Chapter Text
Stan sat hunched on an old wooden bench tucked into the far corner of Clyde’s backyard, the thrum of music muffled by the walls and the laughter inside now sounding miles away. The whiskey bottle in his hand had long lost its initial burn — now it just went down like water, heavy and numbing. A breeze rustled through the trees overhead, cool against his face. He welcomed it. Anything that distracted him from the pit in his stomach.
He tilted the bottle to his lips again, letting the cheap liquor numb his tongue and, hopefully, his thoughts. But it wasn’t working. His head was still a war zone, playing that moment on loop — Wendy’s arms around his neck, her lips pressed to his, and then Kenny’s face. That look. That hurt in his eyes. Like something fragile had cracked right in front of Stan, and he had been the one to throw the stone.
Stan wanted to punch something. Or cry. Or both.
He didn’t even know how long it had been since he stopped searching for Kenny. He’d gone from room to room, calling out for him over the music, pushing past drunk strangers and ignoring their judgmental looks. Desperate. And then, finally, Token had pulled him aside and told him Kenny had already left. With Craig.
That part still sat like a weight in his chest.
Of course. Of course Kenny had gone with Craig. Why wouldn’t he? Craig, who was confident and flirtatious and didn’t go around kissing ex-girlfriends like a self-sabotaging idiot. Craig probably knew what he wanted. Probably told Kenny straight to his face. Unlike Stan.
His fingers gripped the bottle tighter.
“I’m fine,” he muttered aloud, his voice dry with sarcasm, just as he heard someone settle beside him on the bench.
“Yeah, you look it,” Kyle said, voice low but laced with concern.
Stan turned slightly, not even surprised to see his best friend watching him with that annoyingly perceptive look — the one Kyle always gave him when he knew Stan was full of shit but was waiting for Stan to admit it himself. Kyle had a red solo cup in his hand, but it didn’t look touched. Stan almost laughed. Of course Kyle was still sober. He always was when Stan needed him.
For a moment, they sat in silence. The wind blew again, ruffling Stan’s hair, and he let his eyes fall to the grass.
“What happened back there?” Kyle finally asked. “With Wendy. With you acting like— I don’t know— like the sad main character in a Netflix drama.”
Stan exhaled, not in the mood to dodge the question anymore. “You already know what it is,” he muttered.
Kyle didn’t answer, just waited.
Stan looked down at the bottle in his hands, his voice quieter now. “It’s because of Kenny.”
Kyle didn’t even flinch. “Thought so.”
“I—” Stan swallowed, then shook his head. “I don’t know what’s going on between us. I don’t know if it’s anything. But I know I… like him. A lot. And now he probably hates me. So, that’s cool.”
Kyle let out a sigh, setting his drink on the ground. His hand reached out, patting Stan’s back gently, rubbing between his shoulder blades. “I don’t think he hates you, dude.”
Stan scoffed. “He left with Craig.”
Kyle grimaced. “Okay, yeah, that’s not ideal. But that doesn’t mean—”
“I kissed Wendy.”
“Technically, she kissed you.”
“I kissed her back, Kyle.”
That quieted them both for a beat.
Stan tilted his head back, looking up at the cloudy night sky. “Do you think I ruined everything?”
“I don’t know,” Kyle said honestly, “but I don’t think it’s too late. You should try talking to him.”
“I tried,” Stan muttered, feeling the lump in his throat swell. “Called him. Didn’t answer. And yeah, maybe he’s with Craig right now. Laughing. Flirting. Doing whatever it is people do when they’re not dealing with complete fucking idiots like me.”
Kyle rubbed his hand down his face, looking tired now too. “Let’s just get out of here. You’re clearly done, and I’m definitely not drunk enough to deal with Clyde stripping on the table again.”
Stan didn’t even argue. He stood up slowly, wobbling a little, the world fuzzy at the edges. Together, they left through the side gate, slipping into the quiet street. The music dulled behind them. Stan didn’t look back.
The house was still. Everyone was already asleep when Stan and Kyle got back. Kyle lingered in the doorway of Stan’s room for a moment after they said goodbye, clearly not convinced that Stan was “fine,” but he didn’t push. Stan was grateful for that.
He collapsed into bed, still in his jeans and jacket, the bottle of guilt pressed firmly against his chest. His head was pounding. His chest ached.
He stared at the ceiling, the memory of Kenny’s expression flashing over and over in his mind. It made his stomach twist every time.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand.
His heart leapt — actually leapt — in his chest as he snatched it up, fingers fumbling. Please. Please let it be him.
But it wasn’t.
Wendy: “I’m sorry for kissing you. I misread the moment. Hope I didn’t mess things up for you.”
Stan sighed, closing the message without responding. He appreciated the apology, he really did, but his brain wasn’t focused on her. All he could think about was the way Kenny looked at him — not just looked, but saw him. Saw right through him. And how much it hurt when he turned away.
Before he could talk himself out of it again, he opened Kenny’s contact.
His thumbs hovered. His heart pounded.
Then he typed:
“Kenny I’m sorry, can we talk?”
He stared at the message. Hovered over the “Send” button for five full seconds. Then he tapped it.
A second later, the message was marked as “read.”
His heart nearly stopped. Kenny was online.
The typing bubble appeared. Stan’s breath hitched in his throat.
But then — it was gone.
So was the “online” status.
Stan sat there, staring at the screen, the weight of silence louder than any rejection. His chest felt tight. His eyes burned.
He almost let the tears fall. Almost.
Instead, he threw his phone onto the pillow beside him, turned to the wall, and tried to breathe through the ache building in his throat.
He hated himself for feeling like this. For caring this much.
But he couldn’t stop.
All he could do was wait for Monday. And hope — somehow — that he hadn’t ruined everything.
—
The weekend stretched on like some kind of cruel punishment.
Saturday crawled. Stan sat on the edge of his bed most of the day, mind stuck in a loop, scrolling through old texts, wondering when things had gotten so tangled. He tried to distract himself, even watched an old football game to study plays, but his eyes didn’t register the screen. His body was present, but his thoughts were miles away. Always circling back to the same name.
Ken.
Sunday wasn’t any better. He had a football match that afternoon, but not even the adrenaline of the game could drown the exhaustion out of his limbs or the dull ache in his chest. His coach noticed — gave him a hard time during halftime about how checked out he looked, how sloppy his movement was. He forced himself to fake some focus in the second half, enough to not get benched, but it was a shell of his usual drive. When the game ended, he barely registered the win. The locker room felt distant. The victory cheers muffled under the weight in his chest.
He had barely slept either night. Tossing and turning, the mattress feeling too stiff, too soft, too wrong without resolution.
He needed to talk to Kenny.
He had to.
So when Monday finally dragged itself to the horizon, Stan woke with a groan and cracked eyes. He fumbled for his phone, his stomach twisting in tired knots. A notification was already waiting for him.
Kyle: “Hey. Just a heads-up — Kenny’s not coming with us today.”
Stan stared at the text, the words not fully sinking in for a second. Then they hit, all at once, like a bucket of ice dumped down his spine.
He slumped back against his bed, letting the phone fall beside him. Of course Kenny wasn’t coming with them. Of course he chose Craig’s car over his.
Stan didn’t even bother replying to Kyle. What could he say? “Cool, hope Craig packed him snacks”?
The mirror above his dresser did him no favors. He stared at his reflection, wincing. His skin looked pale, except for the deep, almost purple bruising under his eyes. His hair was a mess he didn’t care to fix. He looked like how he felt — haunted.
He splashed water on his face anyway, pulled on a hoodie, and forced himself to move through the motions. Picked up his keys. Got in the car.
When he arrived at Kyle’s house, Kyle slipped into the passenger seat and looked at him with a frown.
“Jesus, Stan,” Kyle muttered. “You look like shit.”
Stan blinked at him through the dark bags under his eyes. “Thanks, man.”
Kyle didn’t answer right away. The silence in the car was thick as they started driving.
Then, somewhere between blocks, Kyle broke it. “You talk to Kenny yet?”
Stan’s jaw tightened. “No. He left me on read.”
Kyle winced in sympathy. “I’m sorry, dude. Maybe you should try again today. Like, in person.”
Stan nodded once, barely. “Yeah.”
But he didn’t sound convinced. Not even to himself.
When they pulled up to Cartman’s house, Kyle glanced at him again but didn’t say anything. Cartman stomped out a few moments later, slamming the passenger door behind him with his usual graceless energy.
“Morning, peasants,” Cartman greeted with a grin. “I trust your weekend was as miserable as it looked over text.”
Stan didn’t answer. He kept his eyes on the road, ignoring the burning sting behind them.
As they rolled past Kenny’s street, Cartman leaned forward. “Wait, why didn’t we pick up Kenny? He sick or something?”
Stan froze.
“I think he had something to do with Craig this morning,” Kyle answered quickly, smoothly, covering for Stan. “Early class or something.”
“Oh,” Cartman said. “Weird.”
Stan didn’t speak. His hands gripped the wheel tighter, fingers turning pale.
When they finally arrived at the college parking lot, Stan exhaled, long and tired. He hated this building now. It was stupid, but it felt like everything that went wrong lately started and ended here.
As they walked toward the entrance, the morning buzz of students swarmed around them. Laughter, chatter, the occasional shout — it all felt muted. Until Stan’s eyes landed on two figures near the front steps.
Kenny. And Craig.
Stan stopped walking for half a second, long enough for Kyle to glance at him in concern.
There he was — Kenny, leaning against the low brick wall that lined the entrance, a cigarette held between two fingers, smoke curling around his head like some kind of halo. Craig stood next to him, too close for Stan’s liking, hands shoved into his pockets, saying something that made Kenny smile.
Stan’s chest clenched at the sight. Not because Kenny was smiling — that was a rare and beautiful thing, even now — but because it didn’t reach his eyes.
He looked tired. Worn-out. Just like Stan.
The closer they got, the more Stan’s stomach churned. Kyle greeted Kenny first, followed by Cartman. Kenny nodded, smiling that same small, polite smile. The one that didn’t mean anything.
Then Stan stepped forward. And for a moment — just a moment — their eyes met.
Kenny’s gaze flicked over Stan’s face, and Stan swore he could see the recognition there. The weariness. The exhaustion. The way Kenny’s eyes lingered a second longer, taking in the bags under Stan’s eyes, the way his mouth seemed drawn down in defeat.
“Hey,” Stan said, voice low, nervous.
Kenny blinked once. Then offered a soft, tired, “Hey.”
It made something inside Stan ache worse.
Craig, of course, was watching the entire thing. His eyes were sharp, unreadable, but his jaw was slightly clenched. Stan could feel the judgment radiating off him.
Stan nodded slightly at Kenny. Then, out of sheer force of will — and because he was trying to be polite even if he wanted to set Craig’s hoodie on fire — he looked at Craig. “Hey.”
Craig just looked at him. Then nodded back. Cool. Dismissive.
Kyle, clearly sensing the rising tension in the air, cleared his throat. “We should head in. Don’t want to be late.”
“Yeah,” Cartman said. “Later, lovers.”
“Bye,” Kenny said quietly. Craig echoed the word with even less energy.
But Stan couldn’t stop looking at Kenny.
His blonde hair looked unbrushed, like he hadn’t cared this morning. There was a heaviness to the way he stood, like his bones were tired. And his eyes — god, those sad eyes. Still soft. Still kind. But so weighed down.
Stan wanted to reach out, to grab his hand, to say something meaningful, anything that would bridge the gap between them.
But not here. Not in front of everyone. Not like this.
So instead, he swallowed thickly and said, “Take care, man.”
Kenny looked at him, visibly surprised by the gentleness in Stan’s voice.
“You too,” he said softly.
And that was it. They parted ways again.
Inside, after Cartman had gone to his own class and Kyle wished him luck with a pat on the shoulder, Stan made his way to his lecture hall alone. His footsteps echoed in the corridor, and his mind spun with a thousand versions of what he should’ve said.
Today he wouldn’t miss the chance to talk with him.
—
The bell echoed through the halls like a distant church bell at a funeral. Stan didn’t even realize how stiff his back had gotten until he stood from his seat, spine cracking as he stretched slightly. Three full hours of lectures and half-hearted note-taking had done nothing to ease the knot in his chest.
It was break time, finally.
But not even that small reprieve felt like a relief. His thoughts hadn’t left Kenny once the entire lecture. Not for a second. He hadn’t even remembered to check if he’d had any missed messages. Not that he expected one. Not anymore.
He walked out into the hallway slowly, dragging his feet as if walking through mud. The air outside the classroom was somehow heavier than the one inside. He needed to do something. Say something.
Kyle was already waiting for him by the door, leaned casually against a locker with his arms crossed. He straightened when Stan approached, scanning his face like a doctor diagnosing a patient before they even said a word.
“You look like shit again,” Kyle said with a sigh.
Stan gave a weak shrug, attempting to muster a convincing tone. “I’m fine.”
Kyle raised an eyebrow. “Sure.”
Stan looked away, adjusting the strap of his backpack. He didn’t want to go over it all again — the regret, the guilt, the endless cycle of what ifs. But Kyle, ever perceptive and way too stubborn for Stan’s own good, wasn’t about to let it drop.
“I saw Kenny,” Kyle said, watching him closely.
Stan turned to him instantly. “Where?”
“Back of the school grounds,” Kyle said, jerking his thumb toward the exit doors. “He was heading that way alone. Probably going to meet Craig — but if you go now, you might catch him before he does.”
The suggestion made Stan freeze in place. His stomach flipped, nerves swarming like insects. But underneath all that — beneath the exhaustion, the shame, the heavy fog of overthinking — there was something else.
Hope.
Stan hesitated. “You really think I should?”
“I think if you wait any longer, you’re gonna drive yourself insane,” Kyle said plainly. “You want to talk to him? Go. Now.”
Stan took a breath, then nodded. “Thanks, dude.”
“Anytime,” Kyle said with a small, encouraging smile.
Stan didn’t waste another second. He practically bolted through the doors, heart pounding in his ears. The sun outside was too bright, and the wind was cold against his flushed skin. He squinted through it, eyes scanning the open patch of grass and the few scattered trees that made up the back area of the college.
And then — there.
Kenny.
He stood near the base of one of the trees, the orange hood of his jacket unzipped and the collar pulled up lazily around his neck. His hair was a little messier than usual, some strands catching the wind, and he had a cigarette between his fingers, flame flickering as he lit it. The smoke curled around his face, soft and gray, blending into the overcast sky.
Stan swallowed hard.
He was alone. No Craig in sight — yet.
He didn’t give himself time to doubt. He just started walking.
Each step felt heavier the closer he got. He had no idea what he was going to say, how to begin. His hands were clammy. His mind was racing. What if Kenny just walked away? What if he didn’t want to hear it? What if he was with Craig, and Stan was already too late?
Then Kenny looked up.
Their eyes met. The reaction was instant.
Kenny stiffened slightly, his expression flickering from surprise to discomfort. His eyes darted around quickly, as if searching for an out. An excuse. An escape.
But Stan was already there.
“Hey,” Stan said, voice quieter than he meant it to be.
Kenny blinked, clearly caught off guard. “…Hey.”
It was soft. Guarded. But not cold.
There was a long silence after that. Neither of them seemed to know what to say. The quiet between them was thick, the wind brushing through the trees the only sound filling the space.
“How… how are you?” Stan asked finally.
Kenny’s lips twitched into something that might’ve been a smirk if it wasn’t so tired. “Fine,” he said, and it was a lie — Stan could hear it. Kenny wasn’t fine. He looked as awful as Stan felt. His posture was slouched, the shadows under his eyes almost matching Stan’s.
He took a drag from his cigarette before flicking ash onto the grass. “You?”
“I’m fine too,” Stan answered, because what else was he supposed to say?
But then Kenny looked at him directly, gaze flickering up and down Stan’s face. “You look like shit.”
Stan huffed, almost laughed. “Haven’t been sleeping much.”
Kenny raised an eyebrow. “Why?”
Stan hesitated.
This was it. The moment. The branch in the road where he could either deflect and leave again with regret, or finally be honest.
“I’ve been thinking about you,” he said.
Kenny blinked.
And blushed.
A soft red dusted across his cheeks and nose, almost hidden by the freckles, but not quite. He looked away quickly, taking another drag from his cigarette like it might shield him.
“…Why?” he asked, voice lower now, less defensive.
Stan felt his own cheeks heat up. His fingers twitched at his sides.
He was going to say it — he was really going to say it, finally — until a third voice cut into the moment.
“Am I interrupting?”
Stan’s stomach dropped. He didn’t have to turn to know who it was.
Craig Tucker stood a few feet away, arms crossed, eyebrows furrowed. His tone wasn’t hostile, but it wasn’t friendly either. There was something tight in his voice, a stiffness in the way he looked from Kenny to Stan.
Kenny flinched slightly, glancing down at his feet.
“Nah,” he said. “We were just talking.”
“You okay?” Craig asked, but his eyes stayed fixed on Stan.
Stan could feel the judgment radiating off him. The silent accusation.
He didn’t back down.
Kenny hesitated. Then nodded. “Yeah. I’m okay.”
Craig looked like he didn’t believe it.
“Cool,” he said. “You ready to go?”
Stan felt a spike of panic rise. Kenny was going to leave. Again. And he couldn’t let that happen — not before he’d told him everything.
So, without thinking, he reached out and grabbed Kenny’s hand.
Kenny turned sharply, eyes wide in surprise. Stan held onto his hand gently but firmly, meeting his gaze.
Kenny’s cheeks flushed deep red. His fingers didn’t pull away.
Craig’s eyes narrowed, clearly catching the gesture.
“Can we talk after class?” Stan asked softly, just to Kenny. “Here. Please. I… I want to answer that last ‘why.’”
Kenny didn’t say anything for a moment. His lips parted like he might speak, but nothing came out. Then, slowly, he nodded.
“…Okay.”
Stan felt something loosen in his chest. He let Kenny’s hand go, already missing the warmth of it.
He gave him a small, warm smile. “Thanks. I’ll see you later.”
He turned to Craig after a moment, more serious. “Bye, Craig.”
Craig didn’t say anything right away. His jaw tensed, and for a second Stan thought he might actually say something cruel. But then he just looked at Kenny again.
“Let’s go,” he muttered.
Kenny gave Stan one last glance — still pink in the face, still looking shell-shocked — then followed Craig slowly. As they walked away, Stan watched Craig slip an arm around Kenny’s shoulder, possessive and obvious. Before they rounded the corner, Craig glanced back at Stan.
There was no mistaking the look. Territory marked. Message delivered.
Stan clenched his fist at his side, jaw tight. But then, something tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Kenny hadn’t pulled away.
And he’d blushed.
Stan took a deep breath and turned back toward the college building. His heart was still pounding, but it wasn’t out of dread this time.
He might’ve finally cracked something open.
And maybe — just maybe — there was still a chance.
A real chance.
He just had to make it count.