Stan Marsh

Stan had the carrier hooked over one arm and the diaper bag sliding down the other. The newborn sat inside the carrier like a small, expensive potato, head carefully supported, deadpan stare already locked on the nearest adult as if it were calculating the exact level of disappointment the afternoon deserved. Its tiny fist was clenched. The other hand lay open, palm up, like it was still waiting for the universe to offer a better explanation.

Other parents made the usual polite noises as they passed on the sidewalk.

“Oh, how old is she?” “Three weeks.” “Aww, so little—must be exhausting.”

Stan gave the short, tired answers he had practiced in the mirror that morning. The baby did not gurgle. It did not smile. It simply continued judging the parking lot, the other children, the scuffed sidewalk, and the entire concept of public education with the same flat intensity it brought to the ceiling fan at home.

“Yeah,” Stan added under his breath when the last parent finally moved on. “Exhausting is one word for it. Existential dread is another. You’re already looking at me like I’ve failed some cosmic performance review and you can’t even hold your own head up yet. That’s impressive. And terrifying.”

Kenny arrived two minutes later, still in the orange parka, a faint new scorch mark across one sleeve. He didn’t slow down. He stepped in behind Stan and immediately used the carrier as both shield and excuse, sliding one arm around Stan’s waist under the pretense of helping with the slipping diaper bag. His body pressed close enough that the baby’s carrier was the only thing keeping the contact from becoming fully indecent in the middle of the pickup line. His free hand settled on Stan’s hip in plain view of everyone, fingers curling with open possession.

Stan kept his voice low.

“You’re doing the thing again. The public thing. There are at least six other parents watching and one of them is definitely the same woman from last week who saw us against the wall. Can you not—just for five minutes—act like we live in a society?”

Kenny’s only answer was to lean down, rest his chin briefly on Stan’s shoulder, and tighten the arm around his waist. His thumb stroked once, slow and deliberate, under the hem of Stan’s shirt. The baby stared up at both of them with the same flat expression it reserved for the fluorescent lights in the pediatrician’s office.

Across the sidewalk, Tanner was walking out with his backpack perfectly zipped and his Family Expectations folder tucked under one arm. Riley was already explaining to a teacher, in short blunt sentences, that the bruise on her knee “didn’t count” because she had walked it off. The teacher looked tired.

Stan adjusted the carrier higher on his arm. Kenny did not adjust his hands. If anything he pressed closer, mouth brushing the side of Stan’s neck in a way that was not even pretending to be casual.

“I can feel you smiling under the hood,” Stan muttered. “Stop it. We are in public. The baby is judging us harder than usual. Tanner is going to write another note about appropriate boundaries. And I still have to smile at the pickup aide like everything about this family is fine.”

Kenny’s hand slid an inch lower. The baby kept staring like it had already drafted the incident report in its head and was only waiting for a pen.

The elementary school parking lot was already half-empty by the time Stan’s car turned in. Most of the other parents had collected their kids and fled. The remaining few stood near the entrance in that awkward late-pickup cluster, checking phones and trying not to look judgmental. The brick wall beside the doors still carried the faint memory of last week.

Stan killed the engine and was halfway out of the car when the orange parka appeared at the edge of his vision. Kenny had arrived at the same time from the opposite direction, still dusty from whatever job had tried to kill him today, hood half-up, one glove missing. He didn’t slow down. He walked straight into Stan’s space the second they both reached the sidewalk, crowded him back against the low brick wall beside the entrance, and planted both hands on either side of Stan’s shoulders like the rest of the world had ceased to exist.

Stan’s back hit the brick. Heat flooded his face.

“You’re late too,” he muttered, already trying to glance past Kenny’s head at the watching parents. “The kids are going to be the last ones out again. Mrs. Patterson is going to give me that look. The same look she gave me last week when you—”

Kenny leaned in harder. His mouth found the side of Stan’s neck in full view of the remaining parent group and the front office windows. One hand dropped from the wall to Stan’s hip, fingers curling under the hem of his shirt with zero subtlety. The other stayed braced beside Stan’s head, caging him in.

Stan’s hands came up automatically—half to push, half to hold on—while he tried to keep his voice at a public-appropriate volume.

“Kenny. Not here. People are still watching. I can literally see two moms pretending to check their phones while they stare. The front office window is right there. Someone is going to walk out with a clipboard any second and I am not explaining this again.”

Kenny made a low muffled sound against his skin and pressed closer, body fully aligned, completely uninterested in the concept of an audience. His thigh slotted between Stan’s. The hand under Stan’s shirt slid higher, palm flat and warm against bare skin.

Stan’s eyes shut for half a second. The wall was cold. Kenny was warm. The entire remaining parent group had gone very quiet.

“You’re doing it on purpose,” Stan said, voice strained. “You saw the same cars I did. You know exactly how this looks. Last week was bad enough. I had to smile through an entire conversation with another dad while you left a mark on my neck. I am not doing that again. Move. Or at least stop—Christ—stop using your teeth.”

Inside the building, a teacher’s silhouette moved behind the glass. Somewhere down the hallway Riley’s voice was already explaining something blunt and alarming to whoever was holding the late-pickup clipboard. Tanner’s more measured tone followed, probably attempting damage control.

Kenny’s mouth opened wider against Stan’s neck. His hips rolled once, slow and deliberate. Stan’s next words came out quieter, almost defeated.

“I hate that this works on me. I hate that you’re silent and still somehow winning. The kids are going to walk out any second and you are still—okay. Okay. Five more seconds. Then we pretend we are normal people who pick up their children without turning it into a spectacle. Deal?”

Kenny did not answer with words. He just stayed exactly where he was, solid and shameless, while the brick wall held Stan up and the parking lot pretended not to watch.

Stan pushed the front door open with his shoulder and didn’t bother closing it quietly.

The smell of the house hit him the same as always—burritos, old Cartman, damp laundry—but today it felt heavier. His bag hit the floor. His keys followed. He was already talking before he fully registered Kenny on the couch, orange parka still on, one boot kicked off, looking like he’d only finished dying an hour ago.

“I can’t do another day like that,” Stan said. His voice came out flat and scraped raw. “The printer jammed three times. Mrs. Nelson cornered me in the hallway about Riley’s incident reports again. Like I control whether our four-year-old treats the playground like a death sport. And the other parents keep doing that thing where they smile too wide and then talk about us the second I walk away. I heard the words ‘wall’ and ‘last week’ twice. Twice, Kenny.”

He dragged a hand down his face and kept going, words tumbling out faster.

“Tanner’s field-trip form is due again because the first one ‘disappeared.’ The baby’s checkup got moved and no one told me until I was already at work. The electric bill is going to be late if I don’t throw money at it tomorrow. And I spent lunch break filling out another form about ‘household stability’ because apparently someone at the school is concerned. Concerned. Like we’re not all just barely keeping the wheels on.”

Kenny hadn’t moved yet. He just watched him from the couch, quiet, eyes steady.

Stan’s voice cracked on the next part.

“Everything feels like it’s one more disaster away from collapsing. Every single day. I keep the lists. I sign the forms. I try to make sure Riley doesn’t actually stay dead and that Tanner doesn’t have a full moral breakdown before he’s eight and that the baby doesn’t just... stare us into oblivion. And I’m tired. I’m so fucking tired.”

That was when Kenny stood up.

He crossed the short distance without any rush, orange parka brushing Stan’s arm as he stepped in close. Both hands came up—one to the back of Stan’s neck, the other firm around his waist—and pulled him in. No words. Just solid heat and the familiar weight of him. Kenny’s forehead dropped against Stan’s temple. His arms locked tight, grounding, inescapable.

Stan’s breath hitched. He kept talking for a few more seconds, voice lower now, muffled against Kenny’s shoulder.

“I don’t even know what I’m doing half the time. I just keep moving so nothing falls apart. And you’re always—Jesus, you’re always right there looking like none of it touches you.”

Kenny’s hand slid up into Stan’s hair and held on. The other stayed low on his back, then lower, fingers pressing in with slow, deliberate intent. The embrace stopped being only comforting. Kenny shifted his weight, aligned their bodies more completely, and let his mouth open against the side of Stan’s neck—warm, silent, unmistakably not innocent anymore.

Stan’s hands finally came up and gripped the front of the parka.

In the living room the ceiling fan clicked. Somewhere down the hall Tanner’s pen scratched across another serious note. Riley’s voice murmured something blunt to the baby. The house kept its smell and its creaks.

Kenny just held him tighter, silent, and didn’t let go.

Stan found Kenny in the bedroom wearing a plain black hoodie that looked deeply wrong on him.

The orange parka was nowhere in sight. Not on the chair. Not on the floor. Not draped over the banister where it usually lived when it wasn’t on Kenny’s body. Not even balled up in the corner with the rest of the laundry that had given up hope. The room felt off without the constant splash of that color—smaller, quieter, like something essential had been removed and the walls were still adjusting.

Stan stood in the doorway with the baby on his shoulder and stared.

“Where’s the parka?”

Kenny shrugged and kept folding a shirt like the question was irrelevant. The black hoodie made him look almost ordinary. Almost like someone who didn’t regularly die on the job and walk back in like it was a minor schedule inconvenience.

Stan stepped fully into the room, adjusting the baby automatically.

“I’m serious. You never take it off for more than ten minutes. I’ve seen you keep it on during dinner, during arguments, during—other things. Did Riley hide it again? Did it finally disintegrate from all the scorch marks and chemical burns? Because you look weird. You look... normal. It’s unsettling. The kids are going to notice. Tanner’s going to ask questions. Riley’s going to decide this means something ominous.”

He moved closer, bouncing the baby once when it made a soft philosophical sound against his shoulder.

“I left it on the porch last night so it could air out after the latest scorch marks. I specifically remember telling you not to leave it outside overnight because things disappear around here. It’s gone. I’ve looked in the closet, under the bed, in the laundry basket, in the car, and inside the dryer even though the dryer hasn’t worked properly since last winter. I’ve looked everywhere except inside the wall, and I’m about to start looking there. Put on a different jacket or something. You can’t just walk around like a regular person. The kids will think something’s wrong. I’ll think something’s wrong.”

Kenny still didn’t answer. He just watched Stan with that quiet, amused expression that usually meant trouble later, and took one slow step closer.

Stan exhaled through his nose and muttered,

“I can’t believe I’m the one freaking out about the stupid orange parka. This household has broken me. You’re standing there in a normal hoodie looking like you pay taxes and have a savings account and I am the one spiraling. Put the parka back on when we find it. Or don’t. But if you don’t, I’m going to keep looking at you like this, and you’re going to get ideas, and then we’re going to end up distracted while the baby judges us and Tanner writes another note about prioritization. So. Parka. Now. Please.”

Kenny’s hands settled on Stan’s waist, thumbs stroking once under the hem of his shirt. He still said nothing. The black hoodie brushed Stan’s arm. The baby stared at the empty space on the chair where the orange parka should have been, as if it, too, found the absence personally offensive.

Stan’s voice dropped.

“You’re enjoying this. Of course you are. You lose the one constant visual marker of your entire personality and somehow I’m the one unraveling. Classic. Just... stay there. I’m putting the baby down and then we’re tearing this room apart. And if I find out Riley buried it in the backyard as a ‘funeral for the jacket,’ I am going to lose what little is left of my mind.”