeling ignored. All you can do is exist and hope it goes away quickly.

After a couple seconds of nervous, strained silence, Kyle sighs and rubs his face. "I'm sorry, guys. It's just that I haven't talked about that shit in a long time, and it's kind of freaky to be in a place where they encourage you to face all of it right up front." He looks back and gives them a look that's almost a smile, but lacks the humour. "You'll know it when they talk to you."

Butters is somehow relieved to know that Kyle feels the exact same way as he did. That sinking feeling that he's really actually fucked up enough that he has to be in a hospital to treat a fear of something so commonplace, so terrifying; it aches the head. That sinking feeling aches like a bitch. It makes him want to cry and throw up and hide away all at once.

"So what do you have? I mean, I know you told me once, but I can't remember," Stan says sheepishly.

"It's called hippophobia. Fear of horses."

"See? Hippo to horse," Wendy says.

"What?" Kyle asks, frowning. Stan laughs and squeezes his feet.

"Nothing, dude. Don't worry about it."

Kyle raises an eyebrow but says no more. Lucky dick; Butters has always wanted to be able to raise one eyebrow.

They call Craig down next. He doesn't panic like Kyle did, or become nauseated like Butters, but he curls his lip between his teeth and bites on it lightly. Butters sees him often with red streaks or scabs on his lips. He guesses it's a habit he's picked up after all the years of braces.

"Move, McCormick," he says flatly, and Butters moves so Kenny can move.

"Good luck, doll," Kenny says with a bit of a smirk. It's inappropriate and he's sure Kenny knows that. Craig flips him off lazily and walks away with his head down.

Stan and Kyle make quiet small talk, and Butters leans on Kenny and gives not a single shit if they look gay. Kenny glances around the couch from time to time, and Butters finds himself wondering if he's done that in everyone's absence and he just hasn't noticed, or if it's just Craig. If he had to push labels, he might say Craig is Kenny's best friend. The same might not go for Craig – his group is and has always been tight, never straying too far away friend-wise – but Kenny's more of a drifter. If he doesn't like Stan and Kyle's girly gossip sessions, he finds somebody else to hang with. Kenny's loyal, never severing his ties to his old friends, but he has a low tolerance for being the third wheel.

After what feels like a long time has passed, Butters speaks up.

"Ken?"

"Hmm?" Kenny hums.

"You know Craig better than we all do; what's he got?" Butters says.

"Craig's got nebulaphobia. I dunno why I remember that; he only told me once long time ago. It's got a nice ring, I guess," he says, dropping an elbow on the arm of the couch.

"And what's that?"

"Fear of fog."

"Huh, imagine that. Wonder why," Butters says casually, but inwardly he hopes that Kenny actually does know and would be happy to tell him.

"I dunno, he didn't tell me, and man, I ain't gonna ask." He feels a small but honest pang of disappointment. He's sure Kenny could tell him Craig's middle name and probably what his favourite movie is and what kind of music he listens to, but when it comes to the interesting stuff, nobody knows anything about anyone.

When Craig comes back, his bottom lip is bleeding. His tongue keeps swiping across it and licking up the rising blood. He moves Kenny out of the way quietly and slips in next to him.

"That bad?" Kenny asks, rearranging himself.

"Nerve-wracking," Craig corrects.

"I can tell. You tried to eat yourself."

"Do you have any sense of what's appropriate when at all?" Craig snaps, and Kenny raises his eyebrows at him, opens his mouth to retaliate, and then closes it pointedly. Craig rolls his eyes like he can't deal with this shit anymore.

Butters can tell everyone is just as eager to ask what happened, because with respect and empathy and everything cast aside, they're all dying to know each other's weak spots. Nobody asks, though. Butters' and Kenny's small chat was enough to convince them all it wasn't worth asking. Out of all of them, Craig might be the one they know the least about, but it's expected, really. Craig isn't close to any of them except for Kenny, and Craig's a quiet kid. He doesn't talk much in class, and when he's with his friends, they usually find an unloved corner of the school to loiter in. Last time Butters talked to Craig, he's pretty sure he asked him about Biology homework and then maybe mentioned the weather. School and weather; the kind of conversations you have with somebody you know only two things about and have nothing to talk about beyond that.

Wendy goes next, about fifteen minutes after Craig's return. By now, they know enough about what to expect, question-wise and reaction-wise, that there isn't much of a stir when she goes. Some dramatics by Stan, a customary good luck from Kenny, and she's gone. Stan worries incessantly while she's gone, whining on about how long it's been and how she doesn't deserve this.

"Craig, what time is it?"

"11:16."

There's a pause of about twenty seconds.

"Craig?"

He rolls his eyes. "11:16, Marsh."

Butters counts this time. In thirty-nine seconds, he asks again. "Craig?"

"For fuck's sake, Marsh," Craig growls. "It's 11:17."

Kyle places a hand over Stan's mouth, straight-faced. Stan starts licking his hand and making sad little animal noises, but such is the life of a best friend. Kyle's used to it.

When she re-enters the common room, he nearly dies. As soon as she sits down, she's immediately entangled in his arms and he's going on like the lovesick moon he is around her. She peels himself away from his and kisses his cheek.

"I'm fine, Stan, thank you for asking," she says.

"Sorry, love," he pouts. "I was really worried about you."

She ignores his affection and plows on. "He didn't say much, really. He just asked why I was here and if I believed I had the will to get better."

"That's not so bad," Stan says, holding her hands.

She rolls her breath around her mouth and weighs her words like she has something important to say. Butters sits up and looks at her. "I've got athazagoraphobia; the fear of being forgotten." She pauses to further work up her nerve. "When I was a little kid, like five or six or something, we went on a road trip. I don't know where exactly, but it was to see family that lives out in Utah somewhere. Anyway, we stopped at this gas station to fuel up and grab some chips or coffee or whatever. I was sort-of-not-really sleeping in the back, and when they pulled over, I pretended to still be asleep. My mom and dad though it would be okay to just leave me there, because I was a pretty heavy sleeper. So they went in without me. After a while, I got bored and wanted to go see what they were doing. I went into the store, and I guess we just missed each other around the gas pumps. I went into the store, and they got in the car, and," she stops. Stan is frowning, mouth slightly open, hands tight around hers. Butters can guess how this is going to end, but he hopes it isn't true. Wendy is too nice to have an awful story like this.

She pauses again. Her eyes aren't wet or even glazed, but she still looks sad and bitter. "And, well, they drove off without me. What fucking idiots. They had one kid and they couldn't even keep an eye on it. They had one job and they couldn't fucking do it right."

"What'd you do?" Stan breathes.

"I wandered around the store for a minute or so, then I went to the bathroom to look for them. When I came out, I walked back outside and realized the car was gone, so I ran back inside again and started crying. The poor store clerk came over to me and asked what was wrong, and when I told him, he bought me a bag of cookies and one of those gigantic Slurpees. Neither of my parents carried a phone, you know, back in the day when they weren't so popular, so we just had to wait."

"How long?" Butters asks.

"I dunno, I think about an hour or so. It was probably less, but I was little and time didn't mean much. I finished the cookies and the Slurpee, though, so it must have been a while," she says, and she sighs. "I thought they wouldn't come get me. I really thought they would just leave me there forever."

She looks up. "I'm sorry, I'm just still mad about it. It was completely avoidable, and yet they still managed to leave me behind. Fucking stupid, that's what the whole thing was. So to this day, I'm always scared that I'm gonna be left behind like I was then."

"No wonder you're always in such a rush to catch the bus," Kyle muses.

"Yeah, the bus freaks me out, I always try to take extracurriculars so I can drive myself home or whatever." She scrunches her nose up and falls backwards into the cushions. "I can't help it. I always feel like everybody's going to forget me and I'll be alone. And frankly, that's terrifying."

"God, Wendy, why didn't you tell me?" Stan says, looking more emotionally unstable than Wendy herself.

"You never asked," she says back. Stan opens his mouth to say something, but it doesn't come out, and he just stays quiet. His face turns an interesting shade of grey as he appears to wrestle with inner turmoil. It's nearly humourous in the way Stan overreacts (Drama queen, Butters thinks) but still retains a bitter, remorseful edge.

He's beyond horrified when they call his name next.

"Go, Stan," Wendy says, pushing lightly on his back.

He looks at her with panicked eyes and says, "You saw what happened to Kyle and Craig and Butters and you. Fuck, Wendy, I don't want to go in there." Butters wants to say it's not that bad. It's only really bad for the five minutes after, when you realize that shit's getting serious. That's the worst part, really.

Wendy squeezes his hands and says, "We all have to, and it's not that bad. He doesn't hurt you or anything."

"Wendy, I can't," he says brokenly.

"I'll escort you," Kyle offers, grabbing his forearm.

Stan looks at him for a long time, and then, finally, relaxes slightly.

"Okay," he whispers. Wendy smiles sadly, pulling him over and kissing him lightly on the lips.

"I'll be here, darling," she croons, running her fingers down his face.

"I know," he murmurs. Butters looks away; he always blushes when couples show affection in his vicinity. He can't help but stare, but at the same time he hates to just because it's so very awkward for him. Thankfully, Stan stands up and they break apart just as the heat on his cheeks is becoming embarrassing. Kyle gets up as well.

"C'mon dude, let's go," Kyle urges, pulling him away. "You're just hurting yourself by hanging around like this."

"But I'm-" Pause. "She's-" Pause. "Love you," he finishes, looking mournfully at her. She smiles.

"Love you too, Stan," she says.

"Come on, Stan," Kyle urges again, tugging on his shoulder. He pouts and turns around, drudging behind Kyle's brisk steps.

"Never one for romance, was he?" Butters says, reflecting his own awkwardness.

"Not our Kyle," Kenny responds. Butters expects him to say something about Bebe and her fleeting relationship with Kyle, but he doesn't.

Bebe was Kyle's token high school girlfriend. He'd be surprised if there was ever anything deep or truly loving in their relationship, but they cared enough about each other. They would walk home together sometimes. They'd have lunch together. He'd go watch her volleyball games, and she'd watch him whenever the debate club had a trial, practice or preformance. Then, after a month or so, they just kind of fizzled out. He didn't go to her games quite often, and she stopped going to the debate practices. Bebe moved on to somebody else and Kyle returned to just hanging out with Stan. They started under the radar and ended under the radar.

Kyle doesn't come back until Stan does. Both look alright, Stan perhaps a little wobbly-kneed, Kyle a little pissed.

"He made me wait for him," Kyle grumbles, sitting Stan down on the couch before sitting down himself.

"I said I was sorry, dude," Stan mumbles, face red. Kyle doesn't respond, but his face falls in a way that suggests he knows his lamenting was uncalled for.

"So?" Wendy says, twining their hands together.

"It actually went okay," Stan says thoughtfully. "I mean, he didn't really ask much in the way of personal questions-"

"It's coming," Kenny throws in.

"-but it definitely wasn't nice or anything."

Butters thinks for a second and says, "You're scared of hospitals, right?" He braces himself for a reaction and hopes he hasn't somehow offended Stan. Like most of the people around him, he's had a vague idea of Stan's phobia since they were kids.

But Stan doesn't yell or sigh or roll his eyes. He's too nice, too gentle. He smiles almost apologetically and says, "Yeah, and more recently, vomit."

"Vomit?" Butters asks. "Boy, that's ironic."

"Yeah, I know," Stan says, scratching the back of his neck nervously. "It was from when I got that bout of food poisoning last year. Remember, when we were camping?" He glances over at Kyle while he says this.

"Oh, god, yeah. He was puking nonstop and then there was blood and everything; we had to take him to the ER."

"Yeah, I ended up tearing a blood vessel in my throat, that's what was causing the blood. But god, I was so freaked out when I saw all the red, I just about died." He shakes his head. "Not exactly traumatic, but it was still fucking scary as shit. I thought I was gonna die, no shit. Every time I've thrown up after that, I just clench up and start hyperventilating. It's really bad, and with that on top of hospitals and snakes, my parents decided I'd fit in pretty good here." Butters can feel his stomach lurch when Stan says traumatic. It's an awful word.

"God, you're more fucked up than I thought," Craig says, glancing over.

"Most of them are irrational, so . . ."

"Still counts," Craig replies offhandedly.

"I don't wanna be the most fucked up," he sighs, "What kind of a title is that?"

"I don't think you really are, but you've got us beat number-wise," Kyle says. Stan shoots him a crooked half-smile.

Three phobias. The bastard has three phobias and nothing really bad has ever happened to him. Butters chews his tongue and wonders whether to envy Stan or pity him.

Minutes slide by, and they call down Kenny at last. He rolls off their legs and salutes, saying, "See you guys. Don't worry too much about me, 'kay?"

"We won't, Kenny," Stan replies.

Kenny half hums, half sings the first verse of Eleanor Rigby while he walks away. They can hear his voice fade as he walks down the hall, finally dying when the door to the office slams shut.

"He's got a good voice, doesn't he," Butters muses, moving to the other side of the couch to avoid leaning on Craig.

"Yeah, he does. He could be on American Idol some shit. Did pretty well in the talent show and the school musical, remember? When they did Charlie and the Chocolate Factory? He was Charlie," Stan rambles absently.

"He fit the role pretty well," Wendy says. "He should sing more. All the girls would just be swooning all over the place. Who doesn't like a guy that can sing?"

"What's he got? I never really thought Kenny to be the phobia sort of guy," Kyle asks, changing the subject.

"Fucked if I know. He never said anything about a phobia," Stan says. Wendy nods and shrugs. He looks down the couch and says, "Hey Craig? You know anything?"

Craig bites the corner of his lip, winces, and shrugs. "No. He's never said anything about it."

"Huh. Maybe we can work something out of him when he comes back."

"Ain't that a bit rude?" Butters says gingerly.

Kyle sighs. "Yeah, well, it's Kenny. He'll get it."

"Seemed pretty darn okay going in there," Butters observes.

"Kenny's fearless, man. You can't scare Kenny with just a doctor," Kyle says. "I'm sure he'll give the guy shit if he gets too touchy-feely."

"He's a good kid," Stan says, nodding. "Kenny could be a superhero if he wanted to. He'd be the best fucking superhero, one of those guys that can do anything, but in between every story there'd be a scene of him smoking up. God, I'd read that comic."

"He'd look pretty nice with the Marvel muscle tone," Wendy says with a bit of a cheeky smile. Stan makes a face at her, and then laughs.

"Yeah, okay. But come on, everyone looks good with Marvel muscles."

"Not Dr. Kelly," Kyle says, to their general amusement.

Nobody talks for the last few minutes precluding Kenny's return. When he does come back, he's humming the chorus.

"So?" Craig asks while he lies down between them, head in Craig's lap, feet in Butters'.

"It was just peachy, darling. We just had a grand old time, frolicking through flower fields and playing checkers," Kenny says, grinning emptily.

"Cut the bullshit, Kenny. How'd it go?"

"It went kind of badly, thanks for asking. He asked me how I was doing, told me why I was here, asked me if I could get better. Nothing really awful, just vague awkwardness," he answers truthfully, frowning a little. Butters unties his shoelaces idly.

"And why are you here?"

"I'll tell you later."

"That's not fair, you know damn well everything about everyone and you won't even tell us about yourself. We know what everyone is this room is scared of except you," Craig says, twirling one of the drawstrings of Kenny's hoodie around his fingers.

"God, I'm not gonna survive this if I have you and Dr. McFucker going on like this," he moans, scowling. His face softens and he glances up at Craig, then down towards everyone else. Butters can see his bright eyes flashing as they flick from person to person, and finally shut.

"I'm scared of poison. The name is iophobia. I've had it since I was fourteen." He doesn't volunteer any more information, but neither did Butters. He feels a little cheated, starved to know more, but he's sure they all felt the same about him when he opted not to tell.

"You know who I thought would end up here? Cartman," Stan says suddenly. "Like, nobody can be that self-confident. I thought for sure he'd wind up with some sort of mental thing. Schizophrenia or some shit like that."

"I think he's a narcissist," Wendy says. "I read about it on Wikipedia. He displays a lot of the classic signs, I think. I don't know, it just seems right to me."

"He probably has his own damn therapist," Kyle grumbles.

"Tweek has his own therapist," Craig interjects. "Sees him three times a week. Guess it keeps all those conspiracy theories of his in check."

"You know, I could have guessed," Kenny says.

"But you know? It's funny. I would've thought that we'd be pretty stable, considering we, uh. Haven't had the most normal childhood, I guess you could say. Like, more used to weird shit than other people, because come on, where else in the world does your fourth grade teacher become a lady and then a man, and where else is there an alien threat every other week? But no. We end up in the fucking asylum," Stan concludes.

"I dunno. Everyone's sort of messed up, in their own way. We're just the only ones that give enough of a fuck to go and treat this," Wendy says.

"I guess so," Stan says, shrugging. "You'd think we'd adapt better, though."

Dr. Kelly walks into the room, and they hear him before they see him. "Excuse me, kids," he says loudly, and they all jump a bit. Craig twists over the side of the couch to see him.

"Yeah?" he answers.

"There will be no more that you have to do today. Today, we're going to start setting up a therapy plan based on our interview, and actual therapy will start tomorrow. Your specialized treatment will take in about a week, maybe less. So please, relax, and we'll see you tomorrow. Lights out at eleven." With that, he leaves the common area, footsteps dulled by the carpet.

Craig shifts back to his original position and sighs.

"We have like, ten hours until then. What the fuck are we going to do until then?"

"Cuddle?" Kenny suggests lamely. He is ignored.

"I don't know," Wendy mumbles. "I'm not comfortable here."

"Let's make a promise," Butters says, finding a voice in the small crowd, "to not have any more secrets. If we're in this together, no more secrets and half-truths."

Somehow, nobody frowns. They exchange looks that say skepticism, curiosity, and acceptance. Then, Kyle says, "How do we know nobody's going to lie?"

"That's the whole point of it," Butters says softly. "You can lie if you want, but you're only hurting yourself. We'll do better here – and get out faster – if we can all understand each other."

Kenny looks up at him and smiles sadly. "I actually like that a lot, Butters. I think it'd be nice to know everyone's stories by the end of this. And, I'd like to tell everyone why I'm here. But not now. The wound's too fresh."

"He'll only drudge it up more, Ken," Craig says, the words dangerously close to being worried in nature.

"I know. Still, not now."

"So are we all gonna do it?" Butters asks, glancing around.

There's a pregnant pause.

"I will," Stan offers.

"I will too," Wendy says.

"Of course," Kenny says.

"Alright," Craig submits.

They look at Kyle. He frowns and huffs.

"Okay. I will too, but I still don't know how it's gonna work," he grumbles, fangs pulled.

Stan squeezes his shoulder affectionately. "Really, Ky, who'd be benefitting by lying about this shit? It's like the Vegas rule; what happens in the fucked up phobia hospital stays in the fucked up phobia hospital. So what if we know everything about you by the time it's over? Dr. Kelly will know everything anyway."

Kyle sighs. "Okay, Stan. Okay. I get the logic behind it."

"So you've completely agreed?"

"Yes, Stan," he says patiently, like how you'd speak to a very young child.

"So that's it," Wendy says firmly. "No more secrets."

Everyone nods, and Butters can feel his chest swell with pride. No more secrets, no more half-truths. And yet, a little part of his brain is still yearning for ambiguity. God, who wants to tell the world why you're scared of balloons? He knows he doesn't, but the knowledge that nobody else does either is a comfort that cold way knowing things could be worse always is.