Work Text:
Kyle didn't get much sleep now that he was in college, he was studying psychology, wanting to help people who were suffering. Just like Stan was.
Tonight however, was no exception to Kyle's horrible sleep schedule. At around two-thirty in the morning his phone went off. He still had that ridiculous ringtone cartman had made for him, his famous poker-face remix.
It made him smile, if not for a second. Before the realization hit him, who the fuck would be calling him at this hour? Kyle figured it was urgent, maybe Kenny had overdosed again, maybe Stan had relapsed, what if it was Stan's roommate calling to say he had killed himself?
Kyle needed his brain to shut the fuck up. If it was an emergency, he should be helping rather than letting his anxiety and hero complex spiral.
He sat up in his bed, rubbing his eyes and feeling around the dark nightstand for his phone.
It was Stan. That was the one person Kyle didn't want calling him at this hour.
Once he had located his phone he went to pick up Stan's call.
“Hey, Stan? You okay dude? Why are you calling me so late...?” Kyle tried not to let the concern slip into is voice.
The line was quiet, other than almost inaudible sniffles.
“Stan, baby? Can you talk to me? You're making me nervous here.." Kyle chuckled nervously, getting up out of bed and pulling on his coat.
“I'm so sorry Kyle, I messed up, i-im so sorry” Stan was full on sobbing, something he only did when drunk.
“It's okay baby, are you sober? Do you want me to come over?” Kyle quietly pulled on his boots, making sure to not wake his sleeping roommate.
“I'm fine, I just wanted you to know I love you if anything happens” He sounded hysterical, not easing Kyles worries in the slightest.
Kyle left his dorm building and jogged over to Stan’s, it was on the opposite side of campus to his.
“What do you mean stan? Are you hurt?” Kyle sounded more serious now, he was fully awake and close to breaking out into a sprint.
The air was so cold on his face, he knew he must have looked like a crazy beetroot.
He also had to be conscious of not falling over trying to get to stan, the ground was icy and no one seemed to be hired to spread salt.
He didn't get a reply. In fact, he could no longer hear Stan's muffled sobs.
Fuuuckkk
He really hoped Stan was okay, and that Stan didn't go blame himself after it was taken care of.
Kyle desperately needed him to understand relapses were a part of recovering. At the moment he was going round in a loop.
His self-blaming causes him to have massive breakdowns, resulting in more relapses.
Kyle understood and emphasized, but he was getting tired.
Stan needed help, not Kyle running in the dead of night every other week to find Stan half dead.
He needed someone who knew what they were doing, someone who could make Stan... happy again, even if it wasn't that simple.
He reached Stan's building and sprinted up the stairs.
He tried banging on Stan's door, but no one answered.
Typical, his shitty roommate was probably out drinking again.
He fished around in his coat pockets for his wallet, which held a spare key to Stan’s room for moments like these.
Upon opening the door, he was greeted by a metallic scent, whether it was alcohol, blood or a mix of both? Kyle didn't know.
The kitchen counters had empty bottles and cans all over it, one bottle was smashed on the floor, with glass absolutely everywhere.
“Stan? You in here babe? It's me Kyle, I'm just checking on you” he said as he wandered the apartment, looking for Stan in his bedroom to find he wasn't there.
The light was on in the bathroom, Kyle softly knocked on the bathroom door.
“Stanley? Can i come in” He was met by silence, “okay I'm coming in”
He pushed the door open and was once again met with a half-dead stan.
Kyle sucked in his breath and got to work. Stan was unconscious.
While he was grateful it would make Stan not have to watch the process of being cleaned up, something he despised, there was a chance the reason he was passed out was blood loss, or alcohol poisoning. Kyle hoped he was just tired.
The cuts were deeper than usual, going so deep to the fact yellow bits of fat were visible on his wrists.
Kyle tried not to gag, he'd have to deal with this in his line of work, so he'd better get used to it.
He yanked off his own shirt and used it to try to stop the bleeding on the deeper cuts, Stan's towel was already soaked in blood, it seems stan was at it for a while.
Once he got the bleeding to relatively stop, he used water from the sink to flush out the wound.
Kyle was no medical genius and didn't know how to properly do things, but over time he had developed a routine that hadn't resulted in any further damage.
He watched the small blood clots fall to the floor with the orangey brown water. He reminded himself to gag and throw up into stans cuts.
He ran alcohol wipes round the cut, making sure to touch it directly.
Sleeping stan let out some small gasps and groans at this process.
Kyle let out his own groans, but for a different reason.
With how much these cuts were gaping open, they would 100% need some sort of stitches. This was above Kyle's level.
He wrapped up Stan's arm and cleaned up the bathroom, bleach was the closest thing he had on hand to try to fix the stains, the acrid smell burning his eyes a little.
The bathroom was clean, and Kyle admired his work. It wasn't perfect if you have a UV light, but it was good enough for the naked eye.
He moved onto the kitchen, getting rid of the shattered glass with a sweeping pan and disposing of all the alcohol in their dorm. Stan's shitty roommate didn't seem to care about how having that shit would affect Stan's recovery from alcohol addiction.
He scooped up Stan, thankful for the muscles his gym membership had given him, and carefully placed Stan into his bed.
Kyle smoothed back his hair and sighed, looking at Stan's peaceful slumber.
Stan needed help, he was done covering and keeping this shit a secret.
He placed a large cup of water and some Ibuprofen, hoping it would ease the inflammation and sting he knew Stan would complain about in the morning.
He glanced at the clock; it was now three-fifteen.
He would talk to Stan in the morning, talk about getting help and seeing someone. Different coping mechanisms and stuff.
For now though, he needed some sleep. They both did have classes tomorrow after all.
He slid into the small single bed beside Stan, snuggling up into his boyfriend's chest. Maybe things would be better in the future, but for the next few years, things would probably still be shit.