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1moreoffkeyanthem · 3 months

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Alright my dudes, it’s time for another episode of Bedtime Stories With PCE,

•Comeback Of The Year•

For those unfamiliar, the Bedtime Stories series has been continuations of fics I published on ao3, within the OrangeJuiceVerse, that I don’t feel necessary have a place within the official lineup. This one is a little different.

This story isn’t a continuation or something that happened when we were in another character’s perspective; rather it’s a what we didn’t see. Chronologically, this takes place after the main 5’s first year of college, during the time Cartman’s leaving Colorado and Kenjorine and Style are moving into their campus apartments, set between Extremely Stupid And Incredibly Avoidable and It’s Not The Frat Flu. (As usual you don’t need to be familiar with those or the OJV in general to read this lmao)

ALSO!!! This idea is inspired by a suggestion from my dearest sickfic queen Ana @alwaysinstyle and I’ll explain under the cut before we get into the story!

(Tw for Kyle’s eating disorder thoughts, mention of behavior and mentality surrounding)

So I’ve talked before about OrangeJuiceVerse Kyle being a recovered anorexic, and said I probably wouldn’t write something with him actively struggling with his ed, BUT, my fine friends, last week in the R.A.N.T. Park chat the girlies and I were discussing my impending move and the factors surrounding it (including your local Whumpshot Wizard trying to kick her own relapse’s ass before my husband and I move rip lol), and Ana slid into my messages like “I have an idea that could work for OJV Kyle” and I RAN WITH IT!!!

Thus, this was born. A tale of everyone’s favorite ginger coming face to face with an eating disorder relapse in the middle of moving apartments in the summer heat. There is a fair amount of angst, but a lot of wholesome moments too, a lot of hope and healthy communication in typical PastorCraigEnjoyer fashion! And plenty of Stan being the sweetest boy on planet Earth lmfao I’m obsessed with OJV Stan it’s fine

If y’all read this, PLEASE let me know what you thought, and I hope it pleases and sparkles!!!

Without further ado, here y’all go:

——————————————————————————

Mid July was excruciating, to put it mildly, even in Colorado. Kyle couldn’t imagine how rough summers must be for someone in, like, Texas or something.

Maybe the weather would be tolerable if he was lying in the shade somewhere with an ice cold drink in his hand, listening to Stan play the guitar, maybe watching lazy clouds float through the endless blue. That idyllic mental picture was a lot more pleasant than his current reality.

“Ay! Get your lazy ass over here and help Kinny with this chair!”

Moving.

The weird little house they’d spent the last year living in no longer suited the group’s needs, with Cartman declaring his gap year done and announcing that the online matchmaking and wedding planning service he’d been building up had taken off, that he’d be moving to Nevada. It was a fitting career for him, Kyle thought, but even if he and a certain abrasive fuckwad butted heads from time to time, that big of a change to the group dynamic made him anxious. They’d collectively decided to disband the SP Survivors Safehouse, all knowing that it wouldn’t be the same from here on out, but none of them giving voice to that.

It wasn’t that he was completely sad about leaving that place behind; it was kind of a shitbox, and these campus apartments were nice and well maintained. He and Stan would only be a few doors down from Kenny and Marj, and the units were decently spacious for what the rent was. Just… the adjustment of it all. The change in routine and life in general. That’s what had him stressed.

With a groan, Kyle pushed himself off the wall where he’d been taking a breather. “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming.”

Out of the minute shade the shadow of the building had cast, his vision went spotty with the shift in temperature. Seriously, it was too goddamn hot for this shit.

Kenny unclipped the ratchet strap holding his favorite recliner (a well loved sidewalk find) to the bed of the truck, turning to look at him with a quizzical expression.

“You good, firefox?”

“I’ll be better when we’re done getting everything inside,” Kyle complained, and immediately regretted his tone. All of them were out in the sun, not just him. “It’s just hot,” he amended.

Hopping out of Resurrection, Kenny gestured for him to climb into the bed. “I hear that, brother. Even Fatboy’s helpin’ speed shit up.”

From the staircase, arms laden with boxes, Cartman called down a “I heard that, broke ass bitch!”

“I’m commending your work ethic!” Kenny argued back, wide grin on his face. He braced himself to catch one side of the chair. “Gonna miss that fucker.”

Kyle shook his head and slowly walked the furniture to the edge of the tailgate. “He’ll be blowing up our phones with stupid shit even more than he already does.” Though, it’d take more getting used to than he wanted to think about. He didn’t have the energy to stress over it more than he already had been. He sighed. “We’ll get used to it. Ready?”

“When you are.”

“Yep, careful, Ken.”

“When am I ever not careful?” The blond replied with a smirk.

“I’m not answering that.”

Kenny chuckled, enviously buoyant and upbeat in a way Kyle couldn’t seem to match. The guy had always been a little more go with the flow, cryptic and weird sometimes, yeah, but overall good for a smile when you needed one, and Kyle very much did right now. He’d been driving everyone up the wall the past few weeks with his neuroticism; maybe he should take a page out of Kenny’s book.

“Alright, dude,” he said, “it’s coming down.”

Step one and done, chair on the grass, Kyle hopped out of the bed to begin the arduous task of helping his friend haul the damn thing up the stairs. Not particularly heavy, but awkward, and Kyle wasn’t feeling very strong today. Past month or so, come to think of it.

He knew why, of course, and it was his own damn fault.

Stress had always effected his appetite, and with everything going on, he’d fallen into some… old habits. And the worst part was, he was good at hiding it, even from his boyfriend. For nearly five years, Stan had been diligent (on his ass) about his eating habits, his health in general. Stan didn’t find Cartman’s ed jokes funny even when Kyle himself did. None of it was funny now.

He didn’t realize what was happening until he was already in it, an involuntary deficit awakening long dormant thoughts and behaviors, secrecy and avoidance. The lying came naturally, and that made him feel worse.

But it wasn’t a problem, Kyle told himself. He’d get back on track and no one would have to know, once they got this new chapter of their lives up and running. Just a momentary slip up, nothing to start an upset over. He was fine.

To prove it, Kyle let Kenny lead in front, taking most of the weight as they climbed the stairs. His friend whistled something he couldn’t quite place while he walked backwards, like he didn’t have a care in the world. A sickening trickle of sweat ran down Kyle’s back, an annoying ringing in his ears.

His arms were shaking when they at long last made it to the open door of number 207, and he spared a glance across the hall and down a ways to unit 210, his new home with Stan, who was currently inside with Marj getting the couch set up.

“Kyle? Hey, man, you hear me?”

Snapping back to attention, Kyle pulled his focus back to Kenny. “Sorry, what’d you say?”

Kenny raised his eyebrows and started backing up into the apartment again. “Dude, I was saying we could put the chair in the corner for now. You alright?”

“Like I said, just the heat,” Kyle assured him. Though now that he was inside, out of the open concrete hallway with its hot wind, he was suddenly freezing. Freezing, but still dripping sweat from what felt like every pore. Maybe coffee wasn’t enough to get him through the morning after all, but he hadn’t been able to stomach the thought of anything else.

Cartman rounded the corner, wiping his hands on his jeans and scowling on his way to the front door to grab some more stuff from the truck.

“This is why I told you guys to hire movers like I did,” he started condescendingly. “By the time I get to my sweet new house tomorrow, all I’ll have to bring in is my backpack.”

“And yet you’re still helping us out of the goodness of your big fat heart,” Kenny pointed out. “You do love us.”

“Nah, fuck you guys.” Cartman flipped them a middle finger on his way out.

Kenny laughed as he set his side of the chair down, Kyle following suit on that, but not the laughter.

His head felt like it was being squeezed on all sides, blood fervently racing through his veins, clouds at the edges of his sight. He hadn’t even straightened yet, but the room was spinning. Kyle slowly pulled himself up, undeniable dread flooding his gut when the vertigo worsened.

“I’m-“ he started thickly, swallowing hard with a throat that felt like a stale desert. His own voice sounded like he was hearing it underwater. “Ken, I don’t feel so good-“

Kenny’s eyes went wide. “Holy shit, you look like a ghost! Okay, get down, get down, you’re good, dude, sit down…”

Even with Kenny’s secure grip on his arms, Kyle felt his legs turn to jelly right as his vision turned white.

He couldn’t decipher what his friend was saying, only that his tone was calm, reassuring and steady. How was Kenny so calm? Kyle was abruptly made aware of his own panicked breathing, eyes burning with tears while they struggled to focus again. He was on the floor, and didn’t remember getting there. Why was it so cold?

“-re you are.” Kenny’s voice still sounded distant, but a little clearer now. “Just keep your eyes open, dude, we know how to handle this, you’re fine.” The blond turned his head to the open door. “STAN!”

Kyle felt wrong. He hadn’t gotten snappy and irritable like he usually did when his blood sugar dropped, so even if he was low (definitely on the table here), it wasn’t just that. There was something else up too, and he was scared, and embarrassed, and whyisitsohardtohearanything-

“Ky?! Shit, baby, I’m here, I’ve got you.”

He could blearily make out the shape of his boyfriend kneeling beside him, feel the hand that burned like fire on his cheek. “Can you hear me, dude?”

“‘S hard to,” he managed.

“That’s okay, we’ll fix it, I’m here,” Stan repeated, and looked up at Kenny. “What happened? Did he fall? Pass out or just get really close?”

Kyle was vaguely aware of his tears being wiped away by someone who smelled like green apples. Oh, fuck, he was probably scaring Marj. He had to calm down; panicking never helped in a situation like this.

Kenny stood up, beelining to turn the ceiling fan on. “Said he wasn’t feelin’ good, and then he went all white, and then his eyes rolled back so I got ‘im on the floor. A low, right?”

His hands were tingling. Stan was shaking his head.

“He doesn’t freak out like this over it normally, you know that. Kyle, dude, what else is going on? You get too hot?”

Marjorine sounded worried. “Oh, geez, should we call 911? I’ve heard heat exhaustion can be real bad.”

Kyle’s heart felt like it was working overtime to get blood to his brain, stomach twisting with nausea and mouth drier than the wrinkled up orange peel he’d found in one of Stan’s drawers when they were packing.

Oh.

“Hypotension,” he whispered. “Gotta… legs above my head. Drink something.”

Stan nodded, already sliding a box under his sneakers. “Ken, there’s Gatorade in my bag at our place. Can you grab the full sugar one?”

“On it, bossman.”

Marj softly ran her fingers through his hair, rubbing his temples in an almost motherly gesture. “You just lie still and catch your breath,” she advised. “You’re probably just dehydrated with how hot it is and all. You’ll be feelin’ better in no time.”

Oh, no doubt, but if only it was just that. “I’m sorry,” he muttered.

“Dude.” Stan took his hand and kissed the back of it. “Shit happens, okay? You’re just gonna need to take it easy for the rest of the day, right?”

“Right.” Kyle sighed, uneasy and hating how much his body was still shaking, but at least his senses were starting to come back after a few minutes horizontal. “‘M just not built for summer.”

His partner snorted. “I know, baby. I’ve heard you complain about how sunburned you get every summer for our whole lives. Full on lobster the second the sun comes out. I don’t think I’ve seen you faint from low blood pressure, though, not since-“ Stan’s face fell at the realization. “…oh, Ky, no…”

The mix of shock and concern and guilt and sympathy and fear on Stan’s handsome face felt like a punch in the gut. Kyle couldn’t meet his eyes. “It’s not what you-“

“You were up before me,” Stan cut in. “Did you eat breakfast?”

His head hurt. “I told you I did.”

“And you were lying,” Stan inferred, his voice cracking.

His sweet, sensitive Stan. The regret of hiding his recent bullshit from the man who worried so much about him threatened to, ironically, eat Kyle alive.

Before he could think of something to say to save face, Kenny returned from his side quest, Cartman close behind and carrying a box labeled ‘Another Man’s Treasure’, also known as Kenny’s assortment of random junk to hypothetically be used in a project at some point.

Their no-longer-resident asshole set the box down on the kitchen counter. “You just had to have a dramatic little moment today, didn’t you, Jew?”

“Cartman,” Stan warned, ripping the the nutrition information off of the Gatorade bottle Kenny passed him with far more force than necessary, “I’m telling you right now to lay the fuck off him.”

Naturally, Cartman didn’t lay off. “Hell no! Using his sneaky little ways to get out of physical labor? I must say, Bone Broth, I’m impressed.”

Kyle managed something resembling a weak laugh at that; “Bone Broth” was a new one, so stupid it was almost funny. That is, until the other three shouted “JAR!”.

How were they going to keep up Fuckwad Jar records if the five of them no longer lived together? What even was the point of it anyway? It was too much, all too much. Too much change, too much going on, he felt like microwaved garbage and Stan still had an unreadable look in his eyes. Maybe that was just still Kyle’s brain catching up to full consciousness, though. He could always read Stan, eventually.

He’d have to explain himself later, because his boyfriend had shifted into full caretaking mode.

“Ignore him, dude,” Stan said, taking Marjorine’s spot at his head. “I’m gonna sit you up, really slow, okay?”

Kyle nodded, blinking away the dark spots in his eyes at the movement and letting Stan hold him against his chest, one arm around him for stability, the other guiding him to drink. The cloying taste of lemon lime flooded his tongue, but the thickness in the back of his throat from unshed tears lingered.

Kenny squatted down beside them, extending a fist. “Aight, grandma, dap me up. C’mon, I’m checkin’ your motor functions and shit.”

He obliged, slowly completing the handshake with an eyeroll. Leave it to Kenny McCormick.

Unfortunately, ignoring Cartman was easier said than done, especially when he let out an exaggerated groan.

“I’m so seriously, you guys. I could already be relaxing by the pool at my hotel instead of watching the rest of you coddle the damsel in distress, but nooooo, we have to pause the whole move just because one bird boned bitch can’t pull his weight.”

Kyle was willing to let that one slide; it was true, wasn’t it? Even if Cartman could have phrased it a little less cruelly. Marj stood up on his behalf.

“Eric!” All four boys stilled at her rarely used stern voice. “You know darn well you’re only actin’ out because you don’t do well with change either, mister! Now, apologize right now!”

“Damn, Buttercup,” Kenny whistled, audibly impressed. “Called Fatboy out.”

Cartman grumbled, rolling his eyes, but sighed with genuine defeat. “I’m sorry for being an asshole, now will you guys hop off my dick?”

“None of us want to be on your dick, fatass,” Kyle pointed out.

“Keep it that way, you anemic twink.”

“Okay, I’ve had enough of this,” Stan groaned. “Ky, the bed in our place isn’t made, but it’s put together. Let’s get you somewhere quiet to lie down, okay?”

That sounded nice, but Kyle really wasn’t looking forward to the third degree he was about to get. He didn’t want to get defensive like he knew he would, didn’t want to act like a dick. Still, he resigned himself to be swept up into a safety that didn’t feel deserved.

“Sorry I freaked you guys out,” he muttered, arms draped around Stan’s neck, Gatorade bottle dangling loosely from one hand. “I’ll help finish up in a little bit, promise.”

“No the fuck you won’t.” Stan tightened his grip, pulling Kyle closer to his chest.

As his boyfriend carried him to their apartment, he could hear Cartman taking over command of getting the rest of Kenny and Marj’s stuff in. Dread pooled in his empty stomach, dread that he wanted out. Kyle felt exposed. He’d been seen right through, and scrutinized, all over again.

———

The summer before and into his ninth grade year had been one of the lowest points of Kyle’s life.

He couldn’t pinpoint exactly when it had all started, but by the time he started to notice the changes to his body, to his pattern of thinking especially, he was spiraling down a dangerous path.

There was comfort in controlling what he could in the here and now, Kyle had realized, especially with the future seeming so uncertain. He wasn’t fucking stupid; he had known right off the bat that obsessively counting, competing with himself to see how little he could get away with eating, even shoving his fingers down his throat on a few occasions just to prove to himself that he had control, all of that was dangerous and would only make him feel worse in the long run. And yet, he’d spent months getting extremely efficient at running on nothing but his own stubbornness.

Kyle hadn’t been the one in control, though, not after a certain point. No, his eating disorder had controlled him.

His mother had seen it, because of course she had. But Sheila Broflovski, loving and caring as she was, hadn’t a clue as to how to approach the matter. One of her “solutions” had been to organize a dinner party with all his friends and their parents, a subtle way, he’d find out years later, to try and get her eldest son to associate food with celebration and love again; good things, not something to be avoided. But the well meaning idea had only sent Kyle into an anxious frenzy.

“Ma, you have got to be fucking joking! You didn’t think, oh, I don’t know, maybe you should ASK ME?”

“Now listen here, young man-“

Oh shit. Kyle knew that tone, and had dreaded hearing it his entire life. Worried and angry at the same time was easily the most frightening version of Sheila Broflovski. He’d seen a good amount of that side of her around that time, come to think of it.

And Kyle could out-argue anyone; he could diffuse high tempers or match them, whatever the situation called for. At fourteen, he counted that as the best tool in his arsenal.

But he had been tired, for months. So fucking tired.

Plus, the only people he’d never won a screaming match against were God and his mother. His voice had, for once, faltered.

He would find a way to make a damn dinner party work.

“S-sorry, ma,” he’d managed. “That sounds like a good idea. Just, uh, just remember that Stan doesn’t eat meat, when you’re cooking. Like, leave the bacon out of the green beans.”

She had looked like there was something on the tip of her tongue that she wanted to ask. Kyle felt the weight of her stare settle on his shoulders like the shirt that had been hanging off of them; incidentally what had caught the attention of the captain of overbearing mothers in the first place.

But she’d softened, apparently having agreed to his unspoken truce and switching tactics. “Alright, sweetie. Now, you’re doing homework in your room again, I’m assuming? Oy, you’ve just been working so hard since high school started! I’m so proud! I’ll bring you some snacks later so you can keep that focus up, bubbeh.”

Kyle had fought to keep his face even. He couldn’t tell her. Not even Stan knew he couldn’t focus if he ate, which was why he… kind of hadn’t been. But he’d nodded and said,

“Okay. Thanks, Ma.”

He hated to think back to that party. The whole night had been spent dodging pointed looks, staying talking as if on autopilot to act okay, to distract the people he loved. To hide. It was his problem, not theirs.

But everything that passed his lips that day did so twice.

———

Now here he was, and it was a problem again.

Kyle’s anxiety only spiked entering the apartment that was, in theory, his home for the next few years. It didn’t feel like home yet, just an impersonal cookie cutter one bedroom, its beige walls and vertical blinds taunting him. New chapter, they seemed to say. New chapter, but there’s a misprint; we’ve read these words before.

Stan softly kissed his forehead and set him down on the bare mattress. “You’ve got some color back,” he noted. “How do you feel?”

Looking anywhere that wasn’t into worried blue eyes, Kyle shrugged. “Okay, I guess. Hands are cold.”

“Baby, look at me.” Stan took his hands in his own warm ones and drew a deep breath. “Dude, are you relapsing?”

“That’s not-“ Kyle forced himself to pause and take the hostility from his voice. He needed to communicate clearly and honestly; immediately acting like he was being attacked would help no one here, and Stan only got overreactive when he had cause to freak out.

“I’m not sure,” he admitted quietly. “It just kind of… happened, I guess. I didn’t realize, dude, I swear. Not really.”

“…okay.” Stan was chewing his bottom lip, and Kyle’s heart lurched, feeling his boyfriend’s fingers twitching but not letting go of his hands even though he obviously wanted to chew at his own like when he got nervous. “How long?”

“Past month or so?” Kyle guessed. “Seriously, I was gonna go back to normal after we got settled in; it wasn’t on purpose-“

“That’s not you talking,” Stan interrupted. “Honey, you know that’s not you. That’s the anorexia. Trying to justify it.”

Stan was never this blunt. He hated using that word, always had. He said it felt too big, too scary. Kyle didn’t want him to be scared.

“Dude, it’s under control,” he insisted. I just needed one less thing to think about for a little bit.”

“Do you even hear what you’re saying?!?” Stan asked incredulously. “Ky, you know better! You know that’s not how this works!”

“Don’t fucking yell at me!” Kyle sobbed out, overwhelmed and hating that he was crying again. He was the least prone to tears of the group; another thing that was apparently crumbling.

Stan slowly sat down on the edge of the bed, hands up in surrender and eyes like saucers.

“Baby, baby, shh, I’m not yelling, okay? I’m not mad at you. I’d never be, no matter what.”

“I… I know,” Kyle whispered. He didn’t protest Stan’s hand moving up to cup his cheek tenderly.

“Kyle, you remember what you told me your therapist said when we were in high school? That it’s a slippery slope, dude. You give it an inch, it takes a mile, right?”

She had used a metaphor that stuck with him. say you’re climbing a mountain, sticking to the path that you know you’re supposed to be on. A few feet to the side, there’s what looks like a shortcut, something easier than the path. But what you don’t see until it’s too late, and you’ve already strayed, is that the shortcut gives way to slippery gravel, and eventually you slide back down to where you started.

“Fuck, dude,” Kyle groaned. “Can we just pretend this never happened? It’s out in the fucking open now, not like you’re gonna let me get away with more bullshit.”

Stan shook his head. “I’m not gonna let it keep trying to get you, dude. It made you sick.” He looked down, shoulders sagging. “I’m sorry I didn’t know. I knew you were stressed, I just-“

“Sweetheart, c’mon.” Kyle wasn’t about to let Stan blame himself for missing the signs. “Don’t do that. I’m just really good at hiding it.”

“Making your ancestors proud with your deceptive ways,” Cartman quipped from the doorway. He turned his attention to Stan. “Hey, Big ‘n Tall. Marj needs help with a bookshelf.”

Stan rolled his eyes. “So why aren’t you helping her? I’m busy.”

“Because.” Cartman crossed his beefy arms over his chest. “I need to have a little talk with Kahl.”

Clearly suspicious, Stan stood up and squared to their friend. Kyle knew the two of them didn’t usually have real beef, but Stan was obviously on edge and feeling overprotective.

“He’s not feeling well, assclown. I don’t want you to work him up.”

Cartman raised one eyebrow, unfazed by Stan’s intimidation tactics. All five of them knew that while he could certainly look scary, he wouldn’t hurt a fly unless completely unavoidable.

“Relax, Lancelot, I can babysit your languishing fleshlight without starting a fight.”

Annoyed, Kyle raised his hand. “You two realize I can hear you.”

Stan glanced back and forth between them for a pregnant moment, then sighed. He knew Kyle could handle himself, especially when it came to Cartman being an asshole, which was much appreciated. Finally, he sighed, relenting.

“Alright. Ky, just take it easy, okay? I’ll be right back. Cartman-“

“-Don’t piss off the Jew, got it.”

Stan bent down to kiss Kyle gently while Cartman pretended to gag. “We’ll beat it together, baby.”

“Together,” Kyle agreed, feeling like there was a fist clenching his heart when his partner left the room. Cartman sat on the edge of the bed and glared at him.

“You’re a fucking dumbass.”

Classy. “Thank you, Cartman, is that all?”

“No, that’s not all, bitch. Listen up.”

And Kyle was, picking up on the seriousness in his friend’s voice. He sipped at his Gatorade and gestured for him to go on.

“I need you to be okay, you idiot.”

That made Kyle pause. Cartman anxiously ran his hands through his messy brown hair.

“Look, dickhole, it’s no secret that your body hates you. Sucks to suck, and all that. But you’re stupid for thinking you can outsmart it. That shit-“ he gestured vaguely in the direction of Kenny and Marj’s place. “-That shit can’t happen. You can’t get sick like when we were in high school.”

Kyle opened his mouth to insist that he was never planning on letting it get that far, but Cartman held up a hand.

“We all know you love to talk, but let me finish.” He shot Kyle a look that meant business until he was sure he wasn’t going to be interrupted. “Good. Okay. Fuck, this is hard to say, alright. Okay. You can’t get sick,” he repeated. “It would fucking break Stan. The stupid hippie would cease to exist if anything happened to you, and you know I’m not fucking around. He needs you. We… all need your annoying ass.”

Against his will, Kyle started to smile. “Is this you admitting you’re gonna miss me, Eric? Kenny was right, you do love us.”

“Fuck off, I hate you guys,” Cartman muttered. “And Christ, just call me “fatass”, it’s gross when you use my name. Save the faggotry for that misguided simp of yours.”

Kyle laughed. His face was tingling, but he really was feeling a little more human. “Just trying to annoy you, fatass.”

“Good. Keep doing that. Don’t make it weird. Listen…”

Cartman took a deep breath, like he was about to dive into the unexplored. Well, he kind of was, starting his career away from the safety net of the rest of them, Kyle supposed.

“This doesn’t leave this room, am I clear, Starving In Suburbia?”

“You know, it concerns me every time you reference one of those movies.”

“Damnit, Jew, am I clear?”

“Jesus, yes. What?”

“If you, uh, if you want, I can ask my therapist for some recommendations. You know, colleagues of his that do remote sessions and specialize in your bullshit.”

Kyle knew Cartman hated talking about therapy, about his fucked up brain and cocktail of medications, so the fact that he was offering was wild. Probably not necessary, but wild.

“Dude,” Kyle started, “I appreciate that, seriously. But I don’t think it’s at that point, you know?”

“I have a call with him day after tomorrow, I’ll at least get some names.” The way he said it made it clear that he needed to feel like he was helping. Not for Kyle’s sake, but for his own peace of mind.

Kyle sighed. “Thank you. Seriously, that’s really nice of you, dude.”

Cartman scoffed. “Please. I just need you to have your shit together so I can torture you without, like, karmic consequences.”

Typical. “Karmic consequences, huh?”

“Uh, duh, dumbass. You can’t rip on an anorexic if they’re actively in it. Everyone knows that.” He rolled his eyes. “For real, though. Get your shit together. I’m not having this conversation again.”

Movement caught Kyle’s eye in the doorway. Stan, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, but his face was relaxed, like he’d heard that last part.

Cartman turned. “Oh good, the guard dog’s back.” He sprang up like he hadn’t just hit Kyle with the tough love he didn’t know he needed. “Later, cocksuckers.”

“Thanks again, fatass,” Kyle repeated.

“Thank me by not being a delicate little bitch next time.”

Stan took his spot on the mattress, eyebrow raised. “Dare I ask?”

Kyle sat up against the headboard, curling his arms around his legs and resting his chin on his knees. “Just wanted to tell me to get it together. Apparently kicking me when I’m down would cause cosmic chaos.”

“Can’t have that,” Stan chuckled. “But really, dude. What do we need to do here? I’m not letting this thing fuck with you anymore than it already has.”

Thinking back to the first time around, Kyle remembered how strict his rules had been in early recovery. Meal plan, online school, limited physical activity, outpatient therapy multiple times a week. Granted, he’d been pretty fucked physically and mentally back then. This hardly even compared, in his eyes.

“I… think I just need accountability,” he said carefully. “For a little while, it’s not like…” Kyle sighed again. “Believe me when I say it’s not like it was the first time, Stan. It’s just… call it a sophomore slump, I guess.”

Stan cracked a half smile, still visibly worried, but like he trusted him. “Little slip up? You’re feeling like you can get yourself healthy pretty quickly?”

Kyle reached a hand out to take Stan’s. “Promise. The mentality behind it isn’t the same, you know? The body dysmorphia and the compulsions aren’t there, I just fell into some of the habits. Call me on it if you see it, okay?”

“I will, dude,” Stan swore. “I’ve always got your back.

Stan used their intertwined hands to pull Kyle into his lap, softly rubbing his back. “I need something from you too though.”

“Mhm?”

“I need you to tell me when you need support, baby. With words. I don’t want to miss the signs again, dude.”

Kyle looked up into his impossibly soft gaze, both vulnerable and open. “Oh, sweetheart, hey. That’s not on you, at all.”

“It is, though.” Stan cupped around the back of Kyle’s neck, bringing his head back into his chest protectively. “We’re a team, Ky. How many times have you told me that? Whatever the game is, we’re on the same side.”

“Dude, don’t quote me at me,” Kyle laughed. It had the intended effect, though, for sure. “But I hear you.”

“Yep, and we’ll be all good in no time,” Stan promised. “We’ll get used to this new place, start our second year of school, all that shit. It always works out, right?”

“We figure it out,” Kyle confirmed.

Stan’s grin was audible, brilliant and soul stirring, even if Kyle couldn’t see it. “Turn that sophomore slump into the comeback of the year.”

Then Kyle did pull away enough to see his face, trying to feign annoyance on his part. “How’d I know you were gonna quote Fall Out Boy at me?”

“Hey, you started it, I just finished it.”

“Proud of yourself, Stanathan?”

“Very much so.” Stan lightly ran his thumb over Kyle’s bottom lip before kissing him softly.

And Kyle believed him when he said, “but more proud of you.”

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1moreoffkeyanthem · 4 months

Text

Hey y’all guess what?!? :) it’s time for a new episode of Bedtime Stories With PCE!!!

Who ordered some old man yaoi? That’s right, this one is set right after If Heaven And Hell Decide, with a sick Kyle, worried Stan, the best little immortal cat of all time, adding injury to illness, two middle aged men being massive fantasy dorks, all that goodness. Very sorry to my favorite arthritic ginger it will happen again, very sorry to his extremely concerned husband.

And y’all. I’m dedicating this to the Sickfic Queen herself, @alwaysinstyle who consistently kicks ass and gets stoked about style taking care of each other with me. Ana I love you so much and I’m so proud of you. All the people in your corner, we have you covered.

Also OFC the rest of the RANT homies have been subjected to random snippets of this over the past 2 weeks or so (jesus my sadsack ass needs to get some motivation back how has it been two weeks) but hey I will always be obnoxious when the mood strikes me and this long ass monstrosity is FINALLY done!!! Thank y’all fr for putting up with me.

Here’s •Well, That Would Be Pretty Odd•

A subtle knock at the door drew Stan’s attention and Kyle from uneasy rest. His husband’s head lolled exhaustively in his hand, still drained of energy and, according to the screen displaying his vitals, running a pretty high fever. Stan kept one arm protectively over him and turned to the door. “Yeah?”

The doctor entered, shutting the door behind her. “Hey, guys, how are we doing in here?”

Kyle pulled up slowly, clearly emotional, like he always got when he was sick. “Can I go home yet? Moose needs me.”

“Our cat,” Stan explained. “He’s worried he scared our cat.”

“I did.”

“Scared the hell out of your husband, too, sick as you are. It says on the chart you guys filled out that your blood sugar was low enough to potentially trigger a seizure. If he hadn’t acted as fast as he did, you’d be even worse off than you are.”

Kyle slumped back into Stan. “He always rescues me,” he murmured.

Stan felt like crying. “I’m your knight when you need me, dude.” He took a deep breath. “Okay, what’re we working with here? Stomach flu, dehydration, complications because of the diabetes, all that, right?”

“Right. Kyle, we have you on antivirals and fluids via IV for now, and I know you’re eager to get home-“

“-he hates hospitals-“

“-I hate hospitals.”

The doctor smiled kindly, even after getting interrupted. Stan liked her. “We’re keeping you overnight at least, but if your vitals are still stable and your fever is less than 102, we can send you home.”

Stan knew Kyle appreciated being the one addressed about his own health. This doctor could read the room, that’s for sure. Kyle nodded tiredly, eyes closed.

“How about when we go home? What’s the plan?” Stan inquired, tired as fuck himself but making an exception for Ky, always.

“Fluids, rest, anything with nutritional value that can stay down. Your friend in the waiting room mentioned orange juice as you guys’ go-to when Kyle’s having trouble with blood sugar? And he said you’re always diligent about keeping an eye on his health.” She was definitely addressing Stan now, since Kyle had clearly relinquished responsibility for the time being, knowing Stan had him covered. Hell yeah he did. “Any further complications; if you catch the bug too and can’t take care of him, another bad sugar drop or fever spike, and you guys come right back here. But at this point, it’s looking like this is something manageable from home, fingers crossed.”

And Stan had every finger crossed. He’d take care of Kyle, just like Kyle took care of him. Even if he was kind of scared as fuck, not having seen him quite this sick since maybe college. Or even when they were kids and he needed kidney surgery. He bit the panic down. Kyle was okay.

“Gotcha. I can spend the night? Spousal rights and everything?”

“You won’t convince him not to stay if you say no,” was Kyle’s muffled reply.

The doctor laughed. “I won’t make you leave. The last thing I want is either of you worked up, especially you, Kyle. If you need your husband with you to be comfortable-“

“-mhm-“

“-that’s not a problem in my book.” She tapped her clipboard with long fingernails. “There’s a call button on the bed if you need anything between the nurses checks, and I’ll tell your friend he’s free to go. He isn’t allowed back here, I’m afraid, but I can also let him know he can be the one to pick you up in the morning, if that’s what you two want?”

Kyle mumbled something that sounded like “like a good neighbor, Tucker is there” to the tune of the state farm insurance jingle. The doctor raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah, he’s pretty delirious, alright.” A couple quick checks to Kyle’s IV line and heartbeat monitor, and she was gesturing for Stan to lay his half asleep husband back down. “You boys get some rest. We’ll keep you posted.”

“Thanks,” Stan whispered, letting Kyle nuzzle into his chest as she left the room. Once they were alone in the darkened space, he kissed him softly on the top of the head. Kyle was a space heater. But if the hospital staff wasn’t alarmed, they were okay. “I’ve got you, baby, just sleep.”

The next morning, Kyle improved enough to leave and discharge paperwork done, they faced the problem of actually getting the sick man home.

Stan waved off the nurse’s offered wheelchair and stubbornly picked Kyle up because like hell was he losing even a second of contact. That and he took pride in the fact that he was in his 40s and still able to carry his husband.

“Sir, there’s procedure…”

Kyle snorted from where his head was against Stan’s shoulder, coherent enough to be aware but still too weak to insist on, god forbid, trying to walk on his own. “Believe me, ma’am, there’s no way in hell you’re convincing this guy not to carry me. Losing battle, mark my worms- words.”

Someone needed to be home in bed.

The nurse sighed, clearly deciding it wasn’t worth argument. Thank God, because Kyle could out argue anyone normally, but he was fucking tired.

“Just sing me home again, Orpheus,” he murmured into his husband’s ear.

Stan laughed at the reference. “Alright, ma’am, so if we’re all set….”

“Yes, yes, you can go. Hope you feel better.”

Kyle only had a vague recollection of both Stan and Craig yelling at the hospital staff when they brought him in, which was kind of funny to think about. Craig didn’t get worked up about things easily, and Stan was as gentle as they came. But it was nice to know his friend and his partner were willing to act so out of character for his sake. He muttered a “hey, spaceman” in greeting when Stan lowered him into the back of Craig’s car, mid morning sun forcing him to keep his eyes closed.

Craig barked a short laugh, pulling from the parking lot when both his passengers were settled for the short drive. “Someone’s feeling better.”

“I’ll get him set to rights, kick the plague’s ass,” Stan said, softly kissing his husband’s still too warm forehead. “Thanks for picking us up, dude. And for last night.”

“No biggie,” Craig shrugged nonchalantly. “Someone had to keep a level head and it sure as hell wasn’t gonna be either of you.”

Well, he wasn’t wrong there. Craig was probably the least prone to getting over emotional person Stan had ever met.

Craig’s husband, however, was the exact opposite. Upon getting home and getting up to bed, Kyle could faintly hear the frantic voice of Tweek downstairs, bringing Moose back from spending the night over at apartment two.

Kyle was nauseous, not to the point that he had been, but nauseous all the same, waiting for Stan to be done retrieving their cat and filling Kyle’s water. He felt weak as shit, and sweaty, which was probably a reasonably good indicator of his fever coming down, but it fucking sucked. And he was going to need some soup or something in him soon so his blood sugar didn’t get so bad again, which was another thing that sucked, because why do flesh prisons require so much maintenance? Why did his body require so much to function.

He didn’t realize tears were flowing until Stan entered the bedroom, hands full with the water, a KMBS, and one of those bottled protein drinks that tasted like chalk. Moose was quick to jump up and pad softly over to him, big blue eyes so worried and sweet as he curled up beside him. Kyle’s two blue eyed boys.

The second of whom was setting the drinks on the bedside table. There was a straw in each, so Kyle wouldn’t have to move as much to drink. It made him cry harder.

“Shhh, dude, it’s okay, it’s okay.” Stan climbed onto his side and grabbed the juice, holding it to Kyle’s lips. “I know you don’t feel good, that’s okay. I’ve got you. Go slow, okay?”

Kyle complied, the sharp taste of salted orange juice helping both physically and mentally. Plus, it’s hard to drink something and cry at the same time, so his breathing was a little less sporadic. A few sips were all he managed before his stomach started rolling, and he shook his head. Stan understood, setting the cup down and pulling Kyle’s face into his chest. “Just sleep, baby. I’m gonna have to check your temperature and levels in about an hour, but just sleep until then, alright?”

“Mhm.”

Stan would take care of him. Kyle would put up a fight, when he had the strength to, but Stan knew from experience that he’d be ‘secretly’ loving being cared for.

The husbands had a couple favorite positions to hold each other in. They’d hold the other from behind, arms wrapped around and poised to kiss an exposed nape or shoulder as a reminder of their presence. They would entangle themselves like they were doing now, they’d let the other’s head rest on their legs, Kyle would perch himself in Stans lap or Stan would drape over him like a blanket. Holding each other was safe. And in this moment Stan wrapped protectively around his sick partner like it was his sacred duty, one hand cradling Kyle’s head from underneath, fingers gently rubbing his hair, the other arm tucking him firmly against himself, feeling Moose’s purrs vibrating where the cat had claimed his place against Kyle’s back, right below the place Stan’s arm was wrapped around.

Stan glanced at the nightstand clock, keeping watch for the next time they’d need to wake up for a check in. About an hour and he’d get the thermometer to make sure they were still headed in the right direction, check Kyle’s levels, make them both something for, well, he supposed lunch at this point, and call the clinic to let his coworkers know that he’d be out a few days for a family emergency. He’d have to let Kyle’s work know too, before his husband tried to go into school still unwell.

Fitfully, Kyle dozed, sweating in his sleep, which Stan knew damn well he’d complain about when he woke up, but personally, he didn’t mind holding a miniature sun, because it was Kyle. Overheated, but still Kyle.

It hadn’t quite been an hour, but the warmth was starting to concern him. He gently kissed the top of his husband’s head, encouraging him to stir.

“Dude, hey.”

Kyle let out a tired whine as indication that he was awake.

“I know, baby. I just need to check your temperature and then you can go back to sleep.”

“I can check my own damn temperature,” Kyle protested, rolling over onto his back when Stan relinquished his grasp around his beloved. He scowled. “I’m all sweaty.”

Stan chuckled lowly. Was he right or was he right. “Gimme a second.”

Upon getting the thermometer and finding that they were still going in the right direction, Stan relaxed slightly. He let Kyle check both his temperature and blood sugar by himself, because it wasn’t worth the impending argument and the last thing he wanted was to make his husband feel helpless. Fever was down, but he definitely needed something to eat soon.

“Dude, do you think you can handle something solid, or you wanna keep sticking with drinks?”

Kyle hadn’t puked in a while, so he felt like maybe something simple, easy on the stomach, would be okay. As much as he wanted to keep going with the safe option of juice and a protein shake, he wouldn’t get better without something substantial in him and he knew it. “I can try. No promises.”

“You don’t need to promise anything,” Stan insisted, leaning down to kiss him on the way out of bed. “But I have an idea, if you’re okay by yourself for a few minutes.”

“Moose is with me. I’m not by myself,” Kyle remarked with a sleepy smile.

Stan snorted and went to change into jeans, last night’s pajamas not exactly ideal attire for walking to the BBQ place a block over. Kyle was weird about food sometimes, but Brendan’s mac and cheese was a simple, safe, Kyle approved bet. He’d probably want it to get cold first like he usually did (weirdo), but sick Kyle was sort of a wild card. They’d see.

“I’ll be back in fifteen, dude, drink some water.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.”

Kyle heard the door close downstairs, slowly reaching for his water at the bedside, one hand resting on their cat’s head. Moose was stretched out along his side, fluffy tail dangling off the side of the mattress.

“You sleepy too, young nastyman?” Kyle asked, setting the bottle down and closing his eyes. Moose purred in response.

Apparently he’d drifted off again, waking up to the rustle of a takeout bag and a strong, smoky smell.

Kyle clapped a hand over his mouth. Ordinarily the smell of brisket and ribs wouldn’t bother him, but in his half asleep state, smelling meat on Stan of all people…

“…Dude?”

“FUCKING CHANGE!” Kyle screeched, staggering up to run to the bathroom, tears in his eyes because the bbq place smell all over his vegetarian husband was wrong and disorienting and he hated being sick and fevers made him sensitive and an asshole and-

Falling hard in front of the toilet, he felt his knee go out. The cherry on top of the fucking cake while his stomach tried to escape his body. Kyle cried out in pain, which was cut off immediately by a wave of sick splashing into the porcelain while he attempted to move and take the weight off his left leg, shaking and already crying because he was pissed and it hurt and he couldn’t catch a damn break. Dry heaving and spluttering, he collapsed tiredly into the alcove between the toilet and the cabinets, one trembling arm draped over the seat and the other hand clutching his knee, eyes shut tightly against the light and the nausea and pain.

“Ky, hey, hey, oh, fuck, baby, shit, did you twist your knee? Okay, you’re okay, hold on-“

Kyle leaned over to retch again, choking out “YOU SMELL WRONG” because that’s all he could manage between gasps.

Stan yanked his shirt off and threw it through the open door into the hallway, past where Moose was watching with wide eyes from the threshold. “Okay, I’m sorry, is that better? Here.” He gently eased Kyle’s hand away from his leg, carefully straightening it out. “God, yeah, it’s already swelling.”

“WHY do I have to LIVE IN THIS GODDAMN FLESH PRISON?!?” Kyle slammed his fist against the floor, frustrated beyond belief. Stan caught his hand before he could do it again.

“Shh, Ky, c’mon. You’re okay, it’s fine.”

Seeing his husband like this, sick, aggravating his bad knee mid vomit, broke Stan’s heart. But he had him. He had him and wouldn’t let go. Was that dramatic? Absolutely. But when the fuck was he not dramatic about Kyle’s health?

“THAT FUCKING STUPID ASS NURSE!” Kyle was yelling. “Sending me sick kids, thinking they were just trying to get out of class, that BITCH!”

“Baby, dude, calm down, man, breathe.”

“YOU’RE ONE TO FUCKING TALK!”

Alright, point to Kyle. Stan sighed as Kyle heaved over the toilet again, expelling nothing but water. They really needed to get something in him before he wound up needing the hospital again. Stan gently rubbed his husband’s back as he hiccuped and cried, clearly feeling betrayed by his body. A few minutes of heavy breathing, and Kyle was pulling back up. “I- I think I’m d-done.”

“Alright dude, I’m gonna get you up now, that okay?”

“Mhm”

Very, very carefully, Stan hauled Kyle from the floor, mindful not to move his knee too much and going slow in case of another bout of nausea. Moose trotted into the bedroom after his dads, obviously distressed seeing Kyle cry and immediately curling back up against the redhead when Stan set him down.

Stan was honestly a little nauseous himself, because Kyle’s frustrated tears never failed to make him emotional too. But he knew what to do here, he reminded himself. Fever was coming down, leg flare up was pretty routine, Kyle would rant it out if he had to and Stan would be his yes-man, and liquids were probably going to be the staple for the rest of the day.

He rolled up a throw blanket and propped it under Kyle’s leg, taking some strain off the irritated joint and kissing his husband’s kneecap when he did so. “You want ice, babe?”

“Yes I want fucking ice,” Kyle mumbled, arms draped over his eyes.

Stan could admit to enjoying taking care of Kyle when he fucked up his knee; pissed off Kyle was cute. “Aw, baby, I got you.” He grabbed the takeout bag from the nightstand too, not knowing if the bbq smell was lingering there too. “I’ll stick this in the fridge for when you want something solid, okay? How ‘bout another Ensure?”

Kyle grumbled something inaudible that Stan took as a yes. Poor thing was so upset. But he had every right to be, and Stan would never be annoyed at him for that.

Downstairs, he debated making his husband a smoothie, but the blender was loud, and his head probably already hurt from throwing up. Instead, he just grabbed an ice pack and a shake (strawberry, still gross but the flavor Kyle hated the least), taking the time to scribble out the nutrition information, just in case. That practice was pretty much habit at this point; he’d started ripping off or crossing out the calories on food for Kyle when they were fourteen, when his favorite person was recovering from his eating disorder, and even if he’d been more than fine for a longgggg time, Stan was prone to reverting to the past. When Kyle wasn’t okay, for whatever reason, food lore got crossed out.

“Dude, you up?”

“Mm”

“Shit, babe.” Stan knelt by the bed to carefully apply the ice, reaching a hand up to thumb away a falling tear. “You just mad?”

“Fucking pissed,” Kyle moaned. “It’s not enough that I have the goddamn plague?!? I have to have to fuck my leg up too? My parents are, like twice our age and even they don’t have fucking arthritis!” Kyle pointed two middle fingers to the ceiling as a ‘fuck you’ to god, which was actually pretty funny, but Stan didn’t laugh. That would only make his husband madder.

“Ky, c’mon.” Stan cupped under his head to kiss his cheek, relishing in the subtle smile that action brought. “And your parents didn’t shred tendons and refuse to do physical therapy.”

“I am damn well aware my goddamn arthritis is my own fault, Staniel.” But he sighed contentedly, adjusting the ice pack before leaning back against the pillows. “That helps. I’m sorry.”

Declaring the anger over for now, Stan climbed into bed beside him. “Don’t be sorry, dude. How’s your stomach?”

“I don’t fucking feel good.”

“I know, dude, can you drink a little water? We have to keep you hydrated.”

“It’ll just come back up.”

“Not necessarily.”

Moose crawled up between his dads, small furry head on Kyle’s shoulder, knowing he needed comfort. Kyle rubbed his face on the cat. “Babyman, did I scare you last night? I did, huh?”

“Dude,” Stan started, “he’s fine. You’re fine. We’re all fine. Drink something and don’t move your leg.”

“I didn’t shred my tendons, by the way.” Kyle protested. “I just tore some shit a little.”

“Enough that it’s a problem even now.”

“See, you get it.”

Stan laughed. “Quit being a dick and go to sleep, baby. You know you’ll feel better. I’m right here, dude, whatever you need.”

“I’m not being a dick, I’m being contrary.”

“Same difference.”

“Mm.”

God, poor Kyle, pissed off, sick, having a flare up on top of everything else. “Dude, what do you need?”

“Leg hurts.”

“We have a pack on it, dude. Maybe some ibuprofen? You should take some for the fever anyway.”

“It hurts.”

Stan started to gently rub his partner’s knee. “I know, babe. I know it’s hurting.”

“I hit it on the floor.”

“I know you did.”

“Fuck this shit.”

Kyle knew he was being a total dramatic asshole, but he didn’t care. God had fucked him over; he could be a dick. That made sense. “I’m mad, dude.”

“That’s okay.”

And no he didn’t have the right to be mad. Stan was being so sweet. Always. Any time Kyle’s meat suit betrayed him and he got upset about it, Stan was there, doting and adorable as ever. “I’m sleepy.”

“So go to sleep.”

“Something bad’s gonna happen.”

“Oh, dude.” Stan wrapped around him, carefully. “We’re not OCD spiraling. We’re not. A little rest, alright?”

In actuality, Kyle was too tired to argue.

It had to have been a few hours when Stan felt Kyle stir against his chest, swinging over to get out of bed… and promptly falling with a loud “FUCK!”

“Ky?”

“I FUCKING FORGOT ABOUT MY GODDAMN LEG!!!”

Stan sprang off the bed then too, getting on the floor beside his hyperventilating husband. “Dude, shhh, okay, okay, straighten it out.”

Sobbing, Kyle did. “D-don’t, freak, okay? I moved it weird, that’s all.”

“It’s fine, dude. Look at me. I’m not freaking out.” He was just doing a good job hiding it. Stan hated seeing Kyle cry, emotional, probably still feverish and nauseated, trying to get up in the middle of the night and falling on his knee, just the perfect storm of fucked up shit. But Kyle needed to stay calm, above all else. “What did you need, dude? Let me help you.”

“Water,” Kyle mumbled dejectedly.

“And guess what? You have me for that.” Stan carefully felt around his husband’s leg. “Can I turn a light on?”

Kyle responded by throwing up into the trash can, which had Stan gagging too. Fuck. Honestly, he was surprised he lasted so long without sympathy puking. “Hold on, baby.”

Stan rushed to the bathroom to empty his own stomach, somehow only just noticing that he still hadn’t put a shirt on from earlier. And Kyle hadn’t said anything about him wearing “outside pants” in bed, either, which was probably the best indicator of how sick he was.

Flushing down the panic induced vomit, Stan stood and glared at his reflection while he rinsed his mouth out, gulping a few handfuls of water from the sink. He had to keep it together. He needed a plan. Okay. Get Kyle back in bed, check his temperature and blood sugar, go downstairs to fill up his water and feed Moose, go from there.

Kyle had curled up on the floor back in the bedroom, and Moose had the zoomies. Stan sighed.

“Dude, okay, let’s get up.”

“Moving sucks ass.”

“I know it does, babe, but the bed is better than the floor.”

“Quit being right,” Kyle mumbled, allowing himself to be helped back under the covers. Stan snagged his readers from the nightstand, flipping on the lamp and grabbing the thermometer too.

“Okay, melmë, let’s see.”

Kyle smiled a little. “You look like a dad.”

“I am a dad,” he reminded him. Even if he’d bemoaned needing reading glasses and his body getting softer with age, his sentimental side was happy he had made it this far in life, especially with Kyle at his side. “Our son is bouncing off the walls as we speak. Open.”

Down to 100.3, thank whoever the fuck was up there. Maybe he should be thanking Kyle’s God, not having any attachment to one of his own. When he’d first started AA and found that part of the whole thing was putting things in the hands of a higher power, he had posed the question of what to do if you weren’t particularly religious to his sponsor. Mark had said “hell, put your faith in the doorknob if you want. Got you in here, didn’t it?”

“What’s the damage?” Kyle inquired.

“Definitely better. You want to check your levels or can I?”

Kyle slowly opened his eyes. “I got it, sweetheart, you’ve been doing so much.”

“Because I want to.”

“I’m difficult.”

Stan brought Kyle’s hand up to his lips and kissed it. “It so isn’t your fault that you got sick, or that you hurt your knee, or that you have diabetes. In sickness and in health, right?” Kyle’s fond grin only grew, and Stan decided to let up on the overbearingness. He snatched Moose up quickly on the cat’s next lap around the room. “I’m filling your water and feeding the dragon, okay? Be right back.”

So he had sweat out most of the fever, it seemed like. Judging by how sticky he felt, Kyle was fairly certain he was over the worst. At least in terms of the fucking stomach flu. His leg was a different story.

It was dim in the bedroom with only a sliver of moonlight slipping through the window, and the soft light from the lamp, but he could feel that he’d aggravated his knee pretty bad. If it wasn’t one thing, it was another. The cartilage felt like it was grinding when he shifted. Kyle groaned in frustration, debating trying to hop over to the closet for his brace, but deciding against it, because Stan would flip his lid if he saw him standing. And considering what his blood sugar was at, being vertical was a bad idea anyway.

Said husband returned to the room. “I come bearing gifts for the king!”

Dork. Freshly refilled water, a KMBS, sleeve of crackers. Stan presented the juice. “Your elixir, melda târ. And-“ he beelined for the top of the closet, clearly having read Kyle’s mind.

“Thank you, my most dutiful and trusted of knights.” Kyle let him secure the knee brace, watching as those careful, strong, gentle hands worked, as Stan leaned down to kiss his leg when he was done. His Stan. His sweet Sir Marshwalker.

“Oh, shit, dude, are you crying? Does it hurt that much?” Stan was up by his face again. Kyle shook his head.

“It’s not that; I just- I really fucking love you,” he sobbed.

“Aw, baby, come here.” Stan climbed into bed and wrapped around him again, avoiding touching his husband’s stomach or leg. A little jingle of Moose’s collar announced their boy’s return to the bedroom, a tiny *prrrt* as the cat settled back at Kyle’s side. “You’re not as warm as you were, Ky, I think you’re getting better. That’s good, my love, you’re okay.”

“I’m okay,” Kyle murmured against him, damp eyelashes tickling Stan’s chest. “You still don’t have a shirt on.”

Stan laughed. So he had noticed. “You complaining?”

“You know I’m not.”

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