wip fic section under the cut
They couldn’t see much down the alleyway outside of the obvious acts of a drug dealer getting brutalized, but they could see enough to know the people brutalizing Towelie had taken notice of the boys watching. They hesitated their attack, boots stopping mid swing and fists pulled back in pause. The goons looked to their boss, who said something unintelligible, and the goons got to their feet and started towards to them, breaking into runs.
Kenny swung on his feet instantly, Stan turned and began to push into Kyle (Who was known for freezing up) and heard himself yell Bail! Bail! As the three of them took off running.
Stan was in pretty good shape, generally, with time on the farm and semi-regular work outs and gym classes, so he was okay – Kyle was fucking fast, able to run like a wild horse taking off down the street, not waiting for the other two. Stan was wheezing before he knew it, asthma reactivating at the worst possible time (as usual), but none of that mattered. Kenny.
Kenny smoked. Cigarettes. A lot. Mostly it was three or four cigarettes a day but on the days where he was stressed it could be up to a pack a day. He walked everywhere, sure, but that didn’t do much. He didn’t eat enough, he didn’t work out, never slept well or enough. His shoes were crap and after two blocks he disappeared from Stan’s peripheral entirely.
Stan came to a stop. “Kenny?!” He cried out into the empty street. Down the road, Kyle was slowed down, trying to hear the problem.
“Kenny?!” Stan cried again. He had just vanished into thin air. Stan looked off into the nearest alleyway, trying to see if maybe Kenny dipped into the shadows, knowing he couldn’t run any further.
When Kyle’s hands appeared on Stan’s shoulders it scared the crap out of him. He latched onto Kyle’s jacket, breathless and still scanning around for Kenny.
“Kenny’s gone. I don’t know where he went.” He breathed, throat tight, long wheezing noises coming from every inhale. His lungs felt like they had shrunk. He couldn’t run much more.
But Kyle was tugging him along. “We don’t have time to find him, those guys will kill us. We have to go, stan, we have to go, come on.”
“I can’t--, I can’t…”
“Come on, you can.”
Kyle pulled on him, hands on his shoulders and then his arms, his hands, yanking him down the road. Stan ran along side him, loosing the ability to breath every time. His chest began to burn, and he wasn’t nearly as stable as he usually was, going too fast under Kyle’s speeding tempo. Stan’s eyes flickered and followed every small hideaway, every alley and into every lit establishment, looking for Kenny as though he might have appeared randomly in any nearby building.
They finally stopped near a plaza, after Stan tripped and almost ate shit into the curb, rasping and coughing instead of breathing. Kyle dropped to the ground too, though he wasn’t nearly out of breath. He was on his knees, while Stan just laid down onto the concrete, back against the snowy floor. The coolness that shocked through his coat eased the burning along his torso. Kyle set Stan’s head against his lap, so that when Stan opened his eyes, all he saw was the outline of Kyle’s hair, the glimmer of light from the plaza signs reflecting onto the wireframe glasses sliding of Kyle’s nose.
“Do you have your inhaler?” Kyle asked, hands placed around Stan’s ears. Had his hat fallen off? Stan felt dizzy.
He tried to rasp out a no, but instead he had to settle for shaking his head against the warmth of Kyle’s hands.
“God damnit.” Kyle muttered. He looked up, probably looking around for the goons or for Kenny. Stan tried to stay focused on not passing out. He wasn’t a runner. He wasn’t an athlete. He focused on the line of Kyle’s jaw, the spiraling red curls that moved and bounced with every minor twitch of Kyle’s head. Stan couldn’t see his eyes, but rarely could, since his glasses always seemed to be in the way, glaring light at Stan. He was sure Kyle’s eyes were green. Or something. Greenish. Stan conked out.