When Butters got home, he was surprised to find his parents in genuinely good spirits. His dad was reading the newspaper in his chair, and his mom was humming while she did the dishes — both acting like nothing unusual had happened.

“Oh, there’s our little photographer!” his mom chirped when she saw him. “How was your workshop, honey?”

“It was… uh, educational, Mom,” Butters said carefully, still clutching the fake certificate Cartman had given him.

“I’m so proud of you for pursuing the arts,” his dad said, barely looking up from his paper. “Photography is a respectable hobby for a young man. Very American.”

Butters felt a twist of guilt in his stomach. Here he was, lying to his parents about spending several days in Scotland with Eric Cartman, pretending he’d been at some photography institute. But what else could he do? He didn’t want to tell the truth and get grounded. In fact, if he told them how much he’d suffered that day in the lake, not only would he still be grounded, but the two of them would make a living hell out of Cartman’s life. Linda and Stephen were not to be messed with.

“Yeah, it was… really something,” he said.

His room was exactly as he’d left it, which was both comforting and depressing. The same posters on the walls, the same unmade bed, and uh, well, the door, still hanging at that weird, forty-five-degree angle from its one remaining hinge. He made a mental note to find a screwdriver and at least attempt a repair later. Like, come on; he couldn’t live with his own personal failure hanging so literally in front of him every day. Either way, he hoped there would be a later — assuming this whole party thing didn’t end with all his friendships in ruins.

By six o’clock, Butters had showered and changed into something more appropriate for what was essentially a funeral — not necessarily his, although it kind of was. He chose a simple gray button-down shirt and his nicest pair of dark jeans, one with no holes nor stains… visible ones, at least. This felt weird. But then again, everything about this situation was indeed weird.

Luckily, Scott’s house was not too far from there; it was just two blocks away. The evening air was cool enough, too; it was the cold Butters could stand. He found Scott waiting on his front porch, also dressed up; he was wearing a navy blue sweater that actually looked pretty good on him, and khakis that weren’t completely wrinkled for once.

“You clean up nice,” Butters said, trying to inject some lightness into the moment.

“Thanks. You too.” Scott adjusted himself nervously. “But uh, I keep thinking this is a really bad idea.”

“Probably is.” Butters sat down on the porch steps beside him. “Hey, is Sophie gonna be there?”

“Nah, she’s at Bebe’s. I mean, for better or worse, it’s a boys’ party.” Scott paused. “Maybe that’s for the best? I-I don’t think I want her to see whatever’s about to happen. To be fair, it’s been a few days, so it’s not really a funeral party or whate—”

“She’s friends with Bebe?”

“Everyone is friends with Bebe.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, watching the sun set over South Park. It was a beautiful evening, all golden light and cool air that made you forget, for just a moment, that the world was a complicated place full of complicated people. Very complicated, indeed. Perhaps that was an understatement.

At exactly seven o’clock, a familiar Honda Civic pulled up to the curb. Cartman got out, and Butters had to do a double-take. He was wearing an actual suit! Well, hardly a fancy one, but it was a real, honest-to-God suit with a tie and everything. (It looked like a suit to him.) His hair was combed, his face was clean, and he looked… well, he looked fine. In an alternate timeline, Cartman would be a prized director heading straight for his third Oscar nomination in a row.

“Holy crap, Eric,” Scott said, standing up. “You look…”

“Sexy?” Cartman’s tone was dry, but not really hostile. “Yeah, I know. How shocking. Get in the car, losers. We’ve got a party to crash.”

---

The drive to Tolkien’s house was mostly silent: just the three of them lost in their own thoughts as the Civic wound its way through the increasingly rural outskirts of South Park. It was a thirty-minute trip from Scott’s house to where the Black family lived, way out in the sticks where the houses were few and far between.

His family’s residence, the so-called “Credigree Weed Farm,” sprawled across several acres of Colorado countryside. It had essentially become his full-time residence a few years ago. A shame, really; Cartman always thought his mansion in the city was not only much bigger but much cooler. And now he lived too far away from the rest of them, and it was a pain to even get here. Their neighbors were the Marshes, though Butters wasn’t sure if anyone still lived there after Stan had burned down half the property in one of his episodes.

As they pulled up the long driveway, Butters could see that the Marsh family house looked surprisingly intact. The main building seemed fine, though the barn was in a pretty deplorable state; half the roof was missing, and what was left looked like it might collapse in a strong wind. The windows weren’t boarded up or anything, though, and the old Tegridy Farms sign was still hanging by the gate. Maybe Randy was still selling weed out there…? Well, of course he was.

And then there was the Black residence itself, a sprawling modern mansion that looked like something out of those 90s magazines on unbelievably huge and expensive properties. Warm light spilled from every window, and they could hear music and laughter drifting across the yard. Cars were parked everywhere, too, with expensive ones mixed in with the usual teenage beaters.

“Jesus,” Scott breathed. “How many people are at this thing?”

“Looks like the whole class, maybe even more,” Butters said, feeling his stomach drop. He’d known it was going to be big, based on everything he’d been hearing until then, but seeing it like this made it real in a way that was almost overwhelming. It was happening.

Cartman parked at the edge of the driveway and killed the engine. They sat there for a moment, all three of them staring at the house.

“I think there’s a bodyguard,” Scott observed, pointing to a figure standing by the front door.

Cartman squinted. “Is that… oh, fuck me. It’s DogPoo.”

“DogPoo?” Scott leaned forward. “You mean Petuski?”

“Y-yeah! I-I’m not going anywhere near him.”

“What?” Scott raised his left eyebrow. “Man, he’s like five-foot-three.”

“I don’t care how tall or short he is!” Cartman’s voice rose slightly. “That kid has always freaked me out. Remember in fourth grade when we were gonna find a replacement for Kenny? A-a-and we got Butters as our new friend? And we said no to him? He gave me this look, a-and it gave me chills. I thought I was gonna shit myself.”

Butters tried his best not to chuckle, but Scott just looked baffled. “Eric, he’s probably the nicest guy in our class.”

“He’s got shit on his face! That doesn’t sound nice to me.”

“Oh, come on. Are you scared of him or…?”

“Pfft. I’m not scared… but the nicest guys are the most dangerous ones,” Cartman muttered, but he was already getting out of the car. “Okay, new plan. You two go in through the front. I’ll find another way in and meet you inside.”

“Are you sure?” Butters asked.

“Positive. Just… uh, give me twenty minutes, then look for me, okay?”

Scott and Butters exchanged a glance, shrugged, and headed toward the house. DogPoo was indeed standing by the front door, looking remarkably official in a black t-shirt and jeans. Scott had no idea why people still called him DogPoo; it was such a childish nickname! He and others always called him Petuski, which made more sense, given that it was his last name after all. To be fair, it was better than calling him by his name… Bobert.

When Bob— erm, DogPoo saw them approaching, his face went through a series of expressions: confusion, surprise, and then something that might have been relief. Maybe a mix of all three; it was hard to describe.

“Butters?” he said, his voice soft and wondering. “But… you’re supposed to be…”

“Dead?” Butters supplied, then chuckled. “Yeah, I get that a lot lately.”

DogPoo stepped aside to let them pass, still staring. “Kyle’s gonna flip when he sees you.”

“That’s kind of the point,” Scott said, and they headed inside.

The interior of the Black house was even more impressive than the outside. The main room was huge, with soaring ceilings and floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the countryside. Someone had clearly put effort into decorating for the occasion — there were black streamers and what looked like actual professional lighting. A long table against one wall was loaded with food, and a full bar had been set up in the corner. Fancy!

But what really caught Butters’ attention was the people. So many familiar faces, all looking older and more mature than he remembered. (Which was funny, because he’d only been gone for a week, tops.) He could see Clyde, deep in conversation with Jimmy and Tolkien, looking relaxed and happy in a way Butters hadn’t seen in years. (Probably because Bebe wasn’t there.) He could also see Francis was there and… uh, that’s probably Bradley? He was looking good, as usual. Scott could see David by the bar, laughing at something Kevin had said. In fact, he was wearing some funny angel wings. Was it a Star Wars thing? No, wait. Was it… oh yeah, Star Trek. It’s different, yeah. Did they have wings too? Huh.

Douglas and Louis were playing some kind of card game in the corner. They were losing quite badly to Timmy, who was probably the best player in the history of players. Well, at least counting the players he knew… and there, looking exactly like the same nerdy kid he’d been in elementary school, was Dougie. Oh, Dougie… he was like the General Disarray to Professor Chaos. Which seemed obvious to Butters, though the world didn’t need to know about that particular chapter of their lives.

“Dougie!” Butters called out, unable to keep the surprise out of his voice.

Dougie looked up, his eyes widening behind his thick glasses. “B-Butters? Oh my God, you’re… huh, but Kyle said you were…”

“Not dead,” Butters smiled. “Well, uh, definitely not dead.”

“But how are you here? Where have you been? Everyone thought…” Dougie trailed off, looking genuinely confused and amazed.

Before Butters could answer, a familiar voice cut through the chatter.

“Holy shit.”

They turned to see Kyle approaching, and Butters had to admit his old friend looked good. His red hair was cut shorter than usual, almost professional-looking, and he was wearing a nice button-down shirt that actually fit him properly. But what really struck Butters was the expression on Kyle’s face. His mouth was so open he almost thought it would fall to the floor.

“Butters,” Kyle said, stopping in front of them. “You’re… you’re actually here.”

“Yep!” Butters said, unsure of what else to say. “Uh, yeah. It’s me.” Was everyone just going to say that? Probably.

Kyle seemed to be carefully avoiding mentioning Cartman, which was probably smart given the circumstances. Butters, likewise, chose to do the same. What else could he say? If he just said “Yeah, Cartman’s out front,” Kyle would flip. And if he tried to question him about Cartman’s whereabouts, well, that wouldn’t go well.

Instead, Kyle gestured toward the back of the room.

“You need to see Stan,” he said. “He’s… well, he’s here.”

“Stan’s here?” Scott squeaked. “But isn’t he supposed to be…”

Kyle’s smile was complicated. “Yeah, yeah. Well, he got a day pass. Something about good behavior and therapeutic outings, I think.” He paused. “Don’t ask me how I managed to convince his therapist that a, let’s say, ‘memorial service’ counted as therapeutic, but here we are.”

They found Stan by one of the big windows, looking out at the night sky. He was dressed in baggy clothes that hung loose on his thin frame, and when he turned to greet them, Butters could see the exhaustion in his eyes. To be fair, he’d be tired too if he had to travel all the way from… uh, wherever he was, to here.

“Hey, guys,” Stan said, his voice soft but warm. “Butters, man, I’m so glad you’re okay.”

“O-oh, I’m sorry I didn’t visit,” Butters said, the words tumbling out. “I wanted to, but I didn’t know if you wanted to see anyone, and I—”

“It’s okay,” Stan interrupted gently him. “Really. I get it. The whole situation is pretty fucked up.” He gestured vaguely downward, and Butters caught a glimpse of something bulky around Stan’s ankle, hidden by his baggy jeans. An ankle monitor! Jesus.

“I missed you, dude,” Kyle told him. “I wrote you letters, like, every week. Did you get them?”

Stan blushed slightly. “Yeah, I got them. I’ll… I’ll read them when I get back, okay? All of them.”

They stood there for a moment. “Oh, great. I’m really, really glad you’re here. For real. You fill all my empty spaces, man.”

Butters turned to Scott, whispering to him. “…all of them?”

Scott just shrugged. “We have two holes for a reason.”

“Ahem…” Kyle turned to Butters, his expression brightening. Butters hoped he hadn’t heard their conversation.

“Hm?”

“You know what? I’m really glad you’re here. Uh… both of you, really,” he added, nodding to Scott. “I’ve always wanted to hang out with you guys more, but…” He paused, seeming to choose his words carefully. “I mean, I didn’t like that fatass was always around. It just wasn’t the same, you know? We’d plan something and he’d get us to do something completely different, you get it?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“I mean— not that I hate him— well not as much— but you get it. Maybe this could be the start of something new, you know?”

Before Butters could respond, another familiar voice cut through their conversation.

“Food’s ready!”

They turned to see one guy approaching with a tray of what looked like professional-quality hors d’oeuvres. He was wearing a crisp white apron over his clothes, and his blonde hair was flowing freely around his shoulders, longer than Butters had ever seen it. It was Kenny!

“Kenny?” Scott said, disbelieving. “Are you… catering this thing?”

“Ah, Tweek and I are doing God’s work in the kitchen,” Kenny replied with a grin. “Except I am the better cook, honestly. Plus Craig’s supposed to be helping, but he’s mostly just standing around. You know how it is. Also, ain’t you dead?”

He offered them the tray, and Butters had to admit the food looked amazing. Little sandwiches, some fancy cheese things he forgot the name of, and what looked like homemade cookies shaped like… uh… cameras? Well, uh, okay. The cameras looked nice, to be fair. He just didn’t get why they were cameras. In retrospect, they looked more like TVs. Those boxy TVs from the 2000s, specifically. Probably.

“Is everyone just gonna ask me this all night?”

“Perchance…”

“You can’t just say perchance.” Butters chuckled. He took a bite of one of the small sandwiches. It was pretty damn good. “This is incredible. When did you learn to cook like this?”

“I mean, people think that just because I’m poor— erm, lower class— that I can’t do anything good. But I learned a lot of useful skills,” Kenny shrugged. “Plus, Tweek’s family business has been expanding into catering. We’re like a team now.” He winked. “A really attractive team. I mean that in both ways, if you know what I’m saying.”

They spent the next few minutes catching up, eating Kenny’s surprisingly incredible food, and for a moment, Butters almost forgot why they were there. But then he caught sight of the banner again, and reality came crashing back.

---

Meanwhile, outside in the Honda Civic, Cartman was having his own moment of reckoning. It wasn’t a great feeling, admittedly.

He’d been waiting for nearly twenty minutes now, watching the house through the windshield, and waiting for DogPoo to go back inside so he could sneak in through a side entrance. There was just no way he’d get in with that kid outside. Well, it’s not as if he was scared of him, of course… but the longer he sat there, the more his resolve began to crumble.

Through the big windows, he could see everyone inside — vaguely, to be honest —, laughing and talking and having what looked like a genuinely good time. Though he couldn’t see everything, he could easily imagine it. Butters and Scott partying and mingling with all the guests, forgetting it was a party to celebrate his own “disappearance”. They were treating him as if he was, in fact, dead. Hell, maybe Kyle had gotten half the town in there or something.

It was impressive. All of his friends — well, his supposed friends — having a party. Without him! But he didn’t get it. Funeral or whatever people were calling it at this point, this seemed a lot more like a reunion than anything of the kind. It was… well, it was like the kind of gathering he’d always imagined himself at the center of, being the life of the party, making everyone laugh.

Instead, he was sitting in a car that wasn’t even his, in the dark.

Did he really suck that much?

No, no, it couldn’t be. He’d always known people found him difficult, but he’d told himself it was because they were jealous, or because they couldn’t handle his greatness, or because they were just too stupid to appreciate his genius. And maybe there was a grain of truth in that. But sitting here, watching them all have fun without him, a terrible possibility began to creep into his mind.

My God, what if they were right?

What if he really was the problem? What if all those years of manipulation and schemes and cruelty had finally caught up with him? What if his friends, or at least the people he’d grown up with, had finally decided they were better off without him? If so, why now of all days? Did they really just wait until he was seemingly gone to “get rid of him” instead of just shoving him off?

The worst part was, he couldn’t even blame them.

Eventually, DogPoo did go back inside, probably to get some food or use the bathroom. Relieved, Cartman took his chance, slipping out of the car and making his way around to the side of the house. There was a door that led into what looked like a garage or storage area, and it was unlocked. He slipped inside, his heart pounding.

The house was honestly even more impressive from the inside. He could hear the party upstairs; some music and laughter and the sound of people having a good time… except for him. He found a staircase and climbed it quietly, emerging onto a balcony that overlooked the main room.

And there they all were.

He could see… actually, no, he couldn’t. Well, he could, but he had to wear his glasses to get a better grasp of what he was seeing. Oh, yes, he could see now. Butters and Scott were at a table with a certain redhead and a hippie that was almost certainly Stan. Did he get out of jail or something? Huh. Either way, they were all talking and laughing like old friends. (Which was factually true.) It seemed Kenny was making rounds with food, charming everyone he talked to, as usual. He also noticed Tolkien and Jimmy were holding court by the bar, though he couldn’t care less about them or what they were doing.

It was like a perfect snapshot of teenage social life, too. Hell, Cartman could imagine himself hosting this kind of party, back when he still believed he was the center of his social circle. In fact, he’d done it countless times… he remembered when, a few years back, Kyle briefly moved to smoggy San Francisco and he held a party celebrating his departure. Sure, he didn’t invite him, but it was a damn good party. And yet he was still nice enough to save him. Wow, so much for being an “evil” guy! He went all the way to that ugly city, only to find him on acid with some long-haired hippie and getting in touch with his feminine side.

But this time, he wasn’t there. He was watching from the shadows, an outsider looking in at a world that had moved on without him. And the worst part? They looked happier without him.

It was a strange feeling.

Maybe they were right to celebrate my death.

The thought was so painful it almost doubled him over. No, no, no, no. This couldn’t be real. He stood there on the balcony, gripping the railing, feeling something inside him crack and crumble. He couldn’t be wrong, he couldn’t be. But if he was… what was the point?

He was tired. Tired of fighting, tired of scheming, tired of trying to prove he was worth caring about. Maybe he wasn’t a good person. Though hardly a saint, why did everyone feel like he was the biggest sinner?

It was time to end this.

Cartman walked down the stairs slowly, deliberately, putting on the most serious expression he could manage. It wasn’t too hard. There was some funny pop music playing in the background that he didn’t recognize; it was probably too cool for him to know. (It was Robyn’s Send To Robin Immediately.) Everything felt surreal, like he was moving through water; it was like the whole scene was happening in slow motion!

Ideally, at this moment thousands of flashbacks would go through his mind, validating his worldview and whatever went through his mind. But there was no good memory of his that would make what he believed in until then feel real.

As he approached the main room, people began to notice him. The conversation died down in ripples, spreading outward from wherever he was spotted until the entire party had fallen silent. The music kept playing, but everything else stopped.

He walked to the center table, where Butters and Scott and Kyle and Stan were sitting, all of them staring at him with expressions ranging from shock to horror to something that might have been pity. It was kind of funny, actually. They didn’t expect him at all.

Kyle was the first of the four to recover. “Eric,” he said, trying his best to control his voice. “What are you doing here?”

For a moment, Cartman just looked at him. Oh, Kyle… not quite his oldest friend, but perhaps one of his greatest enemies, if not the greatest. If there was someone who understood him better than anyone else in the world, it was probably Kyle. The very same Kyle who organized this party.

And then something inside him snapped.

“KYLE!” he screamed, his voice cracking with emotion. “YOU MOTHERFUCKING PIECE OF SHIT GANG-BANGING COCKSUCKER!”

He grabbed a glass from the table and smashed it against the surface, sending shards flying. Several people gasped and stepped back, but Cartman barely noticed. He didn’t really care.

“I’m ALIVE…!” he continued; at that point, his voice was rising to a shriek. ”…I’m alive and well and you’re all here throwing a fucking party because you thought I was DEAD! What kind of friends ARE you?”

“We’re not your friends!” Kyle shot back, standing up so fast his chair toppled over. “We haven’t been your friends for years! You-you’re the worst person any of us have ever known! You make everyone’s life worse just by existing!”

“Oh, that’s RICH coming from you!” Cartman’s laugh was wild, one could say so. Not only that, but one could even think he was having fun, although he honestly wasn’t. “You think you’re so much better than me? You think any of you are better than me? You never cared about anyone! Not when Pip died, not when Jason White died in that car accident, not when anyone needed you! You just sit around feeling superior while the world burns!”

This was a bit hypocritical, and Cartman knew it well. He didn’t care when Pip died, didn’t care when Jason died… fuck, the only person he even shed a tear for was… uh, who was it again? Oh yeah, Gordon Stolski, and even then purely for formality. He needed those school announcements for himself. But now he had next to nothing. And he regretted not doing more for them while they were still alive.

“That’s not—”

“I know I’m an asshole!” Cartman was crying now, tears streaming down his face as he continued to rant. “I know I suck! I know I’m terrible! But so are ALL of you! You could never see me as human, could you…? No matter how bad I am, I’m still a person! But you… you can’t even see that!”

He grabbed another glass and smashed it, then another. His hands started to bleed from the shards. It was not a good look. “You’ve all done terrible things! You’ve all hurt people! But somehow I’m the only monster? I’m the only one who doesn’t deserve forgiveness?”

“Eric, stop!” Butters pleaded.

But Cartman was beyond hearing.

“Y-you want to know the truth?” Cartman slammed his bleeding fist down on the table, sending more glass flying. “The truth is that you’re all just as bad as I am! You just hide it better! You… you morons just pretend to be good while you stab each other in the back and throw parties when you think someone’s dead!”

His shoulders started to shake. A ragged gasp escaped him, and only then did he realize the sound tearing from his throat was a sob. “I’m sorry!” The words ripped from his mouth. “I’m sorry I’m not — fuck! — not the friend you wanted! I’m sorry I’m not good enough! I’m sorry I just… exist!”

And he slammed his face down onto the table. Glass shards bit into his skin as he ground his cheek against the surface. Blood welled up, mixing with the tears streaming down his face, but the screams kept coming, muffled now against the wood and glass. “I’M SORRY I’M NOT PERFECT LIKE ALL OF YOU!”

By that point, the music had stopped. The room was dead silent except for the sound of Cartman’s sobs (and the music still playing in the background, though it was much much lower). Everyone was staring, shocked into immobility by the raw desperation in his voice. He didn’t even want to think about who was staring at him or what they were going to say later; he was, perhaps, at his lowest.

Finally, Cartman lifted his head. His face was a mess of shallow cuts and smeared blood, his eyes swollen and red-rimmed.

“This party,” he rasped, “is OVER.” He pushed himself up, swaying slightly. “Screw you guys… I’m going home.”

He grabbed Butters by the arm, not roughly but firmly, and started toward the door. Scott followed helplessly, not knowing what else to do.

They made it to the garage before Cartman finally stopped, leaning against the wall and trying to catch his breath. His hands were shaking as he looked at the cuts on his palms, the blood that was still trickling down his face.

He spotted a dusty first-aid kit on a shelf and fumbled it open. With clumsy, shaking fingers, he did what he could to clean up the worst of the cuts on his face and hands, wincing as the antiseptic stung. “What have I done?” he whispered. “Fuck.”

Butters and Scott waited by the car in silence, both of them too shocked to know what to say and neither brave enough to break the silence. What else could they say?

When Cartman finally emerged from the garage, he looked smaller somehow. Deflated, one could say. Either way, most of his fury seemed gone. He slid into the driver’s seat without a word and turned the key. The engine coughed to life.

---

The drive back into town was the longest thirty minutes of any of their lives. Nobody spoke, nobody moved. They just sat there in the Honda. The night outside the windows was a black canvas punctuated only by the occasional flicker of a streetlamp.

Every few seconds, Cartman’s hands twitched, his knuckles white around the steering wheel, but he didn’t really look at anyone. And so they let it be.

When the house finally came into view, Cartman eased the Civic to a stop in front of Scott’s driveway and cut the engine. The sudden quiet was louder than the music that had been playing earlier, which Butters hadn’t even kept track off. It could’ve been anything. He wasn’t even sure if the radio was turned on.

Butters stepped out first, his shoes making a soft thud on the gravel.

“I… I’m gonna stay with Scott for a while,” he whispered, eyes flicking to Cartman’s tear-streaked face and the bandages that still clung to his palms. Even with the lies, the humiliation, and the fear that still knotted his gut, a thin thread of pity tugged at him. “Thanks… for the adventure, Eric.”

He couldn’t even believe what he was saying. Thanking Eric… after everything he had been through? Perhaps Stockholm syndrome was real. Or maybe Butters was just too nice. Or maybe he was just smart enough to not say something negative in front of Cartman right now.

Cartman inhaled a long, shuddering breath. He turned his head, and for the first time there was no spark of anger, or at least not one he could see. Only a hollow, bone-deep weariness. He managed a small, cracked smile.

“Thank you, too,” he said, his voice as dry as sandpaper.

He raised his bandaged hand in a half-wave, slipped the car into gear, and drove off, letting its taillights vanish into the darkness. Butters and Scott remained on the sidewalk, watching the red lights disappear around the bend.

Well, it was over.

“You were right,” Scott finally said, his tone soft. “Things… they’re not gonna be the same after this. I really don’t think they will. This was some crazy shit.”

“Yeah… you know, I wish I’d been a better friend,” Butters whispered. It felt like his eyes were filling with tears. “To you. To everyone. I-I could’ve prevented this, I don’t know. I think I’ve been… a bad friend.”

Scott didn’t answer right away. He let the quiet settle, then slipped an arm around Butters’ shoulders.

“I feel you,” he said. “But it’s not all on you. We’ve all been a little rough with each other. A little bad. And for a long time, too.”

Butters let out a long, shaky exhale and leaned into the hug, letting his arm loop around Scott’s. They stood side by side on that street, staring up at the vast, star-filled sky. The night air was cool on his face, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he wasn’t too cold. He was just… here. It was hard to explain.

He didn’t really know what else awaited him. This may have been the very end of Cartman’s social life. It may have been the end of Scott’s, and maybe his, too. A lot of things happened today, and he had no clue what would happen tomorrow. He wasn’t even going to check his phone, too.

It was a beautiful night. If only it had been a better one…

“You know… have you ever imagined what silence looks like?” Scott asked him.

Butters stared at the sky for a long time. Whether the stars were planets or the planets were stars was a mystery to him, but it was amazing all the same. He didn’t need to be an expert photographer for that.

“Well… we’ll try.”