AN: Yeah we know…we're writing another story together. Sue us! We had fun last time, and got to know each other so much better because of Reformations. Surprise, surprise it's another style fic but it's also told through Kenny's POV. Don't let that deter you. It's our absolute love for him that made things turn out this way. It'll be an interesting take on those usual style fics. Or so we hope. Oh, and for those curious about the title, well, you'll find out eventually.

WARNING: The events in this story are fictitious. In no way are we medical experts, and our logic only takes us so far. So if you find yourself asking, "could that really happen?" We'll answer it for you: probably not. Otherwise, the usual stuff. Swearing and gayness.

Disclaimer: We don't own South Park, etc, etc.

Prologue

Usually I'm used to messed up things happening to me. I mean, its me—I die for a living. Just chalk it up to God and Satan playing Russian roulette with my existence. But when something completely fucked up happens to someone close to me without an explanation? I just don't get it.

It was baseball season and as such the three of us had gotten in a habit of picking up Stan from practice…or more like dragging Stan from practice. If we didn't go to retrieve him he'd stay inside one of the batting cages for hours on end. He knew his batting average needed some work so he'd work himself raw if we didn't step in.

That day was supposed to be no different. Kyle and I were heading there together with Cartman tagging along to be nothing more than a nuisance. That's all he ever really was then, and that's all he is now. He walked with us to do nothing more than aggravate Kyle, and while it annoyed me sometimes it was pretty amusing to see them go at it.

In any case when we arrived at the high school's baseball fields, Stan was exactly where we knew he'd be. Swinging and hitting ball after ball in his favored cage. I took that moment to glance over at Kyle, who had stopped mid rant with Cartman to glance at his best friend. I saw his eyes light up at the sight of him, but I didn't say anything of it. I never did.

"Stan you know the drill let's go," I called out as we approached the edge of the cage slowly. I watched him hit a ball that flew behind him before he got back into his proper stance.

"Just a couple more rounds," he said automatically. That's what he always said.

I was pretty resolved to let him do just that. There wasn't much any of us could do when he was determined to hit a few more balls.

"Stan come on, do we have to do this everyday for the rest of our senior year?" Kyle questioned exasperated.

"Then don't come pick up your boyfriend," I heard Cartman say to Kyle. I swear, he only said those things to grate on Kyle's nerves. There's no way he ever really knew.

While I continued to watch Stan swing I tuned out Cartman and Kyle's bickering. They fought more than a married couple; something I would never say to Kyle's face, but it was pretty true. He had to know Cartman only said the things he did just to get a rise out of him, he had to…and yet he always fell for the insults. I became numb to Cartman's teasing long ago, Stan too. But unlike me, Stan never quite learned to tune them out and I watched as he lowered his back and as his head and shoulder sunk.

He was trying to keep his mind on the baseballs whirring at him at 50 mph, but it was getting pretty tough for him with the fighting going on to his right.

"Ah, Cartman you asshole!" I heard, while simultaneously watching something whiz past me and land into Stan's cage. "That was my phone you fat prick!" Kyle yelled, though it sounded somewhat distant to me.

My eyes were on Stan, who let out a long annoyed sigh. He closed his eyes briefly before I watched him bend down to pick up Kyle's phone. "You guys, I fucking swear if you don't-"

And that was the last thing he said, for at that precise moment the ball machine spit out another fastball, but this time Stan wasn't in position. He hadn't been in his stance; rather his head had been in direct line of the machine. So it was no wonder that it made contact with his skull.

I'll never forget the moment. The realization of what was about to happen and knowing that nothing could be done except to watch. I didn't even have time to call out to him. All I could do was watch as the ball hit him in the side of the head with a loud 'CRACK!' And I watched him drop unconscious to the ground littered with discarded baseballs.

I don't know what freaked me out the most during that moment. Watching that happen, hearing Kyle scream when he'd realized what had happened, or the sight of the ball machine still spitting out balls to a player that wouldn't be hitting them for a long, long time.

Parauni

Chapter 1 - What If

"Mrs. Marsh, Dr. Rivers is ready to see you now," the receptionist informs us as she stuffs papers into a clipboard and searches for a pen. Mrs. M stands up, her legs all wobbly, and makes her way over to the secretary counter. I watch her with my own legs numb with shock. I can't even imagine what's going through her mind.

We called 911 as soon as Stan hit the ground and they rushed an ambulance to the cages five minutes after that. I took the liberty of calling Stan's parents as I drove both Kyle and me to the hospital. Sharon picked up and nearly fainted over the phone, and Randy was in a meeting in Denver for some geological survey. Cartman made up some lame excuse about not being able to tolerate sick people in hospitals and bailed on us, but I know the real reason he's not here. He knows he could get blamed for what happened. He's guilty as fuck too.

Kyle hasn't said a single word since the drive here. Even then it was only to tell me I'm not driving fast enough. He wanted to make it there before they took Stan in for surgery. They rushed Stan into the OR before we could even park the car. The paramedics told me that this is a serious enough injury if they don't work at the speed of light, he might not make it. I definitely didn't tell Kyle that.

Since then, they moved us to the ICU waiting room, and we've been in here for about three hours. Mrs. M's been on and off the phone with her husband, who is apparently stuck in a traffic jam an hour away. Kyle's been staring at the same bald spot in the carpet, and I've not been able to get rid of this obnoxious case of dry mouth.

I don't honestly know what's gonna happen. Stan's a pretty tough guy, but even the best of the best can't argue with a flying object to the head. That ball probably scrambled his brain.

Kyle looks devastated. I mean devastated. Can't honestly say I feel much of anything right now. I think the overall sensation of knowing that whatever the outcome is, it won't be pretty, has dulled my senses. I guess I know this is bad, but my brain won't make the connection of how bad it is with the fact that it happened to one of my best friends.

Out of instinct, and a failed attempt to cheer him up, I place my hand on Kyle's shoulder. "He's gonna be okay, Kyle." Even I know that's a lie.

He doesn't say a word in response, which is much worse than him saying anything. The Kyle I've grown up with is quick witted whether that be at correcting someone, or with sarcastic banter. But the silent thing? That's my least favorite of all his reactions.

I let my hand drop back down to my side and let out a sigh. Without really wanting to, my mind starts to think over all the worst-case scenarios. He could end up brain damaged, or paralyzed. He could be one of those lifeless vegetables…or, fuck…he could die. That's the worst case. I don't know much about head injuries but I do know having one is something a person is better off avoiding.

"Kyle, Kenny?"

Both Kyle and I snap our heads up at the sound of Mrs. M addressing us.

"W-what did she say?" Kyle asks referring to nurse who called for Mrs. Marsh.

She shakes her head at us, and I can tell she's trying to keep something in. Tears? It must be because her lips are pierced shut, and while she's talking to us her eyes are on the doors Stan must have been rushed through hours ago on a stretcher.

"Is he going to be okay?" Kyle continues.

"…He's resting right now. But he's scheduled for another surgery, and there's nothing you boys can do right now so it's probably best if you go home."

"Go home?" Both Kyle and I say in unison and equal disbelief.

How could she think we could go home without knowing exactly what's going to become of Stan? There's no way I'd be able to do anything that I'm not already doing here at home. If anything I'd be more of a mess, Kyle probably even worse so.

"Mrs. Marsh we can't, there's no way," I tell her shaking my head.

I realize there's nothing we can do, but she wasn't there at the batting cage. She didn't see her son plummet to the ground, and she didn't hear that sickening sound the ball made on impact. Not even Kyle saw what happened; he just put two and two together. I'm the only one that witnessed what happened…and that's going to stay with me for a long time.

"And we can't leave you here by yourself," Kyle adds weakly. He looks pretty sick, emotionally and physically. "Please let us stay, we won't be a bother…we'll stay at least until Mr. Marsh gets here." He reaches out and grabs her wrist, no doubt giving it a gentle squeeze.

It's like he's telling her she doesn't have to be remotely strong for our sake. We can tell she wants to cry, but she's trying to be an "adult" about the situation. I watch as she closes her eyes briefly while swallowing something caught in her throat.

"Right," she mutters before dropping down into the chair besides Kyle. "Oh boys," she says in a whisper. "What's going to happen to our Stan?" Having said that I see a few tears run down her cheeks from her closed eyes. It makes me cast my eyes from her and plant them back on the cheap hospital carpeting.

I can't watch her cry.

I can't watch Kyle anymore either. He looks like someone stabbed a hook in his heart, fished it out of his body, and threw it back in the lake to rot. I know they've never said anything—and I doubt they ever will—but I know there's more to his sorrow than just the feeling of losing a friend. There's a different kind of emotion in his eyes.

I drop my head onto my fist and reposition myself on the uncomfortable chair for the fiftieth time. Whoever opted for cheap industrial plastic furniture in a waiting room obviously enjoyed having their ass on fire for all the wrong reasons. My cheeks lost all sensation during the first fifteen minutes, and I haven't been able to revive them ever since. Whatever happened to thick, cushiony upholstery for longtime visitors? I'm about ready to steal the receptionist's wheelie chair. At least it has a butt pillow.

I slouch down even further and close my eyes to avoid any more depressing sights. Maybe if I fall asleep my thoughts will temporarily disappear and I'll forget that I'm out here waiting for the doctors to throw a lifeline to my friend.

Closing off one sense opens up all the others though, cause I can hear the faintest of sniffling coming from Kyle now. It breaks my heart to know that his heart is breaking, and all I'm trying to do is sleep. Am I really that big of an asshole?

I guess everyone deals differently. I've never been the one to deal with death—I've always been its target. So no one can label me as insensitive. Cause I've been through hell and back. Literally.

Man, Cartman should get put away for this for real. He gets away with the shittiest things, and no one has the balls to even give him a slap on the wrist. I don't know why we still hang out with that fat fuck. All he ever does is cause trouble. And this isn't trouble. This is…this is tragedy.

The whole school will be all over this tomorrow. Stan's one of our leaders and everyone wants to know everybody's business. No doubt his baseball blunder will hit the newsstands before the first bell rings. I'm not even sure if I want to go to school. I don't think Kyle will make it. We have a justifiable reason for not doing it.

How the hell could anyone expect us to concentrate on things like history when we're having enough trouble dealing with the present? Yeah, fuck school. I'm not going and I doubt my parents are going to harass me about it. I wonder what Mrs. Broflovski will do though…I feel like she's always given mixed signals about Stan. She hates me—that I'm sure of—but I don't know how she feels about Stan. Either way this is one of those few times where I see Kyle putting his foot down about what he wants.

After what seems like another hour has passed I suddenly stand up. I just can't sit in that goddamn chair anymore! Kyle glances at me briefly, no doubt wondering what I'm doing.

"Anyone want a drink or something from a vending machine? I thought I saw one when we came in," I ask.

Mrs. M shakes her head while Kyle looks at me like I'm insane for wanting food.

"I can't do the waiting game anymore," I tell him softly so Stan's mom won't hear. Not that I think she's really listening but I don't want to sound insensitive. I want to be here the second we get more information on Stan but if he's really gone back into surgery we probably won't hear anything for awhile.

"No I don't want anything," he murmurs.

"Kyle dear why don't you go with him? Stretch your legs a bit," Mrs. Marsh says gently. I can see he's prepared to shake his head in disagreement, but he doesn't have the energy to fight her on something as small as getting a little grub. Stan may be our bud, but it's her kid going under the knife a second time in one day.

"Yeah, sure," he says dully and stands up. His pace is that of an old man, and as I swing my arm around his shoulder I feel like I'm doing it to support his internal struggle. I feel that if I don't do that he'd let himself fall back down into the chair beneath him.

I guide him along through the quiet room and into the still hallways. It's not too busy in here. I don't know what I expected from an ICU, but TV's always told me it was a busy place. There aren't too many people around, save nurses, receptionists and a random cleaning lady. Maybe it's that stillness that makes things harder, because I feel Kyle tense under my touch and I increase the pressure on his shoulder to assure him I'm still here.

We walk silently to where I'm sure I saw a few vending machines and when we get to the little room I realize I don't have a dime on me.

"Uh, got any change?" I ask Kyle and I watch as he wordlessly fishes through his back pocket, pulls out a ten, and hands it to me. "…Anything smaller?"

"How can you eat at a time like this?" he asks back, finally talking.

"I didn't say I was going to eat it," I respond quietly. "I just had to move, had to get out of the waiting room dude."

"Well I want to go back."

At this, I sigh. "Kyle, I want to be here when they have some information just as much as you do, but do you really think its doing us any good to sit around and dream up the worst case scenarios? Do you think Stan would want us doing that?"

He leans in close to me with gritted teeth. "Stan shouldn't even be in here at all so I don't give a damn what you say he wants. I want to go back."

"And I want him to walk out of here without a scratch but it ain't gonna happen. You know as well as I do that they're not coming close to letting us see him tonight. It's already seven-thirty now, and he just went back for more surgery. The most that'll happen yet tonight is the doctor coming out and telling us whether it was a success or a failure." I know I'm being way harsh with what I'm saying, but Mrs. M is right. It's not really doing us any good to stay here. She'll inform us if anything changes. I plan on leaving when Randy gets here.

"That's a big deal, Kenny. I want to be here when they tell us how it went." Kyle's voice is so small, its as if someone shrunk his voice box.

"We won't even be allow-"

"I don't care!" he asserts.

My shoulders drop as I admit defeat. This isn't healthy for Kyle. I know nothing we do right now will really be worthwhile, but at least I can take his mind off the current situation for a few moments if we get out of this depressing place. We've got to think happy thoughts. That Stan is going to pull through with, at the very most, a really bitchin' scar on the side of his head.

"Alright lets go back," I mumble, turning Kyle's shoulders for him with my hands. He breathes out deeply and doesn't wait for me to keep up.

By the time we get back to the demon chairs, I notice someone else who has joined Mrs. M.

"Mr. Marsh!" I call out with little excitement. Randy turns around to greet Kyle and me with red, glossy eyes. Kyle takes his designated seat without another word.

"I got here as soon as I could," I hear Randy tell his wife, who has broken down considerably in the few short minutes of our absence.

"Oh Randy, he's in another surgery! The doctor said he wouldn't be able to label his condition until after this procedure. And even then it's so risky! I'm just so scared," she murmurs into his jacket, soaking the sleeves where he holds her. I reluctantly take my seat and stare up at them.

"It's going to be okay, Sharon. Stan's been in the hospital before and he's pulled through every time. This won't be any different." Randy's consoling is half-assed and he knows it.

"His skull was split open," Kyle adds, surprising me. "You don't recover from that very easily."

So Kyle thinks Stan is going to die. Randy thinks he'll be fine and Sharon doesn't know. And I honestly don't understand it at all. Why didn't the ball just go through the cage and clock me in the head? I'd be dead of course, but I'd be back again tomorrow morning. Better yet, why didn't it just punch Cartman in the gut? He'd be protected by so much fat he wouldn't even feel the slightest sting.

"Dude," I say to Kyle, nudging him with my elbow. I get that he's upset, I'm upset, we all are, but blunt words like that aren't helping anyone.

"That's what happened," he responds clearly. "A ball going at the max speed of a car on a highway hit his brain and it's all my damn fault."

"What?!" I questioned surprised, even the Marsh's look taken aback by what Kyle's said.

"If I just hadn't let that fat bastard bait me…I knew what he was doing Kenny! Cartman does it all the time! If I just hadn't let his taunting get to me he wouldn't have grabbed my phone in retaliation. He wouldn't have thrown it, it wouldn't have landed in the batting cage and Stan wouldn't have bent down to pick it up! I was always a distraction for him when he played. This whole thing is my fucking fault!"

"Are you out of your damn mind?!" I ask, grabbing onto his upper arm to force him to look at me. "This isn't your fault at all! If anything it's Cartman's fault for being such a dick! Is that what's been running through your mind this entire time? Kyle, shit man, you didn't cause this!"

"Kenny's right Kyle," Mrs. Marsh says. "This was just an accident…a horrible one, but an accident nonetheless."

"That's right boys, this isn't about whose fault it is. If anything…Stan should have been a bit more careful. No one but him could have possibly known the timing for when the balls were released," Mr. Marsh adds.

"But he did know and I was the one that distracted him! He was in the middle of telling me and Cartman to shut up so he could concentrate when…" Kyle trails off and I realize it's to start crying again.

"Ah jeez, Kyle…" I say quietly. "Stan…Stan's gonna be fine ya know? I mean, it's Stan." Ugh, right because those were some real comforting words.

"STAN IS NOT YOU KENNY!" He suddenly shouts at me as angry tears continue to fall. "IF HE DIES, HE IS NOT COMING BACK TO LIFE! EVER!" With his outburst gone as quickly as he came he slumps against me, crying into my shoulder.

"I think we should go," I say more to the Marsh's than to Kyle.

"Perhaps that's a good idea," Mr. Marsh agrees looking at Stan's best friend.

"No!" he half yells and half sobs.

I can't believe I'm agreeing to go. I'd rather not, but this atmosphere is doing shit to Kyle's nerves. I mean, for him to think this is his fault? The rational part of him would be blaming Cartman for this whole mess, not himself. Besides I'm getting tired, and I'd rather us not get into an accident and end up exactly where Stan is.

"Yeah I think so," I say to him and pull him back up with me. "Um," I glance at the Marsh's who are still hugging onto each other. This is the first time I've ever seen them look so helpless and small. They've always been such a loud overbearing couple. They were always matter-of-fact about everything, but obviously they're as lost as Kyle and I are.

--

"Where are you taking me?" Kyle asks through a curtain of resentment as I pass his road. He's irritated with me for making him leave. And he's said nothing to me—he hasn't even looked at me since we left the hospital. I'm not letting him stay alone tonight. Left for his own thoughts to consume him. He needs a rational, or at least semi-rational persistent asshole like me to keep him on track. That's the very least I can do for my upset friend.

"You're staying with me tonight. You're in no condition to be by yourself," I tell him honestly. My house is only three blocks away anyway. If he's that pissed off at this idea, he could walk home in the middle of the night and I'd never notice. I sleep like a rock.

"Don't tell me what condition I'm in. I have every right to be worrying like this." He turns to me with an accusing finger. "You know he's not going to be 'fine', Ken. You saw what happened in the cage today. Stan—our Stan—will not be there when, if, he wakes up. You can't catch a speedball with your head and expect to walk away. You just can't!"

I growl under my breath. Anger is a natural process of irrational thought, and I'm okay with it. I just hope he doesn't expect to bitch at me all night. "I know, Kyle. But you're going to get a brain hemorrhage yourself if you keep thinking about it. Stan will need us to be strong for him, and we won't be able to be if we keep freaking ourselves out. You need to calm down. There's nothing we can do for him at this point."

He knows I'm right because he drops his finger and sits back in the seat, opting to stare out the window as we pull into my driveway.

"Why can't you stay at my place then?" he asks with hint of disgust in his voice. It pisses me off that my friends can't stand my place, but I can't really blame them. If I lived in luxury and slept in gold sheets, or any sheets at all, I'd complain too.

"Because we always stay at your place. And we're already here," I point out.

"Yeah but…" His defense is weak.

"Hey its not that bad. My parents did win the lottery!"

He stares at me blankly. "They won a thousand dollars. And spent it the next day."

I put my car in park and turn off the ignition. "Well excuse me. Not all of us can wipe our ass with dollar bills." I open my door. "Coming?"

He reluctantly steps out, just as slowly as his other movements have been. I'm trying my best to lighten the mood, but it's so damn hard given the circumstance. He makes it even harder by acting like this.

I wait for him on my front stoop as he climbs out of the car and shuts the door. He looks up at my house as he walks toward me, though he doesn't say anything of it. "Come on," I say as I unlock the door.

We step inside together only to be greeted by the darkness. No wonder, it is about ten at night and my parents have started to turn in earlier the older they got. That doesn't explain my brother's whereabouts but I rarely give a crap about him. I search the nearby wall to flick on a light and when I do so we're bathed in cheap yellow lighting and met with the usual messy filth I like to call home sweet home.

"Want something to drink?" I offer as I set my keys on top of the old black and white television we've got, before I kick off my shoes.

He sighs as he looks around, taking my place in before his eyes land on me again. "I don't know…lemonade?"

"Got it," I say as I make my way toward the kitchen. Opening the fridge I notice the usual lack of food and frown at its contents. "Okay, well, we've got water and something that perhaps could have been a lemon in earlier years…might've also been a banana too."

"That's disgusting Kenny," he responds, and I notice that he's followed me. "What about tea or hot cocoa?"

"…What about water?" I question back.

"…Water's fine."

"Cool," I say and shut the fridge to get him some from the tap. I run us both a glass and hand his to him while gesturing with my head for us to head to my room. Not bothering to turn off the light, we maneuver our way into my room, stepping over a few unmentionable things on the way there. While he enters my room I hesitate to close my door, finding him sitting on my bed with his water resting on a crooked side table.

He's still a sorry sight to see but without wanting to dwell I find myself planting myself down next to him, gripping my own glass. We don't say anything for a long time, but when we do its Kyle that speaks up.

"Am I really spending the night at your house because Stan was in accident involving a baseball?"

"Yes," I say plainly staring down my door.

"It wasn't supposed to be like this," he says his tone drastically changing.

"Right, he should have hit that ball."

"No," I can see him shaking his head from my side vision. "That's not what I meant."

I attempt to cross my legs and lift a fist up to my chin in a thought-provoking position. Frowning, I prod deeper for an answer to that vague response. "What do you mean then, Kyle?"

He looks at me, as if he's studying how I'm going to react to what he says next. He searches my eyes for some sort of comfort before sighing and looking down at his shoes. "I just…I didn't see this coming."

"Accidents usually aren't planned. If they were, they'd be called purposeful acts of violence. Or something." I look up at my ceiling and notice a few cracks beginning to chip away at the plaster. Pieces of dust have already started collecting on my floor, and my eyes follow the trail of white chalky matter as I think about what I just said. "And even though we can all agree that Cartman is a malicious asshole…he didn't plan this out. There's no way he could've. Shit just…happened."

Kyle sighs and shifts position so that he looks even more forlorn and lost. "As much as I hate to let him off the hook…you're right. Cartman couldn't have predicted that that would've happened, no matter how much he plotted it." He places his water on a cardboard box that serves as my bookcase right now and kicks at the carpet. Stuffing his hands into his jeans, he slumps back on the bed. "Stan's a stupid idiot for bending down like that." Suddenly he looks up at me. "Didn't he realize what the hell was gonna happen? Didn't he THINK about it for two seconds?"

I shrug. "Seems to me like he was trying to protect something that belonged to you. Again." I make no clarification of what I really mean by my statement, but Kyle glares at me just the same.

"He could've stepped on the damn phone, I wouldn't care. It'd be a hell of a lot better than sitting around waiting to see if or when he wakes up."

"Yeah…" I agree, my thoughts once again on the crumbling foundation of my parents' house.

A minute goes by before I speak again. "But Stan's always been a bit…off when it came to you."

"Off? What the hell does that mean?"

"Well you know…" I glance over at him seeing his blank expression. "Like remember the time he caused a smug alert in South Park just to get you back here from San Francisco? Or the time he called out that John whatever for making shit up about talking to ghosts and stuff? He goes way above and beyond the call of duty for you man. Picking up your precious cell phone so it wouldn't get smashed was nothing in comparison to his usual deeds."

Kyle starts to fidget next to me and I can see his pale features begin to redden. "Maybe…" he hesitates. "But I'd never want him to do anything for me that involved him getting hurt."

"He doesn't usually," I point out. "This was a one time deal."

"And what if it's the last time he ever gets to do something for me?"

"Kyle, let's not play the 'what if' game."

"I'm sorry! I just," he shakes his head before he falls backward onto my bed. I look behind me, staring at his emotion filled face.

"You just what?" I question curiously.

"If I lost him…if anything happened to him…it wouldn't be just losing a friend, Kenny. It wouldn't even just be losing a best friend."

He's completely avoiding my gaze and instead he's casting his eyes at the same ceiling I was studying earlier. He's having a mini battle inside his head. I can see it.

But I know exactly what he's about to say. And I commend him for having the balls to get out there and actually do it. After all, I've known about those two before they even did. It was only a matter of time before they realized it themselves.

I could easily finish his thoughts for him. Instead, I do something I know I need to do: listen. "It wouldn't?' I ask, playing dumb.

He sighs in exasperation, bringing his hands to his forehead and pulling on his face until they fall back at his sides. Suddenly, he sits back upright. "Ken, I've…we've…been hiding something."

"Really?" I say, overenthusiastically. He's gotta catch on that I knew. Maybe it'll make it easier on the guy.

He nods his head shakily and turns away, as if mustering enough courage to tell me some ginormous secret that will shatter his world. "Stan and I…we've sorta been…well we've been…" He takes a deep breath. "We're closer than what you think."

I can tell he's struggling. I'll send him a lifeline. "And how do you know how close I think you two are?"

He stares at me with uncertainty for a few seconds before continuing. "Well you…you don't really know…" He trails off, searching my eyes again. "Do you?"

I scoff. "Kyle, you and Stan have been in love with each other since the first day you laid eyes on each other. How am I not gonna know what's finally going on?"

His eyes widen with horror. "You KNOW!"

I nod reassuringly. "Its not a surprise."

His breath pace is quickening. "Shit shit shit. Nobody was supposed to know!"

I casually drape an arm around his shoulders. "Relax, dude. Its no big deal."

He snorts. "Easy for you to say. You don't have a mother who'd hog-tie your feet up if she found out you're dating your best friend. And you don't have to go to school in a pla-"

"Kyle," I say sternly. "I said RELAX. It's not a big deal because honestly, I'm the only one who knows the big secret."

"…Huh? What makes you so sure?"

"Because I'm Kenny. And I sense these things before they happen. I can smell it in the air. Its my super power."

He gives me such a pained expression that I can't help but laugh, even given the situation. "Look, I know because I'm around you guys all the time. I can practically imagine what the both of you will say before you say it. Hiding things from me…that's damn near impossible."

"But then Cartman," he starts worriedly, and I'm quick to cut him off.

"Wouldn't notice a thing even if you guys made out in front of him. For a smart guy, and I say that with regret, he's a huge idiot about things like this."

Kyle looks so relieved I almost want to laugh again, but don't. He's got valid reasons for being a little freaked over the idea of Cartman knowing. It might not be coolest thing if his mom found out, or if things went through the gossip mill at school, but nothing would be worse than wondering what Cartman would do with that sort of information.

"That's true…and you're okay with the idea of me and Stan?"

"Of course," I say gently. "Who else could better compliment you than your best friend? Though now that you know I know I'm gonna miss a few things."

"What do you mean?" he asks in confusion.

"I'm not going to get to walk between you two and pretend that I don't know you two are giving each other lustful eyes behind my back. No more watching you both stumble over each other and then laughing about it when I get home. No more pretending you guys aren't holding hands under a table at restaurants and no more catching you guys making out in bathroom stalls and having to steer people away."

"We've never done that!" He almost yells, clearly embarrassed.

"Yeah I know, I just figured you'd eventually get there and that I'd eventually have to do that."

Kyle rolls his shoulder, and indicator he doesn't want my arm on it anymore. I smirk and let my arm drop back to my side. "It was funny though, watching you two."

"I'm glad you find our attempts to hide our relationship amusing," he seethes.

I give Kyle a grin before a yawn escapes me, urging me to look at the small digital clock in my room. "Ugh, shit its late," I say noting the time. It's already nearing midnight. I stand up from my bed to cross my room and dig through my lopsided drawers. Pulling out some worn shirts and a couple of shorts, I toss one of each at Kyle.

He changes into them wordlessly and I do the same, cramming the clothes I wore earlier in the day to the side next to an overfilling hamper. Once changed, I nudge Kyle over to the side so that I can climb in the bed comfortably to lie down.

He doesn't move from the edge, and rather than get himself comfortable, he stares at me.

"You don't have an extra sleeping bag?" He asks.

"I have a bed," I say.

"…What if your parents walk-in in the middle of the night?"

"They won't," I assure him.

"But what if they do?"

I give Kyle a calculating look and decide to be perfectly honest with him. "They'll assume we had a long night of fucking and leave."

I'm not sure if he's reddening again from embarrassment, anger, shock, or fear. Either way when I hold up the covers for him to climb in he does so silently.

"Are you sure you're not," he starts quietly and once more I cut him off. Only this time it's by dropping the covers and sliding a bit closer to him.

"Kyle, our best friend since we could barely walk and your boyf-significant other," I correct myself when he turns and glares at me. "Might be spending this entire night fighting to stay alive and you're asking me if us sharing a bed is gay?"

He looks at me silently before turning his head upward and eventually settling his head on my shoulder. "Good point," he whispers.

"First thing tomorrow," I go on. "We'll head to the hospital."

"I don't think I'll be able to sleep."

"Me either," I say after a moment.

I hear him release a long quiet sigh to match my own. It's going to be a long night, and tomorrow is going to be a long day. I can feel it in my bones. I didn't tell Kyle this, but for as much as I was saying that Stan'll be okay, I'm having my doubts. There's no way he's bouncing back from what happened. The only thing we have to look forward to tomorrow is finding out the damage that's been done to his brain and if there's anything they can do to fix it. And they have to be able to fix it, because Kyle and I, even Cartman, wouldn't be complete without our calm voice of reason that is Stan Marsh.

"What if-" Kyle starts.

"Kyle, shut up," I say, doing all I can to comfort him and knowing I'm still failing.

I can feel him settle down a bit, nuzzling his head into my shoulder ever so gently. "Thanks Ken. You're a true friend," he tells me, and I secretly get all warm inside. Not because I'm sharing a bed with him—that is Stan and his thing, not mine—but because I feel the same way, and I know we're gonna need each other that much more tomorrow morning. I lay there rubbing Kyle's arm up and down thinking about what has happened, the crazy events running through my head.

What a fucked up day.

"Goodnight Kyle," I whisper as I feel his breathing fall into a pattern at last. I knew I wouldn't be able to get a wink of sleep if he didn't calm down. But now that he's zoning out, I think it's my turn to hit the hay. We'll see what tomorrow brings. Good news, bad news, any news at all. I kind of have the feeling that Stan's gonna be down and out for a long time…if he wakes up at all. I can only hope.

I tilt my head to peek at the sleeping guy next to me. Kyle's world just got shattered, and I know he can't possibly be as peaceful inside as he looks right now. For his sake I hope that our worst fears are only within our imagination. Because if we lose Stan now…I have a feeling I'll never see Kyle happy again.

- IBB & FG