Chapter Text
A person’s importance in South Park can only be measured by the quality of their slights.
As of yesterday, Cartman was undoubtedly riding the promontory of this hierarchy, and had been for many years. Kyle warped the intention of this compliment so it sounded more like an insult, something he could choke out: Cartman was good at deceiving people. Kyle wasn’t impressed with the ill-suited intent, with the self-preservation, with the robbery or the lawlessness — he was infinitely impressed, though, with his acting.
Cartman could be a hero, a beggar, a show host, a prostitute, a groveler, a bragger, a person suffering from tourettes, a novelist, a prodigy — his list of personas could wrap around the planet. He could convince a grenade to slide its own pin out of place, the fucking liar, so long as he benefited or gained a profit. Kyle had seen him achieve wondrous, illusive things, things that didn’t happen in nature. Smokers don’t give up their last cigar, and dogs aren’t loyal to strangers, and shop owners don’t give product up for free if a barrel isn’t peering down their nose: with Cartman, though, Kyle had seen all of these things happen before his eyes, as inconceivable as sprouting lilies on Christmas.
Kyle thought it probable for some time that Cartman’s offenses would get him killed and disposed of by the pond; as they grew older, though, and smarter, he realized that Cartman’s very disposition was one of instinct, of preservation and of deceivement. Kyle looked at him sometimes and wondered if, in the very rings of his bones, were carved all the names of the people he had stolen from. His name was surely in there countless times. Due to Cartman’s defying nature, he would undoubtedly never bruise himself on the world or the people in it. Earth wilted back for him the same way a timid dog does, and promised to function in his favor. If Cartman was measured by the quality of his slights — which he was — he was a person of inherent and perplexive power.
The most intimidating or, more accurately, petrifying attribute of Cartman’s social ardor was his acute ability to know someone. From within to without, if he so pleased, Eric Cartman could know you, and Kyle didn’t think that there was a more repulsive idea in the entire world than that. He doubted that Cartman was even aware that he was gifted in such a way; it was second nature to him, his first mother tongue, the visceral need to read a person as a way of predicting them. Eric Cartman did not like being surprised, and Kyle reckoned that there was born his outstanding inclination to discover the upperhand.
Kyle wasn’t necessarily jealous of Cartman’s propensity to lie, and to lie well — it was a skill, one which anyone could understand with stultifying patience. The conversation came to life because, naturally, Cartman liked to boast about his ability.
“Kyle couldn’t prank anyone for the life of him,” Cartman said, his hand stretched out across the table to grasp their communal attention. “Hell, he couldn’t do it if you promised him a ride on Netanyahu’s cock.”
“Remember that time we TP’d Mrs. Streibel’s place?” Kenny pointed out, his mouth full and teeth sharp around the shine of his fork. “He’s right, dude. You lose your mind.”
Kyle hated when Kenny and Cartman ganged up on him like this. More than that, he hated when Stan occasionally came to his rescue, inoffensive and diffident, his eyes lightless. “Kyle’s done a ton of pranks with me,” Stan said tonelessly, playing with his food, and Kyle was briefly inclined to ask for examples of these pranks, but ultimately did not.
Stan had changed a lot in the last few years, and there was a compendium of reasons that Kyle kept close to himself, to his heart. Randy was a massive, daunting factor, erratic and abrasive, and his mother had grown more reserved. The more dysfunctional the two were, the more reticent they left Stan, and it didn’t help that Kenny and Cartman had started smoking with him. It wasn’t that Stan had never touched marijuana before, because he’d suffered Randy’s weed obsession and hadn’t resisted. It bothered Kyle because it made Stan more miserable, corporeally reliant — his eyes were darker and his future wasn’t as refined as it seemed to be before. He had also broken up with Wendy a month before, and her excuse this time was that she needed to focus on scholarships. He never knew how to handle that particular heartbreak.
It was difficult adjusting to Stan’s depression, especially because their friendship relied heavily on its receptive disposition. In the worst of times, they could laugh, but lately it’s been just the worst of times and little else. Kyle missed having sleepovers that they were both too old for, and playing shooter games all night, and having impromptu funerals for roadkill because Stan was so gentle with life, or the lack thereof. Stan was capable of great joy, but therefore he harbored great sorrow. He supposed that Stan sought cessation in weed for this reason, because the sorrow was laden and heavy.
The most prominent feature of Kyle’s repulsion toward their newfound smoking habit was not that it made Stan more sad, or reliant, and although these were foundational reasons, they weren’t as destructive. He felt as though Stan was being taken away from him, picked apart through his desperate claws by something bigger than them. He’d been sure his entire life that he had a best friend, and that this best friend was Stan Marsh, but for the better part of Junior year Kyle hesitated to say so, to even think so. Kyle picked some food off of his plate and put it on Stan’s, a peace offering in advance, who wordlessly ate it.
“Yeah, right,” Cartman said, his voice taut. “Pranked you right out of your paychecks, I bet. I don’t know why you keep him around, Stan. He’s a sneaky fucker.”
“Cartman,” Kenny said listlessly, correcting him the way you would a puppy gnawing on the armrest. It was insulting to Kyle and he didn’t have enough time to figure out why before Cartman opened his mouth again.
“Sneaky,” he repeated childishly.
“I’m sneaky?” Kyle started, and Stan leaned back a little, flirting with leaving before the argument could turn into an inferno. Stan didn’t like hanging around for their fights, and he argued that it was because they were pointless, but a part of Kyle assumed that he just couldn’t withstand so much acidity. He wanted to be a beacon of respite for Stan, something soft and quiet that he could wilt into, but Kyle wasn’t soft or quiet. “You have a scrapbook of all the fucked up shit you do to us! But you’re right, I’m sneaky, I’m sorry.”
“Those are pranks, Kyle,” Cartman said curtly, holding up a finger. His brows were low, traipsing the edges of irritation. “You’re just not funny. You don’t get it. Fuckin’ idiot.”
“Cartman, shut up,” Stan exhaled, rubbing his temples slowly. Kyle wanted to ask Stan what was wrong, but Stan would say nothing, and then that would be the end of it. Their communication lately had been very unrequited.
“Look, Kyle,” Cartman said, gesturing toward Stan. “This is what happens when you moan like a bitch in heat, you give your souteneur a headache.”
Stan pushed himself away from the table and wordlessly left, walking away with a purposeless though fervorous stride. Kyle could see when he rounded the cafeteria corner that his face was angry and impatient. His sternum ached dully and he wished that Stan would come back, or at least bring him with him like he would have a few years ago. They were older and, although their loyalty persevered, things were different.
“He needs to lighten up,” Kenny said, lacquering his concern with something less careful, and Cartman nodded harshly. He pulled Stan’s tray toward his side of the table and started piercing plastic forks through the apple, bruising its perfect, swelling structure. The apple’s core stuttered bracefully before it split in two, softer on the inside.
“He needs to have a laugh,” Cartman said. It was so sincere that Kyle looked up from his hands and stared at his face, searching for traces of ridicule or anticipation, but there was none. “Fuck, we should prank him. Since we’re fuckin’ talking about it.”
“He’d hate that,” Kenny said, taking the words out of Kyle’s mouth. He wasn’t sure that Stan would actually hate having a joke played on him, but the notion that he should spend any amount of time conniving against his best friend made him feel sick. He wondered for a moment if Cartman knew Stan, and if Stan was aware that he surely did.
“No, you guys, he wouldn’t,” Cartman sat up straighter, spirited. “Look, he needs to lighten up, obviously, there’s practically piss running down his legs. He’s stinkin’ up my food with his misery.”
“What do you have in mind?” Kenny asked, bending the metal fork against a Demko blade, and Kyle was anxiously enraged with Kenny for entertaining Cartman. He watched Cartman’s face for some time, shifting and trotting between ideas, before his eyes were set on Kyle. He lit up a little, and Kyle wanted to extinguish it. Rejoice stuck tackily to Cartman’s expression and he leaned forward across the table in a suspicious way, beckoning them both closer.
“Let’s convince him that he’s gay,” Cartman said, grinning wildly, and while Kyle frowned in confusion, Kenny laughed.
“Cartman, that’s retarded.”
“No, no — shut up, Kenny! Fuckin’...listen. Stan is straighter than a fucking ironing board, right? He wouldn’t look twice at a guy. But, and stay with me here — what if we could get him hard for a dude, or something, and make him freak out because he thinks he’s gay. And then we pop out of his closet and tell him he’s still normal.”
“Everything that you just said is offensive,” Kyle said, his voice no higher than a growl, “and what Kenny said. How do you come up with this bullshit?”
Cartman shrugged and leaned back as though business was finished. He clapped his hands together and sighed, steadfast against his patience. “It’s what he’s most insecure about,” Cartman said listlessly, as if such a statement didn’t matter. It horrified Kyle, not only because it was said with such normalcy, but because Cartman had surely said the same thing in reference to himself. “It’d freak him the fuck out if he thought he was gay. The reveal will be so much funnier.”
Kyle stared at Cartman, amazed by his disregard to Stan’s feelings, to empathy as a whole, and took the apple away from him when he started whipping it around by the fork handle.
“Ay!”
“We’re not pranking Stan,” Kyle said with a mean finality. He started gathering Stan’s tray and his empty carton, feeling lonely. He missed the space in which Stan took up, always. He was caught still in a curious stupor, keen to discover more of Cartman’s proposition.
“If we did,” Kenny said, his tone humorous, “how would we do it? Are one of us dressing up as a girl? What guy is he getting hard for?”
“Kyle, obviously,” Cartman said, rolling his eyes. Kyle didn’t flinch at this type of banter, but something about it was severe and righteous, and the very depths of his lungs throbbed. He was torn in two, because he was glad that Stan wasn’t here to hear this, but he missed him murderously.
“I said that we’re not pranking him,” Kyle said, his volume bordering on a shout.
“He’s your best fucking friend, and you’re the one doing the least here,” Cartman said, and Kyle realized after a moment that this was Cartman “knowing” him, weaponizing his most coveted qualities and sharpening them against a Stan-shaped stone. He was brandishing his trick, his skill, his deceivement — despite this, and the knowledge of it, Kyle felt the guilt boring through him, his inadequacy. It was true that Stan was in a perpetual state of displeasure, and that his best friend hadn’t lifted a finger in an attempt to cheer him up, to reshape his sorrow. He grinded his knuckles against his temples harshly and tried to think, but the idea of making Stan laugh fluidly followed his train of thought. He’d give anything to see Stan laugh.
“How would I…,” he started, feeling so fucking stupid for indulging in this, “I mean, I’m not dressing up like a girl. That’s dumb.”
“You don’t have to,” Cartman sighed, like this was obvious. “Just make him think he’s gay for you. And then we’ll all pop out of a big cake and say ‘Surprise! You’re not a faggot!’”.
Kyle got annoyed with his language and left, muttering about how ridiculous they both were, but he was thinking about it. Whether he liked it or not, Cartman knew Stan just as well as he knew anyone else, which was…really fucking well. He wouldn’t have come up with the plan if he didn’t think that Stan would receive it well. He also thought about what a win this would be, a moment of appraisal and absolution, arguably one of the best executions of a prank at South Park ever. Cartman wouldn’t be able to tell him that he wasn’t funny, or that he wasn’t a good friend to Stan, because the evidence would be so fat and prominent against him. Most importantly, Stan would have tangible proof that Kyle cared, that he wanted him to laugh again, that his best friend would take care of him.
Kyle only needed to take a page from Cartman’s book: he had to pretend.
—
There is so much to tell about Stan Marsh that Kyle wasn’t really sure where to start.
If he tried to tell a story — the story — of Stan Marsh, he’d probably begin at the beginning, the first time they met at daycare so many years ago; but when he tried to illustrate the genesis of their friendship, one thread led to another, and suddenly Kyle was lost again to the very complex breadth of streets in Stan’s life. There were facts, characteristics which stood out: Stan liked animals, and Stan liked music, and Stan was a very talented guitar player, and Stan was a romantic, and Stan was sad, and Stan had never been lonely.
The same went for Kyle; he’d never been lonely. All his life there were these fundamental decisions to make, courses to pursue, what to fight for, what to fight against — these were choices that a person usually made in solitude. From the very beginning, the two consulted each other before they took a step back or forward, and they’d always do it together. They were bound together in that way, because their morality was shared between them as a pencil eraser is. Alter it, blacken it, warp it, bite it — it’s still Kyle’s as much as it is Stan’s.
With age, Stan just seemed to grow more lovely. Parents and girls undergo a sort of fear in witnessing the teenage years, the realization that the boys they so adored were turning into hormonal, angry, righteous things. There was this virulent, sexual craze, and some grew taller and some remained, and then there were the moments when a boy realized whether he was attractive or not, and from this came either anger or an ego which were oftentimes indiscernible. This metamorphosis affected everybody, but it hardly graced Stan. He changed and he did so with an ingenuous ease, affected more by the world than his body. Kyle always felt lucky to have Stan, something so sweet, when everyone else had been snarling at him.
They had endured incredible hardship together, which if you asked Kyle, was a foundational step to an unaffected and authentic friendship. A needle threaded itself through their open wounds and pulled them taut together, their fists tight around the fraying rope of childhood. His fear for Stan’s wellbeing was so colossal that it gutturally ached and twisted inside him, and Stan had told Kyle that it felt worse than that, as though his nerves were being pulled out through his throat. “My chest was sore from stress when you were in the hospital,” Stan told him so long ago after his kidney problems and the proceeding hospital trip. Kyle remembered being flattered that he meant so much to someone.
Despite everything, it was always the two of them, Stan and Kyle. They were birds abreast, two pieces, and when separated people would ask where the other half had gone. Kyle felt a selfish pride when people acknowledged that Stan was his, that they belonged to each other. Sometimes he’d pretend not to hear them when they asked “where’s your best friend?” just so he could hear them say it again, and he would happily answer because he’d know.
To say things were different now would be an understatement, so Kyle wouldn’t say it.
He never completely withdrew from the prank idea, but he never allowed himself to fully indulge in it, either. It wasn’t that he was disinterested, or that he’d decided against it — he just didn’t know where to begin. The night before he thought about watching porn with Stan, something they used to do together when sex was still a gross thing, but if he did get hard, it’d be over the video and not over Kyle. Then he figured that he could maybe get him drunk and see if he’d have an involuntary reaction to gay porn, but it still seemed illicit and cheated.
Kyle watched gay porn sometimes. Stan didn’t know that. He tried not to think too much about what that suggested toward his character, his sexuality, because he did get off on it. Maybe sex was just inherently attractive, regardless who’s fucking who: the sound of skin on skin, whimpers and moans, a cock sliding into someone soft and small. He didn’t like straight porn that much, and again, he didn’t think too much about what that might mean. He didn’t want to be gay, he didn’t want to be anything at all. He wished he could turn into a fucking rock and sit by a stream for a thousand years, or turn into some amorphous, subterranean creature with white eyes and maybe a tail. He wished his problems were as simple as enduring rain or avoiding sunshine, but here he was, human and mortal.
The only advantage to being a piece of mankind is that he met Stan Marsh, that he still had him. He kept the prank, or the prospect of it, in the back of his mind as life resumed its ordinary pace, mundane and genial. They all occasionally hung out, or took turns taking generous drags off of Kenny’s cigarettes after school, but there was no tangible movement or advancement toward Stan’s happiness. Stan’s demeanor was distorted and ever-shifting, but that was quite normal for him too. Kyle’s life was the same as it’d been the day before, and the week before, and the year before. School ended in two months, and then it’d finally be summer, and that was the annual change that Kyle was elated for. Week long sleepovers, getting drunk in Kenny’s truck, swimming at the pond, never sleeping. Stan also looked really handsome when he was tan.
On Friday after school, the four of them made the arduous journey to Kenny’s house to watch the races. They weren’t particularly into horses, or gambling, but they discovered that there were two horses who followed a seasonal schedule named “Kenny’s Awful Crazy” and then just “Eric”. They liked to drink beer and pretend to be enamored with the skinny coursers while they got drunk and talked bad about the other’s horse. Kenny Horse had been doing better this season, but it was early and Eric was still braving the leaderboard.
“My horse has got a bigger cock than yours,” Cartman said, sipping on his beer and spreading out across the couch. He was being so obnoxious with his size that Kyle had gotten up and sat on the floor, right between Stan’s knees. His own beer dripped against his fingers, wet and cold, and he wiped his fingers on Stan’s jeans occasionally because he didn’t seem to care. Kenny leaned forward combatively and stuck a finger in Cartman’s face, flicking him on the nose. Kenny had a bit of a learning curve to him, not only because he was unpredictable, but because he was a little different every time you talked to him. He was always fresh with a newfound intelligence, barbed with something iridescent and silent. He could be a parent or a child, an idiot or a genius, a villain or a hero — it was not a case of acting, like Cartman, but a flaw in his nature, a kink in his makeup chain.
“I looked it up, mine’s sperm sells for like, way more,” Kenny boasted, smiling around his teeth handsomely. “So your jizz is worthless, and your cock is useless.”
“Ay, just wait till you lose all your money, Kenny. You won’t be bitching in my face like this.”
Kyle wished a little that there were a pair of horses named Stan and Kyle. He searched for it, and even looked it up when he’d never spotted one on the television. Although there wasn’t a horse named Stan currently on the sand, there was a famous stallion named “Stan the Man”, a 2004 reining horse, and there was no Kyle in Colorado, but there was a retired Kyle who was a racing gelding in Australia. Different continents, different sports, different disciplines — they weren’t meant to be. He was annoyed again that Cartman got something that he wanted for himself, even something as stupid as sharing a name with a race horse, and he swallowed his beer with more intention.
Stan and Kyle had both bet money on Kenny’s Awful Crazy, a few 20’s that were sitting in the center of the coffee table, and watched the race intently, drinking heavily in case they lost their money. Stan’s pupils were large and black, and that was the only indication that he was impaired at all; Stan was pretty good at pretending to be sober. His knee knocked gently against Kyle’s temple when he adjusted himself on the couch, and instead of apologizing, he touched his skin there and then pulled his fingers away. They were damp and cold from the bottle, and the feeling of it stuck and dried against Kyle’s temple for the better part of three minutes. After these three minutes, the second race had finished, and Kenny and Cartman were counting points of the other horses. They still had races to go, plenty of them.
“You guys wanna sleep over?” Kenny asked them later in the night. He had just finished washing dishes, probably just to keep his hands busy while they waited on the last race. Their money still sat in a neat pile on the coffee table, and Cartman’s fingers occasionally graced it tauntingly. Kyle and Stan looked at each other before answering his question, as was their way, and agreed. Kyle already knew that Cartman was planning on staying, since he had little patience for Lianne when he was drunk. Kenny’s house was tolerable only when Kyle was inebriated, not because it was an inherently stressful environment, but because he was ordinarily timid within the McCormick confines.
Kenny’s life was better now since Stuart was more of a passerby than a resident, and although he had more responsibilities, he also lazed in the newfound sensation of safety. He and Stan worked together at the grocery store, and even though Kenny spent his paychecks on the bills and Stan spent his on unique guitar capos and weed, they both seemed to enjoy that taste of obligation. On the weekends Kyle would sometimes go to the store just to prostrate himself across the counter and watch them work, feigning adulthood and duty, both dressed in those yellow collared uniforms.
“Oh, Kenny!” Stan sat up, spirited, his hands on his knees. Kyle had moved up to sit on the couch when Cartman made space since his ass had gone numb, and his knees knocked clumsily against Stan’s. “Come here!”
“Fuck yeah,” Cartman said, his voice building up. “Fuck yeah, fuck yeah! Fuck you, Kenny!” Kenny sprinted to the living room in time to watch Eric the Horse transcend his place on the board, only 50 points ahead.
“You’re joking me,” Kenny moaned, pressing his tea towel against his forehead. “Useless fuckin’ horse! Fuck!”
“I’m buying food with this,” Cartman said sweetly, tearing the cash off of the table to wave in Kenny’s mournful face. “Just to shit it right out.”
“Fuck off,” Kenny snapped, slapping Cartman’s wrist away. They left the dozen or so beer bottles on the table beside the sofa and turned off the TV before they found their places to sleep, the house dark and reticent. Kyle could feel the humidity in the gloam outside, the wetness that dripped from the moon, and he wished that he were outside in the outcrops with Stan instead of in this house. Stan and Cartman were sharing the sofa, their heads on opposite armrests, and Kenny was alone in his bedroom. Kyle had stolen some of Kenny’s blankets and was spread out on the floor, his shirt folded over his waist so he could find respite in the cooler air. He listened to the sounds of their communal breathing so he could fall asleep, gone just as the bats and nightjars twisted and writhed through the dark.
He woke up later to the sound of someone standing up and draping the blankets over the side of the couch, their feet soft against the laminated wood. He listened to their footsteps recede in the direction of the bathroom, and only right before he fell asleep again did this person come back. He knew it was Stan when he grumbled irritably in the dark, whispering Cartman’s name futilely. “Move,” Stan whispered, but Cartman was heavily asleep, and Stan gave up with a dull shot of sound, letting his fist fall on Cartman’s thigh. Kyle pretended to be asleep when Stan shook his shoulder gently, his palm warm.
“Dude,” Stan whispered, his fingers tight. Kyle blinked and feigned confusion, pretending like he didn’t know what Stan wanted. “Move over. Cartman’s feet are on my side of the couch.”
Kyle moaned irritably, though he wasn’t irritated at all, and slid forward on his blanket. He listened to Stan’s knees settle against the floor, and then to the sound of him crowding in behind Kyle. He knew that Stan wasn’t going to hold him like he’d do when they were little, when there weren’t implications behind such an action, but he hoped anyway for one small, minute lattice of touch, an ankle against his or just a brush of the hair on Stan’s leg. Stan kept a small distance between the two of them anyway, and Kyle thought about how if he moved back just an inch, Stan would be spooning him. He pinched himself for thinking about Stan in that way, and then felt like an idiot for physically berating himself.
Stan had been so quiet all night, and had barely spoken a word to anyone. Kyle felt again like he was doing a poor job as his best friend, and considered some of his big prank options while said best friend settled behind him, finally stagnant. Stan sighed loudly and Kyle felt his breath on his nape, the air on cooling sweat, and he grew tired to the gentle drone of Stan’s breathing, a cadence that he had memorized. He had a question, heavy and buoyant on his tongue.
“Stan?” he whispered, his breath hot on the back of his hand. He knew that Stan had heard him because his breath hitched, but he remained silent for a moment anyway. Owls cried and Kyle’s heart was far louder, throbbing against his ribs.
“Yeah?” Stan responded, his voice so refined that Kyle imagined Stan had chewed the contents of a much larger and meaningful sentence and shoved it into that short, one syllable question.
Kyle thought about what he wanted to ask, because there had to be a specific production of words, words that were perfect and hand-picked. “Are you happy?” is what he came up with, and when he verbalized it, he sounded afraid. It was very unlike him, and he knew this.
“Hm?” Stan groaned, his voice so deep as he embroidered sleep the way an animal stalks another, hesitating in fear or in preparation. Kyle swallowed the aching swell in his chest, confused as to why it hurt so bad, and turned over on his back so he could look at Stan. He expected Stan’s eyes to be closed, but they were wide and dark, fixated on Kyle’s.
“Are you happy?” he asked again. He was waiting for Stan to withdraw like he always did, uncomfortable with emotion, but he hoped nonetheless that his best friend would stay with him for a moment longer in the dark. He heard Stan adjust beside him and thought for a moment that he would wrap himself around Kyle, maybe apologize for all of this forceful change, but he was only turning over and away from Kyle. It struck him deeply.
“Yeah,” Stan lied, his voice farther away, and Kyle stared at the back of Stan’s head while he watched his chest rise and fall. He wanted to reach out and stroke his back, like he would when they were little, but they had wordlessly agreed that was inappropriate to do now. He wasn’t sure when they made that agreement, or how it had been so conclusive, but it’d be wrong. He wondered if Wendy scratched his back before he’d roll over on top of her, her legs wrapped around his waist. He’d probably kiss her while he fucked her because he was nothing in his soul if not gentle. Kyle swallowed loudly and pushed his foot back toward Stan, looking for him, and their ankles gently touched. Neither of them adjusted their legs, and Kyle fell asleep, connected to Stan by not his heart, but his ankle.