Chapter Text
Stan remembered the day Tolkien moved into the newly built farm across the street. His father stood by the window in disbelief, his eyebrows drawn in and his frown lines even more accentuated. If it was possible, Stan would say that the sun, barely peeking its face above the skyline, shone a glimmering brightness. The ever present sun trickling over the acres casted a shy quiet glow over the quiet farm. If he talked to any neighbor they'd say the same thing. It was a sign that things were moving. The Marshes always had to wake up hours before anyone else in town was up. Something his mother and father said about “circadian rhythms” and “far commute” as they dubbed it.
Randy was very territorial about their weed farm and was determined that nobody would encroach on what he claimed as "his turf." The other weed farms didn't pull such a bold move as to move across from Mr. Marsh. They sold other things. Normal fruits and vegetables. If they did sell weed, then they weren't near the Marshes for at least miles and miles. They knew what an asshole Randy Marsh was.
As Randy opened the blinds with a huff, he immediately began to vent to Sharon, loudly and in front of him and Shelly, about how he believed the newcomers were trying to sabotage his business. Stan watched as Randy’s anger grew, especially as he described how Tolkien's family had arranged their displays of weed, presenting them in “city-folk” fashion. However the hell that was. This colorful set up was a stark contrast to his father's straightforward and plain arrangement. It was more interesting than his father's that’s for sure. In comparison, Randy’s had looked like shit. “Tegridy” was the only thing he said their disposition was, definitely to save his pride from being severely wounded.
“Don't talk to that kid,” he spouted, the vein in his forehead becoming prominent. “His parents are assholes!” Randy pouted like a spoiled child, as per usual.
Stan sat quietly at the breakfast table, a spoonful of cereal making its way to his mouth as he glanced over at his sister. Shelly was seated across from him, her fingers flying over the screen of her phone. With a sharp roll of her eyes, she showed her silent irritation, only calmed down seconds later from the intense focus she had on her phone. Nothing fazed her anymore, not like it used to. He should know, he saw it. Her focus on the device highlighted the difference between them; she had an escape, while he was stuck isolated in a bubble. No swimming away from the monotonous drivel.
With a deep sigh escaping his lips, Stan pushed away from the table, the sound of the chair scraping against the floor breaking the brief silence. He stood up and carried his porcelain dish over to the sink, where he let it lightly drop. It settled against the edge of the counter, the clinking noises echoing in the kitchen. His mother took the dish from him, ready to wash the breakfast dishes while her attention was partially drawn to Randy, who was loudly sharing his obviously eager opinions about the new neighbors that had moved in down the street. To make them look bad, but everyone in the house knew that whatever was said by him was to be taken like an empty threat. A rice cracker, full of empty calories with a show of something that might be filling.
Stan found himself not really caring about the neighbors.
***
“Hi.”
Stan looked up from his locker, the noisy chaos of the hallway swirling around him. A boy with short, cropped curls approached, standing awkwardly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He seemed unsure, as if he wasn't quite sure what to do next.
“I'm your neighbor,” the boy spoke, hands brushing over his fancy indigo sweater, which looked warm and soft, definitely better than the scratchy polyester most kids wore to school.
“I know, dude.”
Noises of the other students cluttered the hallway. Other people were talking at a rapid pace and clanging their lockers open and shut. The cacophony barely registered in Stan’s ears.
“I wanted to say hi. That's all.”
Stan stiffly turned to face him, eyes not quite looking at Tolkien.
“My dad doesn't really want me to talk to you.” He clutched a book out of his locker. Stan scratched his fingers over the shiny plastic cover, looking at his locker, peering for anything he could use as a mental distraction. He didn't need anything else from it.
“Do you always listen to your dad?” Tolkien asked, genuine curiosity apparent in his features.
Stan scoffed, looking at the boy.
“No, of course not… he's kind of an idiot.” He wasn't sure how appropriate it would be to say just how much of an idiot he thought his father was. He tapped on the book enclosed in his arms. He gripped onto the book he was holding as if looking for reassurance from the pages.
“Then let's hang out after school. I have Warhammer,” the boy said. He wasn't affected at all by what Stan said.
Stan hugged the textbook close. His shirt felt too tight around his neck.
“Sure,” he finally replied, the word tumbling out almost without thought.
The boy gleamed and turned to leave.
“Uh, I'll wait for you by the gates after 6th period.” He cleared his throat, wiping the palms of his hands on his jeans. He hoped Tolkien couldn't see the sweat on his hands.
Human interaction again after what felt like forever.
***
In class, Stan found it hard to focus. His mind began to drift away from the lesson being taught. Ever since he moved away a long time ago, all of his friends seemed like nothing more than a distant memory, a blur that he could barely make out. Kyle, Cartman, and Kenny sat right beside him, yet they felt miles apart. No matter how close they were physically, emotionally they might as well have been on different planets.
He thought about Tolkien, the new kid who seemed nice and well put together. Stan absentmindedly dragged his hands under his hat, pulling it down over his face in frustration. Why did Tolkien have to bring up his dad? It felt so stupid to even think about. Stan couldn't shake the feeling that Tolkien would see him as some kind of creep for following in his father's footsteps, which couldn’t be further from the truth.
Just the thought of being similar to his father usually sent a wave of discomfort through him. His head was starting to hurt.
Since moving away in middle school, everything in Stan's life had shifted to a dull gray. His world felt unclear and uncertain. At first, Kyle and the others would visit him, making the long trek out to the farm. The tolling road stretched endlessly ahead of them, with nothing but green pastures and a vast blue sky as far as the eye could see. Light-years away from their school.
Stan vividly remembered the day they moved. A heavy feeling settled in his stomach as they packed their bags into the family car, a faded Lexus that had seen better days, with scratches and dents marring its surface. He and his sister squeezed into the back seat, surrounded by their tightly packed belongings. He couldn’t shake the thought that they were uprooted all because his dad wanted to “start a new business, one with ‘tegridy!”
It felt so silly, and in that moment, Stan wished his mom had stayed divorced from him.
With a sigh, he glanced over at his sister, who sat next to him. In some ways, he felt a twinge of jealousy toward her. She didn’t seem bothered by their situation, at least not like he was. With her headphones on, she swayed her head to the rhythm of the music playing on her phone, lost in her own world. Meanwhile, Stan stared out the window, watching the scenery rush by, the streaks of the glass blurring the landscape. He couldn't tell if it was his eyes welling up that blurred it or the rapid motion of their Lexus moving at 70 miles per hour.
Kyle used to live right next door. Now he'd be so far away.
All of them would be, really.
Stan vividly recalls the moment he invited his friends over for a housewarming sleepover at his new home. All declined. Except Cartman. They all had their own reasons for not wanting to make the hour-long drive to his new place.
“Sorry dude, my mom would have my head! You're kind of really far now.” Kyle scratched his head. Stan got the feeling that Kyle probably did feel at least a little guilty but he couldn't help feeling a little betrayed.
The new house was indeed larger than his previous one, which had always felt cramped when he was just ten years old. He remembered the chaos of living in a smaller space where everyone was close, but now everything felt so empty and vast. The thought crossed his mind that trading a smaller, cozier environment for this big, lonely farm felt like the worst idea ever. All of it mercilessly exchanged for a big farm.
Less people in a bigger house sounded like the shittiest idea known to man. At least for someone with chronic FOMO.
Kenny, too, was unable to make the trip. Stan knew there was no way Kenny’s parents would drive him almost an hour to visit. They often complained about gas prices, and for Stan, that reason felt almost superficial. Still, he understood where Kenny was coming from and didn’t blame him for not being able to come.
“I'll visit you when I have my license, I promise!” Kenny pleaded, puppy dog eyes and all.
Yet despite the choices, it was Cartman that came over. When Cartman arrived, his eyes swept over the house with a mix of awe and amusement.
“Dude, this is a grandma's house.” He snickered at the decor his mom set up. He understands why he jumped at the opportunity to spend a night somewhere other than his own house though. Cartman had been living in an old hot dog diner since he made Liane quit real estate.
A real ironic sense of justice that was.
They spent the day checking out the farm. The dirt had yet to be sown with seeds, but the “backyard” went on for acres. It was only a matter of time before they both got bored of looking at nothing at all but flattened dirt below their feet. They trailed back to the house, tracking dirt back into the house from their muddied shoes.
They decided the only thing they could do for now was watch a movie. Boxes still littered the living room, all haphazardly ripped open with a box cutter. The room smelled like mothballs and old cigarette smoke. He wondered who lived here prior. Probably someone who wanted to get out of here as fast as possible.
“Thanks for visiting,” Stan said, his words slightly muffled by a mouthful of popcorn. The flickering light from the flatscreen TV illuminated the dim room. One of the few luxuries that had been unpacked before most of anything.
Cartman pushed him with the side of his arm, “Whatever. I was bored as hell anyways.”
He knew Cartman meant well.
***
After that, Cartman ended up being sent away to a mental hospital somewhere in Denver.
The progression felt like whiplash.
Liane had definitely made up her mind to send him to somewhere he’d learn to grow up. Stan didn't blame her for growing tired of their living situation. Cartman was definitely sick of it too, if he knew anything about his friend’s temperament.
For three long years, Stan did not see Cartman. When he finally returned during their sophomore year, it was clear that something had changed. Cartman had become more withdrawn, quieter than before. They barely spoke to each other; there was a distance between them that had grown over time.
Nothing to do with him, he didn't think. He was just the type of guy to be sent to the cuckoos nest eventually. At least now he wasn't as terrible as he was in 4th grade. Still, he didn't talk to him much, Eric was more of a loner now than ever.
Meanwhile, Kyle didn't talk to Stan much anymore either. Freshman to Junior year felt empty without the redhead. “Super best friends.” Yeah. Sure. The connection they once shared seemed to vanish, leaving Stan feeling guilty for clinging onto the last fleeting symbol of their friendship. Love had turned into something painful for him.
Take it from the first boy crush he ever had to be sweet and fade out like a toy left under the blazing sun.
It wasn't even a rude awakening, a slap in the face, a “hey I don’t want to be friends anymore!” Being mean would be much more kind. Instead of facing the facts that you weren't close to the inseparable friends you once had. It was cruel. Time was a bitch.
He couldn't say a word to him that wouldn't make him feel more ostracized than anything else
***
Stan wrapped his fingers tightly around the cold, hard metal of the chain-link fence that surrounded the school. The fence stood tall and sturdy, a barrier between the structured world of classes and the vibrant freedom of the outside. All around him, sounds filled the air, a mix of laughter, shouts, and the excited chatter of students eager to break away from the confines of their school day. He counted the people as they passed. Not one head trekked by that he hadn't seen before. Living in a small town did that.
Not long before he saw Tolkien walking out with his crowd. Blue hat, crutches, a bright red letterman. Craig and those guys. Tolkien was synonymous with them. Just like Stan's old group with him.
He tried not to bite his lip in jealousy. Kyle had hung out with Tolkien a lot especially during their falling out.
Tolkien spotted him and strided across campus to him.
“Warhammer?” Stan spoke. A single word. No accessory added beforehand.
Tolkien stood. Two beats of silence.
“Warhammer…?” Tolkien stopped for a moment.A shock of recognition in his eyes brightening his expression. “Oh yeah! I have a whole set up in my room.”
“About that.” Stan paused, “I never played before.”
Tolkien's forehead wrinkled in surprise, “Are you serious?”
“Yeah,” Stan muttered, his confidence dwindling. He cursed himself inwardly for not doing more research about the game and worried he sounded foolish. The truth was, he hadn’t engaged with the gaming world much and was now painfully aware of it. As he felt the weight of embarrassment, he let his head fall forward, his hair forming a curtain over his face.
“That’s fine! I'll show you how to play,” Tolkien said quickly, his words spilling out in an excited rush. “I just thought... you know, Wendy. She and Nichole play that game a lot too. Nichole taught me how to play.”
Tolkien spoke as if caught in a whirlwind. His voice had a rushed, slightly raspy quality that Stan found oddly appealing.
But Stan realized he had barely talked to Wendy in a meaningful way for years, just exchanging a few sentences here and there. They had a history as childhood sweethearts but had long since moved on. The idea of becoming close friends with her again seemed impossible. They were childhood exes, what was more to say? He couldn't fathom being best buds with her, that would just be social suicide.
Sure, Wendy was cool, but thinking about being friends with her felt as uncomfortable as forcing a cat to take a bath. Like he couldn't control anything. He was powerless. She knew so much about him—she was aware of his long-held crush on Kyle and how he struggled with self-acceptance. She knew he hated himself. The thought of her having power over his social standing made him feel sick.
Oh god. Stan clutched his stomach, his lips pressed tightly together, fighting off the nausea.
“Are you ok?” Tolkien asked, breaking through Stan’s spiral of anxious thoughts and snapping him out of his stupor.
“Yeah, just thinking about stupid stuff.” Stan replied, trying to downplay his discomfort.
Tolkien laughed, a huff out of the mouth. Nothing too discreet. God why'd this guy have to be so perfect in everything he did.
“Great. I love stupid stuff.” Tolkien said, smiling at Stan.
Stan slung his eyes to him. He was lying to make him feel better. He was definitely the kind of guy to like eloquent cool stuff. Argh, he was just being nice he had to stop thinking.
“Cool.”
“Cool.” A helpless mirror of the boy in front of him.
Tolkien shifted his feet uneasily, his gaze drifting up to the overcast sky. Stan studied him, wondering why Tolkien had chosen to live on a farm. Wasn’t his mom a chemist with a real job? His family had always been well-off. He thought that something had happened with his dad and Tolkien’s parents since he was being so bitter early in the morning, but his dad was always up to some bullshit anyways. It was a gamble trying to make any sense of his petty battles with random people and things. They could be living anywhere else, out of South Park. He knew Tolkien deserved better than to be living amongst country bumpkins. Did Wendy frequently talk to him!?
“Bus stop?” Tolkien blurted out, breaking the silence that hung between them.
“Sure.” He launched himself off the chain link fence and stretched. Maybe he should talk. He didn't want to torture himself with silence any longer.
“So… uh. What other stuff do you like?” Stan fixed the brim of his hat, trying to look casual.
Tolkien glanced sideways at him as they started walking, their shoes crunching on the melting snow beneath them.
“I like music,” Tolkien said, a hint of pride in his voice. “I sing sometimes. And I like football.”
Stan rolled this around in his mind. Music was a common interest, alright. “Do you play any instruments?”
“Yeah, sometimes a bass but I stopped around 7th grade.”
“Oh.” Stan wanted to ask why he’d quit, but the question hung in the air like a heavy cloud.
They continued walking, reaching the bus stop. Silence became their third wheel.
“Why?” Stan asked. Waste of talent if you asked him.
Tolkien sighed, the sound heavy in the chilly air.
“Cartman.” Tolkien gave him a look, brows pointed upward, exasperated expression. But more than that, just the name told Stan all he needed to know.
“Oh.”
The cloud dissipated like a puff of smoke.
“Yeah. Oh,” Tolkien replied, his tone drenched in annoyance.
“Sorry about him,” Stan said, his voice dropping slightly.
“Why're you apologizing for him?” Tolkien asked, confusion evident in his eyes.
Stan kicked some snow on the ground, a spray of fleece white powder met the air. “I don't know. Guilty by association I guess.”
Tolkien laughed. A belly laugh. Eyes scrunched closed and all. He looked pretty.
“Cartman needs to take responsibility for himself.” He spoke, puffing out his chest, absolute restitution in his voice.
“Yeah.”
The bus arrived. Who could miss it? The loud screech of a stop pierced their ears and huffed out the noxious gas of exhaust fumes. The two followed into the bus like baby ducklings and sat down on the patchy leather seats, they creaked under the combined weight.
“Do you play any instruments?” A curious glint in the other boy's eye.
Stan met his gaze and felt a rush of warmth spread across his face. A small smile began to form at the corners of his lips. "Yeah. A guitar actually," he replied, glancing at his new friend from the corner of his eye. The fact that someone showed interest in his guitar playing was a pleasant surprise; it felt nice to be appreciated outside of the occasional praise he received from his parents.
Kyle had liked his guitar playing, but he didn't get it. Kyle didn't like simple. Kyle liked to always be in motion and thinking and thinking and thinking.
No breaks for him. Ever. And that meant no lyrics that didn't feel like a punch in the face. No creakily sung songs by puberty-stricken singing voices. No lyrics that you would only find home in its meaning if you squinted.
Tolkien actually leaned into their conversation. That struck a chord with him apparently.
“You should play it for me sometime.”
Stan pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the bus window, feeling a mix of excitement and embarrassment at the directness of the request. Was he always this forward? The heat rushed to his cheeks as he grappled with his words. Jesus, it's like this guy was swimming in charisma. His pulse was clear in his ears. It was hard to drown out.
It was absolutely clear that he would be playing guitar for the boy with the real wool sweater.