I Can Hardly Spell My Name

written by Shrink - illustrated by Broflove and Zteif

-Broflove-

Prologue: Christmas Break - Junior Year
Chapter One: September After High School Graduation
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten

Notes

Thank you to both of my wonderful betas for all their support and help along the way.

---

Prologue: Christmas Break - Junior Year

Kenny's funeral had been two months ago. All of the build up to that day seemed to string time together, from the call down to the principal's office during third period, to riding home in his Mom's car, her hand clamped down hard on his shoulder.

Today Kyle stood on the stoop of Stan's house, hearing the doorbell ping on the inside, and the shuffling of Sharon's footsteps. She smiled as she pulled the door back.

"Snowing still?" she asked, as Kyle swiped the soles of his boots on the mat in the doorway. She was wearing her name tag from work. Kyle forgot that people still had to go to work over Christmas break. The five days he'd had off of school had, in other years, meant watching cheap movies with Stan in his living room until they'd both passed out.

But now Stan wouldn't return his calls, so Kyle was reduced to showing up unannounced in order to not give him enough time to leave. He hoped for a while it'd been a coincidence that Stan was never home after he'd called and told him he was on his way over. He'd have an excuse ready later like Randy had asked him to run to the store at the last minute. And Kyle had believed him, because it didn't fully enter into his mind not to. But one night, Sharon had told him Stan had just left, and Kyle, feeling particularly disheartened, decided to take a longer way home. He'd spotted Stan's car parked a block away with Stan smoking in the driver's seat with the windows up. Kyle had abruptly turned and walked back the other direction, trying to think of any explanation other than the obvious, that Stan just didn't want to see him.

Stan said he wasn't avoiding him—that Kyle had a different schedule filled with AP classes, and he was busy with football practices.His excuses sounded good when he said them, despite there not being practice in winter or AP classes on break. Even then, they'd found the time before.

"He's in his room," Sharon said. "Dinner will be ready in about 10 minutes—did you want me to fix you a plate?"

"That's okay." Kyle passed her and walked purposely up the steps. He couldn't fully suppress the feeling he was crossing the Atlantic in a rowboat. He stood at the bottom of the stairs looking up to the dark hallway. He wasn't even certain what he thought he was accomplishing with this. But if he could just get Stan to talk to him he was sure they could figure it out.

He knew it was somehow connected to Kenny's death. That's when it all started, anyway. Cartman had told him later that it was Karen who found her brother's body that morning before school. The paramedics she'd called found her sitting against the wall of his bedroom, her book bag strapped to her back, and Kenny's clutched to her chest, as if holding them would change where they were both going. It had been a drug overdose, which would prompt an assembly about the dangers of marijuana and alcohol the next week in school. Kenny had taken prescription pills, but there weren't as many pamphlets readily available about cocktails of Oxytocin and Xanax.

At the funeral, Stan had sat in the back row of metal folding chairs that surrounded the grave with Kyle at his side. On that day Stan had still held Kyle's hand. Maybe a little too tight, but nothing that would indicate anything had changed between them. They'd been dating for a year and it felt like even though this was something sharp and painful, it was something that their relationship could absorb. Still, it was hard to figure out the new normal in the days and weeks that followed.

The railing of the steps to Stan's room were covered in fake pine tree garland that prickled his palm when he touched it. Even the hallway had snowmen pictures hung along it. But the gaudy decorations stopped at the door to Stan's room. It was closed. For a moment Kyle wondered if he wouldn't find the window opened with a trail of sheets leading to the ground. But Stan was in his room, curled up on his bed. All of the lights were on. His laptop was closed on the pillow next to him. When Kyle sat on the chair at his desk, he lifted his head to look at Kyle and sighed.

"You should have called first." His hair was matted and flattened to his forehead, and Kyle wondered if he'd gotten out of bed all day. He was suddenly, blindingly consumed with anger at Stan trying to absorb all of the sympathy in the town, like he was the only one who felt anything deeply enough to be properly affected. He noticed Stan anxiously picking at his sleeves and all of the fight drained out through his feet in a moment.

"You don't answer your cell phone."

"My house," Stan said, making Kyle feel guilty though he knew he shouldn't.

"I wanted to make sure you'd be here."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Stan sat up and leaned against the wall.

"Nothing, dude," Kyle said, drawing a circle in the layer of dust on Stan's desk. Even when he was given a perfect opening for confronting Stan, he was backing down. He wanted to be an hour in the future, when this conversation would probably be over. "I just miss you."

"Well, you've seen me. I'm tired. I want to sleep," he said. His arms were folded over the hoodie Kyle had bought him for his 17th birthday.

Kyle would have liked to leave. He would have liked to slam the door behind him and run home to his own room—to his own bed, but he walked closer to Stan's instead. He wasn't crying even though he wanted to, but he could feel tears gathering on his lower eyelid. He knew crying wouldn't help, but when Stan's blue eyes held such contempt in them, it was hard to remember to be tactful.

"Stan—I love you." He sat on the edge of the bed, trying hard to remember what he thought this conversation could change. "And if you respect me, you'll tell me what's wrong. Whatever it is. Whatever I did."

Stan laughed, scrubbing a hand over his face.

"Of course you'd think it's about you."

"Then what?" Kyle missed the way Stan would pull him into a hug from behind when he was upset. Now the air around him was empty.

"Really Kyle? What?"

"Is this about Kenny?"

"What do you think?"

"I don't know!" Kyle flung his arms into the air. "You won't talk to me, you won't let me touch you or kiss you, you can barely acknowledge that we're in the same room. I don't understand what Kenny has to do with our relationship. God, Stan—I was his friend too!" Kyle wanted to force his brain into Stan's so they would have to stop arguing because they would want the same thing.

"Were you Kyle?"

Kyle had known Stan could get vicious when arguing with other people, but he'd never been quite on this side of it before. His chest hurt with the effort of continuing to talk.

"I miss him every day."

"Then how can you expect everything to be like it was before? Every time you try and kiss me Kyle—all that tells me is that you can still be happy. And I realize how much you don't care."

"That's unfair."

"You were always telling Kenny how much he wouldn't have a future if he didn't apply himself in school. Now it looks like you were right. Congratulations."

"Stan, come on."

"You thought Kenny was worthless and poor. Not someone who was going anywhere, like you. Because you have daddy to pay for your college tuition."

"I think you're confusing me with Cartman," Kyle said.

"You don't make it hard," Stan said. "You're both heartless."

"I can't believe you're saying this to me." Kyle was standing now. "Just tell me what I can do to make it okay. I'll be better. We don't have to kiss or touch, we can just be friends."

"What don't you understand? I don't love you. Fuck. I don't even like you." It was all of the fears that Kyle had never spoken about. That everyone was just laboring through being around him. That every time he turned his back, whoever he happened to be talking to turned to their actual friends and shared a pitying look that he could be so delusional about their interest in anything he had to say. He had been so nearly convinced that Stan had at least considered him worthwhile. Still, he couldn't just let go.

"Why?" Kyle said, crying now as he stood in the center of the room they'd both grown up in.

"I've told you Kyle. You think you're better than everyone. You thought you were better than Kenny and I couldn't see it until he was dead. That's why. Do you get it now or do I have to print it on an AP test to get you to understand?"

But Kyle did understand. The person sitting on the bed wasn't the same as the one who used to kiss him. There wasn't anything else to say; he wished he'd seen it sooner. So he turned and walked towards the door. Downstairs Sharon waved goodbye to him as she set a plate on the dining room table.

It was snowing heavier now, and Kyle zipped his coat and walked back the way he'd come. But everything was different now; his coat, the sidewalk, the snow—because they were all a part of it now, the world where Stan didn't love him.

He'd spend the next week of Christmas vacation meticulously completing all the assignments he'd been given over the break and finding ways to feel productive in thirty minute increments. Thinking beyond that was overwhelming. If Stan didn't want to love him—or like him anymore, then it was because he deserved it.

When school resumed Kyle avoided the hallways he knew Stan would be in, and only a few times happened across him in the alley smoking with the goth kids before he learned to walk a different way home. He walked with his books to his chest and his elbows cinched tightly to his sides, watching to make sure his feet didn't trip over any cracks in the sidewalk. In February Cartman knocked him into a locker as he passed and instead of laughing and calling him Jewboy like he expected, picked up his books and walked next to him. Kept walking next to him for the rest of the month until Kyle thought, this could be okay. Cartman never did anything he didn't want to. Cartman would never let him believe he was something he wasn't.

Chapter One: September after High School Graduation

Kyle frowned at his computer screen and consulted the book again. It wasn't that online classes were particularly challenging, but there was something he missed about the academic setting: cramped knees, the quiet authority of the teacher, a frantic search for a pen at the bottom of a bag, the rattling of the air conditioning vent. He should be there, he thought, spinning irritably on the stool. Not still sitting in South Park, with the same job he'd had during his last year of high school, only expanded to fill all of the empty hours he'd gotten after graduation.

"You're out of 2%," a customer said, sitting the container on the counter next to him.

"One sec." he jumped down from the stool to retrieve the back-up creamer from the mini-fridge under the bar.

Working slow weekday afternoons were a previously unknown blessing. He was used to being slammed on nights and weekends. But the closest it got to that at Tweak Bros Coffee on weekdays were the Wednesday book club meetings, which consisted of middle-aged woman carrying copies of The Help under their arms as they asked him the difference between a latte and cappuccino.

He unloaded the morning pastry plates from the dishwasher and stacked them on the shelf. Another hour and he'd bring out the black bean chili for lunch. Tweek should be in any minute help with the lunch "rush," which would be good, because he could have his break and work uninterrupted on his essay on symbolism in The Yellow Wallpaper for his American Literature Gen Ed.

His cell phone vibrated in his pocket and he disappeared into the kitchen to take the call he'd ignored the first few times it had come while he was steaming milk.

"Finally!" The exasperated voice said. Kyle liked to think he was past the days he would feel a little leap at someone having wanted to hear from him, but he supposed it was still rare enough that he couldn't take it for granted.

"I'm at work." He twirled the drawstring of his hoodie around his finger. Cartman was out of his last class of the day, World History I. Kyle had been staring at the crumpled schedule he'd printed out from Cartman's school account yesterday when he hadn't been answering his phone after his Psych class. His passwords were still always Cheeseyp00fs.

"Christ, it's not like a real job, Kyle," Cartman said. "You can always get another job." Kyle wasn't sure why, exactly, but Cartman had never been completely okay with him working at Tweak Bros. He said it was because so much caffeine wasn't good for him, but even after cutting back to regular mochas only twice a day he still didn't approve.

"It pays money like a real job." By now the back and forth over work was practically scripted.

"Which is why you can afford to pay for my movie ticket next time."

Kyle didn't respond right away. It bothered him that unlike before Cartman had left, he couldn't be sure when next time was.

"We shouldn't be paying money to blow each other in the dark," Kyle said, though it was only a half-hearted attempt to rile Cartman into committing to visit this weekend.

Cartman lowered his voice, "Oh? My cock isn't worth your money Kahl? I bet you want it right now."

Kyle blushed and looked around the empty stockroom. "Can we not talk about it? I'm at work."

"We can not talk at all. I have practice." The disconnecting chirp followed.

Kyle pulled his phone away from his face and pocketed it. He focused on the stainless steel appliances and packaging boxes he was standing among.

"There you are." Tweek was standing in the doorway, tearing at some dead skin on his thumb with his teeth. He ran a hand through his blonde hair, making it stick up erratically like it had when they were kids. "Dad's bringing in new photographs to hang on the walls," Tweek said. Mr. Tweak hadn't actually worked a shift at the café since Kyle and Tweek had graduated and both begun working full time, which was good because he seemed to be the only thing that riled Tweek's anxiety. Kyle followed him to the front, grabbing a few frames from under Mr. Tweak's arms.

"Thanks Kyle," he said, as the two carried the framed photographs to the back counter. He set them down, pausing to stare at the various photos arranged in blue plastic frames. Mostly the photos were extreme close-ups of beaten up railroads with the saturation altered. Kyle tried to catch Tweek's eye, but he was laying the photos in a line. The photos weren't exactly better than the close ups of sunflowers that were currently hanging up and knew he shouldn't be judgmental. After all, they were going to be displayed in a café in South Park, Colorado. It wasn't like he was the curate of some trendy museum.

"I think you boys know the photographer, one of you friends from school—Henrietta Biggle," Mr. Tweak said. "She shipped these back from Portland. She's a graphic design student now, Tweek."

"Oh Jesus! That's good for Henrietta. She's ugh, talented, she should go to school," Tweek said, flicking a strand of hair from his eyes.

"Do you want me to hang them?" Kyle asked, looking for an excuse to get away from any conversation about college. He heard it enough from his own parents. The only reason he was taking the online classes at all was to calm his mom down after she'd found out he'd never sent in his college applications.

"No, I'll have Tweek do that when it dies down." Mr. Tweak was looking pointedly at his son. Kyle looked around the café but only found an elderly couple conversing over a crossword puzzle by the window. "Anyway, I need you behind the register. You're training our new employee today."

Kyle raised a weary eyebrow. He remembered training Dougie last year. The younger teen had watched Kyle skeptically from over his black-rimmed glasses like every explanation was a new condescension.

"It's another one of your friends, I think," Mr. Tweak said. Kyle sighed, if Mr. Tweak could characterize Henrietta Biggle as his friend, he may as well have hired any Park County teenager with a sneer, or any teenager at all. Mr. Tweak went back to his car parked in the front to grab the rest of the artwork. Tweek leaned against the counter, letting out a breath while he didn't share the same air as his father.

"It's Stan," he said quietly.

"What?" Kyle jerked his head up.

"My dad hired him last week. I meant to tell you, but I kept putting it off. I forgot that he started today." Tweek sounded close to apologetic, like he might know something about his non-relationship to Stan. He didn't know anything.

Kyle hadn't talked to Stan since that night in his room. He'd watched as Stan grew thinner and paler, exchanging his varsity jacket for a black peacoat. But he was sure that Stan had never noticed anything about him.

He wanted to think he was strong now in a way that he hadn't been then. That he was older and more mature and that made him see how little Stan had meant to him in the first place. But when Stan walked in the front door with Mr. Tweak, and a frame slipped from Kyle's grip and slammed hard against the stainless steel counter he knew he was the same person who had been crying in Stan's room, wondering how he could have been so stupid.

"Careful there!" Mr. Tweak said, and Kyle kept his face down as he went through the motions of making sure the picture was okay. He could barely believe he'd let something so cliché and dramatic happen but glad to have an excuse to look anywhere that wasn't at Stan.

"Hey Stan." Tweek did a half wave.

"You boys all know each other, right?" Mr. Tweak asked. Stan stood next to him, looking considerably better than he had when Kyle had last seen him at graduation.

"Yeah, we all went to school together." Stan was tugging at his sleeve. It wasn't a shirt that Kyle recognized.

"Alright Stan, Kyle will show you the ropes." Mr. Tweak clasped Kyle's shoulder as he passed. Kyle looked helplessly at his boss, his mind swelling with excuses, but none of them holding any water.

He turned back and looked at Stan accusingly. He didn't want Stan being forced to be around him. He had been quaking in his converse when Stan had walked in, but now he was just so helplessly angry at how much power Stan still held over him. How Stan wasn't even looking at him. Not even now. He was staring at the messenger bag on his hip and playing with one of the straps.

"I didn't know you worked here," Stan said quickly, looking up to watch Mr. Tweak walk into the back.

"Well, I do." Kyle had to bite his tongue to stop from detailing how long; reminding himself that it wasn't actually impressive. That Stan wasn't someone he could impress.

"I just normally go to the diner for coffee," Stan said. Stan probably frequented the diner with his pseudo-intellectual goth friends.

"Maybe you should have gotten a job there then."

"They weren't, um, hiring." Stan glanced uncertainly at Tweek. But the blonde just grabbed a few frames and carried them to where his dad was standing. Kyle also looked over at Mr. Tweak who smiled and gave him a thumbs up.

"Okay so I have to train you. So watch what I do and learn it." He sipped the mocha he'd made for himself earlier. There weren't a lot of situations in life that couldn't be made less painful by acting unfazed. This was just another one of them.

"Don't you guys wear uniforms?" Stan looked back and forth between Kyle and Tweek. He was wearing his typical outfit; skinny jeans, black converse high tops, a Joy Division t-shirt topped by a black blazer he no doubt got second hand. The only thing worse than the pretentiousness in that were the two pins attached to the collar of the blazer of album covers that Kyle couldn't place. Stan had always been taller than Kyle, but standing next to him now, he could tell he'd had grown another inch.

Kyle rolled his eyes. "This isn't Harbucks. We just need something to cover our hair."

Stan looked over at Tweek who had a folded bandana wrapped over his hair, flattening it over his ears. Kyle had always wished he could have worn a bandana, but it just made his hair puff out around his face, so he stuck to the beanie.

Stan tugged a skullcap from his pocket and pulled it over his head.

"Do you have any barista experience?" Kyle asked, directing Stan over to the espresso machine, feeling like the question was somehow absurd. Every question that wasn't "why" seemed misplaced. And having to explain the difference between cappuccinos and lattes to Stan felt a bit like cosmic punishment for all the times he'd so bitchily explained it to customers. He pointed to different shelves where everything was kept, and gave Stan a run-down on how often the coffee should be switched out. Stan nodded, following behind Kyle as if this was something they did everyday together.

"And I just pour the milk over the espresso?" Stan asked, holding the milk pitcher over the cup.

"No, watch my hands again." Kyle snatched the milk pitcher from Stan. If he had ever gotten better at confrontations, he would tell Stan to leave. Or at least tell him that he didn't want him there. But he couldn't say it. All he had was his passive aggressive attempts to make working with him miserable. He wanted Stan to feel at least a tenth as uncomfortable as he did.

"I don't know dude, that just looks like pouring," Stan said, smiling, unfazed. Kyle wanted to slam the pitcher on the bar and stomp off out of the building. He wanted to shake Stan until his teeth rattled. He wanted to laugh at how forced and surreal this whole situation was. He wanted to crawl out of his own skin.

"I don't know how else to explain it to you. You either get it or you don't."

Stan looked down at the milk, the small bubbles disintegrating just below the rim of the cup. Kyle felt hot under his beanie, and stared at the back of Tweek's neck as he stood on a ladder, lifting Henrietta's photos onto the nails on the wall. His dad stood below him shouting that it wasn't straight, making Tweek shake and tilt the picture too far in the other direction.

"Sorry that I suck." Stan took a sip of the melting green tea smoothie he'd made a half hour ago.

Kyle frowned. "If you want to drink that, you have to go in the back."

"There's no one here." Stan cocked his head to the side, as if he was noticing the atmosphere of the café for the first time. "What are we listening to?"

Kyle paused a minute to listen to the song playing over the speakers. That had been one of his favorite things about working here at first, being able to choose the music. He liked to think that it gave him the power to inflict his moods on the customers.

"The Smiths," Kyle said, throwing out the cups they'd used. He wished that Stan didn't look so surprised, and wanted to point out that just because someone listened to indie music didn't mean they had to dress like a prick hipster. He also wished Stan didn't look so goddamn good as a prick hipster.

"Yeah, I know that, what song?"

"I Don't Owe You Anything."

Stan looked at him meaningfully for a moment before recognizing that as the title. "Right." He grabbed a towel and helped Kyle clean up their mess. "Thanks for training me, I'll just pick this stuff up as I go along." The dismissal was clear. Kyle never wanted to be dismissed by Stan again.

"Mr. Tweak has new people ring customers out at the register for their first week. Hopefully you picked up on how to count before now." It wasn't even a good insult. But Kyle knew he couldn't make Stan think any less of him, so he would say whatever mean thing he could think of to get Stan to just leave.

Stan blinked and laughed awkwardly. "Right, yeah."

"My shift is over," Kyle said, grabbing his coat and messenger bag from the back. "Tweek, you can watch Stan?"

Tweek climbed down from the ladder and motioned for Stan to join him at the register. "Do you want to wait on this customer? You don't have to."Kyle heard Tweek mumbling, as he passed by someone coming in the front door.

Kyle shoved his hands in his coat pockets and kicked a penny across the cement in front of him. He'd forgotten to make his usual mocha before he left, and now he'd have to rely on the Folgers at home to power him through his American Literature essay. The cool air felt good on his cheeks though and he thought about doubling around the block before going in his house but decided against it.

"Hey," Ike said, not looking up from the TV. Kyle sighed and sat down next to him. His brother's Calculus textbook was open in his lap, a piece of notebook paper sat promisingly on top of the pages.

"Where's Mom?" Kyle asked, inwardly let down that the one day that he needed his mom asking after him, she was nowhere to be found.

"A meeting, or at the store, or something," Ike mumbled. "Why, what's wrong?

"What do you mean?"

"You usually go right to your room," Ike said. He had his hoodie pulled up over his messy black hair. Kyle didn't think Ike had been home enough to make any sweeping statements about what he usually did or did not do. Wasn't Ike supposed to be the moody teenager going to his room and not the other way around?

"I'm fine." He stood back up and went to the kitchen as if moving somehow proved it.

He filled the coffee pot with water, and waited as coffee began to drip. "So, guess who is working at Tweek Bros. now," Kyle said after a few minutes had passed.

"What?" Ike called, muting the TV.

"I said that Stan Marsh is working at Tweek Bros. now. I had to train him today."

"Stan's a cool guy," Ike said. "Remember when you guys used to hang out all the time?"

"Yeah." Kyle poured the coffee into his favorite mug. He didn't know if he had more concrete memories than those of being with Stan. "Do your homework," he mumbled as he retreated into his room. He heard the TV un-mute as he set his coffee down.

While he waited for his laptop to load, he texted Cartman: "got off work." He stared down at his phone for a response that didn't come. Cartman would want to know about Stan and the sooner Kyle told him, the easier Cartman would take the news.

He never thought that all those Friday nights making out under the bleachers would amount to this; leaning over his cellphone in the dimming light of his room. He thought of the conversations he and Cartman would have been having this time last year on the floor of his bedroom. Conversations where Cartman had explained the reasons why it was better for Kyle to stay in South Park instead of going away to college. It was just so much easier to do what Cartman thought was best. He was usually right. Kyle checked his phone again for a text that hadn't come.

He wandered back downstairs, but Ike was gone now. The TV was off and he considered turning it back on while he made toast. After Stan had stopped talking to him, everything in Kyle's life seemed to be doing a bad impersonation of itself. Mostly him though, he considered, licking some peanut butter off a butter knife, letting the ridges slice against his tongue.

Chapter 2

Stan was waiting outside the building when Kyle got there the next morning. Mr. Tweak had given him a key to the café his senior year for nights that he closed.

"Good morning dude." Stan stomped out his cigarette under his sneaker. Kyle watched him disapprovingly.

"You'll have to sweep that up," he replied, letting himself into the café. Stan reached down and picked the cigarette up as Kyle flipped the "Closed" sign around.

"I think I got the pouring thing down yesterday after you left. Well, Tweek said so," Stan mumbled as Kyle hung his coat in the back. He wanted to ignore what Stan said and reply with a non-sequitur too.

"You're just going to be on register today," he said instead. He pulled the coffee canisters from the back. "I have to set up the café. Just watch what I do."

After Kyle had gotten the coffee brewing he made himself a drink. Stan was refilling the sugar packets. "You guys should have stocked everything last night," he called. "Didn't Tweek tell you?"

"No. Yeah. He did." Stan turned and walked back to the counter. "You know, I didn't get this job as an excuse to argue with you. I need the money." Stan could pretend to be the bigger person all he wanted. It didn't make it true.

"There are other jobs Stan." Apparently Kyle had gotten better at confrontation. There was a slight thrill in his veins at the thought.

"Well then I'm working here until I find one Kyle, so can we just be—"

"Fine, but I'm a condescending dick—remember? This is how I am." Kyle had thought of saying it a second before he did. Out loud it didn't sound like he was putting Stan in his place. Out loud it just sounded sad.

"Kyle, please dude."

"Quit." Kyle shrugged, loving the way Stan's blue eyes lit up in indignation that could go nowhere, because regular morning customers were filing in. It was a mix of people on their way to work and old people still glad to have a routine. Stan rang the register, begrudgingly—Kyle liked to think—as he prepared the drinks.

Maybe it was supposed to be awkward, but he preferred hostile silence to Stan making friendly conversation. When everyone had their drinks, Kyle disappeared and messed with the CDs, and hated himself for wanting to choose something pointed. Ultimately he decided on a mellow acoustic album, thinking it would be more of an insult.

When he came back out, Stan was leaning over the counter talking to the tall goth kid that Kyle had assumed killed himself around junior year of high school. But seeing him now, he supposed it made more sense that he'd just dropped out. Neither of them acknowledged him anyway, so he busied himself by loudly unloading the new shipment of tea into the canisters on the shelf behind the counter.

"So I should order the most complicated drink," the goth teen said.

"If I poison you with too much espresso, that's your own fault." Stan turned to stare at the chalkboard menu with his friend. It was strange to hear Stan talking like everything was normal to this other person who wasn't and couldn't be Kyle. He wished another customer would come in to force an end to the conversation, but he was just as good at wishing for customers as he was at wishing them away. He could interrupt them himself, but he wasn't interested in being on the receiving end of both the goth kid and Stan's condescending stares.

"Uhm, White Chocolate Cherry Mocha," the goth teen said sarcastically, tugging distractedly at the earring hanging by his throat.

"Kay—so that's one small black coffee."

"If you insist," he said, paying for the coffee. "All this whipped cream and syrup bullshit. It's just a way to make money out of a product that is relatively cheap. And better without it," he said. Kyle wanted to rattle off some facts about fair trade and living wages. He wanted to be a part of the conversation in any way he could. He tempered the feeling by remembering that no one was actually interested in what he found interesting. Kyle could feel the ghost of the regret he would have felt at trying to join in when he was unwanted.

Stan poured the coffee from the canister behind the counter, smirked at his friend, and then added a small layer of whipped cream to the top. Kyle couldn't imagine a universe where he was on either side of this exchange.

"Stan, you're a fucking anarchist," the tall goth said, rolling his eyes. But when he took the drink, he flicked the whipped cream with his fingers, sending flying across the counter.

"Hey—I have to clean that up," Stan said, grabbing a rag.

"You have to earn your minimum wage somehow." He shrugged and licked what was left of the whipped cream.

"You like it. I knew it."

"I do not," his friend said, licking the corner of his mouth, "but I know someone that might." Kyle wrinkled his nose at the implication. Public indecency.

They both laughed, and Kyle felt the real threat of a migraine beginning in his temples. Stan's goth friend eventually retired to the back corner of the café with headphones and a book, and Kyle considered demanding that he pay for something else or pay rent if he insisted on camping out in the café the entire day. He only left when Stan had a lunch break and gave him a ride home. They walked out together discussing whatever book he had been reading.

Tweek passed by them on his way in the door. "Hey Stan and Ethan," he waved.

"I didn't even know they were friends in high school," Tweek said to Kyle. "Now they're always together." Kyle wondered when he asked for Tweek's expert analysis.

"Yeah." He sipped at an iced coffee that he'd made too bitter. "Friends, or something."

Tweek raised his eyebrows and shrugged.

"So." Kyle narrowed his eyes at the blonde. "When did this happen?"

"What?" Tweek looked over his shoulder as he retrieved a teabag.

"Stan," Kyle clarified.

"Oh. His band played here a couple weekends back—and my dad was talking to him. Stan said he needed some extra money."

"Where was I?" Kyle was looking at the Cafés live music schedule but realized he had no idea what the name of Stan's band was.

"With Cartman—or, uh, someone I guess. I didn't think I was going to like it; goth music. But it was pretty good. They're playing here again next weekend. My dad liked all the teenage girls that came to see them that bought the expensive frap drinks." Tweek pulled at the sleeve of his button-down. Kyle wished he and Tweek were good enough friends that he could require him to hate Stan on his behalf.

"Hey Dougie." Kyle waved at the younger teen. Dougie worked after-school, and typically signaled the end of Kyle's shifts.

"Hey, do you want to go out back and smoke before you go?" Tweek asked. The baggie of pot was already in his hand. Kyle typically said no, but the few times he had agreed kept Tweek asking. Tweek didn't like to smoke alone if he could help it; Kyle had heard him ask customers if he was desperate enough for company.

He nodded, "We'll be right back."

Dougie waved them away, and began cleaning up what he seemed to think was a mess.

Kyle followed Tweek into the alley behind the café and waited as he lit up the joint. The blonde took a drag and passed it to Kyle.

"To be honest, I completely forgot about the you and Stan thing. But my advice would be just try and get along. Don't make it weird, you know?"

Kyle thought that acting as if he and Stan were friends was the weird choice. He took another drag of the joint, feeling the familiar tingle he got in his nose when he knew he'd gotten a good hit.

"Tweek, I can't." He slid against the brick wall of the building. Tweek followed his lead and sat on the cement beside him. "Stan was," he coughed after taking another hit, "my best friend. And one day, he decided that—no, wait, he'd been wrong about me all along. You might have thought that I killed Kenny. Sometimes I feel like I did." Kyle wondered if you could get high in about five seconds or if he'd just been caught off guard enough by someone actually asking, to answer.

"Everyone remembers how upset Stan was about Kenny's death. But I think he's okay now."

He took the joint from Tweek again, "And so everything can just be okay again—like it was before because Stan decided that it can be?"

Tweek laughed into the joint, making small puffs of smoke escape from his lips. "I don't know man."

Kyle leaned his head back, and stared at the way the snow in the alley had been run over by cars. The tire treads looked like fish skeletons and it took him a few squints to decide that they definitely weren't.

"Yeah. Well, I have my own life now without him." And he's got one without me was unspoken and painfully clear.

"Do you mean Cartman?" Tweek chewed on his thumb nail after passing Kyle what was left of the joint. "Because he treats you like shit," Tweek added after Kyle didn't say anything.

"Don't talk about things you don't understand. I never have to guess at how Eric is going to act. Anyway, I never knew you liked Stan so much," Kyle said.

"Not many people are good," Tweek said, his eyes red and glassy, "but Stan is one of them."

Kyle wondered if he looked as fucked up, and hoped so. He wanted everyone to know how he felt about the world. Why should he be a captive audience to something that had proven itself to be shitty over and over again.

"By whose measure?" Kyle didn't wait for an answer. "I'm going home." He flicked what was left of the joint into the snow.

"Yeah, I better get back in there before Dougie implodes with annoyance," Tweek sighed.

"Tell him c'est la vie," Kyle said, waving his hand towards the back door.

"I definitely won't," Tweek laughed as Kyle started walking away. Kyle was halfway down the alley when he remembered he'd left his messenger bag hanging in the back. He slipped in the back door and froze when he heard his name.

"You guys have to work something out," Tweek was saying from the front.

"I want to, okay?" Stan said. "But he won't want to hear that." Kyle laughed quietly. Wouldn't believe him was more like it. No wonder Tweek was on Stan's side. He came off as perfectly rational, heart-wrenchingly earnest. Kyle closed his eyes and wished he had that afternoon in Stan's room on film. He would strap a DVD player to his chest and put it on repeat.

-Zteif-

"Look—if you want to be friends with him, just act friendly. What can he do?" Tweek said slowly. Kyle wondered if that's all it took to be Tweek's friend.

"It's not so simple," Stan sighed. "Hi, what can I get started for you today?" his voice raised a pitch to address customers. Kyle moved quickly to grab his bag from the hook in the wall and exited the alley door. He'd heard enough.

Chapter Three

On Friday night, Kyle sat at the stool against the counter, tapping his finger against his lip as he tried to focus. He'd put his earbuds in, but a girl with an acoustic guitar was singing shrilly in the corner of the café. A group of teenagers were swaying with their coffee cups to the music. Even more annoying, he'd caught two of them making out during a particularly sappy love song. In spite of the distraction, he'd missed working nights. It made him feel like he was in high school again, working a shift before meeting Cartman outside for a ride home. It hadn't felt easy then, but it had been. Everything was still on the rails and big decisions were meant to be made at some distant date.

"Hey." Stan sat a mug on the counter next to him. "Tweek said you like mochas, and this is my first attempt. So you'd be the best judge if it's good." Stan had exchanged his usual blazer for a flannel shirt that looked soft and warm. Kyle looked away abruptly. This must be that forced friendliness he was supposed to respond to.

"Tastes like a mocha."

He thought Stan would be satisfied with that and leave him to finish out his break. But they were overstaffed tonight. Mr. Tweak had just left fifteen minutes ago and Dougie and Tweek were casually weaving through the café, collecting stray plates, wiping tables, and stopping every so often to focus on the music.

"What are you doing anyway?" Stan leaned across the counter on his elbows. Apparently the mocha had just been a friendly conversation starter. Kyle wanted to pick his book up and ignore that he was being talked to, but maybe Tweek had good tactics. Kyle was starved for people acting nice to him.

"School stuff." Kyle didn't know how to make small talk. He didn't want to ask Stan any questions about himself and risk hearing how great everything's been going for him.

Stan nodded, and scrubbed at an imagery spot on the counter for a minute. "I have to admit that I was surprised you were working here. I thought you would have left South Park for the Ivy League. Surely you had the grades…" he trailed off, looking uncertain.

"I'm taking online classes." Kyle shut his laptop. He didn't owe Stan an explanation. But he did feel embarrassed, like he wasn't living up to some sort of standard that Stan had for him years ago. It made him feel anxious in a way that he didn't want to indulge.

"That's cool," Stan insisted, edging back slightly. "I just thought, erm, well, you always planned to go to college right after high school."

"Plans change." Kyle shrugged. Surely Stan could see this topic wasn't going anywhere. Was he just trying to make Kyle feel inept?

"Hey guys." Tweek was balancing empty latte mugs on pastry plates. "You can probably head out early if you want. Me and Dougie have got this."

"Are you sure?" Stan looked disappointed, and Kyle hoped it wasn't because it meant an end to this friendly interrogation.

"Yeah, I know you have to finish that essay by midnight Kyle," Tweek said. "And there's no use in four of us being here to wipe down tables in an hour."

"Thanks dude," Kyle said.

He did find managing his time considerably harder now that he had more of it. He grabbed his coat from the back and slung his bag over his shoulder, taking his time. When he came back out front Stan was still talking to Tweek by the door. He tried not to feel betrayed by Tweek, but it was hard when he was laughing at something Stan said.

"You ready?" Stan pulled his car keys from his back pocket. "I'll drive you."

Kyle couldn't stand to think that he would be stuck in a car because social graces demanded it, or so that Tweek could see all of the efforts Stan was making.

"I'll walk."

"Really dude? It's sleeting out, I'll drive you. It's on my way."

Kyle stared at Stan like he'd lost his head in a momentary lapse of common sense.

"Yeah, I know." He deliberately pulled the zipper of his coat tighter towards his chin. Stan just laughed, and grabbed his arm. Kyle wasn't used to being touched, not like that. He followed along behind the taller teen, his black hair splayed against the collar of the hat he'd put on. And something felt intrinsically natural in the action. So much so that he didn't resist, maybe couldn't resist. It was not completely different from Cartman telling him to do something. Kyle found it so much easier to just give in to what everyone else wanted.

He slid into the passenger seat, pausing only to move a library book and several scratched mix CDs.

"Do you want to go anywhere before I take you home? Like we could get fast food or something."

"I have to finish this essay," Kyle said, glad Tweek had brought it up to add validity to the excuse.

"Alright," Stan said. They drove the rest of the way, listening to a gargled radio call-in show about UFO sightings over Houston. When they pulled into Kyle's driveway, Stan hit the radio off with his palm. "Hey, my band is playing a show at the café tomorrow night. I know you're not on the schedule. But it'd be—"

"Stan, we're not friends." It felt good to establish boundaries. To say so plainly what they both knew the score was.

He didn't wait for a response before climbing out into the wet wind. He let himself in; glancing over his shoulder once, annoyed that Stan was still idling in the driveway making sure he'd gotten in okay.

"Kyle! Did you submit your essay?!" His mom was ushering him in the house. She'd been micromanaging his course work since he'd enrolled. She'd taken his lack of formal higher education as a personal affront. He suspected she had filled out the next round of application forms herself so he wouldn't spend another year at home.

"I'm doing it now."

"Have dinner first, my god, you should have called if you were coming home early. I already put yours in the fridge." She was already grabbing the Tupperware container and placing it in the microwave. He sat at the kitchen table and waited for his laptop to load. "Tell me you didn't walk home in this weather? I would have come to get you." Kyle didn't doubt it for a second, but he knew he wouldn't have called.

"No, Stan gave me a ride."

"What? You can't mean Stan Marsh?" Finally, someone was treating this with a percentage of the gravity it deserved.

"Yeah," Kyle said, "he's working at the café now."

"All I have to say is, don't let him effect you Kyle. He's the reason we are where we are," Sheila motioned to his laptop as if it was some greater symbol for his failed future. Kyle thought that what she said was true in a way that all things are a little true.

"I didn't hire him Mom," he said, as she placed a plate of potatoes and corn in front of him. It wasn't quite what she wanted to hear, but Kyle knew it was close enough.

"You're riding in his car, what am I supposed to think? It's very sad what happened to Stanley. Did you know he moved out of his house over the summer? I wouldn't be surprised to find out he's selling drugs." He irrationally wanted to defend Stan. Mention drug tests before getting hired, even if Tweek Bros. didn't use them.

"It's fine." He stabbed at his potatoes. He needed to finish his essay soon. Tomorrow was supposed to be dedicated to Cartman, and he wouldn't entertain the idea that Kyle still had homework to do.

Chapter Four

Saturday morning Kyle sat in Cartman's car, staring out at Stark's Pond. The grey afternoon had given it a particularly hollow look, combined with where the smooth ice was pocked with melting sleet.Kyle felt sweat pooling under the collar of his t-shirt and turned the air vents away from him. There was something oppressive in the way that the smell of the spilled soda never really left the car, and he wished Cartman would let him roll down a window. Still, it was better than spending another day in his room doing coursework and wondering what Cartman was doing.

"Listen," Cartman said in a feigned sincere voice that he thought could fool anyone, including Kyle. "I can't do this anymore."

"What do you mean?" Kyle felt a black hole beginning to form in his chest.

Cartman sighed heavily, shifting in his seat. His brown hair hung over his eyes in a way that was almost theatrical and for a moment Kyle wondered if this was an elaborate joke. He shook the idea from his head; he was forcing his expectations on others again. Cartman stared out the window as he spoke, "It's just, we live in two different worlds now Kahl. I'm at school and you're still in South Park. And South Park is where I come to do my laundry." The callousness of being compared to laundry almost made Kyle laugh at how bad it hurt. At how he'd never learn.

"That's fine," Kyle said. He wasn't surprised. Not really. History repeated itself, after all. Wasn't that what everyone said when atrocities occurred? That they should have prepared better; that they should have seen it coming.

"Fine?"

"If that's the way you feel, Eric, what can I do? Drive me to work, I'm late." He still didn't know what made him lie like this when he knew how Cartman would react. But acting as if he wasn't affected was the only thing he had left. He could never talk his way back into someone's life when they decided they were done with him. He was more like trash than laundry.

Cartman sneered, "'drive me to work, Eric. I'm late for work, Eric, you know what Kahl—fuck you! I thought you had off work today! But I see you're too busy for me. Maybe you're breaking up with me!"

Kyle looked away from Cartman's wide brown eyes. They both knew it would have never worked out that way. In the distance two people walked a dog. The owner threw a tennis ball across the field of dead grass. Kyle watched it smack against the ground a few times before coming to a stop.

"Talk to me!" Cartman grabbed a handful of red hair and yanked Kyle toward him. He looked at Kyle with genuine hurt. And for a second Kyle thought he was going to kiss him. They used to kiss all the time.

Cartman's hands slipped down his cheeks until they pressed firmly against his throat. He studied him, and Kyle wondered what he wanted; for him to struggle, for him to plead. He used to do both, but now he just stared back, as if asking, what is this doing for you? Why does hurting me feel so good for everyone else?

Cartman's thumbs pressed hard against Kyle's windpipe, and he finally began struggling. He couldn't help it; tears burned in his eyes as he gasped for air. His fingers tried to pull Cartman's away, and all he could see were Cartman's brown eyes that were round as saucers as he asked calmly, "Do you love me Kahl?" in the same innocent voice as before. Kyle shut his eyes. He was almost glad at the chance to somehow be a part of what was happening to him.

"Yes," Kyle tried to say, but it came out as more of a hiss. Cartman released him and Kyle could feel him watching as he coughed in breaths. But he didn't seem satisfied at the way Kyle was gingerly rubbing his neck and not saying anything else. He tried to find the places Cartman's fingers had dug into his windpipe, as if deep recesses would still be there for him to document and push his fingers back into later. He didn't look at Cartman. He didn't think this would change anything. It was what Kyle got for not showing how affected he was emotionally by Cartman. But it was the only control Kyle had left. Cartman snapped his fingers, like Kyle was a dog who'd just had his muzzle smacked by a newspaper. Kyle exhaled in a giant whoosh and didn't look up from the carpeted floor.

"When will you learn to look at me when I'm talking to you?" Kyle felt his head slam against the glass of the passenger window. His vision exploded in inky black and he opened the door to throw up on the cement. When he could focus again he looked away from the pile of vomit between his hands and up to find the dog with the tennis ball in his mouth, sitting and watching him. But the owner must have walked too far ahead now, and somehow that was the saddest part of any of it.

"'Ey you're letting the heat out goddamnit!" Cartman said. So Kyle got back into the SUV. They sat in silence for a moment, and Kyle wanted desperately to believe that Cartman was struggling to find the words to apologize for what had happened. That he had been overtaken by passion again. He bowed his head and watched his fingernails as Cartman backed out of the parking lot. He angled his head away so Cartman wouldn't have to see any damages that might have been done. They drove in silence the rest of the way to the café.

As he got out of the SUV, he could hear Cartman turn the radio up. He clung to the idea that Cartman had kept the volume low out of concern for his aching head. He staggered for a minute as he walked towards the café that was swimming into focus and smiled in spite of the way the muscles in his face stretched the whole way up. Now that Cartman was gone he could bring his fingers to where his head had connected with the glass. He was glad to see that there wasn't any blood. Everything was fixable. He frowned. Except the part where Cartman didn't want to see him anymore. Except the part where Kyle had made too much of a nuisance of himself again.

He passed Dougie who was leaning against the counter, reading a graphic novel while Tweek rang up the two teenage girls at the front counter.

"What's up Kyle? I didn't think you were on the schedule today," Tweek said. But Kyle passed by him without a response as he headed to the employee bathroom in the back. He shut and locked the door and sat with his back against it, breathing in choked gasps. He put his hand over his mouth to smother the sound; the idea that someone might overhear only made it worse. He tried to think of anything but what just happened; the way the off-white of his shoelaces matched the dingy color of the bathroom tiles, the cheap toilet paper rolls someone had stacked into a pyramid, the hum of the dishwasher from the kitchen behind him. But none of it helped. The only thing he had to prove Cartman had ever been willing to touch him were the surely forming bruises around his neck and on his head. But they would fade and leave Kyle holding Cartman's schedule while he sat in his room, knowing where he was but unable to force their paths to cross again.

For a second he thought he was going to throw up again. He stood and leaned against the sink, looking into his own green eyes, as if he was going to coach himself into putting on a brave face. Besides that, there were already angry red marks on his neck. He knew he had to get away from the mirror, and sat back on the floor. Their presence only reminded him of their inevitable disappearance, just like everything else. His head throbbed from the impact, and he pressed his cold knuckles against his temple.

"Kyle?"

He could see the edges of Tweek's boots from the gap under the door. He scrubbed his face against his palms and took a shaky breath. He tried to imagine it was Cartman coming to talk to him. But he couldn't. He felt with a soft finality that he just wasn't what anyone wanted.

"Are you OK man?"

"Yeah." He meant to it say with annoyance, as if him being OK was the most obvious thing in the world, but his voice sounded strained and quiet over the rattling fan of the bathroom.

"Do you want me to make you something to drink?"

Kyle wondered if that was all it took to make some people happy. Steamed milk and sugar.

"No," he said, laying his cheek against his knee. He could hear Tweek slowly trying to turn the doorknob against the lock.

He knew the longer he stayed in the bathroom the worse it would look so he drew open the door, laughing a little. "Sorry—I'm fine, it's nothing."

Tweek moved aside, obviously taken aback. "Is, uh, I didn't see Cartman." Tweek looked over Kyle's face quickly. But his hair hid any real injury for now, he hoped, as he zipped his hoodie to his chin. He supposed the only times that Tweek had seen him break down like this had involved Cartman. The blonde passed him and made a paper towel damp under the faucet before handing it to him. Kyle wiped his eyes. The wetness felt good against his burning cheeks. He didn't want Tweek to look at him too long. The heartbreak had to be overwhelmingly obvious to see.

"Let's go out back for a little?" Tweek suggested. Kyle nodded and followed him, comforted slightly by the status quo. They both slouched to the ground as Tweek lit a joint.

"He broke up with me," Kyle said. It hurt in a different way when he said it out loud. Duller but deeper. Tweek looked pleased and Kyle wondered why he ever expected sympathy.

"Please man, let it stay that way." Tweek kicked a clump of ice across the alley.

"It will." He took a long drag from the joint and passed it back to Tweek. He didn't say it wasn't up to him. That clearly wasn't what Tweak was looking for.

"He's a fucking prick," Tweek said. It made Kyle mad, because of how easy that was for someone to say. "I thought it would end when he went to college. I was sort of counting on it."

Kyle imagined Tweek happily counting down the days until Cartman left for school while he had been anxiously clinging to them.

"I should go home," he said instead of what he'd wanted to: why would you want the only person who cared about me to leave—what did you get out of it?

"Nah, Kyle, just stay, we could use the extra help tonight," Tweek said. "And later we can go see a movie or something."

Kyle took another drag of the joint and tilted his head back. His headache was fading but it still felt good to press his head against the frozen bricks of the building. "There should be more ways to escape. Movies and drugs don't seem like enough."

"Sleep?" Tweek suggested.

"Only if you woke up somewhere different than where you'd fallen asleep." Like Cartman's dorm room. Like Kenny's grave.

"Where would you want to wake up?" Tweek asked.

Kyle thought about telling him. Saying it out loud. Maybe if he were higher he would. He took another hit from their shared joint. "Anywhere but here. It wouldn't matter, if I didn't like it, I'd just close my eyes again." It was easier to be vague. Almost routine. Tweek was nodding absently, and Kyle couldn't reach the place where all of his indignant anger at everyone else was anymore.

They were both quiet for a while, and Kyle had forgotten what they'd been talking about. So it took him a minute to understand what Tweek was saying.

"I'd want to wake up the morning after Prom. I ended up talking to Bebe for the first time at Token's party. Really talking, you know? She and I slept together on the floor of Token's room under his old Terrance and Phillip sleeping bag. I stayed awake all night, just trying to find excuses to bump our knees together. And then she just left the next morning. I wouldn't, like, include that."

Kyle said nothing, but thought of that night. They'd never made it to the dance. Cartman had wanted to use the opportunity to fuck in the school. It was supposed to be this big surprise and Kyle had been excited at the time. But now as he thought about lying pinned to the glossy wood floor as Cartman grunted in his ear, blocking out the speakers in the gym blasting Good Riddance,—he felt like he'd missed a memory that he never made.

"I hope you had the time of your life," he said, repeating the lyrics into the joint he sucked.

"Yeah," Tweek agreed to some point he thought Kyle was making. Kyle wasn't though. He was just trying to remember if they'd even danced for a moment. His mom still had the picture of them in their tuxes on a table in the living room.

They were sitting there finishing off the joint when a van turned into the alley. Kyle watched with detached interest as three of the goth teens and Stan came out of it.

"You guys can just prop open the door," Tweek said to Stan. Kyle turned in surprise that the blonde knew what was going on and smiled broadly at Tweek.

"What?" Tweek laughed.

"You know everything." He felt his head lull to the side. Tweek took the joint from Kyle's lips and smoked the rest of it before standing up.

"You know where you're setting up?" He asked Stan as the red haired goth carried an amp through the doorway next to Kyle.

"Yeah," Stan said. He lingered in the doorway looking uncertainly down at Kyle, as he pulled his guitar strap over his shoulder. Kyle looked blankly back. He could hear Cartman's voice coming out of Stan's mouth. I can't do this anymore.

"Aren't you guys cold?" Stan said abruptly, turning to Tweek.

"Yeah, come on Kyle." Tweek hauled Kyle to his feet and shuffled him through the door. All of his Cartman-related feelings had been separated and sectioned off with a gauzy film of pot and apathy. He could still see them, red-hot and pulsing, but he couldn't put his hand close enough to feel the burn.

"Why don't you just hang out in the front for a while," Tweek suggested, leading Kyle to one of the overstuffed chairs in the corner of the café. He nodded even though Tweek had already turned away and watched with amusement as Dougie cast an annoyed look in Tweek's direction. The line at the register stretched halfway towards the door. It was mostly teenagers with heavy eyeliner-smudged eyes, leggings, and big hair. Kyle wondered if they'd all be duplicated off a factory line. They seemed to fit into one of two categories; those who ordered frozen drinks with whipped cream, and those who ordered black coffee. He was sure there was a distinction of some kind, and was trying to discern it when he realized that Stan was waving a hand in front of his face.

"We just need to move this chair to plug in the amps," Stan said after he'd gotten Kyle's attention.

"For what?"

"We're playing a show," Stan explained with an annoyance that Kyle thought seemed unwarranted. Then he explained further in slower louder voice, "in the café tonight."

"Oh." Kyle stood up and struggled to push the chair aside. Stan sighed and moved it himself before turning away.

Kyle sat back down and watched as the youngest goth set up the drum set. Kyle thought he was probably Ike's age, and thought about asking if he knew him. The younger teen wandered away before Kyle had the chance. He sighed, and leaned back in the chair, feeling the sting of his headache pulsing from his temple. At least it wasn't soul-deep. He distracted himself by staring at Henrietta's photographs of railroads lining the wall. They seemed to take on a deeper significance that Kyle had never appreciated before. He stared mystified by them, the railroad starting somewhere out of the shot, and stretching further into the distance than he could imagine.

"Pretty lame, isn't it?" Ethan said, following Kyle's gaze. "Henrietta did these to satirize all the bullshit pseudo-artistic photos the other first year students were taking for her class."

Kyle nodded in agreement; admiring the black and white polka dotted button-up the taller teen was wearing. He looked down at his own clothes, skinny jeans and a hoodie pulled over a striped cardigan he thought Cartman would like. The hoodie made him too hot in the thickening crowd, but he still knew better than to take it off. "I've always been jealous of people who can create something from nothing," Kyle said.

"You wrote some pretty scathing reviews of the school musicals in the Park County High School Gazette. Writing is creating, even if it's just to bitch about faggy school functions."

Kyle laughed, unsure if that was meant to be taken seriously. Either way it made him feel better about himself. "They weren't always scathing."

Over Ethan's shoulder Kyle could see Stan cast a suspicious look at both of them as he untangled cords for his guitar.

"So what's the name of your band?" He asked, suddenly feeling compelled to continue the conversation.

"The Belladonnas," Ethan said, flicking idly at a lighter. "I wanted to be called Intimacy is Tyranny but it wasn't as catchy. Or some people said so anyway," he looked in the general direction of the red haired goth.

"Nah," Kyle said, "I like Belladonnas."

"Do you guys want anything to drink?" Tweek yelled across the growing crowd, distracting Ethan. The line at the register had dispersed as the teens took their positions surrounding the stage.

"Maybe water for me." Ethan looked over at the teen with the red streaks in his hair as he adjusted the strap on his bass guitar. "Do you want anything Dylan?"

"Coffee," he mumbled.

"I'll get it," Stan said, turning back, "do you want me to get you anything Kyle?"

Kyle just stared back at him for a moment before shaking his head. He wanted everyone around them; the goth kids, Tweek, even the nameless teenagers, to acknowledge the neurotic way Stan expected Kyle to respond to him as if he hadn't broken his heart and then ignored him for the last year of his life.

Ethan flicked his silver lighter impatiently as the rest of the band set up. "I wanted to tell you that I think it's pretty cool that you're here. Stan was acting like a total bitch about asking you to hear us play. I told him that you wouldn't be a dick about it."

"I'm here because Tweek said he needed extra help. Anyway, it looks like you have more than enough of a crowd," he said, turning their attention to the crowd of teenagers, most of them leaning over their phones. He didn't want to think about Stan thinking about him.

"Posers," Ethan said, frowning slightly down at Kyle.

"I should help," he mumbled, feeling like talking to Ethan was too challenging an activity to participate in while slightly stoned. He passed Stan on his way behind the counter. He began shuffling milk cartons and whipped cream containers back into the fridge. Tweek shot him a look as if to say, ‘feeling okay?' and Kyle rolled his eyes. As if he could feel anything else.

Now that everyone was settled into the tables around the band, the teens that were still coming in began filling in the back, standing shoulder to shoulder. Stan was standing to the left of Ethan, plucking a few strings to test out the equipment, but it had the effect of directing everyone's attention to the stage. Dylan stood on the other side of Ethan with a bass guitar, and the younger teen was behind the drums.

"Alright fags, let this cover be a pop quiz to see who among you know that…" he paused dramatically and seemed to make scrutinizing eye contact with everyone in the room, "Boys Don't Cry."

Stan began the opening chords of the Cure song, making the audience bob along to the beat. Kyle leaned against the back counter, sipping the herbal tea that Tweek had made him. As the night progressed they played a set of their original songs. Ethan's throaty vocals held the room enthralled as if they were being suffocated under a hazy but deserved doom.

Kyle wondered if they toured outside of South Park. It certainly seemed like they had enough of a following to do so. He watched Stan's fingers move expertly over the frets of his guitar. He couldn't play like that two years ago. If he were a better person, he would be glad for Stan being happier without him. Glad for Cartman's soon to be happier life too. But Kyle was too selfish, too self-involved. It's what made them better off in the first place.

"We're the Belladonnas," Ethan said, wiping sweat from his forehead with a black scarf before laying it back over the microphone stand. Two girls in the audience seemed to be goading one another to take it when Ethan turned his back. "This is Stan on lead guitar," Ethan said, as Stan did a slight bow. A section of girls in the front clapped fervently, and Kyle was glad to see Ethan raise an eyebrow at them before continuing. "Dylan on bass," he continued, pushing a loose lock of hair out of the shorter teen's eyes and twisting it carefully behind his ear. Dylan kept his eyes on the ground, staring at Ethan's high laced boots.Ethan walked to the back, where the youngest goth was pushing his own bangs off his sweaty forehead. "And," Ethan said, tilting the microphone slightly in the other teen's direction, "wunderkind Georgie on drums." Georgie hit a cymbal anti-climatically. Some teens were taking pictures over the shoulders of their friends.

Ethan did slight twirl to unravel the mic chord twisted around his feet. Everyone's eyes seemed focused on him, including Stan's. Kyle narrowed his eyes, was it true they were living together? "And I'm your lowly vocalist; Ethan. You can buy our demo at the front counter for $5. Or don't, whatever." Ethan said, as he reached for his water.

Kyle went into the back, knowing that they were about to be overwhelmed by dishes of the dispersing crowd. Besides, his headache was coming back, and he welcomed any excuse to get away from the noise. He sprayed a few plates and loaded the dishwasher. While he waited he stared hopefully at his cellphone. Maybe Cartman would reconsider despite all the evidence to the contrary.

He pulled the beanie from his head, and tugged with irritation at his hair, grimacing when he touched the bruising lump on the edge of his temple.

"Hey," a voice said from behind him. "Are you okay?"

"Yes, Stan. Somehow I manage without you," he said through a sigh, as if Stan has already asked him this twenty times before. It was clear any distance he had gained from the pot was now staring him in the face. He continued to look down at the water in the sink and wondered if his face was already bruising, and wished he had just gone home.

"With the dishes," Stan said, "I met with the dishes."

"Yeah I know," Kyle snapped.

"We're all going to the diner to talk about the show," Stan said. "Tweek's coming, I thought you might want to come too?"

"Yeah," Kyle said, looking down at his hands, angry red from the hot water they were sunk in. "That's fine. But I have to finish here first." He continued to spray a plate before looking over his shoulder to make sure that Stan had gone before letting out a breath. He felt stupid to have believed that Tweek had been serious about going to the movies with him. That he could have been anyone's first choice. It wasn't fair that on the night he most wanted to be around people that Stan was the person who was offering him company.

After they'd closed down the café, everyone loaded into Ethan's van. Kyle was pressed between Tweek and Stan's amp. The bass from a Depeche Mode song he barely recognized made the seat pulse under him. No one was talking, but Kyle sensed that this typical. In the front Ethan passed a pack of cigarettes to Dylan.

"I'm glad you're coming," Tweek said under his breath. "I'll buy you pancakes or something, you know? It'll be good."

"It's fine." Kyle knew better than to bring up the movies. He didn't think he could take Tweek's inevitable, 'oh, you didn't think I was serious did you? I was stoned.' He just wanted someone to want to be around him.

Stan twisted around in the seat in front of them, making Georgie lean away from him as he stared down at his phone. "It's cool your dad lets us play in the café Stan said over the music.

"Yeah, he thinks he's this big patron to the arts or something. I guess it's true in some way."

"Remember that time he had us make that ad?" Stan laughed, looking quickly over at Kyle.

Tweek grinned. "Not much has changed."

Stan turned back around. Kyle stared at the back of his neck for the remainder of the drive, hoping he felt it and didn't know what to do about it.

The diner was virtually abandoned. A waitress rolled her eyes, as they sat at what Kyle could assume was their typical booth. She didn't bother with menus, but looked hopefully at him and Tweek as she pulled out her pad.

"Tea and banana pancakes?" Tweek asked hopefully. Kyle ordered a cherry coke, and the waitress didn't bother asking the rest of them before she wandered away.

They all continued to sit in silence for a few minutes, with Tweek tapping his fingers on the table.

"So how long have you guys been in a band?" Tweek asked.

"It feels like too long," Ethan said. "We should be marginally more successful by now so we could feel disgusted with the self-worth we gained from it."

"We have a heavy online following," Stan explained. "We sell t-shirts to help pay the rent."

"I work at a hole-in-the-wall record store outside of Denver. We sell our album there too," Ethan said. He pushed a creamer container into the formation of the tower he was building out of them.

"My dad would probably let you guys sell them at the café Tweek offered. Kyle sipped his coke, and cringed when he sucked a glob of pure cherry flavoring. He wondered what the appeal of the diner was at all, and looked down at his phone.

Cartman was calling.

He pushed his way out of the booth and headed towards the door.

"Hey," he said quickly.

"Where are you?" Cartman sounded strange, and Kyle looked in all directions of the empty parking lot for the SUV that wasn't there.

"Why?"

"'Ey! Answer the goddamn question."

"Why? I'm at the café. Where are you?" The lie sat heavy on his tongue. He knew Cartman wouldn't like the real answer, but lying seemed like one of those character traits that people openly despised.

"One day," Cartman laughed into the phone, his mouth too close to the receiver so his loud intakes of breaths hurt Kyle's ears. "Not even one day and you're cheating on me. And do you know why Kahl? Because you're a slut for Stan's dick and you always have been. Did you think I didn't know?"

"What are you talking about!" He paced back and forth on the cement of the parking lot. "I'm at work." If he could say it three times it might become the truth.

"If you're really at the café, you'll be able to walk here in fifteen minutes. So I'll wait that long. I want to apologize to you babe, about earlier." Kyle felt elated and crushed at the same time. Of course Cartman was understanding enough of human nature to forgive him. To tolerate him. Of course Kyle couldn't go five seconds without fucking it up.

"But—I have to finish closing. I can't just leave."

"I guess I see how important I am to you."

Kyle's ribcage turned into a vice and squeezed his lungs and heart together. He could fix this. He could do it right this time.

"I'm so glad you called," he said, trying to buy time.

"Then do what I say."

"Fine. I'll be there!" Kyle said, shoving his phone in his pocket, and running back into the diner to grab his coat. It'd be too suspicious for him to get home without it. The only way to get home would be to run; even then he wasn't sure if he'd get there in time, but he had to try. He would do whatever Cartman told him if it meant not feeling like this.

"Where are you going?" Tweek looked up at him as he shoved his arms through the sleeves. He didn't have time to respond as he continued back towards the door. Understanding appeared on Tweek's face. "Kyle no," he said, following him out of the diner.

"I have to go, he's waiting," Kyle yelled over his shoulder, sprinting across the parking lot.

He didn't realize that Tweek was chasing him until the blonde grabbed his arm. "No! You're not doing this again!"

"Let me go!" Kyle yanked hard against Tweek's grasp. "What do you care?"

"He's going to hurt you Kyle! Jesus Fuck!" Tweek yelled, sounding like his 4^th grade self. Tweek wasn't any bigger than Kyle, but he desperately clung to him making it impossible for him to get away, and certainly impossible to make it to Cartman on time.

Kyle shoved Tweek hard in the chest with his free hand, sending them both tripping over one another's feet.

"What's going on?!" Stan asked, panting from running after them.

"GET OFF OF ME!" Kyle yelled at Tweek as he against shoved the blonde again. "You don't understand!"

Stan hulled Kyle away from Tweek, looking baffled as his hands fought to control Kyle's thrashing arms. Tweek shook his head, "I know how this ends; you coming into the café tomorrow wincing when you have to lift up the coffee canisters."

"Fuck you Stan!" Kyle said ignoring Tweek, as Stan held the redhead in a tight grip, seemingly realizing the importance of doing so.

"Don't let him go!"

Stan tightened his grip on Kyle, listening to Tweek because he seemed saner out of the two of them. Stan was taller and broader than Kyle, and unlike his struggle against Tweek, he couldn't free himself to shove Stan away.

"You are both," Kyle said between breaths, "ignorant assholes." They were ruining everything.

"What's going on?!" Stan's voice was loud against Kyle's ear.

"I can't explain," Tweek said.

"Like hell you can't!" Stan yelled, as Kyle's elbows dug into his ribs.

"Stan I hate you!" Kyle wished he could think of something to better articulate the pain that Stan had and was causing him. The year of his life that he'd never get back.

"I saw what he did after the Fourth of July," Tweek said, as Kyle stopped struggling in Stan's arms to stare at Tweek. "He came to the café drunk right before we'd closed…"

"I know what happened!" Kyle yelled, staring down at Stan's boots between his own Chuck Taylors.

"He wanted, fuck—he wanted you to…" Tweek stopped and drug his hands through his hair, looking at Stan.

"It's not like that anymore!"

"How'd you get those bruises on your neck and your face?" Tweek asked, looking searchingly at him. Kyle could feel Stan's chest rise and fall quickly as the taller teen held him close. He wished everyone would stop acting like he trying to run out into traffic.

"Who?" Stan asked slowly, like he already knew and dreaded the answer.

"Cartman," Tweek said. "Fucking Cartman." Like Tweek knew anything about it. Kyle stared at the blacktop under his feet. He felt like he was on some after-school special. Newly introduced so the main characters could look empathetic without having a messy follow-up or lead-in.

"He hurt you?" Stan yelled, shifting Kyle in his arms, eyes narrowing on the reddish purple bruises poking over the top of Kyle's hoodie. "He choked you?" he said, somehow louder. He kept a hold on him, regardless of the fact that Kyle had stopped struggling.

"Please dude," Tweek said. "You can't go home tonight." Kyle tried to not lock eyes with Stan and stared over his shoulder where he could see the rest of the goths staring out the window at them. They obviously thought it best to let Stan and Tweek handle it. Kyle was glad his could always count on the tact of the goths, if nothing else.

"I'll kill him," Stan said, letting Kyle go. "Where is he? At your house?"

Kyle just stared back at him, trying not to be scared of the way Stan's fingers were in fists at his sides. He couldn't answer. He didn't have the script. He just knew that he wasn't the one who got to make decisions about his life again. It was almost comforting.

"Is he at your house?!" Stan yelled again. Kyle felt sick at the way Stan seemed so much taller now than before. When he stuffed his hand in his coat pocket Kyle flinched back.

A disgusted look passed over Stan's face. "Fuck," he mumbled under his breath, continuing to tug the cigarettes slowly from his pocket. He looked forcibly calmer when he lit the cigarette, cupping his hand against the wind.

"Just spend the night at my house," Tweek said after a long pause.

"And what? Have your parents call my mom when they see my face?" He was tired of them assuming they had all the answers. That all he needed was a quick pat on the back and a few words of wisdom and he'd be back on the right track again.

"Kyle! It doesn't matter! Your mom will see them anyway—it looks like you were hit in the face with a shovel!" Tweek said, grabbing distractedly at a clump of his blonde hair.

"I'll sneak in." Kyle didn't venture further to explain that he had ways of hiding bruises like this from his parents.

Stan waved a hand at Tweek, "No," he said, only comparatively calm. "Kyle can come back with me. No one will be there." Kyle frowned. It was clearly a play at being the good guy. All he had to do was agree and Tweek would let them go. Stan wouldn't want Kyle actually hanging around him. He would be late, but maybe Cartman could be convinced not to care.

"If it means that you won't go to my house," Kyle said, not looking at Stan, "then fine." They looked cautiously optimistic. Kyle wanted to laugh in their faces.

"Good," Tweek said, giving Stan a pointed look, "we'll go to Stan's."

"No Tweek, why don't you go back in the diner and make up some explanation for everyone." Stan was doing the work for Kyle. He must have had the same idea. He almost felt a new kinship with Stan.

Tweek looked unsure for a minute before agreeing. "Are you sure?" he mumbled.

"Yeah. Kyle and I will go back to my apartment," Stan blew a cloud of smoke over his shoulder. "Because neither of us should be around Cartman right now."

"Call me, if you change your mind about coming over, Kyle," Tweek said, but Kyle wouldn't look at him. When he finally turned Kyle looked up and watched Tweek's blonde head disappear into the smudged glass doors of the diner.

"This way," Stan said softly. They walked across the empty lot to where it met the sidewalk.

"I can take it from here," Kyle said once they'd turned a corner. "You are relieved from duty."

"Dude, what? We're going to my place. You said."

"Tweek's gone. You don't have to pretend to be concerned anymore. You and Tweek can still be chummy tomorrow at work and I can go about my night." He tried to make it sound like he wasn't going to get the shit beat out of him like Tweek implied. And he wouldn't, not twice in the same day. But he didn't know how to explain that to Stan without blowing everything out of proportion. He knew he would make it sound terrible and Stan would be overcome with some sort of Good Samaritan impulse, even if he wasn't emotionally invested.

"That's not what's happening. You're coming back to my place."

Why did everyone have to insist that they knew what was best for him? It was especially rich coming from Stan.

"Come on. Tweek is really blowing things out of proportion. It's not like that. You have nothing to lose here. We'll pretend I went with you and everyone's happy." Kyle wished he wore a watch. Pulling his cellphone out of his pocket and checking the time was surely too obvious and likely to make things worse.

"Kyle, I don't care. I don't care how misunderstood you think Cartman is or whatever shit you must tell yourself. Just shut up about it. You aren't going home, or to his house, or to any where that isn't my apartment." Kyle focused on Stan's coat sleeve. "Alright?" Kyle told himself he wasn't scared of Stan. But when he turned and started walking toward his apartment again, Kyle followed, even though he was pretty sure he could have outrun him.

In the distance Kyle could see cars passing on the road, and he wished he was in one of them. He tried to think of anything to say, about Cartman—not about Cartman. But either way seemed wrong. Stan seemed to be lost in thought anyway, and smoked another cigarette on the two block walk it took them to get to his apartment. Kyle followed him up a flight of steep metal steps onto a porch that seemed to be slanting to the left. He felt like he was in a fun house, and traced the bricks with his fingertips to balance himself.

Stan unlocked a door that Kyle wouldn't have noticed in the night. At first he'd suspected they'd chosen the apartment based on its proximity to the diner, now it seemed it may have been chosen for its dramatic reclusiveness. Kyle could appreciate the sentiment.

"You all live here?" Kyle asked quietly, looking sideways at Stan. Movie posters cluttered the walls. He'd only seen The Crow,—and he barely recognized the titles of the other movies. The frames around the posters were colorfully gaudy and plastic, and he suspected Henrietta had a hand in decorating. There were strings of white lights hanging at different angles from various points of the ceiling. And there was an underlying scent of a candle just being blown out that Kyle thought never went away. It was probably comforting, to know that you impacted your environment that much.

"Just me and Ethan," Stan said tersely. Kyle sat on one of the mismatched overstuffed easy chairs in the room and tried to talk himself out of how badly that hurt. He told himself it was only because of him and Cartman breaking up. Stan was staring at him, so he looked down at the rugs on the floor. Stan paced around the room once, like he'd forgotten the layout, and then turned abruptly and sat in the mauve chair opposite of Kyle.

"So you got this place after graduation?" He knew it was best to keep asking questions when someone was upset.

"Kinda," Stan said, his leg bouncing up and down against chair.

"Why?" Kyle asked. He wanted to be uninterested in Stan's answers. To be completely unaffected by everything that was remotely connected with Stan. But it had always been so hard.

"It just worked out that way." Stan wasn't playing the game right. He was supposed to be absorbed in talking about himself the way that everyone else was.

"It's really cool. And thanks for letting me stay here, that's cool of you." Kyle wanted to stop saying cool so much, It was too obvious of a lie. Too obvious he was just talking to fill up the space.

"I can't do this. I can't listen to you talk to me like I'm about to lose my temper and hit you or something." Stan stood again to pace back and forth through the room. "I can't believe he's done this to you."

Kyle felt as if he was waking up from a bad dream. As if this musician Stan had reverted into a tough little fourth grader ready to punch Cartman for taking one of Kyle's French fries during lunch. Stan's blue eyes were livid as he searched for his car keys.

"Is he still waiting for you? I'll go instead."

Kyle opened and shut his mouth, "I don't know if he's there anymore." At one time he would have loved this, now it made him want to puke.

"I don't care. I'll find him. Stay here."

Kyle realized Stan had never taken off his jacket. "No," Kyle jumped up. "Please!" He wished he could revert to his fourth grade self too. He was better then. He would have never let this happen to him.

"Don't expect me to do nothing!"

Kyle grabbed Stan around the torso, "Please, Stan. Please just stay here with me," his voice was higher as he pleaded. Stan felt warm and sturdy under Kyle's arms, and he wanted to keep holding onto him. He shut his eyes and squeezed a little harder. Nothing was ever fair.

"And what? What happens tomorrow? What happens Monday?"

"Please! It's fine! I won't talk to him tomorrow! I'll stay here!" Kyle looked up him in a way that he hoped was convincing. He looked at him in the same way he'd looked at Cartman a year ago when he could still hope to convince Cartman of anything.

Stan just shook his head and opened the door. "I have to."

"Fine!" Kyle yelled after him, "it won't matter!" He slammed the door to the apartment. From a bedroom window down the hall he could see Stan's green Corolla pull away from the curb. He considered going after him, but there wasn't any more fight left in him. It wasn't lost on him that this was exactly the sort of scene he'd imagined playing out when he and Cartman had first started dating. Mainly it had involved Cartman kissing him under the bleachers during one of Stan's football games. And Stan running between them leading to a dramatic confrontation. But that was before Stan had quit football. And that was before Cartman had ever hit him. It'd been his goal, if anything, to make that scene a reality. But now he could see it for what it was: the bored daydream of an 11^th grader during a biology lecture.

Chapter Five

Kyle didn't notice Ethan come into Stan's room until he touched his shoulder. For a minute he thought it was Stan, in spite of the fact that he'd kept watch over Stan's parking spot outside since he left. Ethan smelled like cigarettes and had brought the cold in with him. Kyle wondered if he stood outside to smoke on his behalf, before realizing smoking was probably against their lease or something. He cynically pondered the un-anti-establishmentness of that, and thought about saying so out loud. But talking hadn't done him any favors tonight, so instead he said nothing.

"Are you okay?" Ethan asked. Kyle shrugged. The window to Stan's room was a color that may have once been white. But now it was splintered off in so many ways that it was just brown where the wood had been exposed. He wanted to pick at it but was afraid he'd get a splinter. It seems like a stupid thing to worry about now.

"Aren't you going to ask where Stan went?" He asked, as they both stared down at where the Corolla should be. He didn't mean it to sound confrontational. He knew that Ethan hadn't done anything wrong, but it felt like he had, and what was the difference anyway.

"I'm sure he has his fist in Eric Cartman's neck roll. Why don't you come to the living room and sit down. We can watch TV." Ethan's voice was calmer than normal. He wondered if this is how he spoke to Stan when he was upset. He wondered if Stan ever needed him to.

"My head hurts," Kyle said, as if this should explain everything.

"I'll get you Tylenol, come on," Ethan clamped his hand on Kyle's shoulder to pull him away from the wall. Kyle was sure that by now the bruise from Cartman's car window would be apparent. But he didn't feel embarrassed. If Ethan could spend his entire life wearing the same color, then he should be able to have a purple bruise run down his face for just one night. He was sure the logic was sound, as Ethan frowned at the mark when they walked into the light of the living room. The candles were lit now, and they lent the atmosphere a homier feel than earlier.

He sat soundlessly on the sofa and listened to the medicine cabinet opening in the bathroom, and a pill bottle shake.

"I don't want you to get me pills," he yelled across the apartment. "I want you to drive me to my house, or Cartman's house—wherever they are. Call him. But I want to go to where they are," he finished, suddenly feeling like he could change something.

"No, I'm not going to do that." Ethan stood in the doorway of the bathroom with a white pill bottle. "I played that show tonight. It hurts my throat to sing so much. Not very rock'n'roll I know—but I think I need to have some tea; not throw myself in the middle of someone else's drama."

Kyle shook his head, walking towards the door.

"What are you doing?" Ethan moved quickly to catch up with him.

"You don't understand." He knew he was whining. That this was the worst thing he could be saying if he wanted Ethan to take him seriously. Luckily, he wasn't that bothered at never being accepted as one of the goths.

"No. You don't," Ethan said, relaxing when Kyle turned to face him. "What Stan did to you—" he said carefully, fumbling with the lighter from his jean pocket. "He's not as OK as he pretends, alright? And when he comes back you two should talk about it. But until then, the right side of your face swollen and purple and I think you need an aspirin more than you need a confrontation with Stan and the person that did that to you."

Ethan shook two pills into his hand and offered them to Kyle. Kyle stared at them a moment before accepting them.

"Let's watch TV? Or listen to an album. That's what that shit is for, times like this," Ethan said, leading Kyle back over to the sofa.

Kyle watched the taller teen settle into the chair opposite of him. "I read a poem you might like," he said as if they were in English class together, and not in his apartment under these circumstances. "You like poems, right?" Kyle said, unsure suddenly.

"Naturally."

Kyle he could see in this moment why Stan loved Ethan. He put the thought out of his mind and tried to remember the lines he wanted Ethan to hear.

"It goes; vanity, in a fairy tale, will make you evil. But in the real world vanity makes you nuts, it makes you say things like ‘I deserved a better life than this.'"

"Yeah," Ethan said. Kyle was glad that he wasn't looking at him like he was strange or too tired to know what he was saying. "That's pretty goth."

"I thought so too," Kyle said, laying his head against the cushion and wondered if he was vain and that's all that's wrong with him. The cushion was cool under his cheek, like the wall of Stan's bedroom and the outside wall of Tweek Bros, like the window of Cartman's car. Ethan turned on the little TV that balanced on a folding table against the wall. Kyle got the sense that it wasn't used very often. Maybe just in times like this when no one was expected to talk. They watched an old episode of Star Trek, but Kirk and Spock hadn't even beamed down to the planet when he started to feel tugged into sleep.

When he woke up the TV was off and only two candles were still burning against the dark on the kitchen table. He was disoriented and laid completely still, his heart twitching in his chest as his brain tried to work out where he was. In the next room, which must be Ethan's bedroom, he could hear Stan talking.

"Of course he didn't," Stan said. "He's a coward, he's always been a coward."

Kyle stood at the door, and they both turned to look at him in a way that made him feel like he should apologize for interrupting.

"Is your head okay?" Stan asked. Kyle realized that his beanie must have come off completely while he slept. He could tell that his head was in fact not okay from the expression on Stan's face. He touched where he approximated his head hit the glass, not to feel for a lump, but to shield it from Stan.

"Do you feel good now?" Kyle asked instead of answering Stan's question. "Do you feel like you've done the right thing?" Kyle could see Ethan roll his eyes. Ethan could fuck off.

Stan ran his fingers through his hair. "Kyle—what was I supposed to do?"

"Nothing," Kyle said. "It's what you've been so good at. Why stop tonight." He was angry, but he still raked his eyes over Stan to make sure that Cartman hadn't hurt him too.

"Do you really think that I'm the bad guy here?"

"Bad guy?" Kyle laughed. "That is what you would think—that is how you would see this."

"What does that mean!" Stan yelled, slamming his hand against Ethan's dresser. "That I'm too stupid to understand some greater love between you and Cartman. He's a dick, he's worse—god I should have put an end to this months ago."

"It's not your job! And it isn't your decision! I'm not your fucking possession—that you can toss aside and then take back when Eric mishandles it!"

Stan looked down, and shook his head a little to the side, like he was waiting for a dream to end. When he looked back up, Kyle wondered if he was going to cry but Stan said simply. "It's Cartman. Kyle, you're letting Cartman hurt you." And Kyle realized that Stan was staring at the bruises on his neck again. Somehow it was more justification than anything Stan could say and he wished he could will his body to stop being evidence against him.

He wanted them both to stop staring, so he turned abruptly into Stan's bedroom and slammed the door. He would walk home if he didn't think Stan might follow him. He didn't want to find out if he would, either way. Outside the door he could hear Ethan tell Stan to leave him alone to calm down. Stan's room was small, but maybe it just felt that way since there were posters and pictures covering almost every inch of the walls. Kyle recognized some of them from before, but they seemed to be mostly covered by new interests, new bands, almost like Stan was wallpapering for his new life.

He lay down in the bed, and tried not to think about how all of Stan's new possessions seem to glower at him in the dark.Instead he thought about jumping out of the window—what the injury count would be. They were only two stories up but there was concrete below. Sometimes there was a comfort in imagining dramatic gestures we knew we'd never commit, Kyle thought, as he shut his eyes.

He didn't remember falling asleep but when he opened his eyes the grey light of morning hurt. He opened the door to Stan's room and ducked into the bathroom next to it. He sighed at his reflection in the mirror. A swollen purple bruise inched out from under his curls from his temple down to the top of his cheekbone. The bruises on his neck were fading though as he knew they would. He wiped his face off with warm water. He couldn't remember the schedule for work today, but maybe Stan was there now and he could slip away.

But when he opened the door Stan was sitting at the table in the kitchen. He stood in the doorway and stared at the spilled coffee grinds on the counter. He wondered if this apartment felt like home to Stan now, if Ethan felt like family.

"Do you want some coffee?"

Kyle stared blankly back at him, wondering if Stan had been awake all night. A laptop was open on the table, but Stan shut it after handing him a mug of coffee. Kyle got the sense that all of this was predetermined, and no matter what he did now, Stan would react the way he'd planned for himself. Kyle stared at the mug as he sat in the seat across from Stan. The words Renaissance Faire were printed across the ceramic in a font that someone had decided looked archaic.

"I think I need to tell you something." Stan sighed as if realizing this wasn't going to be as easy as he thought. He was still wearing his clothes from last night, only he'd taken off his blazer, and his pale arms hugged tightly around his chest. Kyle decided that Ethan probably put Stan up to this.

"Fine," he said, tapping his fingers against the mug. He wondered if Stan had somehow come across some secret information about Cartman; as if there were something Kyle didn't know.

"When Kenny died—I was there." Stan said. Kyle's finger dropped from the mug and onto the surface of the table. It hurt in a way that he couldn't account for yet.

"But Karen found him alone," Kyle said, his blood pumping loudly in his ears as he clung to the fact.

"I know," Stan said, shaking his head, "I left."

"What are you saying, Stan?" Kyle asked. When he looked across the table, Stan's hands were around his mug and he was staring into it.

"I had an argument with my dad, and I left." It sounded rehearsed. Stan must have gone through this with everyone he knew before he'd thought to tell Kyle. "You weren't home—so I went to Kenny's house. He said we didn't need to talk about it, that he had these pills. So we both took one. And then mostly lay around his room talking. And we fell asleep. When I woke up I thought he was sleeping—maybe he still was—I had about 30 missed calls from my mom so I went home," Stan said, running his finger around the edge of his mug.

"Maybe he took something after you left," Kyle said. The only part of his brain that was still working was pragmatic, apparently.

Stan shrugged, "that's what everyone says."

"Whose everyone?" Kyle remembered standing in Stan's bedroom, begging Stan to talk to him. To tell him this.

"The counselor my mom made me see last year. Ethan. You."

"It could be true." Kyle's thoughts were spinning to accommodate this new narrative of events.

"It doesn't matter dude. The fact is, I was there and I could have stopped it—whatever it was. And I didn't even know anything was wrong when I walked out of the room. I didn't check on him, I was worried I'd be grounded or too tired for football practice the next day—that's all. That's all I could think about."

Kyle tried to keep from bringing himself into it. But why else was Stan talking to him about this now? Just to derive sympathy and get him to stay away from Cartman?

"You couldn't have known." Kyle said instead of giving Stan a day-by-day breakdown of how shitty he had felt. Still felt.

"Yeah, it seems like I don't know much of anything." Stan looked at Kyle like he was something else that he let die.

"Me and Eric," Kyle said, taking his first sip of the coffee Stan had poured him, "don't think about that now." He didn't want to go back through it all. It didn't change anything. It didn't mean that Stan didn't mean every word he'd said in his room that day. Pain just made people honest.

"Yeah," Stan said, looking down again.

Chapter Six

They spent the afternoon watching reruns of Chinpokomon on TV and drinking the store brand coffee that Ethan stocked the house with. Shelia had called twice and Kyle reassured her that he was fine and working an extra shift. About an hour ago he'd realized that Tweek was covering both he and Stan's shifts that day.

Stan came back from the kitchen with two fresh cups of coffee and sat them on the table between them.

"What did you say to Eric anyway," Kyle asked. It seems like the first time the question could be voiced, but he'd been looking for opportunities to ask all morning.

"I told him to stay away from you. And he agreed," Stan said simply.

"That doesn't sound like him." Cartman wasn't one to give up easily. But maybe he was just done with Kyle.

Stan let out a breath. "What does it matter exactly what he says, nothing out of his mouth is worth repeating."

"It matters because I want to know," Kyle said, "this isn't just some ‘abusive' relationship where you need to step in and shield me from what Eric says. I know how he is." It was true, he thought, Cartman had only actually hit him a handful of times. And it was Cartman, after all, that was just his personality. It wasn't this bad. It wasn't not being able to repeat what happened sort of bad.

"Forget it, Kyle," Stan said grimly. But Kyle was already pushing away from the sofa searching his coat pocket for his cellphone. Cartman didn't answer. Stan was frowning lightly, as if he knew that Cartman wouldn't answer, as if he'd won some cheap prize.

"What did he say?"

"That he'd stay away from you," Stan repeated, looking back at the TV screen. Everyone was smiling through crinkled eyes in the anime, and Kyle pocketed his cellphone. It wasn't worth a fight, not now.

They continued to watch the show until the five o'clock local news came on and the marathon of Chinpokomon ended for the day. Now that the numbing effect of cartoons had released his brain he was left with nothing but the unlaced edges of what Stan had confided in him that morning. He needed some way for the information to feel real, to become concrete in his head

"We should go to see Kenny," he said before the thought had fully formed.

Stan looked surprised but agreed. Kyle wondered if he was still seeing a counselor. He wondered exactly how much he needed to tip-toe around the issue. Those weren't questions he was comfortable asking though. He wondered if he was already doomed to fail.

When they went outside the cold stung Kyle's ears and he remembered that his hat was still lying on Stan's sofa. He was somehow comforted by the thought as they descended the metal steps for the cement below.

They drove in silence towards the graveyard. Kyle hadn't been back to it since the funeral. He supposed it wasn't that long ago that he'd died but it seemed impossible that so much could be ruined already. Not ruined, Kyle thought, as they pulled into the cemetery, just wasted. Everything seemed futile about his death, like he and Stan were the pills that Kenny had swallowed. They tried to come back up but he wouldn't let them out.

"We're here," Stan said. His black hair was hanging limply around his cheeks. Kyle wondered if Stan and Ethan came here to make out and hated himself for thinking of that now. Of course they wouldn't, they have their own apartment. He turned away and opened the car door, wishing there were some quiet way to shut it.

They walked shoulder to shoulder on the sidewalk that cut through the grass. Kyle thought for a moment that he'd forgotten the way but he spotted the top of Kenny's grave, which looked much newer than the gravestones surrounding it.

"We should have brought flowers," Kyle said harshly. "It's the simplest thing to remember."

"Kenny wouldn't care." Stan's breath was warm against Kyle's ear.

"You could have told me. I wouldn't have blamed you." It was the conversation he had wanted Stan to start since he'd walked out of his bedroom a year and a half ago. Maybe that was the most annoying thing about him. He couldn't let people do things at their own pace.

"Kyle," Stan said. "I couldn't. I couldn't tell anyone. The only thing I was capable of was torturing myself; making myself feel horrible." Kyle bowed his head and studied the grass growing out of the earth covering Kenny.

"You did a pretty fantastic job of making me feel horrible too."

Stan clutched Kyle's arm as he turned to face him. Stan's blue eyes stood out against the gray sky, the white puffs of their breaths, and the yellowed grass. "I wasn't trying to." Kyle laughed. Stan took a deep breath "I mean, I wanted you to give up on me. To recognize what a horrible person I was, even if it wasn't for the right reason. I was trying to protect you."

"That wasn't for you to decide," Kyle said in one saved-up breath. "You made me feel so horrible." He didn't have strong enough words for what he needed to tell Stan.

"I couldn't see anything beyond what I'd done. Not what I was doing to you, not what I was doing to everyone else around me."

"And now you can?"

"It's gotten better. That's all," Stan took a deep breath. Kyle wondered if it would ever feel like enough. If he would ever be able to trust Stan like that again. "I'm sorry, for what I said, for pushing you away." Kyle nodded. What else could he do? But Stan wasn't done. "I didn't mean any of what I said. About you being like Cartman or not liking you or any of it." He was talking faster now, like he had been thinking about this and wanted to get it out now that he'd started. "Kyle, you have to know that you're way better than him. Or me. Better than everyone." It was a ridiculous sentiment, but Kyle couldn't help but be drawn in by it. And for a minute he thought Stan was going to kiss him, but he realized that he was looking at the bruises around his temple again. Stan brushed Kyle's hair over the discoloration, but it flew away again when the wind blew and Stan looked lost. Kyle didn't know where to go from here.

"I keep thinking he'll come back—you know?" Kyle said after a minute, looking back at the cement slab cutting into the grass. It felt easier to talk about Kenny than to listen to empty compliments.

"Yeah." Stan reached out to grab Kyle's hand. "We can come back tomorrow with flowers," he said reassuringly, pulling Kyle back towards the car. Kyle watched their feet move together over the ground. They'd come back with flowers tomorrow. Plastic flowers maybe, Kyle considered, pursing his lips together. He'd have to look into it. But it felt like a good thing to look into.

They exited the gate of the cemetery and Kyle looked back at it with a feeling like he'd forgotten something.

"Do you remember when we were in 4^th grade and we read The Catcher in the Rye?" Kyle asked, seeing his own expression on Stan's face.

"Yeah dude."

"There's a part where Holden says the thing he hates about cemeteries is that when it rains, all the visitors get to leave and go into their cars, and go somewhere nice for dinner. But people like Kenny have to stay and have his grave rained on, and the grass, and his stomach rained on. I wonder if he's cold—are you cold?" He turned abruptly to Stan.

"Yeah," Stan said, as he turned the ignition in the car. The heat was already on, but blasting cold air.

Chapter Seven

Kyle hated opening this early, especially because he'd been staying out late. Stumbling into his dark house at 2 A.M. almost made him feel like a normal teenager. Well, a normal teenager as they were portrayed in movies, he supposed. Two nights ago he and Stan had watched the shitty Tim Burton version of Batman while finishing off the expensive micro-brewed beer Henrietta had sent from Portland. Kyle couldn't tell a difference, but it had made him feel relaxed enough to laugh along with Stan at the cheap special effects. He'd almost considered spending the night until Ethan had gotten home and wanted to talk about the pile of used Siouxsie and the Banshees albums he'd spent half of his paycheck on. Kyle had felt particularly resigned the next morning. But Stan had rang the doorbell carrying an armful of carnations.

"For Kenny's grave, dude," he had explained. "Let's go."

"Have you talked to Cartman?" Tweek asked as he wrote the morning specials on the chalkboard behind the register.

"He broke up with me," Kyle said. "This is what he wants—to be apart." It was convincing because it wasn't a lie. Sometimes it was easier to just not answer the question that was being asked. He knew that if he tried to explain to Tweek that Cartman was just scared and lashing out because of things changing so much, Tweek wouldn't believe that Cartman was capable of those emotions. It was easier, Kyle supposed, for Tweek to demonize Cartman and not believe he had depth than to seriously consider that he didn't have all of the answers. But every day that he spent with Stan made Cartman seem farther away.

"And you've been busy, right? You and Stan have been hanging out all the time."

"Not all the time," Kyle said quickly. "But yeah, we watched a movie the other night." Kyle was hesitant to put too much into his revived friendship with Stan. It was too fragile. Too scared of a repeat.

"And you're hanging out tonight—I heard you guys talking yesterday."

"We're friends—like you and me." Kyle didn't know what sort of friends he and Tweek were either. Tweek looked pleased enough at the mention. Kyle was more than looking forward to spending tonight with Stan. They were going UFO hunting. It was something they'd done together when they were younger. But now it felt like an excuse to walk around the park at night together. Or he hoped it was.

"I thought you might have been pissed at me after what happened. I wouldn't have blamed you," Tweek said as he stirred honey into a mug of tea he'd made for himself.

"No, it was stupid. You can't just run after someone when they've broken up with you." Calling the next day worked just as well anyway. Cartman had still been in town and willing to be talked around. Kyle rubbed at his arm where he knew finger-shaped bruises were hiding below his long-sleeved t-shirt.

Tweek looked over at him, his eyes lingering to side of Kyle's face. "Right. And he hit you." Kyle was sure most of the bruise had faded over the past couple days to a point that it was undetectable. Not that anyone had said anything other than an old lady who came in to order baked oatmeal and a black coffee every morning. She'd told him to be more careful. Which he supposed was fair, looking back on it now—though he'd felt annoyed at the moment.

"I liked you better when you were offering me drugs and complaining about your dad." As soon as he'd said it, he regretted it. Tweek pinched his eyes closed for second before shaking his head.

"Jesus Christ, I just think we have to look out for each other."

"I know," he said quickly. "Sorry, I'm an asshole." Cartman was always quick to point out that after Stan left him junior year, all of the friends Kyle thought were his, really had been Stan's. They'd faded into the background, and it was comments like the one he'd just made to Tweek that made him see why; he was a bad person most of the time. Stan was a good person most of the time. It evened them out to make a functioning human being. But without Stan, Kyle was just bad.

"It's fine," Tweek said, but he still looked hurt.

"No, dude, you've been a good friend. Everything is just really shitty right now. Including me." Kyle realized it was true as he said it. The part about Tweek being a good friend. Or at least, a friend at all. He wondered where all of the mental clarity was coming from.

"I think it's going to get better. Anyway, didn't you say you just got an awesome grade on your lit analysis paper?"

"School is something I've always been good at." Kyle wondered if he was allowed to feel like he'd achieved something or if aptitude canceled it out.

"Worrying is something I've always been good at."

"Ugh," Kyle motioned towards the door. "Worry about the Christian book group pressing against the door already."

Tweek frowned and grabbed the keys to unlock the café.

Stan's shift started in mid-afternoon, relieving Kyle. But he spent the rest of his day in the café anyway in the back corner, reading Carl Jung for his Intro to Psych course. He sipped distractedly at the mocha Stan had brought him a half hour ago. Stan had been sitting with him asking about the collective unconscious but he and Dougie had had a steady stream of customers until they'd started closing. Kyle had offered to help to make it go faster, but Stan had insisted that he still needed practice.

"We're good," Stan called reemerging from the back with Kyle's coat.

"Not bad," Kyle said, glancing at the clock, "but Tweek and I could have done it in fifteen."

"Caffeine-free Tweek?"

"Coffee-addled Tweek and I would have it closed in ten."

"Ah well I was just slowing Dougie down, but still better than last week," Stan said, as Kyle slipped his books and laptop into his bag. Dougie glanced up at mention of his name and frowned in what seemed like agreement

"Bye guys," he said, walking to the car waiting outside. His mom waved at them from the driver's seat as Dougie stared stoically ahead.

"That kid's a little high strung." Stan took off his hat to run a hand through his hair.

"I think it's a symptom of working with me and Tweek so long."

"You—high strung?"

"Shut up."

"Should we make drinks for the walk? It's pretty cold out."

"The walk, don't you mean the hunt?"

"Well obviously, but you never know when they're listening in."

Their banter was so easy. Kyle didn't have to vet everything that came out of his mouth to make sure he wasn't saying anything that could be interpreted the wrong way. He hadn't felt this relaxed in years, he was sure. He shot Stan a look before walking behind the coffee bar and looking over the drink list carefully, as if an option might appear that would identify itself as perfect for this situation.

"Hot chocolate?"

Stan nodded, pursing his lips in mock seriousness. "I think that whipped cream is known for warding off anal probes."

"This one's yours," Kyle said, rolling his eyes.

Stan stared down at the drink he'd been handed. "Is it necessary that the whipped cream be coming through the hole in the lid?"

"I'm an especially protective friend," Kyle said, following Stan to his car, clutching his own hot chocolate.

They'd already finished half of their drinks by the time they got to the park. Kyle licked the chocolate from the cold corners of his lips as they decided the best course of action.

"We should look for unusual star patterns," Stan said, sounding more serious than they both knew he was. "It'll be easier to see out here, away from the lights of town." He pulled two pairs of binoculars from the back seat.

Kyle looked through the lenses at Stan. "What would you do if we actually saw an alien?"

"Ask them to take me to their leader," Stan said, as they got out of the car. The cold stung Kyle's cheeks, as he followed Stan onto the cement path that lead into the park. "See if they had any advice."

"They'd probably start by telling you that your jeans are too tight."

Stan just laughed. "Nah, all aliens are punk rockers. Or else why wouldn't they conform to society and get jobs like the rest of us?"

"I knew it! I knew you'd say the word conformist sooner or later!"

"It's just a word," Stan said, as he brought the binoculars to his eyes. "There's a bench over there, I think it's a perfect base for our investigation."

Something about the tone in Stan's voice made Kyle drop the subject.

They sat on the bench, staring at the sky. Kyle wondered if he'd insulted Stan. But he seemed fine, sipping his hot chocolate, slouched against the cold wood. Still, when he began talking again, he was quieter.

"We should have done this before." Kyle didn't have the courage to look at Stan as he said it. He didn't need to elaborate on what before meant. But it felt strange referencing their half lived relationship now.

"I don't know," Stan said, "what you do blurs over what you did—or didn't do before."

"Then what's the point of anything?" Kyle asked.

Stan looked down at his binoculars, twisting the scope with his thumb. For a few minutes he didn't say anything but Kyle could tell that he was going to, that he was about to. He sighed and set him binoculars on the bench as if declaring that court was in order. "Two years ago Ethan sat across from me in the diner and told me that he once held his palm over the flame of a candle until it was burning his skin. And someone who was watching said, What's the trick?And Ethan said, not minding. He told me that life was a lot like that. Just accepting that it was going to hurt you and trying not to care." Stan looked out across the park, where patches of snow were still frozen in the dead grass. "And for a long time I believed that."

"What changed your mind?"

Stan looked over at Kyle for a moment. "It just didn't seem true anymore, I guess."

-Zteif-

Kyle drank the rest of his hot chocolate. It was cold now. And he wished he had finished it sooner.He looked down at the names people had written on the bench with a sharpie. He wondered when everyone got so lazy with their vandalism that a sharpie seemed substantial enough. People used to carve things like that with pocketknives or sticks, or maybe if they were desperate—their fingernails.

"It's good that we're hanging out, someone's got to patrol South Park for extraterrestrial life," Stan said, picking his binoculars back off the bench.

Kyle felt like the moment had closed before it could come to any real conclusion. Then he remembered that they were supposed to be playing a part and stared through his binoculars at what he was sure was an airplane.

"There's a weird blinking light over there," he said, pointing it out across the sky. "It could be the mothership."

It was past midnight when they got back to the car. "I guess we suck as UFO hunters," Kyle said.

"Nah, we scared them away."

Kyle didn't necessarily want Stan to drop him back off at his house. It was always a strange dissonance to be so close to someone, and then walk back into the stillness of his bedroom. Strange being where all of his things laid during the day, fine without him, and still fine now.

But when they pulled into Kyle's driveway all the lights in the house were on. Even inside the car they could hear the incoherent music leaking through the walls of the house. "The fuck?" Kyle mumbled, unbuckling his seat belt and walking into the house. Stan followed close behind. The door was partially open, but no one noticed him come in anyway.

It was mostly ninth and tenth graders from what Kyle could tell. Some were playing Xbox, sitting Indian style in front of the TV. Kyle had to step through them, as they complained, to get to the kitchen, where another group was playing what was probably a drinking game—or had been, before everyone had apparently lost. Now they were draped over their chairs, in seemingly deep conversations they wouldn't remember in the morning. There were bottles of cherry vodka sitting half empty on the counters, and soda cans piled in the sink.

"Ike!" Kyle called over whatever Rihanna song was blasting through the house.

"Hey!" he yelled at the kids sitting at the kitchen table. "Where's Ike?"

Several of them lazily turned their heads in his direction, as if not realizing that he hadn't been there all along.

"Where's Ike?" Kyle said again, pivoting on his heel to see Ike coming down the steps carrying a stack of DVDs.

"What the fuck, Ike? Where's Mom and Dad?" Kyle yelled across the room.

Ike's grin disappeared from his face. He handed the DVDs to a group of girls clustered around the sofa before returning to the kitchen. "What does it matter?" Ike said, his eyes too bright as he reached for a plastic cup on the counter.

"You can't just have a party." Kyle was trailing after him.

"Sure I can," Ike said merrily, more to his friends than to Kyle. They laughed, and he returned to his seat at the table. "Whose turn is it?"

"Ike! These kids have to go home!"

"Relax Kyle," Ike said, and was supported by a chorus of "yeah relax Kyles," from his friends.

"Ike! I'm serious! You can't have underage kids drinking in our house! You could get Dad in trouble!"

"Fuck you Kyle, go away. Look, there's Stan. Stan's in that band. Play a song Stan."

"Maybe next time buddy," Stan said, looking worriedly at a kid puking in the trashcan by the fridge.

"Whatever, go away you're not invited. You're too old. You're both old."

In the living room a group of girls turned a Justin Beiber song louder, and Ike and his friends groaned.

"Ike, come on, this is ridiculous."

"Kyle. Go away. You're a fucking loser."

"Ike you're drunk." Kyle looked at Ike's friends and wished he didn't sound so unsure.

Ike rolled his eyes. "Doesn't matter. I don't need to be drunk to think you're a fucking loser. You work at a minimum wage job and live at home without a car or license. Real cool." Ike wouldn't even look at Kyle. It was like he was a joke Ike was making up as he went along for his friend's amusement rather than a real person standing in the room.

Kyle felt himself falter, unsure of what to say as he watched the teens lost in their own world where their youth was a concept that Kyle couldn't understand anymore. He'd once read that nineteen was too old to die young, now he believed it.

"Let's go dude, come on—he's just a kid," Stan said, his hand clamping down on Kyle's shoulder.

"Yeah, go! Go before I call up Eric Cartman. You think I don't know what you let him do," Ike yelled over the music. Kyle tried not to be stunned by the statement as it rang through his head. It seemed too heavy of a sentence to be said over the thudding bass of pop music and video game sound effects.

It wasn't until the cold hit his face that he realized that he and Stan were on the front porch now. Stan fumbled through his pocket for a cigarette and lit it in his cuffed hand.

"What should I do?" Kyle asked. All of his energy was drained. He felt like he was talking too loud, his ears still adjusting from being in the all the noise.

"Just let it go until tomorrow, or until forever," Stan said. "Come back and stay at my place."

Kyle nodded and they got back into the car. He wondered exactly what Ike had meant about Cartman, how much he knew and how long he'd known it.

"What should I do?" he repeated, not meaning to say it again.

"Nothing," Stan said, "they're all jock cheerleader conformists."

Stan was trying to look serious and suppress a smile while failing at both. Kyle laughed and punched his arm. "Shut up."

Stan grinned and turned up the volume for the CD that was in claiming he needed to clear his brain. Joy Division jangled over the speakers and Kyle was almost sure he felt better by the time they made it to the second stop light.

"Were we ever that lame?" Stan asked, tapping his cigarette out the window.

"Probably not," Kyle said, "we were and are infinitely cool."

They got out of the car and Kyle followed Stan up the steps to his apartment.

"What do you want to do? Drink cherry vodka and play Xbox or did you have something else in mind" He asked, throwing his keys in the chair by the door.

"Play me a song Stan," Kyle said in the same whiney demanding voice Ike had used. He shifted into the overstuffed chair and watched Stan check in Ethan's room to see if he was home. He shrugged.

"Okay," Stan said. He grabbed his guitar from his room. He propped it against his knee as after he sat on the sofa. "But only if you sing."

"Not happening," Kyle said, folding his arms over his chest. Stan looked like he wanted to argue, but started playing anyway.

"Do you know it?" Stan asked, looking in concentration as his fingers moved across the strings.

"Is it some faggy Bob Dylan song?" Kyle laid his head back against the chair.

"More or less." Stan continued to play. Kyle stared at Stan's hands moving over the strings.

"Are you tired?" Stan asked, stopping a song that Kyle hadn't realized he'd started. "You can sleep in my bed," Stan said. "I'll sleep in Ethan's. He'll probably be gone all night."

"I'd rather just sleep on the sofa. It's comfy." Kyle didn't like the idea of Stan in Ethan's bed under any circumstance.

"Are you sure?"

Kyle nodded, his eyes slitting closed again. "Yeah," he yawned. "But keep playing for now."

The next morning he was sipping a Chamomile tea latte Tweek had made him as he walked home from his shift at the café. Ike would still be in school, and his parents were still vacationing in New York at his aunt's house, which meant an afternoon sprawled across the living room catching up on his online classes. But Cartman's SUV idling in his driveway dissolved those plans. He was supposed to be at school still.

"Where's Stan?" Cartman yelled across the driveway. "I heard you've been hanging out." Kyle didn't know what kind of recon Cartman had in town, but he figured he was probably better off not knowing.

"He has a boyfriend," Kyle said tersely as Cartman grabbed his arm, leading them both to the doorway of the house. Kyle fumbled with his keys, trying to let them both in before someone saw them together.

"Does he," Cartman said into his ear.

"I guess so. It doesn't matter, he just wants to be friends again."

"Why? Why now?"

"Because we work together." Kyle was still under Cartman's touch.

Cartman let him go and began to pace around the living room. "So. Emo Stan was depressed because Kenny died. At some point he got better again and never contacted you. Never reached back out. And now, because you happen to work together, he's willing, so generously willing to acknowledge you. To pretend like he's some friend to you. How special." Kyle thought about them sprawled out on Stan's couch. Cartman was right, though. Why now?

"You don't know everything!"

"I don't need to! Remember how I was there when all of Stan's friends fucked off. I'll be there when Stan does it again. Because you're my little monster Kyle. And my hate for you makes me hard and it always will."

Kyle looked up at Cartman. He remembered. Months had gone by where Cartman was the only person besides his mom and teachers he would talk to. Cartman was always right, that was the problem.

"I know you feel it babe," Cartman said, tilting Kyle's chin up. "Do you know what that hippie did to me? I should give you a demonstration," Cartman said, his hands bunching the fabric of Kyle's shirt in his fists.

"Please, let's go to the mall, I'll buy you that football jersey you wanted" Kyle said weakly, but Cartman was smiling down at him like he didn't hear. He leaned in and kissed him hard on the lips. Kyle tried to pull back, but Cartman's hands kept his head in place, forcing his tongue between Kyle's lips until he gasped for air against Cartman's mouth.

"Kyle?" his mom called from the doorway, "Oh hello Eric," she said, shifting a suitcase in her hands. Cartman rushed to her side to grab the suitcase from her.

"Good Afternoon Mrs. Broflovski, Mr. Broflovski," he said.

"Oh thank you Eric, you're such a gentleman," Shelia said, unzipping her coat and hanging it by the door.

"I'm sorry I didn't call first but my schedule is so unpredictable with my football practices and scholarship obligations." Cartman swung a careless arm around Kyle's shoulders. His fingertips digging into the socket. Kyle moved his arm out to relieve the tension. Something he would never have done in the past.

"I'm always glad to see you two boys together," she said. "You're such a good example on my Kyle." Kyle caught himself before he laughed. He looked at the ground. He didn't want this anymore. He didn't deserve it.

"We were just heading out for dinner," Cartman retrieved Kyle's coat and held it out for him to put his arms through. "My treat," he winked. Kyle watched his mom clap her hands together in excitement.

"How thoughtful!" Shelia said as Gerald brought in the rest of the bags.

Kyle smiled thinly at his parents and followed Cartman out the door.

"I missed you," Cartman said innocently, squeezing Kyle's hand as they walked to the car. Kyle hadn't. And he wondered if having a buffer against Stan's fleeting interest was worth it.

Chapter Eight

Stan and Kyle were stretched out on the sofa in Stan's apartment watching one of Ethan's vampire movies.

This was the only place Kyle felt safe since Cartman had been showing up unpredictably lately. Not that he planned on telling Stan. It was easy to think of Cartman as a secret stash of a drug he was supposed to have gotten clean of; only there if everything else went to hell. Luckily Cartman hadn't hit him in the face since getting back together; Kyle thought it was probably out of a fear of Stan. They fucked the other day and there where bruises along his abdomen. There was something dark in the humiliation of the bruises that he enjoyed. The knowledge of how much it'd hurt Stan to see them on him felt like a poison he could crush between his molars anytime he wanted, a way to kill the relationship being rebuilt between them if necessary and to have if and when Stan decided that he was done again.

Stan strummed lightly at his guitar, tuning it as the girl on the screen behind him peered her mascara-smeared eyes through the crack in a door. "I always thought it would be better to be one the side characters that are already vampires instead of the hero who has to save them all," Stan said, craning his neck to watch her breathe in stabbing gasps. "Then you don't have to worry anymore."

"You just want to be a vampire," Kyle said. "The transformation is complete."

Stan stuck out his tongue and threw his guitar pick at Kyle who ducked but felt it hit his hair. "Ugh, it's gone forever now," he said trying to delicately extricate it from his curls.

Stan smiled and set his guitar down, sitting next to Kyle and gently untangling it from his hair. "You always called me out on my bullshit," he said. Kyle tried not to think about the way the sofa cushion was dipping to push their thighs together.

He rolled his eyes "You and everyone else, that's what makes me so charming and likable."

"I think you're pretty charming and likable." Stan traced the outline of Kyle's fingers with the edge of the guitar pick. It was hitting lightly between his fingers.

He thought about how soft and familiar Stan's lips looked, his eyelashes dark against the pale of his cheeks as he stared down at Kyle's fingers. He remembered the bruises and stood abruptly. "We should get lunch or something."

Stan blinked and stared up at him guiltily. "Yeah, sorry. I didn't know you were hungry—what do you want to eat?" Kyle could see him squeezing the pick in his fist.

"Anything," Kyle said, pulling his beanie over his hair. What he meant was anywhere. He needed to get out of the apartment.

Stan lit a cigarette on the drive to the diner. A CD was already in and playing which cut off the need for conversation on the way.

The hostess seated them in the goth's usual booth, giving them plenty of room to sit apart. But they still seemed too close. And he could feel Stan looking at him over his menu as he tried to decide between entrees. The effect seemed to render him illiterate and he stared at the pictures of on the menu and pointed to one of them when the waitress came back with the red-headed goth behind her.

"Just coffee for me," the goth said, slipping in the booth beside Stan. Kyle tried to remember his name from the other night. He looked particularly pale and unkempt, and Kyle wondered if that was the look he was going for. The eyeliner coating his eyes was smudged like it might have been slept in and then reapplied.

"Hey Dylan." Stan slid closer to Kyle to make room. "Classes let out early?"

"I'm skipping," he said quietly, pulling the unbuttoned cuffs of his sleeves over his chipped black nails.

"Dylan goes to Colorado Mountain College," Stan explained. How someone who'd spent more time in the alley smoking than in class was in college while Kyle sat at home and wrote discussion board posts was one of the great tragedies of Kyle's life. One of the many.

"Probably not for much longer," he said bitterly, pushing a few strands of greasy red hair from his eyes. "All those years of skipping classes doesn't exactly make me the smartest kid in the room." Kyle looked at the tabletop and smirked. It certainly didn't.

"You're a music major dude, that's what you've spent every minute of your life focusing on." Kyle had forgotten how supportive Stan was when he wanted to be.

"I know but I never learned to study or focus, or I don't know—it's the theory part of it—I can't sleep I'm just staring at my notes and I can't even read my handwriting," he said miserably, staring down into the coffee the waitress placed in front of him. "I don't even want this, I feel sick."

"What do you even need a degree for? You're the most talented musician I know—you taught me everything," Stan said. Kyle wondered why anyone put up with Dylan. How could you possibly complain this much when Stan was so supportive.

"What's the point anyway right? A piece of paper saying I'm smart. Obviously my high school diploma lied, what's to say a college degree would be any different? It's just a way to take my money and pat me on the back," Dylan said, more to the coffee than to Stan.

"What are you having trouble with?" Kyle asked, cutting off whatever Stan was about to say. He wanted Stan to look at him again. To think he was worth encouraging.

Dylan looked up. "Just figuring out what's important to know, I try and remember it all. God I sound so stupid when I say it out loud."

"No," Kyle said. "Academics are learned. Show me what you have and I'll show you how to figure out what's important."The words only tasted a little bitter in his mouth. That Dylan looked genuinely interested made it easier to swallow down.

"Do you think it'll make a difference?"

"Absolutely," Kyle said. "Bring your books and notes by Stan's apartment one night and I'll show you what I mean." Stan was smiling broadly at him. Kyle blushed and ducked his head, wishing it didn't feel so good.

Dylan nodded but looked back at the coffee, his hair falling back over his face again. "Thanks. But I've already skipped too many classes. I'm supposed to go talk to my advisor who I've never met."

"Aren't you supposed to be in class," Ethan said, standing at the edge of the table. The collars of his peacoat were popped up around his chin. Stan made a sort of warning head shake at him. Dylan didn't look up, and Kyle could tell that if he had to move or talk at all he'd cry.

"Hey," Ethan said confused, sliding into the booth next to him. "What's wrong?" He looked over Dylan's disheveled appearance. And when Dylan didn't respond or even look at him, Ethan turned to Stan. "What's going on?"

"School stuff," Stan said, as the waitress placed a black coffee in front of Ethan.

"I'm stupid." Dylan was so quiet now that Kyle could barely hear him. "And now I know it."

"No," Ethan said, looking hurt, reaching out to grab Dylan's hand. "Come on, you're making me PDA you."

Dylan smiled a little, still looking down, and wrapped his fingers between Ethan's longer ones. Kyle looked over at Stan, who was frowning in sympathy with Dylan, but unfazed by the affection passing between his friends. Kyle wondered how he'd never noticed the way Ethan looked at Dylan before. Had he been purposefully ignorant? It seemed like something he'd do.

"I think we should go," Ethan said, laying five dollars on the table for both of their coffees.

"See you guys," Stan said.

"How did you get here?" Ethan asked, pulling Dylan out of the booth.

"A bus," Kyle heard Dylan say as they walked. If they were still holding hands, the sight of it was lost in the folds of Ethan's coat.

"Is he okay?" Kyle asked Stan.

"Ethan will make sure he is. Anyway we have band practice tonight, so I'll check then."

"Do you guys have a show?" Kyle twisted his room temperature spaghetti around his fork.

"We're having a party at the apartment next week. You'll come right?"

"Yeah," Kyle said, feeling much lighter than he had in a long time.

Chapter Nine

Tweek's fingers tapped against the steering wheel of his car as he and Kyle sat in the parking lot outside of Cartman's dorm. Kyle had needed a ride, and although Tweek hadn't been happy to hear he'd been lying and seeing Cartman again, he was at least glad to know Kyle had changed his mind. That he wanted to break up with him for good this time.

"Should I come in? Or stay here?" he asked, looking all around the car like Cartman was going to rip the doors off the hinges at any second.

"I told you; I'm going to go inside, explain that I don't want us to be together anymore, and then leave. It'll take five minutes."

"I just don't know if he's going to take it so well, because of---er how he is. You could just call him. Minimize the risk."

"What can he do? We're in public. And if I call, it won't feel real." He wasn't sure it would feel real either way, but at least there was a chance. He needed to make sure Cartman knew he was serious.

"Yeah." Tweek relaxed a bit. "I still can't believe you were seeing him again. It just---I mean, why?" Kyle didn't have an answer that sounded like he wasn't fishing for compliments.

"I know, I know. That's why I'm doing this. So just wait here." Kyle said, unbuckling his seatbelt. It felt good to comfort someone else. It made him feel like he was beyond needing comfort himself.

He'd never been to Cartman's dorm before, but it was easy enough to find. He'd spent half the night that he couldn't sleep on Colorado State's webpage looking at maps of the campus.

He knocked on the dorm room door.

"'Ey, we're busy in here goddamnit!" Cartman shouted through the door.

"It's me," Kyle yelled. If that alone ever mattered to Cartman, he hoped it still did.

Cartman opened the door, his hair hanging in his face, and his pants unbuckled. On his bed was a blonde guy who was covering himself in a sheet. He almost looked like Butters. Kyle wasn't surprised.

"Couldn't wait another day for my cock?" Cartman said, grabbing Kyle by the arm and pulling him into the room.

"I need to talk to you," Kyle said. "Alone." He watched the stranger slide out from under the sheet and expected to feel betrayed, outraged that Cartman had done this to him. Was probably doing it the whole time. But Kyle just felt bored. How had he ever thought he needed this? The blonde grabbed his jeans from the floor of the dorm.

"What, you come in here and boss around my friends? No. What do you want Kahl?" Cartman's eyes were always so soulless.

"That we're done. That this is over." There should be fireworks. There should be someone pulling champagne poppers.

Cartman rolled his eyes. "Do you think I care that much about you?" Cartman yelled, grabbing Kyle harder and throwing him into the computer desk in the corner of the room. Kyle's collar bone connected to the cheap plywood edge of the desk and he fell to the floor. Cartman stood over him. "It always has to be about what you want Kyle! Doesn't it?"

"Jesus Christ!" The blonde yelled. "I'm going to get someone."

Kyle laughed, grabbing the bedframe to help him stand up.

He shoved Cartman away from him as hard as he could. Cartman stumbled. "Don't you ever fucking touch me again!" Kyle yelled, needing to say the words even if Cartman wasn't going to listen to them. Cartman backed up and held the door open.

"Like I want to anyway. Get out of here, just go, you just ruined what was shaping up to be a perfectly good blowjob. Have fun getting fucked over by Stan again. Can't say you don't deserve it." But Kyle was done listening to what Cartman thought about anything. Stan was irrelevant to their relationship. He was done being Cartman's punching bag.

Kyle did go. People were gathered in the hallway looking for the source of the yelling. Outside the air was cold, and he knew he wasn't bleeding, he didn't have to check.

Tweek was waiting.

"So it's over?" Tweek asked.

"Yes."

"Thank Christ," Tweek muttered, shifting the car into gear and pulling out of the parking lot. Kyle felt like a 300-pound weight had been taken off of his chest.

Chapter Ten

Kyle stood next to a girl whose Mohawk kept toppling into her drink when she leaned her head down to take a sip. Her boyfriend offered his straw to her so she didn't have to tilt her head down and she looked at him like he'd slain a dragon or carried out some war in her name. Kyle rolled his eyes and downed his second drink.

There was a substantial crowd, which somehow made Stan's apartment seem bigger, with people hanging out in corners he'd never taken notice of. A girl was DJing with green hair and skeleton makeup. Kyle had been staring with interest at the methodology of creating such a look when she'd winked at him. Since then he'd been watching the way Tweek kept chopping the ice in his cup with his chewed-up straw. The blonde was engaged in a discussion about taxidermy with Henrietta, which Kyle tried to tune out by concentrating on Robert Smith's whining vocals blaring over the speakers.

He hadn't been particularly looking forward to the party. It meant that his temporary bedroom for the past week was going to be full of these drunken goths and their omnipresent cigarette smoke. He'd been avoiding his house by crashing on Stan's couch. So he didn't necessarily relish the idea of making the decision between going home tonight or curling up next to empty beer cans. Stan had assured him that everyone would be gone by the time Kyle would want to go to sleep. But they both knew Stan couldn't promise that, and anyway, he shouldn't have to.

Stan's band was celebrating their sophomore album, which they'd recorded at a production studio one of Ethan's friends ran in Denver. It had coincided with their landlord's vacation, meaning they could play a live show in their living room for their friends before doing their usual tour of the sticky dark clubs in Denver. Last night Kyle had helped Henrietta to hang glittery skeletons from the ceiling and watched as she strategically placed strange framed cases of 19^th century medical equipment on shelves around the room. He had to admit that for all the not caring goths claimed to do, they seemed fixated on detail.

"Hey," Stan said, weaving his way through the crowd. "Having a good time?" He was wearing a tight blazer and skinny jeans. His black hair wasn't styled in the same calculated way that Ethan's or Dylan's was, but there had to be something deliberate about its careful dishevelment.

"Yeah," Kyle said, not wanting to disappoint Stan but even he didn't believe his own forced enthusiasm. Maybe he'd never been drunk enough to fully appreciate a party or large crowds in general, because sincere attempts had always failed.

Stan just smiled like Kyle had done something perfect and grabbed his shoulder and pulled him close. "This is all a bit lame," he said. It was hard to hear him over the thudding synth, but Stan kept inching closer, until their shoulders were brushing together. "But I'm glad you're here."

Kyle nodded, appreciating the knowing half-smile that Stan was giving him. "We are going to finish setting up and then I'll be back over," Stan said, waving his hand as he disappeared into the crowd again. Kyle wanted him to come back. To tell him about having broken up with Cartman. But he knew it would be an argument before it was better. Not that Stan had anything to be upset about really. He wasn't anything to Kyle.

"Kyle—Henrietta's offered to stuff me for you, if I die—what do you think?" Tweek said, sipping his beer as he waited for Kyle's answer. Kyle wasn't sure of the question, but something about the way Henrietta was twisting a strand of Tweek's hair between her black nails told him that his answer didn't matter.

"Uh—that's good," he said, but Tweek had already turned back to Henrietta, with a slew of questions about her proposed uses for his stuffed body. Kyle shifted nonchalantly away from them towards the kitchen, where shots were sitting on an ornate silver tray.

From the kitchen he could see Dylan and Stan huddled around amps, plugging cords in, in what he could only guess was an impromptu sound check. He needed a break from his own thoughts. He took a shot and quickly regretted it, leaning over the sink for a second in case he puked. The smell and sight of endless crumpled cigarettes in the sink did little to restrain the feeling. But nothing but spit came out when he gagged. He wasn't entirely glad that he hadn't puked when he straightened up.

It seemed like everyone paired off so neatly. The thought made his stomach churn again.

The song that was playing kept asserting that love goes down the drain. Suddenly he saw the appeal of all things goth. It was probably better to be alone, in some artistic existential way and he felt positive that everyone with their platform creepers and piercings had probably never felt loneliness as acutely as he had. If only they knew, he'd probably be given some sort of award, like king of the goths. He took another drink and laughed a bit to himself at the idea. He turned to tell Tweek, but the blonde had his head pressed against Henrietta's so they could both see through the scope of her camera.

So he turned back to watch Stan put down his guitar and make his way through the crowd. He went into his room. Kyle followed him, with the need to tell Stan that he was king of the goths. But by the time he got to Stan's room he was distracted.

"Are you putting on—eyeliner?" Kyle said, meaning to sound outraged but it came out more interested. Stan turned away from the mirror and blinked at him.

"How did you get so drunk in like ten minutes?" He took the cup from Kyle's hand and it on the dresser before leaning back into the mirror. "Don't you want to remember if we suck or not?"

Kyle laughed too loud at the question and plucked the eyeliner from Stan's hand. "Do me," he said, wrapping an arm around Stan's waist, laughing childishly at himself. Stan returned the gesture, but seemed to be holding Kyle up more than hugging him.

He raised his eyebrow. "Let's never be gay enough to do each other's makeup," he said, dangling the eyeliner from his finger like it was Pandora's Box.

"Come on," Kyle whined when Stan let him go to turn back to the mirror.

Stan sighed but was grinning slightly. "Close your eyes," he said, tilting Kyle's head back

Kyle felt the hesitant pressure of the pencil's tip rub under his lashes. From outside Ethan was warming up, singing, "Teenage Dirtbag" as Dylan strummed an acoustic guitar. Stan mumbled the words under his breath, the scent of cigarettes coming out in puffs against Kyle's cheek.

"Open your eyes," Stan said, frowning a bit, before wiping his thumb under Kyle's left eye. "What..." Stan hands dropped to the collar of Kyle's shirt. "You have a bruise along your shoulder," he said in a strange voice.

"Stan," Ethan said, leaning in the doorway, "we're going on." He was dressed entirely in black, with an earring dangling down the length of his neck. His eyeliner was thicker than Stan's and it stood out more vivid against his paler complexion. Maybe Ethan pretended to be broken, but Kyle realized now, that unlike the goth teen—he really was.

"Just a minute," Stan began, but Kyle jerked his head back at the sound of his voice.

"No—everyone's waiting." Kyle was surprised at the strangled sound of his voice. Stan looked like he wanted to protest, but Ethan cut him off.

"Cool eyeliner," Ethan said in a way that probably mocking but Kyle just laughed and smiled at him. Because everything was funny. But especially the way he kept tripping over his feet on the way out of the bedroom.

Henrietta and Tweek were sitting at the kitchen table and Tweek smiled when he saw Kyle. As he walked over to the table Kyle tried to pretend that Stan was still the pseudo-stranger he'd been two months ago and not someone that he had obligations to be honest with. Somehow this made him sadder.

"The band is going on!" Tweek yelled over the noise of the crowd, motioning to the chair next to him for Kyle to sit in.

"Are you wearing eyeliner?"

"Yeah," Kyle said, touching his face, surprised that his cheeks were still warm. He felt sure he'd be numb all over. "Ethan laughed at me."

Henrietta rolled her eyes. "He probably just thought you looked hot."

"Do I?" Kyle asked her in a distant way, looking towards the stage, trying to find someone to compare himself to. Dylan was turning a knob on his amp, his typical platform creepers replaced with boots that made him almost as tall as Ethan and makeup that gave him the appearance of having two black eyes.

She glanced at Tweek's interested expression. "Uh, in snotty superior sort of way," Henrietta said, "not that superficial appearances are anything more than a show we put on for each other."

"Thanks…" he said tilting his head to the side, "or fuck you."

Henrietta laughed. "So did Stan give you an autographed copy of the LP?"

"No," Kyle said, "I didn't even know they had copies already."

"Yeah, I was supposed to be selling them at that table over there." She lit a cigarette. Kyle looked over at the empty table by the door. A couple was leaning against it to make out. "I'm not going to be a part of that capitalist bullshit. Ethan can sell his own fucking LP." She blew a cloud of smoke over her shoulder. "I should take a few pictures—then let's get out of here. I've had to sit through practices for this set at least five times."

"Are you in Kyle?" Tweek was nodding as he said it.

"What are you guys doing?" Kyle asked, but he couldn't imagine anything he'd say no to. He couldn't imagine anywhere he wanted to be less than here, where he could feel Stan's hurt expression through the crowd.

"I promised Henrietta I'd show her the photos she took hanging in the café

"Yeah, for maximum shared self-loathing," Henrietta said. "Please join us."

"Okay," Kyle shrugged. Henrietta got up, grabbing her camera as she went.

"She's hilarious," Tweek said, watching the edges of her skirt disappear into the crowd.

Kyle nodded. He was glad he couldn't see the band over the shoulders of the crowd now that everyone was pushing towards the front. It was bad enough that he had to hear them. He was sure that they all looked great, lit from the strings of red and purple lights that were strewn over top of the makeshift stage. The kitchen was lit almost entirely by black lights and candles. He thought it was probably unsafe to mix open flames with clumsy drunk teenage bodies. But no one seemed particularly out of control.

Henrietta returned after one song looking annoyed. "Some dickface stepped on the back of my skirt." She shoved her hands into a long black peacoat that had been hanging on the back of the kitchen chair, and then wrapped a purple scarf up to her chin.

Tweek jumped up, grabbing his car keys. "Let's go," he said, zipping up his hoodie. Henrietta laughed when he pulled a beanie over his blonde hair. "Fucking hipster," she said, tugging on it until it covered his wide eyes.

When they got to the café all the lights were off. It felt strange turning them back on at this time of night.

"Should I make drinks?" he asked, as Henrietta gaped at the prominent display of her artwork.

"Absolutely. Give me one of those extra fat caramel latte fag drinks," she said. "I deserve it." Kyle thought he deserved one too.

He got to work, liking the privacy of the café compared to the party they'd just come from. The snow was piling up against the window outside, and it was hard to see out of it. When he looked back up, Tweek was helping Henrietta take the pictures off the wall. He walked over to them with the drinks.

"I can't believe that Stan is still pretending to work here," she said, looking critically at the latte he handed her. They sat in a circle on the empty area that bands typically played at with Henrietta's pictures in a pile in the center.

"What do you mean?" Kyle asked. He didn't want Stan to be pretending to do anything.

"He just wanted an excuse to talk to you. Now you're friends. So he should stop polluting coffee with sugar and shit," she said, sipping the latte.

Kyle stared at her for a minute to see if she'd elaborate. But she just pried the lid off of the latte.

"Here," she said, producing a silver flask from her coat pocket and pouring a clear liquid into her coffee.Kyle and Tweek held theirs towards her. "You shouldn't be able to taste the vodka through the whipped cream. In theory."

Kyle drank the concoction, feeling the warmth of the vodka and espresso independently. He wasn't as surprised by the revelation as he might have been a few weeks ago. But not thinking about it was better than turning it over for some clue, so he willed the alcohol to work faster.

"We should sell this," Tweek said, already halfway done with his too.

"The government wouldn't let you. It'd make people too happy," Henrietta muttered. She lit a cigarette, inhaling slowly, before turning to Kyle.

"So Kyle Broflovski… you and Stan."

"Yeah?"

"Don't break his heart. Or at least do it through bad poetry or something if you have to. I listened to him cry for hours in the back seat of Ethan's van on prom night."

"I can't believe you guys went to prom," Tweek interjected.

"We didn't. We were going to sit outside, listen to Morrissey, and smoke. We were hoping to see some conformist Abercrombie and Finch chick break her ankle or better; run crying from the gym. But mainly we saw this kid," she motioned at Kyle, "kneeling in his $500 suit and skinny tie to give Eric Cartman a $5 blow job against the side of the cafeteria."

Kyle felt his stomach turn, but swallowed the rest of his drink.

"Stan started crossing the parking lot to—I don't know—be some sort of jock hero and punch Cartman in his dick. But Ethan and Dylan grabbed him, and pulled him back into the car. We drove to Benny's parking lot. Ethan and Dylan were sitting on the curb, eye fucking one another while I listened to Stan cry about how he'd ruined everything." She took a drag from her cigarette. "You would have thought he single handedly created Hot Topic."

Kyle felt his residual anger at Stan come back to life for a moment. It wasn't for Stan to be saving him…but if he had. It was too painful to think about, and too confusing from every direction.

"We all did dumb shit in high school," Tweek said quickly, glancing over at Kyle. "Once I sat in Bebe's backyard for hours and cried while I listened to Brand New on my iPod. I left when my fingers got too cold to press the buttons to change songs."

Henrietta looked over at Tweek's fingers clutching the vodka-laced coffee. She blew another cloud of smoke over her shoulder.

"When I was in 11^th grade, my mom kicked me out of the house. Ethan came and picked me up in the Wall-Mart parking lot. We drove to Stark's Pond and shared my last cigarette as we sat on a bench. He was trying to explain this e.e. cummings poem to me. But I wasn't listening. I was watching his lips curl around the cigarette. So when he took it out to hand it back to me, I leaned up and kissed him."

"What happened," Kyle asked.

"I wish he would have shoved me away. But he just let me. And when I couldn't feel like lips moving under mine, I pulled back. He looked so disappointed. He just shook his head and handed me the cigarette. I thought I was going to be sick all over his faggy pointed boots."

They were all quiet for a few minutes, as Henrietta sucked on her cigarette. "So what do you think—should we burn these horrible pictures?"

Kyle looked up; Tweek and Henrietta were staring at him, their faces lit mostly from the streetlights coming in through the window. He felt like they were forming some sort of pact. "Where?" he asked. Henrietta would probably make fun of him if he said something about it being symbolic of their pasts. He wanted to make fun of himself.

"In the dumpster out back?" Tweek suggested.

Henrietta shrugged, "It'll be the most artistic thing I can do with these shitty photos."

"Will you make some more lattes Kyle?" Tweek flicked Henrietta's lighter preemptively with his thumb.

"Yeah," he nodded. "Don't light it without me."

Henrietta tossed him the flask before she grabbed some of the frames from the pile. Tweek followed, and nodded.

It felt like they were doing something big and real that they were meant to do all along. But really Kyle knew it was just a bad idea, borne out of some rebellious need in Henrietta that Tweek would go along with to impress her. But it seemed like the perfect night to make bad decisions and he was glad to be a part of one. He felt like he couldn't possibly focus on anything beyond measuring out the vodka equally into their lattes. He carried the drinks out the back door. The pictures were sitting in the dumpster along with the cardboard he'd thrown in it earlier.

"Would you like to do the honors?" Henrietta asked, handing Kyle the lighter. He nodded, flicking the plastic lighter until the cardboard caught fire. It took a few attempts through the snow. But flames appeared on the cardboard and the smell of burning plastic was less than appealing. But Kyle sank with Tweek and Henrietta to the snow-covered ground and didn't mention it.

-Zteif-

They drank their lattes, watching the smoke escape the sides of the dumpster. Kyle noticed that at some point Henrietta had reached over to grab Tweek's hand. Or had he grabbed hers?

"It's like we're in Fahrenheit 451. But instead of books we burn shitty art," she said.

"That could be our profession," Kyle said, "travel around the world and burn all the pretentious art in dumpsters."

Tweek nodded. "I'm in."

Kyle leaned his head against the icy bricks of the building and watched the flames lick the lid of the dumpster.

When Tweek looked down at the end of the alley, Kyle assumed the cops had shown up. But it was Ethan, Stan, and Dylan.

Henrietta gave them a half-wave. "You got my text?"

Dylan nodded. "The party was lame."

"It was your party dumbass," Henrietta said, flicking cigarette ashes into the snow.

"Don't be a bitch," Ethan said.

"So you guys are like arsonists." Dylan lit a cigarette on the burning edge of a photograph. He pressed the tip against a second cigarette and handed it to Ethan.

Kyle looked down at his latte, wishing he'd measured more vodka into his. He was still drunk, he tried to remind himself. Everything he did or had done could be blamed on alcohol. It could be blamed on stupidity. And probably on Stan. He would say so if Stan asked. But Stan had just sat down next to him, and Kyle couldn't even look at him. He wondered if Stan would still cry for him like he had all those months ago at prom. But when he turned to ask, Stan's blue eyes were staring over Kyle's head at the fire.

"I need to talk to you," Stan said, lifting him to his feet and brushed the snow from their knees. Kyle looked over at the dumpster to see the flames that were beginning to rescind into a smoldering black mess.

"Fine, I need to talk to you, too." Kyle wished he smoked so he could throw down a cigarette butt with the same amount of drama that Stan was using to raise his eyebrows. "We're going to make more drinks," Kyle said loudly.  He pulled Stan by his elbow and wondered briefly if everyone thought they were going to make out against the espresso machine.

"Kyle, why are-" Kyle knew what Stan was going to ask.

"I went to talk to Cartman. To break up with him, officially or whatever, so don't freak out." Kyle soldiered on before Stan could start talking. "Did you start working here just to try and be friends again?"

"I…maybe. I didn't know how else to start talking to you again. Why didn't you tell me you were going to see Cartman? I could have come with you." Stan leant against the register counter.

"I didn't need your protection. It was fine. Henrietta wants to know when you're quitting, since you've already patched fences or whatever." Kyle felt the conversation derailing, although he couldn't quite be sure where he'd wanted it to go in the first place.

"Alright, alright. I'm glad you aren't going to see Cartman anymore. He's always been a prick." Stan's head was ducked and he was slouching, but he still looked at Kyle through his bangs. "I'm not planning on quitting anytime soon, Kyle."

"Yea. Well, good." Kyle felt like a deflating hot air balloon. The urge to defend Cartman was surprisingly strong. "He wasn't like, Hitler or anything."

"What the hell? Cartman doesn't deserve any sympathy, least of all from you. You're so much better than him." Kyle could feel the burn of stomach acid at the back of his throat.

"I'm not," he said quietly, looking at the ground. Stan leaned closer to him.

"What?"

"I'm not, you know, better than Cartman. He's just really upfront about it." He finally made eye contact with Stan. "My heartlessness just takes longer to recognize." Kyle felt every hurtful word that had ever been said about him, by others and himself, sitting on his chest. "You weren't wrong."

"Kyle, no." Stan sounded movie-quality horrified. "I was just trying everything I could to push you away. That's not how it was. Or is." Stan reached for Kyle's hand. Kyle let him hold it. "Things got really fucked up, but we can fix what's left?"

Kyle had sat alone in his room for weeks after Stan had broken it off. And when the self-flagellation hadn't been enough, he'd allowed Cartman to get close to him in order to punish himself. When Cartman piled on the abuse stronger than Kyle had anticipated, it brought all of his hatred to a fever pitch. He didn't know if he could function without that framework of humiliation and remorse scripting what actions he took.

"I want to," Kyle said, realizing for the first time that it was true. And Stan looked so earnest, and hopeful, that he thought maybe there was still something left to fix.

"Come on," Stan said, grabbing Kyle's hand and leading him back outside.

Everyone was standing around the smoking remains of Henrietta's art, like the ruins of some short-lived civilization. Through the smoke and through the snow Stan kissed him. And it wasn't the same as before, but it was familiar. Kyle didn't care if it was a way back or a way forward, as Stan's arms slid around him, pulling him close again.

The End

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