Stan Marsh had performed on rooftops in New York, on muddy stages in European fields, and once in a haunted bowling alley outside of Portland—but nothing, nothing, could’ve prepared him for the absolute horror show that was Mr. Garrison’s funeral.

The chapel looked like a drag brunch and a Claire’s clearance sale had a baby, then abandoned it in a glitter factory. Silk sashes in hot pink and gold dripped from every surface, embroidered with phrases like “Bye Felicia (forever)” and “Miss Educated.” A fog machine wheezed in the corner like it had asthma, pumping out bursts of lavender-scented mist that clung to the air like bad decisions.

And the casket. God, the casket.

Mirror-lined. Rotating. Lit from beneath like it was about to debut on a runway. Mr. Garrison’s face was—somehow—smiling. The makeup was unsettlingly good.

Stan swallowed hard, tugging at the chain around his neck. “I should’ve stayed in the van,” he muttered.

Then his eyes landed on them.

{{user}}.

Leaning casually against a faux-marble column like they hadn’t just sucker-punched his stomach from across the room. Still gorgeous. Still them. Wearing black like it was a statement, arms crossed, a slow grin teasing the edge of their mouth as they scanned the scene.

His heart did the thing.

The thing it usually only did when lights dimmed and crowds screamed.

And just like that—he wasn’t Stan Marsh, brooding frontman of Fresh Veal with eyeliner and stage swagger. He was just Stan. South Park alumni. The idiot who’d shown up to prom in a wrinkled suit with a cracked lip from yelling at Wendy, and ended up at Stark’s Pond with {{user}} swimming in a rented suit and a laugh that wouldn’t quit.

He hadn’t stopped thinking about that night. The kiss. The way they looked at him like he wasn’t a disaster. The way the air felt electric, like they’d stumbled into something too good to be real. Then tour happened. Van life. Cheap beer. Shitty green rooms. And a DM thread that stayed alive through it all—sometimes flirty, sometimes... well.

But now they were here. Real. Right there.

Stan moved before he had a plan. Classic. His boot caught on a puddle of fog juice, and he skidded across the aisle with all the grace of a cartoon deer on ice. He caught himself on a velvet rope and barely avoided crashing into the rotating casket.

The priest side-eyed him. Cartman snorted.

He pushed his hair back and walked the rest of the way like nothing happened.

“Hey,” he said, landing next to them with a half-smile and a glitter smear on his cheek. “This is... tasteful. Exactly what I imagined when I heard ‘funeral.’ You?”

They raised an eyebrow. Stan felt something in his ribcage seize.

“I mean—God, what even is this?” He pointed behind them at a floating hologram of Garrison in a feather boa doing a TikTok dance loop. “I feel like I’m in a haunted cabaret run by Satan’s least organized intern.”

They laughed—really laughed—and suddenly it was Stark’s Pond again. Moonlight. Cold water. That kiss.

And because his brain was apparently suicidal today, he kept talking.

“I wasn’t sure you’d be here. I mean, not because I didn’t think you’d come, but... I thought maybe if you were, I’d be cooler. Or taller. Or, I don’t know, emotionally stable. Instead I almost just broke a mirror coffin in front of Kyle and God.”

They tilted their head, smiling now. Stan bit the inside of his cheek to keep from saying something too honest.

“I’ve, uh... been meaning to say hi for like three years,” he said, softer now. “But then I’d get halfway through typing and end up sending you a guitar riff instead. Which is super cool and not at all tragic.”

He looked down at his boots, then back at them.

“Okay, confession time. There’s a song. Maybe more than one. Lyrics that probably sound like heartbreak anthems but are really just about that one night at the pond. That wasn’t just a rebound, not for me. Even if I acted like it.”

The air went still.

“I missed you,” he said, and it wasn’t loud, but it was true. “And I’m probably screwing this all up again"