Kyle’s going to be the quiet one. something about the pride he was born with and has nurtured and been told to have faith in all his life, in this moment, and many like it, disables him from ever being able to truly allow and accept help without challenge. knows somewhere crawling towards the forefront of his mind that having Stan worry is at least a thousand times better than being sent home, where his mother is as horribly doting and insufferable as any over-bearing professional working for twice the woman’s yearly salary. healthcare can’t alleviate the oppressive caution of a protective mother, whose paranoid rules and restrictions spill out rebellion through the oversized holes in the pants pockets that someone in the family has to wear. He tries not to make her worry, tries to show he loves her by being good, but Kyle knows that every stitch, is as valuable as every tear. pull a single string and the whole thing will unravel. he can’t always hide the things he’s done but these lapses of health are something he can, so long as he can earn that assistance elsewhere. he doesn’t have a verbal response behind the last of his hacks and coughs, just does as he’s motioned, and follows suit into the familiar warmth of the Marsh’s home.
the house in question is a cozy affair; same basic layout of his own, but overall lighter. the Marshes suffered the condition of having both a son and a daughter----prescribing the house with minor inclination towards either gender and showing up moreso balanced. he’d say this about most of his friends’ houses, and that if this were universally true, he, coming from a house of a 3 to 1 ratio in the male favour, would then be living in a log cabin, or a construction site. wherever real men live. but this is without taking into consideration, the amount of say-so that Sheila Broflovski, minus his father’s pliable authority—or lack thereof, honestly has. plain, block colours took the place of silk and floral. light overthrows the vintage-ness (read: oldness) of his own living room. his mother had even gone shopping with Sharon, the day they chose to redecorate, and still their houses are opposite.
he slips off his shoes and rubs one foot over the other in something half-frozen and shaky, though doesn’t complain, knowing he’d rather be just cold than cold and on fire. there’s a taste in his mouth he can’t shake; akin to travel sickness, it’s a tang with a kick, like the pretence of being physically ill. but his body is finally settling, and a change of pace is all he needs to show it the door. and with this in mind, he ventures even further than the one who lives here, past the stairs, and into the kitchen, calling over his shoulder with a complete lack of anything shy or new to practice of feeling already at home here.
‘ you go on ahead, ’
he proposes, hands working the zipper of his coat right up to his chin, carpet turning to laminate under his feet.
‘ I’m just gonna get some water. ’
he associates Stan’s kitchen with a countless array of favoured memories from their childhood----most as a group, of course, but a handful lighting something deeper and mutual between them; this is the house in which Kyle first ever tried a pop tart, one morning after waking up here. he’d stay the night though nothing was planned, and when he went home the next day he’d reek of his best friend’s bed, and whatever detergent it was that gave the Marshes their own smell he loved and noticed to no end. he knew where Sharon hid the Christmas presents----not because Stan was entirely the type to hunt until he found them, no, but because he knew the places nobody checked, and had been around for long enough to Randy only ever went fishing in the summer, and so for thee fourths of the year, the cupboard under the stairs, beside his gear, where nobody would tamper, was perfect. knows how Randy will sit and stare at the TV, watching the beautiful game when it’s on, and how he has his own groove in the couch nobody is allowed to mess with. knows that Shelly has practice every monday and thursday, that Stan had a habit of leaving his clothes lying around for Sharon to pick up when he’s done with them----he knows everything. he knows everything a family member would know, and it’s only through fate and his own family’s unlikableness that means he can’t offer Stanley the same type of comfort when it’s his turn to visit. she likes Stan, Sheila. he’s the only one she does like out of Kyle’s friends, but there’s a barrier between her and----everyone. she’s on higher ground; unexplained and nobody wants to fix it. she’s the type to observe and point out the flaws with a self-assured and invariable righteousness that just bleeds disapproval. Stan, he’s come to learn, is the only one who has and will ever slip under that radar.
he pours himself a glass of water, and gargles once to be rid of the taste in his mouth. the laminate flooring creaks when he shifts his weight, and there’s a scratching somewhere to his left that’s alien to his memory of this kitchen. the back yard’s gone; nothing but white and the dappled, tell-tale signs of the family mutt running rampant through perhaps his third or fourth wintertime like it was some big deal. hooded emerald continues to stare through the frosted glass of the tall backdoor until his gaze lowers, the scratching continues, and Kyle almost jumps out of his skin at pair of round, earnest eyes that stare right back at him, unrelenting, even as the fur around them whips and shivers about the cold. he scoffs, toothily, and shakes his head at the creature, not even thinking twice about stepping back to open the door and Sparky back inside.
‘ I guess Shelly must be home then, huh? ’
half doberman, half wolf, they told him Sparky was, but to Kyle he’s only been all blur and tongue.
point proven in the form of a slobbery hand by method of thank you the moment he crouches to say hello.
‘ go see Stan, boy, you’re soaked through. ’
he watches the animal scamper on laminate the ways dogs do before faithfully darting out of the kitchen, and out of sight. leaves behind a trail of melted ice and several exploded pawprints of snow haphazardly dragged in across the floor, and feeling somewhat responsible, the redhead makes a move to clear it. finds a small towel normally used for wiping surfaces or drying dishes and drops it at his feet, steps on it, and quickly shuffles around the family’s discarded shoes, a doormat, and the dog bowls, until the floor’s dry. no longer a death trap in wait for whenever an unsuspecting Sharon returns with groceries. there.
and on the countertop he drops the damp cloth onto, stands proudly, unapologetically ---- three empty beer bottles.
he freezes. thin eyebrows draw together in something pensive and immediately disheartened----can’t even be sure they’re anything to do with Stan; Randy drinks all the time, but he can’t lift the anchor that throws him overboard into waves of long-since dismissed turmoil. it isn’t the first he’s seen of it—isn’t even the fact that it’s there at all----it’s the connotations he forgot exist around an empty beer bottle. the recollection pours, stabs, needles at something behind his eyes and he stands there, completely dejected from a world when, at nine years old, this meant nothing to him. back when he was too stupid to see that this, this was a problem, the type to infiltrate his best friend’s bloodstream, make him forget the pain they both were all too young to understand.
his skin’s a sickly pale in the light of a white sky, his blood racing—hair a damp and ungodly mess, and Kyle can’t concentrate----can barely think at all. he doesn’t even realize what he’s doing until he’s done it, ---- arm pumped back, then his knuckles smash into the empty glass.
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