Chapter One

Fear, Possibilities, and Uncertainties

Kyle's P.O.V.

"My life would be so much better if I didn't have to live in this shithole of a house in this shithole of a town!"

"Oh, you think so? Then why don't you just leave, Kyle? Leave and don't come back! Then see how much better your life is!"

"Fine! I was about to walk out the door anyways!"

The argument replays over and over in my head as I walk the streets of South Park alone. The whole stupid fight had started with my report card and the fact that it hadn't been up to my mother's standards. The whole stupid fight had ended with me tromping up the stairs to throw a few articles of clothing and anything with sentimental value to me into my old green backpack and pass my mother without so much as a glance before slamming the front door behind me.

Now, I'm wandering about in the dark and freezing my ass off. I try not to complain too much to myself considering I'm not at home anymore and I'm not arguing with my mother. Not to mention the fact that it doesn't take me too long to realise I can just head over to Stan's house and figure this whole thing out tomorrow.

My shoulders are getting tired and my fingers start to feel numb by the time I reach the familiar dark green house where I had spent so much of my childhood. I'm relieved to see a light shining through the front window, though I'm pretty sure it's just Stan's father staying up late to watch the food channel with a beer clutched in his fist.

I don't hesitate to reach out a gloved hand and ring the doorbell, despite how late it is. I hear the muffled chime of the bell followed shortly by a few swear words as I wait outside on the porch.

The door is eventually swung open by a disheveled Randy Marsh, standing in a blue button-down shirt and a white pair of boxer briefs. As expected, he is holding a half-empty bottle of beer.

"Kyle? What the hell are you doing here?" he asks, squinting his eyes at me.

I shuffle my feet awkwardly before looking up to meet his eyes.

"It's kind of a long story. Can I just talk to Stan? And maybe spend the night?" I mumble. A slight pink colour tints my cheeks as the question leaves my lips.

I had run away.

And now I was asking for help from one of my friend's parents.

Didn't that kind of defeat the purpose of running away?

I'm jarred out of my thought process as Randy speaks again. "Yeah, I guess. But Stan's probably asleep by now," he answers, scratching the back of his neck as he steps aside to let me in the house.

I mumble a quiet thanks as I follow him inside, keeping my eyes directed towards the ground. There's a long, silent pause between me and Stan's father, but it is thankfully broken when someone softly comes padding down the stairs. I look up to see who it is, and a soft smile dances over my lips as my eyes lock with Stan's piercing blue ones. He smiles back, but the expression doesn't stay on his face long.

"Dad? Why is Kyle here?" he asks, his brows knitting together in concern.

Stan's dad shrugs and plops down on the couch again, taking a swig of his beer. Stan rolls his eyes and opens his mouth to speak again, but he's cut off when Randy answers.

"I dunno. Why don't you ask him?"

Stan looks a little irritated, but he shrugs and gestures for me to follow him up the stairs. We pass by his mother in the hall, and she doesn't ask any questions. She looks tired and annoyed, and truth be told, she probably had more questions for Randy. I had heard he wasn't supposed to be watching the cooking channel anymore, and he was probably in for a worse scolding than I had gotten from my mother.

The two of us quietly pass by Shelley's room and enter Stan's room before he closes the door behind us, taking care to lock it so that we aren't interrupted.

I sigh and head straight for the bed, throwing my backpack down next to it before practically flinging myself onto the nice, soft piece of furniture. Stan cocks an eyebrow and pulls out his desk chair so he has a place to sit while I selfishly take up most of the bed.

"Dude, are you okay? What happened?" he asks. I notice his face go back to that same concerned expression he wore in the living room. It's hard for me to focus on him long though, considering he has his desk lamp on behind him and I'd probably end up needing a guide dog if I stared in that direction for too long. I direct my gaze up to the ceiling instead, where my eyes meet with a John Elway poster that looks like it's two gusts of wind away from falling down on me.

It takes me a while to register the fact that he asked a question, and he's probably waiting for an answer.

"My mom and I had a fight. I kinda ran off and I don't really have any intention of going back," I answer softly.

I have to keep my voice monotone to prevent myself from showing any emotion. It's not that I feel like I can't show any emotion in front of Stan, but I don't really favour the idea of feeling vulnerable at the moment.

Stan doesn't say anything, but I know him well enough to know that he probably nodded in understanding and is still thinking of a response.

"I know how you feel, man. I don't really think I'd ever leave, but my family's not the best either. I'm still counting down the days until my eighteenth," he says finally, his voice just about as monotone as mine. Obviously, it's not gonna be a night full of sharing feelings and crying on each other's shoulders. There's another silence, but this time I'm the one trying to think of a reply.

"I don't know what I'm gonna do, dude," I say, exhaling a shaky sigh, "I don't wanna go back, 'cause then she wins. But it's not like I have anywhere to go, and I don't wanna mooch off you forever. Plus, she'll probably have the cops out looking for me by morning and claim she didn't mean anything she said. Then she'll tell me I'll always be her little boy and that she'll love me no matter what and that she wants me to be happy. And my entire family will know that's complete and utter bullshit…"

I break off before my rant starts to get too long and emotional. I don't want to get emotional. I want to stay pissed off, and I want to make sure I'm pissed off long enough to get out of this crackpot town and far enough away so that I can't come back.

"I know dude, you don't have to explain it to me," Stan says, clearly noticing the change in my tone. "Why don't you just sleep on it? We can deal with the whole thing in the morning."

I'm very grateful for his dismissal. I nod and move to get off the bed. I really didn't mind sleeping on the floor if it meant I was away from my house, but not out on the streets.

"No, stay there," Stan says, holding out a hand to stop me from getting up. "I have a sleeping bag. You can have the bed."

I'm about to protest when I see the look in his eyes and ease back into the mess of pillows and sheets. He wants to help, despite not ever being the kind of person who knows anything about dealing with feelings. He figures if he can help by lending me his bed for the night, that's what he'll do.

Stan leaves the room to retrieve a sleeping bag, and I panic for a moment, not liking the idea of being alone with my thoughts. I try to push everything that enters my mind away and think of other things, but my thoughts always return to my situation. For the first time that night, I was truly terrified of what I had gotten myself into.

When Stan returns, I swallow the lump in my throat and watch him as he lays out the sleeping bag on the floor next to the bed. Stan glances up in my direction and flashes me a small smile before crossing the room to turn of his desk lamp. I'm actually somewhat glad for the darkness; now Stan can't see any panicked or sickened expressions that might detail my face as I lie awake, unable to get any sleep.

I hear the shuffling of him walking back to the sleeping bag followed by even more shuffling as he gets into it, and finally the sound of the zipper and him turning over once more.

Another blanket of silence covers the room, but it's not nearly as scary as it was last time, now that I know Stan is right next to me, and he'll help me through all of it. He's been my best friend for years, so of course I can trust him to help me out of this, right?

Worry starts to plague my mind again.

What if he can't help me through this situation? What if he doesn't want to help me through this situation? What if everything with Stan works out, but my mom fucks it all up like she always does? What if-

"Kyle?"

I exhale a sigh of relief as his voice jolts me out of my thoughts.

"Yeah?"

"You don't have to worry, you know that, right?"

Now I worry that Stan can somehow read minds and he knows everything I'm thinking.

"Yeah."

"I'll be there for you, no matter what. If shit goes down, I'm going down with you, you know that, right?"

"Yeah."

"Good."

I smile genuinely for the first time that night, and despite how little I contributed to that conversation, I really do feel comforted. Maybe I will be able to get some sleep tonight. Hopefully.

I turn over to face the bedroom wall and pull the covers up to my chin, finally allowing my heavy eyes to droop shut.

"Kyle?"

At first, I'm confused as to why it's Stan's voice waking me up, but it doesn't take long for last night's events to come flooding back to me.

I'm still at Stan's house. In Stan's bed. Because I ran away from home.

I blink my eyes a few times as I groggily regain my bearings and look up to meet Stan's eyes.

"Yeah?" I mumble, my voice tainted with sleep.

"I just figured I should wake you up for breakfast," he answers. He looks a little guilty that he woke me up from such a peaceful sleep that I doubted I'd ever get again. I flash him a smile to let him know it's okay, and sit up in bed, running a hand through my matted red curls.

"Thanks. Is it your mom or your dad cooking?" I ask jokingly, recalling the fact that last time I saw Mr. Marsh, he was buzzed and watching the food channel.

Stan rolls his eyes. "Hopefully, my mom is cooking and we can expect burnt pancakes," he answers wryly. I give a soft chuckle in response and pull the covers away from my legs, sighing as the chilly air replaced the warmth I had been surrounded in mere seconds ago.

I manage to wrench myself out of bed and follow Stan out of the room. As soon as we step into the hall, the smell of burnt pancakes hits me like a truck. I'm not sure whether to be thankful or worried about my stomach.

Stan grins as he picks up the pace in leading me downstairs and into the kitchen. I take this as a sign to be thankful.

When we reach our destination, everyone else is already there. Shelley shoots us both a glare before going back to her stack of nearly black pancakes and Randy is sitting across from her, pouting and arms crossed over his chest. I figure he's mad because he didn't get to do the cooking.

Sharon glances our way before she finishes another batch of pancakes on the stove. She slides them onto a couple of plates and hands one to each of us. I notice she's taken care to give me the stack that looks just a little less burnt than the other.

"Butter and syrup is on the table kids," she informs. Her voice is softer than usual, which strikes me as odd. I start to internally panic again, thinking she somehow knew the whole situation. I stop these thoughts by scolding myself for being so naive, and remember the fact that only Stan knew what had happened. I hadn't told Randy or Sharon.

It probably wasn't that hard to figure out though.

I calm myself down again by hastily buttering my stack of pancakes and dousing them in syrup, hoping it would drown out the burnt flavour. Stan follows suit and we both shove forkful after forkful into our mouths without bothering to make conversation.

It's Stan's mother who finally breaks the tension-filled silence after sitting down with her own blackened stack of pancakes and flavouring it in much the same way Stan and I had.

"Kyle, your mother called this morning."

My fork stops halfway to my mouth.

What?

No, no, no, no. This ruined everything. Now I would have to go back. I couldn't have that.

All eyes were now on me as I tried to come up with a reply. Syrup dripped from my fork as it remained suspended in my hand.

"What did you tell her?"

"I told her you were over here. She's on her way to pick you up now."

Sooooo I hope that was a good start to this story lmao. The next chapter should be up shortly, maybe within a couple days, within a week at the most! For once I'm actually motivated to finish a story, so this is gonna be what I'm working on for the next few months. I plan to make it long, so buckle in, motherfuckers