Hey guys, thanks for all the lovely reviews. This story is taking a turn that I didn't know it would take, but I still hope you guys like reading it as much as I like writing it. not sure how long it's going to go on, but I have to find out how I'm going to end this story so I can start on my new South Park one I'm working on. if you liked, please leave a review, it helps me continue on with the story. Thanks again.

It was Saturday morning. Dr. Burg scribbled a few notes down as Stan talked. He had gotten more out of Stan today than any of the other sessions combined.

"I've been… wanting to drink lately." Stan admitted hesitantly. "Especially because the pain in my fractured rib has gotten worse. It's harder to breathe today."

Dr. Burg frowned, not looking up from his notes. He nodded slowly.

"And have you been taking the oxycodone as prescribed?"

"Yes. It only dulls the pain; it doesn't take it away completely."

"And you think drinking would take the pain away completely?" the therapist asked.

Stan swallowed, a lump in his throat. "Yeah."

"Stan, can I tell you something?"

"What?"

"No amount of alcohol or meds can get rid of the pain completely that you are feeling. Like you said, it only dulls it."

"But it hurts so bad…"

"Is it more than just the physical pain? Is there any emotional pain with it?"

There was a moment of silence from Stan. "More than just physical." He answered.

"What happened lately?"

"Kyle, uh…"

The therapist nodded, willing him to continue.

"Kyle is angry with me."

"Why is that, Stan?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"We were doing so well, Stan."

Stan sighed. "Alright."

"He's mad because I risked myself for him. Maybe it's something he's not telling me, I don't know." Stan continued.

"Stan, I'm going to have to tell your mother and father that you are considering drinking again."

Stan's eyes widened. "No, please!"

"I have to, Stan. This is important, and if you do drink, and I didn't tell your parents, I would be the one who gets in trouble."

"No, I don't feel like drinking." Stan lied, but failed to conceal his lie.

"Stan…"

"Please don't tell my parents! They will put me on lockdown!"

"I have to, Stan." The therapist repeated.

Stan's hands shook. He took a drink of his water. The glass trembled in his hand, spilling some water on the floor. Stan sat it carefully back on the table in front of him. "No…"

The therapist got up opening the door, and called in Mr. and Mrs. Marsh. Stan looked down at the floor, dreading the outcome.

"Yes, Dr. Burg?" asked Randy. "Is something wrong?"

"There's something Stan and I need to talk about," Dr. Burg started. "Stan has told me that-"

Stan cut him off. "I didn't say anything." He glared at the therapist.

"Stanley, let him talk." Stan's mother cut in.

"Thank you, Mrs. Marsh." Dr. Burg pushed his glasses from the bridge of his nose. "Stan has told me some things that make me worry," he continued. "He says that he considers drinking again."

Stan swallowed.

Sharon was about to say something, but couldn't find the words.

"Do we need to watch you 24/7 again, Stanley?" Randy asked, looking at his son.

"Again? When was the first time? You kicked me out, ignored me for a while, and left me alone when you allowed me to come back, and didn't monitor or lock up anything until just a week and a half ago!" Stan shouted.

"Don't shout at me, Stanley!" Randy retaliated.

"Admit it! Admit you are at fault for at least some of this!" Stan replied combatively.

"We did not kick you out, Stan!" Randy lied.

"Yes you did! Right after you found out I was drinking!"

"Alright, alright," Dr. Burg broke in. "Let's just… calm down, here."

"I want out of here." Stan whispered, crossing his arms.

"You can't leave until we get this resolved, Stanley." Sharon replied.

"I want out! I don't want to talk about it!" Stan removed himself from his chair.

"Stanley, get back in that seat." Randy warned.

Stan balled his hands into fists, shaking. "Why?" he had his back turned to the three.

"Because we aren't done talking yet."

Stan whispered something incoherent.

"What did you say?" Randy asked, his tone of voice had a hint of warning.

"Please just take me home."

Stan sat in his room the rest of the day. He was glad it was Saturday. But that didn't matter. All he could think about were ways to punish himself. The urge was overwhelming. He knew it would do no good, however. Everything was crashing around Stan again. Everything good was being ripped away from him as soon as it had come. Stan remembered stashing away a bottle of Jameson under his bed in a box, but he wasn't sure if he drank it all already. Stan swallowed. No. Don't let the temptation overcome you. I can get through this.

Stan's mind was somewhere else; he wasn't listening to his self-conscious anymore. He removed himself from the bed, lowering himself onto his knees. He couldn't get down any lower. The pain in his side was excruciating. The box was all the way in the middle underneath the bed, and Stan could just barely see it. It was behind clothes and toys stuffed under when Stan didn't feel like picking them up. Stan huffed. He grabbed a baseball bat that was leaning against the wall.

"Come on, come on…" Stan stuck out his tongue, trying to push the box towards him. It felt like it didn't have anything in it. Stan's heart dropped. He pulled the box out from underneath the bed. He opened it hastily. Nothing inside. Stan narrowed his eyes. My parents probably did a clean sweep of my room when I went to school one day. He had no backups. "Fuck…"

No, no. I can get through this without drinking. I can get through this without hurting myself.

You know you can't, Stan's dark thoughts overwhelmed the good, you know you need it.

"No!" Stan shouted, covering his ears, his eyes shut.

Stan's door swung open. His father stood in the threshold. "Stanley, what are you yelling about?"

"You took it!" Stan yelled, his ears still covered, eyes shut.

"Took what?"

"Took it!" Stan repeated. He stressed the last word. Randy understood what his son meant now.

"Yes, we did. We searched your room and took out all of them."

"Do you have any idea how much I need it right now?!"

"Stanley, we will help you get through this."

"I don't believe you!" though Stan wouldn't admit, his parents were the only ones he could turn to right now. Kyle was not an option. Stan's hands shook. Randy approached his son, leaning down on his knees in front of him.

"Stan. We are trying our best to help you. You have therapy; we are giving you all you need."

"No you aren't! I need Kyle!"

Kyle sat at his desk, hands shaking. Blood had seeped through the bandages, and he had changed them frequently. I did deserve this. Kyle felt like something was wrong, but he couldn't pinpoint it. It wasn't something wrong with him; it was something wrong with Stan. Stop fucking worrying about him. He's fine. Kyle couldn't push the thought away. There was a loud banging from the door, persistent. Kyle jumped. His parents weren't home, so this made Kyle a little wary.

Kyle slipped off of his desk chair, making his way downstairs. He reluctantly opened the door, and the banging stopped. Stan stood in the threshold, his body shaking violently, his hair sticking out from underneath his hat. He held his side, and Kyle could see he was in a lot of physical pain.

"I fucking need you right now! Put all of your anger aside, please, Kyle!" Stan shouted.

"St-Stan?"

Stan collapsed to the floor at Kyle's feet, gasping for breath. His chest heaved, and with every breath, Stan groaned in pain. "Please…" Stan wheezed. "Just please, I need you so badly…"

"I-I'm here for you." Kyle lifted Stan off of the ground, holding around his midsection.

"Owww!" Kyle had brushed up against Stan's side. "You fucker!"

"I-I'm sorry!" Kyle helped Stan to the couch, lying him down carefully.

"What happened, Stan?" Kyle's voice was laced with worry.

"I needed it… my parents took it all out of my room…"

"Needed what, Stan?"

"It."

The alcohol.

Kyle swallowed, leaning down to Stan's level.

"You've been so strong. Don't give up, Stan."

"I know I have, Kyle. The pain… do you have any idea what physical and emotional pain mixed together creates? With you being angry at me… and the physical pain from-" Kyle cut him off by putting a finger to Stan's lips.

"Just please, relax. You're hurting yourself more by the way you're acting."

"Fuck you, Kyle."

Kyle reeled back, his eyes glistening in the dark, the only light illuminated from upstairs, coming from Kyle's room. "You wanted my help, and this is how you treat me?"

"I'm sorry." Stan whispered. "I'm just… I'm just hurting right now. I don't mean to take it out on you."

Kyle sighed.

"I'm sorry, Kyle." He grabbed his friend's hand. Kyle's hand was trembling. Stan noticed the bandages.

"What happened?" Stan asked, worry in his voice.

"I just… broke a cup from my desk and stupidly tried to pick the pieces up by hand."

Stan tried to sit up. He hissed, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Lie back down."

"I need to sit up."

"Then I'll help you."

Kyle helped Stan sit up, leaning him into the back of the couch. "Better?"

Stan nodded.

Kyle began to lift Stan's shirt up to look at the bruise, but Stan shoved his hand away.

"What are you doing?"

"I want to see your bruise."

"Why?"

"Have you been taking care of it?" Kyle asked.

"Why?"

"You ask too many questions," Kyle sighed. "Just let me look."

Stan hesitated. He unzipped his coat and pulled it off, revealing a white t-shirt underneath. He lifted his shirt slightly. It didn't look like it was healing at all. It looked like it was getting worse, if anything. The bruise covered most of his lower side. Kyle touched his fingers to it lightly. Stan hissed. "Knock that off!"

"How long has it been since you iced it, Stan?"

"A few hours."

"Have you been taking your meds regularly?"

"Yes."

"Have you been eating?" Kyle noticed that Stan looked like he hadn't eaten very much.

"I can barely keep any food down without throwing it up. And that makes the pain worse."

Kyle frowned.

"Let me see your hands." Stan asked, reaching for Kyle's bandaged fingers.

"Why?"

"Now who's asking questions?" Stan asked, a small smile playing on his lips. Kyle loved to see that smile, even though it was a small one. Kyle held out his hands for Stan to see. "I can barely see them. Can you turn on a light?"

Kyle switched on the living room light, a fan started to whir from up ahead. Kyle turned the fan off. "I accidentally turned on the fan instead," Kyle said, now flipping the correct switch. "There." Kyle returned to Stan on the couch. He sat beside him. Stan peered at his friend's hands.

"Looks like it hurts." Stan turned Kyle's hand over in his own.

"It's nothing." Kyle replied, hastily pulling away.

"It's something to me." Stan looked up and into Kyle's eyes. "Your safety is important to me, Kyle."

Cartman had a feeling that Stan and Kyle were together, in the same place. He just needed to find out where they were. Kyle's house? Stan's house? Somewhere he couldn't think of? It was only eight o'clock PM. The minutes ticked by. He knew that Kyle's parents were gone for the night; he overheard him say it to Butters yesterday. Maybe they were at Kyle's house. A malicious smile crept on Cartman's face.

Kyle and Stan had fallen asleep, Kyle sitting, resting on his arm at one end of the couch, and Stan lying on the other end. Kyle snored softly.

Cartman stood across the street, staring down Kyle's house. His fists were shaking. "I know you're both in there." He said to himself. He quietly made his way across the street, looking up and down to make sure no cars were coming his way. He made sure the knife was secure in his jacket pocket.

Cartman crept over to the window overlooking the living room, spotting Kyle and Stan sleeping soundly on the couch. "I knew it." He whispered to himself. Cartman made his way to the back sliding door from the backyard. He made sure it was unlocked, and slowly opened it.

Kyle's eyes fluttered open at the noise. "Huh…" he sat up quietly, as to not disturb Stan. Kyle saw a silhouette standing in the threshold of the back sliding door from across the way. Kyle rubbed his eyes, and it was gone. I'm just seeing things.

Kyle blinked and the shadow was closer this time. "What the fu-" Kyle started, but was knocked down by the figure. Kyle struggled against the weight, the breath knocked out of his lungs as he hit the ground. Kyle gasped for air.

"There you are, you fucker!" it was Cartman. Kyle would recognize that voice anywhere.

"Stan! St- mmph!" Kyle started, but Cartman clamped a hand over his mouth to keep him quiet.

"I've got you now, Kyle!" Cartman fished out a switchblade and Kyle's eyes widened.

"Cartman, please, we can settle this an easier way!" Kyle's words were muffled.

"There is no easier way, Kyle." A spiteful smile played on Cartman's features.