Work Text:
It all started as a game, like most days do. A parody of Game of Thrones, twisted into a Black Friday war. The entire town had split into two factions: those loyal to Xbox and those who pledged allegiance to PlayStation. The goal? To decide which console they'd buy when the sales hit the mall. As usual, everyone picked their sides like it was life or death. Lines were drawn. Alliances formed. Costumes made.
Kenny couldn't care less. A console? He could barely afford lunch when the school didn't cover it. Chipping in for a new system? Not even close. Still, not playing wasn't an option, not when all his friends were involved. So screw it. If he had to join in, he might as well go big.
Kenny wanted to be a princess.
Not like regular Kenny, who died over and over again and never got more than a passing "Oh my God" before everyone forgot again. Not like Kenny, who quietly showed up, survived things no kid should, and was still just the poor kid from the wrong side of town. No one looked twice at that Kenny. But this version? With the blonde wig and soft pink dress, Kenny demanded attention. She made them look. She was too cute not to.
This time, he swore things would be different.
So he searched for a costume. While his mom was away working a shift at Olive Garden, Kenny tore through her closet. The air inside reeked of stale cigarette smoke, weed, maybe meth from his parent's lab. But eventually, he found it, an old, matted blonde wig shoved to the back. He'd seen his mom wear it once or twice on nights she wanted to feel pretty. She always seemed like a different person when she did, happier, less violent, a little more sober. Which, at this point, was all Kenny could ask for..
The wig was tangled and coarse, but after a lot of brushing, water, and a splash of fabric softener, it looked good as new. Kenny even managed to curl the ends with an old iron.
Deeper in the closet, he found a pink thrift-store dress from her mom's childhood, crumpled beneath a pile of tattered clothes. The seams were stretched, and the hem was frayed.
It was perfect.
When Kenny showed up the next day for training, she turned heads, not glances, but full-on stares. Eyes followed her as she stepped into Cartman's backyard, the designated training ground for the Xbox faction. Kids were already in costume, swinging foam swords and hiding behind makeshift shields crafted from old Halloween props. Battle plans were scribbled across the pavement in sidewalk chalk, and someone had set up a camera, presumably Cartman, to act as a makeshift security camera.
Kenny walked straight through the crowd, chin lifted, skirt swaying as she walked, the golden wig catching the sunlight. This was exactly what she wanted. Eyes on her. People noticing. A little awe wouldn't hurt either. Because Princess Kenny was supposed to be seen.
Of course, Cartman didn't get it. Of course, he didn't. One time, he faked being "Transginger" just to get his own bathroom at school. If anyone was going to miss the point, it was him.
"Why are you dressed like a chick, dude?" he called out, already snickering. "That's so gay." Kenny didn't even miss a beat.
She just shrugged, gave a dramatic curtsy, and kept walking. Her heels, multiple sizes too big and also borrowed from her mother's closet, clicked softly against the pavement as she made her way to a makeshift throne she'd set up the week before after school. It was just an old chair with a faded red curtain thrown over it, but the way she carried herself made it feel like a throne. She didn't need real power; Cartman still called all the shots. She just needed to look like she had it.
She sat down slowly, smoothing out her skirt with both hands before crossing one leg over the other. Her posture was poised and deliberate. Her smile stayed fixed, but her eyes scanned the others on the field. For once, she was glad she could just sit back and watch the show. And when she met other kids' eyes, some looked away quickly. Others whispered behind styrofoam shields.
She didn't care.
But Cartman wouldn't let it go.
He stomped over, puffed up, and was annoyed. "You can't be a princess," he declared, standing square in front of her. "There's no princess class in the Xbox faction. We're warriors. Barbarians. Mages. Maybe you could be, like... a sexy elf or something."
Kenny's smile faltered, just slightly. "I am a princess," she said firmly. "That's kind of the whole point."
Cartman scoffed. "Yeah, well, not in my army you're not."
Kenny looked up at him, head tilted like royalty addressing a servant. "Then I'll take my services somewhere they're wanted. Good day."
And just like that, she stood up, adjusted her wig, and walked away without looking back. She didn't hesitate, nor look back, as she stepped into enemy territory, where Stan greeted her like she had always been a part of their faction. He let her be the princess. And that meant everything.
For the first time in a long time, she felt like people wanted her around because they felt bad, or because she'd be the one who'd take the hit in a fight, but for her. To protect her. For the first time in her life, she didn't have to worry about dying anymore. She had a whole army to protect and obey her every command. She yearned for having the same protection around her in real life. Even though she always came back, that didn't mean it never hurt. She felt all of it.
So she leaned into it.
She started crafting a more elaborate costume, one that matched the fantasy in her head. She braided ribbons into her wig, pinks, purples, sometimes silver, depending on her mood. She carefully searched every aisle in dollar stores for sparkly fabric and rummaged through thrift bins for anything with lace or gold trim. She found a plastic headpiece at a secondhand costume shop for two bucks and polished it until it gleamed and replaced the jewels with ones that sparkled and gleamed. The crown didn't mean much on its own, but when she wore it, she felt like royalty.
Then came the dress, a layered purple-and-white thing with golden accents, frayed at the edges but still the most beautiful thing she'd ever owned. It cost six dollars. It was worth a hundred to her. It was all a little extra, maybe. A little over the top. And maybe it blurred lines Kenny wasn't ready to think too hard about. Because things at home were getting worse.
Her dad didn't just pass out anymore. Now he yelled, the kind of yelling that made your chest sink before you even caught the words. Almost every night, it was something: raised voices, slamming doors, beer bottles clinking too hard on the counter. Sometimes he broke them.
Most nights, it was her parents yelling at each other, tired and bitter over god knows what. Other nights, it was his dad yelling at him. For being too quiet. For being too loud. For walking through the living room at the wrong time or not answering fast enough. There wasn't but a pattern, and that's what made it worse; he never knew when it would start or what would set him off..
Kenny got good at vanishing. He learned how to move quietly, how to keep his head down and his voice low. He'd sit in corners with his knees pulled up, pretending not to exist. Being invisible helped, until it didn't. Until he noticed he was too quiet. Until he needed someone to take things out on. And it was lonely. God, it was lonely.
Even when it was quiet, the silence felt heavy, like it was waiting to explode. Kenny never really relaxed. He flinched at sudden noises and cried when it got dark.
That's probably why the wig and dress felt... safe. Silly, at first, sure. Just a joke for the game. But when she wore them, she felt different. Not scared, not small, it was like she was transported to another world. But when she pinned on the wig, zipped up the dress, and stood tall in front of the mirror, she felt strong. She felt pretty. Someone who didn't flinch when doors slammed or dishes shattered. Princess Kenny didn't cry when her dad's footsteps thudded down the hall after a fight with her mother. Princess Kenny didn't panic.
Kenny poured everything into her persona, into this character she created. Every day after school became a quest. She practiced posture in the mirror, she studied how to sit like royalty, to hold her chin just high enough to command a room without seeming full of herself, and practiced speaking softer, but still commanding at the same time. She started bowing to people in-game, half-mocking but always graceful. She even began speaking in old-timey phrases to make her friends laugh. But somewhere in all of that, somewhere between the costumes and the makeup and the practiced poses, Kenny started to forget where the game ended and she began.
Sometimes, when she was alone again, back in her room after the day's battles and training were done, she'd stare at herself in the mirror. The dress was still on, and the crown was slightly crooked on her head. The light caught the fake jewels just right. And she'd wonder: If I take all this off... what's left? Was she still Kenny, or had Princess Kenny swallowed her whole?
And if she was being honest, sometimes she preferred the princess. She didn't know where Kenny ended and the princess began. But maybe that was the point. But she did know one thing.
Princess Kenny had always loved to dance.
She twirled, arms outstretched, gliding across polished marble. Her dress, lavender silk threaded with gold, flowed behind her like ribbon, catching the sunlight pouring through the towering ballroom windows. As she spun, the skirt flared out in a perfect circle. The long strands of ribbon woven into her neatly braided hair flew behind her. Her crown, a delicate piece inlaid with glass jewels, shimmered with every movement, catching the light as though it had been made just for her.
The ballroom shimmered like a dream. Gold trim lined the white marble floor, spiraling into elegant patterns that guided her steps like a secret path meant only for royalty. High arched ceilings stretched above her, painted with soft clouds and beams of golden sunlight. Suspended above it all was a chandelier, grand and weightless, its hundreds of crystal prisms scattering light in every direction. They danced across the walls, the ceiling, and her dress like stars scattered across a sky that belonged only to her.
Velvet-draped banquet tables stretched from end to end of the ballroom, overflowing with food too beautiful to touch, enough to feed a kingdom twice over. Candles flickered gently in golden holders, their flames calm and steady, never flickering out.
And the music, oh, the music. Violins sang like birds in the morning, guiding each of her steps, every turn, and bow, like a language only she could hear. And everyone was watching.
Eyes wide, faces lit with warm, golden light. Nobles, knights, visiting kings and queens, all captivated by the kid from the middle of nowhere, in Colorado. They leaned forward in their seats, enchanted. Hands raised in applause, lips parted in awe. Some whispered her name like a blessing, a prayer. Others simply smiled.
Of course, they adored her.
Everyone adores princesses.
Kenny twirled once more, arms high, then let them fall gently to her sides as she dropped into a low curtsy. Just as she had practiced: one leg behind the other, back straight, eyes cast downward. A perfect display of grace. A perfect illusion of control she didn't have.
She'd spent hours learning it, alone in her room. Back when the neighborhood kids were obsessed with Lord of the Rings and played pretend after school. Butters had let her borrow his phone so she could watch ballroom dancing tutorials. She studied them until the battery died. She watched them again the next day after Butters gave her a charger. And the next. It took days, but eventually, Kenny didn't just pretend to be a princess.
She became one.
The music swelled, reaching its final crescendo.> And then the ballroom shattered.
The warm candlelight was gone, replaced by the harsh flicker of a fluorescent bulb buzzing weakly overhead. The soft scent of roses and pastries vanished, overtaken by the sharp sting of cigarette smoke and the sour burn of cheap beer. The golden ceiling crumbled into peeling drywall. The chandelier became a cracked smoke detector that stopped working ages ago. The bed was a bed with holes in the sheets. And the music, those graceful violins, twisted, warped, and faded into shouting. And the music, those graceful violins, twisted, warped, and faded into shouting. The kind that rattled through the floorboards. The kind that felt as if it would never stop.
Another crash from downstairs. Then another. Kenny didn't flinch. He'd heard it all before. It was his parents fighting, he could tell; they were always the loudest. The voices rose, his dad's voice boomed through the thin walls, words slurred and snarling, thick with whatever cheap booze could find that week. A second voice snapped back louder, brittle and exhausted. Kenny assumed they were fighting over who got the last of their weed, or how much of it was left. Kenny had stolen some a couple of days prior just to relax after a recommendation from Stan.
Kenny sat still on the floor of his room, tucked into the corner, like it would prevent his parents from seeing him to yell at him. A worn, pilled blanket wrapped tight around his shoulders and pooled around his legs like a gown that had lost all its shine. He'd tried to arrange it just right, letting the fabric fall in careful folds. He wanted it to feel like silk. He wanted to feel like her.
A towel, faded and fraying at the edges, was tied around his waist to mimic layered skirts. It was stiff and wrong, maybe one da,y when he moved out, he could get a real one. Ribbons hung in his hair, bought from a clearance bin with crumpled change, their ends chewed and unraveling. They'd been so bright once. Now they were faded and worn.
And the crown, her crown, a cheap plastic headband encrusted with scratched rhinestones, sat askew on his head. Kenny had found it in a school lost and found when he was ten, claimed it quietly, and never gave it back. No one asked. No one noticed. That was years ago. Who would care if that much about a dollar store Halloween costume, anyway?
Kenny had learned to cook eggs by the time he was seven for Karen's sake. He could never get the pan hot enough, but it was better than waiting until noon for someone to remember he hadn't eaten. Karen never complained about their meals. She was used to peanut butter and the cheapest ramen. Kenny just made sure she got the last of the good stuff before their dad raided the cabinets looking for snacks to pair with whatever he was drinking.
Maybe that's when Kenny learned to escape; truthfully, he couldn't remember. He pressed his hands over his ears, hard, so hard his elbows trembled. It didn't block the yelling completely. It never did. The voices still slipped through in muffled, broken pieces. His fingers dug into his scalp, and his jaw clenched tight. Please. Please go back.
To the ballroom.
To the warmth.
To the light.
He squeezed his eyes shut. He didn't want to see the walls. He didn't want to see the mess or the peeling posters or the crumpled clothes or the messy drawings he had made on his walls as a kid. He wanted the ballroom back. If he couldn't live with it, then at least he could sit somewhere quieter.
But it never got any better. The yelling kept coming, endless and sharp, like it was never going to stop. The house stayed cold. And nothing ever changed. As much as Kenny knew he should be checking in on his little sister, he didn't think he could handle it right now. So Kenny climbed out the window and onto the roof. It wasn't exactly safe; the sheet metal was rusted at the edges and dipped in the middle like it was tired of holding itself up, but it was quiet.
Up there, the air smelled like old pine needles and cool mountain air. It was better than the sour reek of beer, smoke, and the anger that hung thickly in the air. The stars weren't always out, not with all the light pollution from Denver, but on the good nights, he could find a few. He liked the stars.
He lit a cigarette with trembling fingers. His hand cupped the flame, shielding it from the wind that cut across the rooftop. It took a few tries, the lighter sparking uselessly, the flame flickering out just before it reached the end of the cigarette. His fingers fumbled slightly, too cold or too shaky or maybe just too tired. Finally, it caught.
He inhaled slowly, letting the smoke settle deep in his lungs, holding it in for as long as he possibly could. It didn't calm him like it used to. But it gave him the illusion of control. The cigarette hung loosely from his lips as he leaned back against the hard metal of the roof, eyes tracing the empty stretch of sky above, no stars to be seen.
It was just another bad habit. One of many. He had Stan to thank for that one, or maybe Stan's dad, really, for dragging his whole family out to live on a weed farm and leaving Stan to cope with whatever that meant. Kenny had watched it happen from the outside. He watched Stan go quiet. Then reckless. Slowly losing himself in the process. He was a far cry from the happy kid Kenny once knew. Kenny hadn't meant to pick it up, too, but it was easy. Too easy. And he hadn't stopped.
The cigarette flared in the dark as he inhaled, the end burning orange. The smoke stung his throat on the way down. It didn't feel good. But it gave his hands something to do. Gave his lungs a reason to ache in a way that made sense. He leaned back, letting the metal creak beneath him. He didn't care if it collapsed. Not really, maybe then someone would notice, then perhaps he could get some attention from his parents.
Princess Kenny wouldn't smoke. She wouldn't have to. She wouldn't sit on a rusted rooftop with holes in her sleeves and frostbitten fingers. She'd be in the ballroom, surrounded by candlelight and silk and soft music.
But he wasn't her. Not up here. Not with smoke in his lungs and the cold biting through his jacket. Up here, he was just Kenny. He started counting the cars to give himself something to do, one, two, three, four, take a deep breath, five, six...
Kenny let out the smoke slowly, watching as it curled upward, disappearing into the black sky like everything else he couldn't hold onto. The cigarette burned low between his fingers, ash clinging to the end until it finally drifted away with the breeze. He didn't blink. He didn't move. He just stared out over the silent streets and reached for another. Just one more, he told himself. He used to text Stan when it got like this. Sometimes Stan answered. Lately, he hasn't; he had his problems to deal with. It was hard to deal with someone sad all the time anyway. Kenny didn't blame him. He wondered, just for a second, what it would feel like to fall off the edge. Just to see if anyone would notice.
"Hey... Kenny?"
The voice made him freeze. Not because it was loud, it was barely more than a whisper, but because it meant someone had found him. And he really, really hadn't wanted anyone to, not now, not until he was better. He couldn't slip now.
He turned his head slightly, expecting to see no one. But there he was, Butters, awkwardly climbing through the window, nearly falling in the process. "Butters?" Kenny asked, voice rough. "What the hell are you doing up here?" Kenny tried to hide the cigarette from Butters' view.
Butters gave a small, nervous shrug, tugging his hoodie tighter around himself. "I, um... I saw your light flicker. You weren't answering your phone. And I know how you and Stan get sometimes, and... I dunno. I just had a feeling. Thought maybe you shouldn't be alone."
Kenny looked away quickly, turning his head so the smoke wouldn't blow in Butters' direction. "I'm fine," he huffed.
Butters didn't respond to that. He just moved carefully, settling down beside him, mindful not to lean too heavily on the warped metal beneath them. He pulled something out of his hoodie pocket: a crumpled juice pouch, dented and slightly warm from his body heat. It was fruit punch, Kenny's favorite when they were little. Butters held it out wordlessly. Kenny stared at it. He laughed, sharp and dry, almost bitter. "You brought me a Capri Sun?"
"I know it's dumb," Butters said quickly, his voice cracking with the kind of sincerity that made Kenny feel like his ribs were caving in. "But... when I feel like crap, I drink one. I dunno why. I think my mom used to give me these when I cried a lot as a kid. Said I needed to stay hydrated, and this is all I would drink. Or maybe it just reminded me of when things felt... safer, simpler. Figured maybe it could help you, too." He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes flicking to Kenny and then back down to his shoes, not once looking at the cigarette or even questioning it.
His eyes darted away after he said it, like he was afraid Kenny would laugh again. Kenny didn't laugh this time. He just stared at the juice box like it was something completely foreign to him. Because the truth was, Kenny understood it too well. He had his own crutches, same as Butters. Different shape, same purpose. There was something so achingly kind in that gesture, because that's who Butters was. He always had been. Kenny only wished to be half as kind and happy as him.
Kenny's fingers twitched, hovering halfway between the cigarette and the juice box. He took it. Not because he thought it would fix anything, it wouldn't. Stan used to offer him stuff like this too, in his own way. Candy bars, stolen beers, weed, a distraction from both of their shitty lives. Kenny always took them, even when he was pissed off at everything and everyone. Even when Stan didn't stay.
But because it was the first thing anyone had given him in weeks that hadn't come with strings, or pity, or a backhanded insult hidden in concern. God knows Kenny would never pass up free food or drink.
They sat in silence for a while after that. Kenny finished his cigarette. Butters didn't say anything about it.
"You don't gotta be a princess up here, you know," Butters said, his voice soft. "You don't gotta be anything." The words sat between them like the smoke trapped in Kenny's lungs. Kenny didn't answer right away; he just stared down at his hands. The callouses from fixing broken things around the house. The bitten nails. The faint burn marks that never fully healed. The parts of him that no costume could cover.
Being Princess Kenny was easy. She smiled when he couldn't. Moved gracefully when he felt broken. Stayed untouchable when everything else hurt too much. She was safe. And that was all he wanted right now.
Then, without thinking, he brushed his hair back behind his ear. Not in the usual quick, careless way, more deliberate this time, almost graceful or practiced. His fingers lingered a beat too long, but neither of them seemed to notice. Kenny's mind was still too loud from earlier, tension clinging to his skin.
Butters shifted beside him, pulling his knees to his chest as the wind picked up, blowing bitterly. "It's cold," he murmured, more to the sky than to Kenny. "But it's kinda nice up here. Quiet. I see why you like it so much."
Kenny hummed in agreement, carding his hands through his hair to give them something to do. Kenny's fingers trembled faintly, though he wasn't sure if that was the cold or the leftover nerves and adrenaline. For a few seconds, it was peaceful. Just the wind, the calls of various animals, the faint rustle of Butters' jacket as he shifted. Then the door slammed again downstairs.
Kenny flinched, just barely, but Butters caught it this time. He glanced over, concern etched into his face, the kind of worried look Kenny had seen more times than he could count. Kenny didn't look back. He couldn't.
The porch groaned under the weight of heavy footsteps. His father's boots struck the wood, each step louder than the last. Gravel crunched as he moved off the porch. Then came the yelling, slurred and sharp, aimed back at someone still inside the house. Kenny didn't need to hear the words to know what they were. He could picture it too easily: the staggering walk, the muttered curses, the bitterness spilling out of him like it always did. "Stupid bitch," he'd say, just loud enough for his mother to hear as she walked to sleep on the couch.
Then came the familiar cough of the engine as the car started, a ragged sound Kenny had grown up with, before it wheezed down the road, taking his dad with it. For now. Kenny curled his hands into fists in his lap. His knuckles went white. He drew a sharp breath through his nose. He didn't want to be here. Not on the roof. Not in this cold. Not in this life. And not in this suffering.
His eyes slipped shut. And slowly, he was transported somewhere else. Somewhere safer. The wind quieted. The cold melted away. Silk brushed against his legs as the weight of a gown settled over him. Light danced off the jewels in the headpiece, catching in soft glints of pink and gold. Candlelight flickered against gilded walls, the flames swaying gently. Every surface gleamed. Every corner glowed. A chandelier, dripping with glass and gold, sparkled above her, casting flecks of rainbow light onto the polished marble floor. A hush fell over the ballroom as she stepped forward. All eyes turned.
They all watched her. Not with judgment or cruelty, far from it, but with awe. With admiration. They waited. For her. Faint strings played from the stage, a melody soft as breath, swelling like a tide. It felt like the music knew her. Like everyone did, like she belonged.
"Kenny...? Are you alright? I've been real worried since you and Stan stopped talking, it seemed like you guy depended on each other a lot." Butters tilted his head, voice quiet. Kenny blinked. Right. This was his reality.
His fingers were cold, even through the fabric of his sleeves, but he didn't care. His father was probably halfway to the bar by now, meaning it was going to be one of those nights, the kind where the front door slammed open at 2 a.m., followed by stumbling, shouting, something breaking, and then complete silence that always made Kenny check on his mom to make sure she was okay. The scent of beer and smoke still lingered like a ghost, clinging to the back of his throat. He swallowed hard, but the lump there didn't move. "Yeah," he lied, voice hoarse and breaking and cracking on the single word. "I'm alright."
He couldn't meet Butters' gaze. Every time Butters' eyes found him, Kenny looked away. It was easier to fidget with the half-empty cigarette box, or stare at the darkened horizon, or the blur of streetlights through tears that hadn't fallen yet.
"I did depend on him a lot," he muttered finally, barely audible over the wind. "I think we both did. We were going through similar stuff, and it was just... easy. Being around him. Like I didn't have to say much for him to know I was having a shitty day. And I knew when he was, too. In those days, we'd sit behind the school smoking until the pack was gone." Kenny's voice wavered and cracked. He pulled his knees closer to his chest.
"I just wish he'd stuck around more after he moved to that damn farm..." Kenny's hands clenched into fists in his lap, knuckles going white. "But I get it. We were enabling each other."
He didn't realize he was crying until he felt the cold air hit the fresh streaks on his face. He rubbed at them with the sleeve of his jacket, but it just smeared the wet tears across his cheeks. "I don't blame him for leaving," Kenny whispered. "He thought it was the right thing to save us both. Even if it meant leaving the rest of us behind, and leaving me alone." He could almost see the ballroom again if he closed his eyes, candlelight, satin, the faint lull of violin strings.
“Kenny…? Hello?” Butters’ voice broke through the ballroom insistently. “Seriously, are you okay?” Kenny blinked. The candlelight vanished. The soft sound of violin strings dissolved into the wind. The golden ballroom receded like a dream, leaving behind only the rooftop, the biting cold, and Butters’ worried eyes watching him.
“Yeah,” Kenny said quickly, voice rasping out of his throat. “Sorry. I just zoned out, is all.” He rubbed at his face with the back of his sleeve, as if he could erase any evidence of the tears that had fallen earlier. Thank god Butters didn't press any further.
“Y’know… you’re not alone now,” he said, voice so soft Kenny almost didn’t catch it. “I know it’s not the same, and I’m not Stan or anyone else, but… I’m here. You don’t gotta go through all this by yourself.”
He looked over at Butters, finally. His eyes were red-rimmed and heavy. “Thanks,” he muttered, barely louder than a whisper. “For not leaving.”
Butters smiled, crooked and soft, “I wouldn’t know how.”
For a moment, neither of them moved an inch. Kenny grabbed onto the sleeve of his parka. He wanted to open up to Butters so badly, but the fear twisted in his chest—fear of what, he didn’t even know. Maybe yelling? But that didn’t make sense. Butters didn’t yell. Not ever. At least, not at him. “Come on,” Butters said, voice lighter now, but no less kind. “You can stay at my house tonight. Mom won’t mind.”
Kenny hesitated, just for a second. Letting Butters take his hand in his. It was the first time in a long while he’d touched someone without bracing for what they might do next. He let himself be pulled gently to his feet, legs a little shaky, the cold sinking into his bones now that he was moving again.
Kenny followed Butters down the roof and through the familiar darkened streets in complete silence, their footsteps muffled by the snow. The wind nipped at their faces and noses, but it didn't bother him as much as it used to when he was a kid. He kept his eyes down, one of his hands loosely clinging to Butters', allowing him to guide Kenny through the moonlit streets. Butters only lived a few blocks away, but every step felt heavy and like it was taking an eternity.
When they got to the house, Butters nudged the door open quietly and led him inside. The warmth hit him immediately. He’d almost forgotten how cozy Butters' house could be. It was a lot warmer than his own. They had to buy cheap heaters to keep everyone inside from freezing to death. Butter's house was brightly lit, a stark contrast to his own.
"You can take your shoes off, if you want," Butters said gently, shrugging off his jacket and hanging it by the door. Kenny hesitated for a moment before complying, "Never upset the guest," His mom had lectured him. He slipped off the worn military boots, hand-me-downs from Stan’s Uncle Jimbo, and set them beside Butters’ much newer sneakers.
There were pictures on the wall. Real pictures. A smiling Butters with his parents at a pumpkin patch. One of Butters with a cake, frosting on his cheeks, about 3 years old. There was a watercolor painting, probably from kindergarten. Of course, it was all fake. Kenny knew how bad Butters' parents were. But at least they could fake it. Kenny looked away. "You okay?" Butters asked softly.
"Yeah," Kenny lied again, for the third time that night.
"You can sit down, if you want. I’ll grab us some cocoa. I mean, unless you want something else, like soda, I mean! Not... uh... alcohol. I don't have any of that. My parents don't allow that." Butters rambled.
Hot chocolate’s fine,” he murmured, the smile not quite landing. He sat gingerly on the edge of the couch, his posture stiff, unsure where to put his hands. First his lap, then his knees, then he folded awkwardly again, but then all were uncomfortable.
Butters’ living room was so clean it made Kenny’s skin itch. Everything in his house was always sticky or stained or both. This place smelled like cinnamon and laundry detergent. Like someone actually gave a damn to clean every week. Part of Kenny wished he could stay here forever.
"Your hot chocolate, Princess." Butters handed over the mug with a little grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, teasing but gentle. Kenny blinked at the nickname, slightly caught off guard. Kenny shook his head softly and took the mug wordlessly, cradling it between his palms. The heat from the ceramic seeping into his palms almost stung. The living room was dimly lit, a warm glow from the nearby lamp casting soft shadows dancing across the room.
Kenny glanced around the space. It was small and cluttered, lived-in, the couch worn down in the best way. At his house, the couch was duct-taped at the seams and smelled like old beer. He used to sleep with socks on his hands in the winter just to stay warm. But it felt safe here. Or safer than his house or the roof. "You know," Butters blurted suddenly, "I think you're the prettiest princess I've ever seen, Ken." Kenny nearly choked on his drink. His head snapped to look at Butters, who was looking at him with complete admiration, not a trace of mockery or sarcasm he was used to getting from, say, Cartman.
"Oh," Kenny stammered, blinking fast. "Thanks, Butters. I… I appreciate it." His cheeks flushed a light pink, the warmth spreading to the tips of his ears. Compliments always felt strange to him; he was never quite sure how to respond.
"And I mean it," Butters continued, "I can tell you put a lot of hard work into that dress."
“Yeah,” Kenny said softly, voice barely more than a breath. “I did. Hell, I barely knew how to sew before this.” He looked over at Butters, eyes uncertain, darting everywhere except to meet Butters' eyes. “It’s dumb, I guess. I know it’s not real, not like in movies. I don’t even know why I care so much.”
Butters' eyebrows furrowed, "No, it's not dumb at all. I can see how you dance and curtsy while you're wearing that dress. That takes time and practice that you would only put in if it really mattered."
Kenny swallowed hard, caught off guard again. “You think so?”
Butters nodded. “I do. You always knew how to pull off stuff like this, I don't know how you do it," Butters added, quieter now. “Even when we were younger, you’d wear something weird or wild and people would laugh or call you names, but you just kind of… owned it. You always kept your head up.”
Kenny snorted under his breath, though there was no real humor behind it. “Yeah, well. Sometimes you gotta pretend like it doesn’t hurt. Because if you don’t, people notice, and that's when you get taken away by cps," Kenny’s voice trailed off, the last words barely audible. He stared down into the swirl of chocolate in his mug, his fingers tightening around the ceramic. He hadn't meant to say all that. He wasn’t even sure when he’d decided to start talking; words had just tumbled out of his mouth like they had a mind of their own. They stayed silent for a long time after that.
Eventually, Butters stood and gestured toward the hallway. “You can sleep in the guest room tonight. It’s down there, second door on the right. The bathroom’s right across. Towels are clean. If you need anything, I’m just next door.”
Kenny nodded. “Thanks.”
He shuffled down the hallway slowly, feeling like an intruder in someone else’s house. The guest room was small but neat, with a bed with a soft blue blanket, a dresser, and a window framed by clean curtains. He sat down on the edge of the bed and stared at his hands. Everything was so tidy, so calm. It didn’t feel like it belonged to him.
Restless, he stood again and peeled off his parka, laying it carefully over the back of the desk chair. Without it, he felt weirdly exposed. He lingered for a moment, unsure. Dressed in borrowed pajamas, a faded T-shirt, and a pair of Butters’ soft flannel pants he’d lent him once before, Kenny caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror above the dresser. He looked like hell. Too young to be this tired. To be going through this much, he looked away.
Sliding beneath the covers, he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The blanket was soft. The pillow didn’t smell like smoke or mildew or cheap beer. He kept waiting for the usual discomfort to settle in, but it didn’t. It was too warm, too safe, too quiet for that.
Lying on his back, eyes on the still ceiling, his thoughts began to drift.
He hadn’t meant to think about Stan. Not again. Not ever, if he could help it.
It used to be the four of them against everything. But that fell apart, like everything eventually did. And Kenny had gotten stuck in the middle of it, more screaming, more fighting, more nights of wishing he could just disappear. On those nights, he’d crawl out of his window and sneak into Stan’s. Sometimes Stan would do the same, escaping Randy’s drinking. Sometimes they’d crash at Kyle’s. Stale snacks, late-night reruns with the volume low, it wasn’t perfect, but it was theirs.
He remembered the first time Stan had called him Princess Kenny and actually meant it. Not in a mocking voice, not with a smirk like Cartman, but like he believed it. Maybe it was because he was drunk out of his mind, but that's not what Kenny wanted to believe. He just smiled, adjusting the crooked headpiece, and let himself believe, just for a second, that being Princess Kenny meant something to someone who wasn’t him.
Things changed after Stan moved to the farm. At first, he was still there, still Stan. But the texts slowed. Kenny’s window stayed shut. When they did hang out, Stan was quieter, darker, like something had hollowed him out. He kept saying everything was shit, that nothing mattered. Kenny asked him if he was okay. Stan always said, “Yeah. Don’t worry about me.”
But Kenny knew better. He always did.
He never pushed, though. Never told Stan he could see through it. Because maybe if he didn’t say it out loud, it wouldn’t be real.
The last time they really hung out, Stan had said he needed space. That he was trying to figure things out. “You get it, right?”
And Kenny, like always, nodded. Muted a “yeah,” like it didn’t feel like the floor was falling out beneath him. He rolled onto his side, clutching the blanket tighter. Stan had been the one person who really got it. Who didn’t look at Kenny like he was a burden. And maybe that was what made it worse, that even he left. No goodbye. Just space. Just silence that never got filled again. The only thing Kenny could do was move on.
But that was before everything got quiet. Before Stan stopped calling. Before he left without really saying why.
Kenny didn’t wear the dress much after that.
A soft knock broke the quiet. Kenny’s heart jumped, but it was just Butters’ voice, low and muffled through the door. “Night, Ken.”
“…Goodnight, Butters,” Kenny said, just loud enough to be heard.
The hallway light clicked off. Darkness settled over the room. Kenny curled into himself, the blanket pulled to his chin. The house was silent. No shouting. No glass breaking. No one slamming doors.
And for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t bracing for what came next.