Chapter Text
Stan Marsh was a whole ten years old when he ran away from home for the first time. Well, to call it ‘running away’ may be a little generous, but he had a backpack and a dream, and he at least made it out of his house without so much of a peep, which seemed like a hell of a big deal to him at the time.
Looking back now, though, he realises just how bad he was at the whole schtick.
He had about twenty dollars in change to his name, and half of that was supposed to have been his lunch money for the week so Stan was hungrier than usual that day. It didn’t help that dinner had been cut short with yet another family argument either. So not only was he broke, but he was also starving – the best grounds to be running away on, obviously.
Truth be told, he hadn’t exactly been prepared to run away simply because he just hadn’t been planning to. Well, he had (in the future and all), but those technicalities aside, he hadn’t been planning to in that very moment. One moment he was in between another screaming match between his parents and the next he had one single thought running laps through his brain.
‘I don’t want to live like this anymore.’
So he ran.
It hadn’t been the first time a Marsh had run away from home, and hell, even back then, Stan figured it wouldn’t be the last.
His mom would sometimes escape the farm, staying spare nights at friend’s homes or with his Uncle Jimbo. She’d never be gone for too long, never wanting to leave her kids alone with their dad for more than a night, but Stan didn’t think he’d be too mad at her if she did. Not because he wanted to be alone with his dad, no way, but because it seemed like his mom needed a break and Stan would sacrifice that much if it meant she would take it.
His dad would be gone sometimes too. Usually it’d happen after a family argument when he’d disappear until late into the next day – it didn’t take a genius to know he was off getting high with South Park’s resident stoner ‘Towelie.’ He’d be gone for longer periods of time too – benders and stupid misadventures adeptly mislabelled as ‘wacky escapades’ – that’d mean he’d be out of the picture until he’d inevitably tried to get his family involved in his stupidity. Stan liked when he was out – though, he’d like it more if it didn’t make his mom so sad and his sister so angry.
His sister, Shelley, actually did run away in the more traditional sense. The first time she did it, she’d been eleven and Stan had been eight. He doesn’t actually remember why she did it, but he does remember the fact she was a very angry child. He couldn’t blame her – to become angry seemed like a Marsh birthright, and maybe if Stan hadn’t been such a sad child, he’d have been angry much, much earlier.
Either way, they found her a few hours later at a friend’s house and it somewhat just became another sleepover for her. The second time she did it was around a year or two later, not long before Stan had his own incident. She’d managed to sneak off to her boyfriend at the time’s and had managed to stay hush about it for a few days at least before being discovered. Granted, that time sparked a whole lot of panic.
(That’s why, looking back now, he thinks – what the fuck was he doing?)
The rest of his family had people to run away to, Stan, not so much.
He would only ever feel comfortable running away to his best friend Kyle’s, and sure, he’d be welcomed in with open arms, but he’d also be found out very quick if Kyle’s mother, Sheila, had anything to do with it. He’d be in and out quicker than Shelley had ever been.
He’d run away to his Uncle Jimbo too but if Sheila would be quick to report back to his mom, Jimbo would be the Flash.
So all Stan did was wander, hoping to be anywhere but home. It was too late for buses to be running in a small town like South Park and Stan was ten, so cars were out of the question. His wandering lasted around two hours, though in that time, he actually made it back into South Park from the outskirts of the farm, before deciding to take a pit stop at one of his favourite spots – Stark’s Pond.
He let out a shaky breath, the bitterness of winter air turning it to white plumes that escaped into the crisp cold surrounding him. He at least had the sense to layer up, though even with his jumper and coat, chills still nipped at him.
With chattering teeth, he hopped onto a bench that faced the lake and beneath the dark midnight of the night sky, he mulled. He really did have no idea what to do. Sure, he could take a bus the first thing in the morning and go anywhere, maybe to Denver if he really wanted an actual plan. But how long would his escapade realistically last? Twenty dollars wouldn’t last him long for sure. And he hated the idea of being gone gone without having said goodbye to his mom and even his sister.
He’ll do that next time, he told himself. Next time he’ll do everything right so he can run away for good. This was just his taster session.
The sound of crunching snow snapped him out of his thoughts immediately.
Had he been found that fast? Sure, he’d been expecting it eventually, but he wanted at least a few more hours to himself.
Freezing up, he surveyed the area. Unless he wanted to throw himself into the water (which probably wouldn’t have even worked anyways, winter had effectively frozen it over), he had nowhere to even hide. That didn’t stop the sound of ice-crunching from getting ever so slightly louder. That was, until they inevitably stopped. Something akin to a thud resounded from behind him.
With bated breath and an apology ready to leave his lips, Stan turned to the noise.
Except, it wasn’t his mom or his dad, or even the cops. It was another kid, one his age.
Stan frowned.
The kid wasn’t even close to him – he was at least a fair bit away, standing a few metres behind in the middle of the clearing and definitely paying Stan no mind at all. And most importantly, he was collapsed spread-eagle on the fucking snow.
Somehow, Stan wasn’t the craziest kid out there that night.
He couldn’t help but stare.
He looked familiar, even if Stan couldn’t see his face. In fact, it was his lack of a face that struck a resemblance with him. It was that orange parka, bright against the white snow despite the ruddiness of it. He’d seen that before on one of the McCormicks.
The McCormicks were notorious for being the ‘dirt-poor family’ that lived at the very edge of town. He knew the family had three kids, but he didn’t know much else but that and the fact that they were all homeschooled. Stan had spotted them a handful of times around South Park playing with each other, but without school as a crutch, Stan never had an opportunity to really interact with them.
A shame, really – they could always have done with more kids joining their elaborate superhero or fantasy or sci-fi or whatever games.
Anyways, that wasn’t the point. The point was – what the hell was Stan supposed to do now?
Does he run away before the other notices him?
The moment that thought entered his mind, Stan was already deciding no. As much as he’d escape a whole lot of trouble by doing that, he’d also be ridden with guilt, overthinking the what-if scenario of the kid’s death that Stan could’ve easily prevented.
Well does he blow his cover then? He’ll have to, right? At least to him.
Ironic as it was to say, Stan knew no sane kid would be out at this time of night, alone in the cold. Maybe he could talk to the other and walk him home, or if worse came to worse and that fall really hurt the other, he’d have to blow his cover to the police.
Maybe his dad was right – maybe he did care too much sometimes. His mom always painted it as a nice thing, cooing at how her son cared so much about animals and doing the right thing and sparkles and sunshine, but in that very moment, Stan realised that maybe his dad had a fighting point about all this. And that… that was never a good sign.
With his eyes still glued onto the other kid, Stan carefully planted his feet back onto the ground, cringing at how the silence broke with the crunch of ice beneath his boots. Except, if the other had heard it, then he didn’t exactly react accordingly. In fact, the other was very, very still – almost terrifyingly so.
With a bit more haste, Stan crept on over.
“Um, dude, are you okay-?”
He stopped with wide eyes.
Forget the fall – it looked like this kid just got into the worst fight of his life and lost tremendously.
With his zipped-up parka, Stan couldn’t see much but a segment of his face but there was no mistaking the deep purples and blues that bloomed around the other’s eye, fading back into his skin with sickly yellows. Though the other had both his eyes closed, it seemed his right eyelid was swollen shut, puffy and angry. A crusted over crimson trailed down his nose, pooling down and over a busted lip – smudges strayed over his cheek and Stan imagined it was the result of having wiped at it without regard.
Stan had seen a fair few fights in his ten years of living – there was that one between Tweek and Craig, and that one between Kyle and Cartman, hell, even that one legendary Wendy and Cartman fight – but this one felt different. He couldn’t compare the results to being the worst he’d ever seen – sure his black-eye was definitely worse than the one Craig received, but nothing could top the beating Cartman got from Wendy. Maybe it was just the fact that he didn’t witness this fight that made him feel so odd.
In any case, the other didn’t respond.
“Um. Dude?” Stan repeated a little louder. With yet another bout of silence, he gingerly toed the other’s side with as much caution as he could.
Which, apparently, wasn’t enough.
“Eeurgh,” the other groaned out in pain from beneath him.
“Oh shit- I mean-“ Stan cringed. At least the other was alive. Maybe not alive and well, but alive all the same. “Are you… okay?”
The other finally opened an eye to that, peering over to him through long lashes. Somehow, he managed to make it seem like he was the one staring Stan down, even from beneath him.
Stan fought the urge to shy away. The other still had yet to answer. “… What are you doing here?”
That finally brought out a response, though not one Stan expected.
“I could ask you the same thing.”
It took a second for Stan to hear, the voice scratchy and quiet, and a second later to actually understand with how muffled it was.
“Oh. Um.” Stan paused. He had no reason to tell him, but with that logic, he also had no reason not to. And well, maybe if he told his side of the story, maybe he’d get the other’s side back. “I’m running away,” he said simply.
The other looked him up and down. “You don’t really look like you’re running away.”
Stan frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
The other made a non-committal ‘eh’ sound. “I mean, where’s all your stuff?”
“I have my backpack,” Stan said, trying to gesture to the ratty black thing behind him.
“Oh,” the boy responded. “It doesn't look like it has much.”
Stan tried not to flush at the accusation, which, he had to admit, was true. All he had was his wallet, a water bottle, a blanket, and a phone charger. Oh, and a can of beer that he stole from his dad, just because, and yeah okay, maybe he had been pretty stupid with his packing.
“I’m trying to move light,” he lied, albeit too awkwardly to ever be convincing. He didn’t know why he had the urge to defend himself so strongly against this kid he didn’t even know, but hey, he didn’t ask to be interrogated.
Well, he did just a bit, but not like this.
“Hm. Okay, sure,” the other kid said in a way that sounded like he wasn’t really sure at all.
“Jesus, dude, I was just trying to check up on you, I didn’t think I’d get judged.”
Now that was what finally broke the other kid’s aloof cover. A small giggle erupted from below and Stan had to wonder whether he was just hearing things until he saw the small shake of his shoulders.
“Sorry.” He gave him a small apologetic smile and Stan couldn’t help but crack an exasperated smile back. “Guess I’ve just been having a shit day.”
Stan tried not to give him another once-over. Instead, he crouched down to sit next to him, careful not to bump his body in any way. “Tell me about it.”
The other gave him a look. “You too?”
“I mean, I’m running away, aren’t I?”
The kid laughed again, and Stan huffed. He couldn’t quite tell if it was in mean spirits, but it was fairly contagious all the same. “Right. You are. Do I have to ask or…?”
Stan shrugged, though it wasn’t like the other could see him anyways. “I mean, I asked you about what you were doing here, and you never answered.”
“You’re a quick one, huh?” The boy paused briefly before he closed his eye and exhaled deeply. “I’m going home,” he said finally.
But, as Stan waited for a second to pass, and then another and then even more, he realised the other wasn’t planning to move from his spot in the icy snow at all. Guess they were both technically liars. “Okay,” he said instead. “But what are you doing in the snow?”
For a fleeting moment of silence, Stan wondered if he overstepped, but the boy just cracked open his eye again and glanced at him.
“It makes all this hurt less.”
Gestures weren’t needed for Stan to know what he was referring to.
“That makes sense,” he said, though it didn’t really, not fully. “You do look pretty, um…”
The boy gave him a lopsided grin. Now that he was closer, he could see a small gap in the boy’s two front teeth. It gave him that friendly, charming ‘boy-next-door’ characteristic and Stan would wager a bet that his mom would’ve call him ‘cute as a button’ had he not looked beaten to a pulp right now.
“Shit?” the boy finished with a playful lilt.
Stan huffed a small laugh. “You’re the one who said it.” He paused and reflected on if he’d cross the line with his next question. “You get into a fight, dude?”
The grin was replaced with a smile, a weaker one that Stan couldn’t really decipher. “Yeah. I didn’t really stand a chance. I’m not made to be a fighter, I think.”
“I’d say. How’s your-“ Stan gestured to his own eye vaguely, watching as the other followed his movements with a lazy glide. “It’s look pretty nasty.”
“It is pretty nasty,” the boy agreed and in a split second he was up in a sitting position. Stan tried not to stumble back at the harsh movement. He didn’t have the chance to question him before the other grabbed a fistful of snow and stuck it right up to his swollen eye.
“Woah, dude, what the hell are you-“
“Okay, fuck, it’s so nasty, man,” the boy whined and somehow, even with the explicative, this felt like the first time Stan fully grasped that he was talking to a child that was the same age as him and not years older. He continued in an almost babble. “I was trying not to think about it but now I am, and it hurts-“
“Yeah, I get that man, but just-“ Stan cut himself off, grabbing his backpack from behind and fishing out the can of beer he’d buried to the bottom. He could feel the bewildered stare as he quickly rolled the can onto the snow and covered it in ice. He dug it out a few seconds later and thrust it in his direction. “Use this as an ice pack instead, don’t just shove snow into your eyeball. Dogs pee here, man, you’ll get like pinkeye or something.”
The boy just stared at the can and then to Stan, like he had grown a second head. A moment passed and he gingerly took it from him, shaking off the snow from his face and pressing the cold metal to the edge of his eye. “I mean, I’m sure there’s worse things to get but…” He smiled almost shyly. “Thanks.”
“Yeah, no, dude, pinkeye’s pretty bad. But you’re welcome.”
The boy laughed in lieu of a response and Stan took it. He watched as the other rolled the can through skinny fingers, adjusting the position ever so slightly. His hand was a delicate thing, red at the tips and knuckles from the cold, and there were smudges of blood there that Stan assumed had been from his bloody nose. Other than that, though, they looked relatively unbruised. Guess he was telling the truth - maybe he really didn’t have a fighting chance.
“Is this beer?” The other’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts.
“Oh.” Stan flushed. “Yes?”
No normal ten-year-old drinks. It wasn’t impressive nor cool – it was just sad (really, really sad). Now it was like his issues were being stripped bare for the other to see. Biting the inside of his cheek, he waited for that look of disgust he’d get from his friends when his situation was brought up.
But the other just huffed in amusement. “Did you steal it from your dad? My brother used to do that when he was our age too. God, my dad used to get so pissed off about it.”
Stan blinked. That wasn’t at all the scorn and judgement he’d been expecting, nor the shock he’d figured would be natural. “My dad doesn’t check too closely half the time, so I guess I’m pretty lucky,” he said finally. “Do… do you drink?” He hated the way he sounded even half-hopeful at that.
The other just shook his head no. “Nah. I tried it once when I was like seven. I didn’t like the taste.”
“No one likes the taste of alcohol, dude,” Stan said. “I mean, not until they basically force themself to. Besides, it’s mostly growing up and everything. You know, people like change and then they start liking it.”
“Sounds like a chore,” the other said. “Maybe I won’t change. Or maybe I will, actually, I don’t know man, I probably shouldn’t say for sure. Either way, I can’t judge. My older brother kinda got me into smoking so I’m no saint either.”
And in a weird fucked-up way, Stan was slightly comforted about that. Maybe it was the fact he knew this kid wouldn’t judge him (couldn’t for that matter). Or maybe, just maybe, it was the comfort in knowing that there was perhaps another kid out there that knew what being a little messed up was like.
With a gaze into the night sky, the other asked, “Would you ever smoke?”
“Probably not,” Stan answered, eyes joining the other’s as they glided up to the darkness above. One of the only things Stan liked about South Park was that since it was a small town far away from the city lights, the stars were always remarkably clear. “I have asthma so I probably shouldn’t.”
The other nodded along with him. “That’s probably for the best. Asthma attacks don’t sound like a fun way to die.”
Stan chuckled – “I don’t think there is any fun way to die” – and the other joined him.
“Yeah, but it would be so lame to have your name on a tombstone followed by – death by asthma,” the boy said, and Stan chuckled harder before realising something.
“Wait, dude, what even is your name?”
The other looked back at him with a grin. “I guess we did ask our questions in the wrong order. I’m Kenny. And you’re-“
“Stan.”
“Yeah, dude, I know.”
“Wait, what?” Stan asked, eyebrows furrowed. “You knew? How?”
“I’ve seen you around the neighbourhood playing those big, complicated games with the rest of the other kids. I think you were playing Cowboys and Indians one day and you were just yelling – what was it – ‘I am Stan of the Moons’ – or something like that, right?” Kenny smirked cheekily.
Heat crept up Stan’s neck. “Stan of Many Moons, actually,” he said quickly. “And FYI, there was like a lot of character building for that, okay? I had nations backing me, man.”
“Hey, I believe you,” Kenny said with a laugh, hands up in a mock surrender. “If anything, I’m pretty jealous, it all looks like a lot of fun.”
“You’re always free to join you know,” Stan offered, “You’re pretty cool and I’m sure the others wouldn’t mind-“
But Kenny was already shaking his head. “I can’t. Not right now. I work like every day.”
“You’re homeschooled, right? I’m sure your schedule’s similar enough to ours though-”
“No, dude, I mean like I have a job.”
Stan furrowed his brows. “Aren’t you, like, a kid?”
Kenny shrugged. “You see, the good thing about small towns like South Park is that sometimes they really, really couldn’t care less about the law.”
“Damn we suck,” Stan muttered, and Kenny snorted. “I’m serious, dude, South Park seriously sucks.”
Kenny hummed, though if it was in agreement or not, Stan couldn’t tell. “Is that why you’re running away?”
“I mean, yeah, sort of,” Stan said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, that wasn’t really my plan tonight honestly, but when I’m older, I’m leaving Colorado for good.”
Kenny smiled at that, a little wistful. He looked back at the stars. “So I guess I won’t be seeing you around when we’re older then, huh?”
Stan stayed staring at him. Maybe he was being stupid, but he could’ve sworn his eyes reflected the stars perfectly. “You don’t wanna leave South Park? How comes?”
“It’s not that, it’s just-“
“Stan!”
Stan froze immediately, Kenny following suit.
“Shit.”- “Fuck, dude, is that your mom or something?” They traded in hushed whispers.
“Stan, baby, are you there?”
“Stan!”
The voices were distant, still far enough to give them a minute, maybe two, but they were there all the same.
“What are you gonna do?” Kenny said hurriedly.
Stan babbled, “Fuck, like I expected this, but I didn’t plan on what to do – do I just go back to them or-“
“Stan! Son!”
“I think you gotta man – I mean no offence, but you’re not exactly prepared or anything-“
“Could you quit judging me for one second-“
“It’s true!-“
“Now’s not the time!”
“Stan!” The voices were getting louder now.
“Right,” Kenny said. “Shit, uh, I think this is my queue to leave.”
“Where are you going?”
“Home?”
Stan gave him a look.
“I’m being serious! Besides, it’s not like I can be seen by your parents looking like this-“ he gestured to his incriminating face- “and holding this-“ he gestured to the incriminating can of beer he was still holding.
“Shit, you’re right-“
“Sharon! I think I heard something over here!”
Beams of light were now starting to shine through the trees.
“-you’re right and you gotta get outta here, man,” Stan said, practically dragging the boy up to his feet by his wrists. He cringed as he felt the boy grunt in his arms, loosening his grip. “Sorry, I just-“
“I got it, don’t worry,” Kenny said, shaking his head. He turned to run before pausing and looking back to him with an impish grin. “So long, Stan of Many Moons.”
“Oh fuck off,” Stan said. “I’ll see you around though, right?”
“Just pray I don’t die!” Kenny practically sang as he started sprinting off out of the clearing.
“Oh ha-ha!” Stan called out in a whisper yell, but Kenny remained snickering as he slinked away.
Stan was still watching him make his escape like a fox in the night when he was borderline tackled not a moment later.
“Stanley! We were so worried!” his mom yelled as she crushed him into a hug and one look at her teary face had Stan instantly feeling worse about what he’d done.
When he runs away next time, he’ll definitely have to make amends with her beforehand.
“Yeah, son, what the hell were you doing making your mom and I panic?!” His dad joined them. He stunk of weed and for the split second the stench hit Stan’s nose, he almost dismissed his regret altogether. Granted, he did look very panicked, but Stan also knew that he sometimes got like that anyways when he was high, so did it even mean anything really?
“What did you think you’d gain from running away?” His dad continued his ramble and Stan ignored him, allowing himself to lean into his mother’s embrace and breathing in her scent from her knitted cardigan.
With his eyes glued to the clearing, devoid of any orange by now, he thought: maybe he did gain something.
Regardless, it’s been many years later and all of that is old news. Stan hasn’t tried to run away again, though no thanks to some close calls. He’s kept strong though, he’s had to with his new escape plan. He just needs to make it ‘til college – not the most creative idea, he knows, but it’s one that won’t make his mother hate him forever.
As for the Kenny kid…
Well, to put it simply, Stan hasn’t seen him since. Not properly, at least.
The first time he saw him after his great escape had been a week or two later. Stan had been drinking alone in his room, something that was becoming upsettingly common but not surprisingly so. His mom was gone for the night after yet another argument with his dad. He then watched as Shelley phoned up her boyfriend to go on an impromptu date night, the latter shooting him a withering look that said, ‘If you tell Dad, you’re dead.’
And so, being alone with his dad, he decided that if he were to choose between two evils, he’d rather drink than runaway this time.
His dad, high again (of course) had probably gotten the munchies when he made the decision to order Chinese for him and Stan. Though, Stan had the feeling he’d only really ordered for him because he made Stan be on look-out duty while he giggled dumbly at some adult cartoon he put on.
When three knocks resounded through the door, Stan stumbled downstairs and swung it open to reveal a kid, his age, panting slightly as he held up a white plastic bag.
Stan swayed a little as he took in the sight, making a face as he squinted. The boy had honey-blonde hair, messy and tousled from the wind, and despite being a little sweaty, he was now shivering slightly in the cold in his stained white wife beater. His face seemed pretty busted though, bruises sporting a putrid yellow tinge and red leaking into his right eye.
And in all of Stan’s drunken haze, all he could think of was, ‘The hell happened to him?’
The boy’s eyes widened with something Stan couldn’t get, and he grinned. “Oh hey, man!”
And Stan cringed slightly because surely that expression must’ve hurt that puffy eye and busted lip of his.
The boy’s grin faltered ever so slightly around the corners. He continued regardless, making his tone just a bit more even. “It’s nice to see you dude.”
And Stan frowned because when were delivery guys so friendly and excited?
“You too?” Stan practically asked back.
The boy’s grin all but fell off at that point but it was immediately replaced by a bog-standard industry smile. “Oh. Um. That’ll be $25, please.”
Stan just handed him the bills his Dad gave him, telling the other to keep the rest as a tip. The boy passed off his bag and for a moment, he opened his mouth as if to say something. It was quickly closed though, and he seemed to be pondering something for a second before reopening it. “Thank you,” he said instead, pocketing the bills in his orange pants.
Stan frowned at that, wondering why that dirty shade of orange seemed so familiar. He kept staring even as the other started walking back out to where he’d left his bicycle and put on a matching orange parka, that same ruddy orange.
It clicked then.
Kenny.
Fuck, it was Kenny.
He opened his mouth to yell after him, but the other was already cycling off.
“Stan!” His dad called from inside. “Was that the food? Close the door and get back inside, I am so hungry.”
Stan gave one last look to the orange figure getting smaller and smaller down the road and sighed. He closed the door not long after.
The very next morning, hungover and a mess, he threw up chunks of Chinese.
He messed up. He knew he messed up because the next time he saw Kenny (on the opposite side of the road as he was walking to Kyle’s house) the other boy just acted like he never saw him back, even when he gave him a pathetically awkward smile. The next time after that too. And the time after that. And the next. And all the others afterwards.
Soon he stopped trying to smile at him because not only was it super embarrassing to be ignored, but people like Kyle kept asking, ‘what the hell are you smiling at dude?’ and Stan couldn’t exactly give them an honest answer.
Each time it happened, it made Stan’s stomach drop a little. He didn’t know why he was – and well, to be honest, still is - so upset that he and Kenny have this slight silent resentment (that isn’t even resentment, at least not on Stan’s side) between each other, but the feeling is apparent regardless. And sure, to this day, Stan figures their first (and technically only) proper conversation was pretty meaningless, but it still felt special.
(The conversation was meaningless, but the moment wasn’t, at least not to him.)
He liked having that small interaction with him. For once in his life he felt just the tiniest bit seen. Too bad that interaction will be the only one he’ll ever have outside of awkward Chinese orders.
At least, that’s what he thought until many years later, on the night of his graduation party.
His graduation party happens to be a Clyde Donovan Party (capitalisation intended). The honours may be pretty misleading since the parties are usually always held at the Black’s house, but everything else – the booze, the invites, the drugs, the fun – is all in Clyde’s name.
So of course Stan goes.
He’s drunk and the music is pounding, and everyone is hot and sweaty and dancing and talking all around him and Stan was having fun until he wasn’t, so he’s immediately digging into his pocket for his cigarette pack.
He’s outside in a flash, inhaling the crisp air of a summer night and struggling with the shitty lighter he stole from his dad when he feels a heavy arm on his shoulders.
“Stan!” the infamous Clyde slurs around him and it’s only then that Stan realises a small chunk of people are outside with him. “How are you, dude? Having fun?”
Stan grunts, finally having lit his cig successfully. He takes a long drag in, sucking on the filter like his life depended on it.
Clyde continues anyways. “I’m glad, I’m glad! Oh, and hey-“ And he’s off his shoulders, stumbling to someone else in his circle. The newfound lack of pressure makes Stan feels a little sick.
“Have you met-“ Clyde says before Stan chokes on his smoke.
He feels more than just a little sick.
“Kenny?”