Chapter Text
Butters should have turned around the moment he saw Cartman sliding the envelope into his mailbox.
He cocked his head, hands secure on his backpack straps as he approached the boy.
“W-well hiya, Eric,” he greeted, causing the larger boy to whip around and grin. He closed the Stotches’ mailbox with a metallic snap.
“Oh, hey Butters! What are you up to?” Butters felt slightly stunned by the question, seeing as Eric was the one in his mailbox. Regardless, the other boy was rarely ever so pleased to see him, and some part deep inside Butters wanted to preserve that. Kenny would have called it his people-pleasing muscle.
“Just coming home from a study session with Tweek at his place.” Eric hummed.
“His faggy boyfriend crash the party? Feels like gays always do that when they start to bone. Suddenly when there’s one, the other isn’t far behind, right?” He laughed, hands on his hips. Butters knocked his knuckles together nervously. It wasn’t as if Tweek and Craig were a new development. They’d been dating the past six years or so. Butters was unable to not feel as if the comment was a slight at him and Kenny’s relationship.
“N-no, Craig didn’t swing by. Tweek said he was hanging with Clyde today.” Eric snorted.
“Of course he knew exactly where he was.” Butters cocked an eyebrow, realizing for the millionth time that Eric Cartman truly did not understand how healthy relationships worked.
“Eric,” Butters started. “What are you doing in my mailbox?” Cartman furrowed his brow at first, before a look of comprehension overtook it.
“Oh! This?” Butters nodded. Eric chuckled, patting the metallic box like an old friend. He kind of reminded Butters of the Grinch talking to Cindy Lou-Who about her Christmas tree. “My mom just sent me over to deliver some pictures she took at Mrs. O’Harra’s baby shower last week. Said she got some really nice ones of your mom she thought she’d like to have.” Butters furrowed his brow, tossing the statement back and forth in his head. He nodded slowly.
“You didn’t just bring it to the door?” Eric shook his head, starting to walk across the lawn towards his own house.
“Man, you know how much old people love mail, my mom insisted!” He shot him two finger guns and grinned. “Have a wonderful evening, Butters.” He turned and disappeared into his own house.
Butters stood there a moment, looking between the closed door of the Cartman residence and his mailbox. A voice in the back of his mind - that sounded a lot like Kenny - reminded him that Eric was a flight risk. While the real Kenny would have called him something much more explicit and colorful, Butters still heeded the warning.
But the baby shower? That just felt weird to lie about.
Butters huffed and shook the voice off as he gathered his mail from the box. It was physically impossible for anyone to have malicious intent all the time. His chattering brain was quieted even further by Ms. Cartman’s loopy cursive over the envelope, prettily scrawling out their address. Butters had to admit, his mother probably would love receiving this.
He trudged up the driveway to his front door, aimlessly flipping through the rest of the mail.
“Mom, Dad, I’m home!” He called, making his way to the kitchen.
“Oh hi, Butters,” his mom greeted softly, pulling a pan of roasted carrots from the oven.
“Hiya mom!” He leaned down for a kiss on the cheek.
“How was school?”
“Pretty neat, I got an A on the pop quiz we took in bio the other day! Though the cafeteria menu lied about serving onion rings today.” He sighed. She hummed, and he could already tell she wasn’t all the way there.
“That’s wonderful, dear. Go on and clean up for supper, everything will be ready soon.” He nodded, setting his handful of mail on the counter and jogging upstairs, Cartman’s envelope already leaving his mind.
When Butters got to his room, he kicked off his shoes and slid his backpack off, placing both neatly in their correct spots. Doing the same with his coat, he pulled his phone from his pocket and smiled at an overly dramatic text from Kenny about the horrors of math homework.
He made his way to the hall bathroom, taking a moment to inspect the day’s damage on him. He pushed a hand through his short, blonde waves, fluffing them slightly before running his fingers over his shorter sides. He meandered his way through his afterschool cleanup routine, whistling quietly to himself as he appreciated his time alone.
A buzz from his phone caught his attention, and as he pulled it out of his pocket to read the notification, a shriek from downstairs nearly made him drop it.
He had barely a moment to think before a booming voice demanded, “BUTTERS YOU GET DOWN HERE THIS INSTANT!”
He turned on his heel and pressed his back to the sink only to push himself off of it and hurry towards the stairs as if against his own will.
Every single possibility ran through his head as he descended the stairs. Maybe he had left the milk out that morning. Maybe the principal called and decided to expel him? Maybe they were being robbed and it was all because he hadn’t dead bolted the door behind him!
Apparently he hadn’t thought of every possibility, he thought, as he turned the corner to see his father holding Liane Cartman’s envelope in his hands.
He took a shaky step forward, seeing his mother crouched on the floor, one hand still grasping the counter while the other covered her mouth. Her head was bowed. He looked at his father.
“D-Dad, what happe-“ his father’s steely gaze snapped up to meet him, causing Butters to stop in his tracks. The two stared silently at each other.
“You.” Butters shook.
“Dad?” His father didn’t respond, just nodded once, an indication to approach. As if against their will, Butters' feet moved forward until he stood on the other side of the counter.
Butters could feel his vision tunneling out of sheer panic, but strained to pull himself back from the point of no return. His knuckles rattled against one another, healing scabs reopening in his fervor.
Indeed there were photos in his father’s hands, but Butters couldn’t see more than their blank backs. That was until they were dropped to the kitchen counter, scattered across the expensive marble made so clean by his mother.
Must be clean.
Butters’ mouth went dry at the frozen images, complete with timestamps in the bottom left corners. He got the urge to run, to not see this through, to not learn how this nightmare ends. But his useless, useless feet were glued to the floor. Before him, his worst fears were immortalized.
A majority of the pictures were obviously taken at night, with only a streetlamp and an open window acting as a source of light. But there might as well have been a spotlight on Kenny’s frame crouching his way into Butters’ bedroom, Butters himself looking giddily over his shoulder on the lookout for his parents. The next. The same camera angle, the two were inside, Butters’ arms around Kenny’s neck and his feet kicked up in the air behind him. The next. The two sat on Butters’ bed, Kenny’s large hands cupping Butters’ cheeks, their lips locked in a sweet kiss.
Butters’ eyes shifted to the daytime photos, sneakily taken on an iPhone camera in the middle of the dingy halls of South Park High. Butters recognized it as one of the many times he had snagged a snack from home to give Kenny for breakfast, as a granola bar and bag of Little Bites were clenched in his calloused hands. The two leaned against a wall of lockers and into each other’s space, Kenny leaning down to press a kiss of gratitude to the shorter’s cheek. Butters’ face, which was tilted towards the camera, was glowing.
About twenty more pictures were from that envelope, Butters realized with a pang. What had they seen? What was no longer sacred?
He blinked, finding that he could not move his body, even to look up at his father again.
“Butters. You know. You know how wrong this is.” His father said slowly. Butters said nothing. “That camp…it was supposed to fix you. You told us it fixed you.” He hissed. Still, Butters said nothing, his eyes still fixated on the photos. He jumped as his father slapped a hand down. “And with that dirty McCormick boy…who we explicitly told you we didn’t want you around. So not only are you partaking in this horrible, sinful, disgusting…thing, you’re blatantly disrespecting our commands!” A pause came. From Butters’ peripherals, he could see his father lean down to try to meet his eyes. He scoffed, shaking his head. “Absolutely nothing to say for yourself. Pathetic.” In two wide strides, he was to Butters, gripping his thin wrist and yanking him away. As he went, the image of his happy face in those photos stained the backs of his eyelids.
He stumbled behind his father for a moment, blinking only to realize they were heading in the direction of the study. Oh no.
Oh no.
The only times Butters was brought into his father’s study was when he intended to beat him, harsher than ever. He had developed a habit of making his way through the house in any way that would not take him near the study, lest it opened its doors, grabbed Butters by the ankles, and dragged him in.
“Wait, Dad, please just listen to me for a moment!” He finally cried out, tugging at his hand. His dad didn’t stop. “Dad, please!” He pleaded, giving one final tug and forcing his father to turn around, face red with anger and something else. Butters wondered if it was humiliation.
He exhaled shakily, knowing he only had one shot to get out of this. “Please Dad,” he croaked, grabbing the wrist of the hand that held him. He looked in his father’s eyes, eyes that he had grown to learn scared the living daylights out of him. He noticed with a stab to his chest that they had the same nose. “I know…I know why you’re so afraid of me being gay, Dad,”
“Don’t say that,” he spit.
“I know.” Butters cried. “Your own feelings…they’ve made your life so hard. I know how it feels, Dad. It can feel dirty, and wrong…” he bit his lip. “I’ll bet it made things hard with Mom for a long time. Maybe even still.” He sniffled, tremors moving up his arms as his Dad released his hold on him. He shook his head. “It’s not your fault, Dad.” He inhaled. “It’s just another kind of love, that can be as pure and good as that of a man and woman. It doesn’t have to be bad n’ scary.” He shook his head. “It’s just love, Dad.”
The two stood there quietly in front of the study, his father looking down at a point Butters couldn’t identify. He hoped this would work. This needed to work. His father looked up at him with an unreadable expression. Butters exhaled shakily.
His father’s expression twisted into one of disgust.
“Don’t you dare pin those vile feelings on me, young man, do you understand me?” Butters’ eyes widened as he narrowly dodged his dad’s hand reaching for his own again, leaping away backwards. “Don’t talk to me as if our struggles are at all the same. You will learn, just as all bad boys do, what happens to you when you try down this road.”
Run. Now.
Butters sprang backward again out of his father’s grasp, beginning to bolt toward the front door. It was close to the study, it was so close to the study he could smell it -
Hands were suddenly on his collar, and his head hit the wood floor with a sickening crack, drawing a painful gasp from Butters’ mouth. His vision briefly went black, and he found himself wishing it would stay that way. He could feel his father looming over him, could feel him screaming down at him with a hand at his collar. He wanted to wake up on the other side of all of this, worse-off, yes, but could it really be any worse than sitting through it?
Butters blinked back his vision as his body jolted upwards, and the sight of his father’s red face came back into view as he stood upright. His mouth was still moving, and Butters’ hearing unfortunately followed close behind his sight as his screaming faded in.
“You will take what is coming to you, mister, there is no way around it! And afterward, you will thank me, you will thank me for putting you back in line, my own son, my own fucking son! Just when I think…” Butters’ body was forced into his father’s study, his words a blur and moving in one ear and out the other as he stumbled over his own feet. He heard the door slam and lock behind him. His brain caught up enough to process his thin layer of protection being forcibly yanked over his head, leaving his upper body bare to the room.
“Wait…Dad no-” Butters’ limbs were jelly and unable to fight as he was shoved onto his knees in front of the desk. He heard the sickeningly familiar sound of leather against khaki, and his stupid legs wouldn’t work fast enough to push him to standing. Kenny’s voice echoed in his throbbing head, pleas of ‘Run!’ ‘Fight!’ ‘Get out’!, but all he could do was shudder as he sat there, the rush of failure filling him to the brim. The first strike of the belt against his back was the nail in the coffin.
Butters pressed his face into the dark mahogany in front of him, a kaleidoscope of purple and grey and black dancing across his vision as his throat ripped against cries he couldn’t even hear. It all ran together so much that Butters wouldn’t have been surprised if he had fallen asleep to some extent, the pain and the darkness and the words hurled at his back becoming an unending constant. He wondered if this was purgatory. Maybe he just skipped right over that and into hell.
Butters didn’t know how long he sat there, taking the brutal beating. Eventually, he blinked as he was pulled upright, the room spinning as blood rushed back to his legs and he was whirled around. He hiccuped against a sob he didn’t even know was there at the sight of his father looming over him, looking angry yet disgustingly pleased with himself. Butters liked to believe that, if his arms were any more stable, he would have reached out and punched him. His back, however, cried out for as little movement as possible.
“I do this for your own good, Butters,” he said, tossing his discarded shirt at his son’s chest. The man straightened up, beginning the process of looping his belt back through his trousers. “I expect a thank you.” Butters’ eyes followed his hands movements against his father’s thin waist. The belt left a streak of red against the tan fabric. Butters could do nothing but stare.
His father’s hands paused, and began to reverse their motions.
“Have you not learned what happens when you disobey me!?” His voice rapidly crescendoed in volume, forcing Butters’ eyes to leap up to his face.
“Th-thank you, Dad!” he croaked out, his voice a stranger to his own ears. His hands paused once more. Butters nodded, the motion dizzying. “Thank you, Dad.”
Silence suspended the two for a long moment, only broken by the belt retreating back around the man’s waist. His jaw tightened, threatening crack under the never-ending pressure. He flicked his chin at the closed door, never taking those cold eyes off of his son.
“You’ll go to your room for the rest of the night. And you’ll only come out when I tell you.” He held a hand out, palm upright. “Leave me your phone.” Butters’ hand reached for his forgotten phone in his back pocket, passing it to his father without taking his eyes off of him. The man shook his head as he slid it into his own pocket, his free hand clenching into a fist. He closed his eyes. “You were supposed to be better.”
A pregnant pause sat between them before he reached out and pushed Butters towards the door and into the hallway. Though his brain was working at about 50% speed, Butters understood that if he stood around any longer, he would be volunteering himself for a second round. He forced his feet to move toward the stairs. On his ascent up, he heard his mother moving around in the kitchen, speaking aloud to no one.
As Butters turned into his room, he felt as if he were miles and miles away from the rest of his body. This haze softened the slam and lock that resonated from his door, and once he was locked away from the rest of the world, he felt like he took his first full breath.
He whipped around to face the door, the motion only making his stomach turn and head cry out in never-ending pain. His hands came up to his face, meeting a mess of tears and snot, none of which stopped his fingers from digging themselves into his flesh. His body quaked, his breathing accelerated. He inhaled deeply, raspy to his own ears, and when he felt like he was fuller than he had ever been before, he let out a long, guttural scream.
The pain of the scream made him feel both alive and as if he were going to die. He fell to his already bruised knees, his hands moving to cover his mouth. He opened his eyes as he gasped through his fingers, his gaze gluing itself to the door. Surrounded only by the sound of his panting, he came to a conclusion.
I am going to die here.
He didn’t know if it would be today, or even as a result of this particular punishment, but he knew this statement to be a fact. His breath stuttered.
Get out.
There was no getting out. With the door that locked from the outside and his bloodthirsty father pacing below, he was trapped.
Get. Out.
In the haze that clung to his brain like a cobweb, he remembered something Kenny had said, stretched across his bedroom floor and looking like the guardian angel Karen always raved about.
“If your dad so much as lays a finger on you, you call me and I’ll drive through your fucking house to get you out. And if the dickhole takes your phone, you bust your ass to get over here. Hell, use a smoke signal if you have to, I’ll make it a point to watch the sky from now on. But Leo, you need to get out of there.”
Butters blinked and let his hands fall to his throat, brushing against the bare skin of his clavicle. He looked down at himself and gulped, setting his jaw.
Step 1. Get a shirt.
He looked around his bedroom floor before snatching up the closest shirt he could find. Without comprehending what it was or whether or not it was inside-out, he pulled it over his head. His movements were paused with a loud hiss as the fabric met his tender back, and he clenched his eyes closed as he forced it gently over his injuries. Once it sat over his shoulders, he pushed his feet into some sneakers and stood upright. He exhaled heavily, his heavy eyes roaming around the room.
Step 2. Find a way out.
Okay. Okay okay. The simplest answer, the door, was out of the question. But could he pick the lock and sneak around his parents from there? Could picking a lock be all that hard? What if-
His train of thought came to an abrupt stop as his eyes ran over the window, closed tight with the curtains drawn. He hurried across the room and pulled them open, the shock of the afternoon sun making him draw back with a cry. He quickly shook it off, reaching up to unlock the hinges as he quietly pulled upwards on the frame. He squinted out towards the ground, his stomach turning upon seeing how truly far away it was.
He sat up and closed his eyes, swallowing heavily and shaking out his limbs.
Kenny does this all the time. Really fast, too. It’ll be a piece of cake.
And Butters had climbed out of the window, too, with the guiding hands and encouragement of Kenny. This would be his way out. This had to be his way out.
Butters opened his eyes and took a deep breath before swinging one leg and then the other over the window frame. Scooting along the shingles of the sloped roof, he turned to quietly close the window behind him. He inhaled shakily as he turned back to the tree that grew tall and parallel to his bedroom window, his arms and legs feeling like lead.
Step 3. Climb down the tree.
Get out.
Pushed by the image of Kenny’s nimble body scaling the tree in his mind, as well as what Butters could only assume was adrenaline, he shimmied himself to the edge of the roof. He felt his breath trip as he made it, eyes focused on the sturdiest branch that extended towards his window. The same branch that had held both him and his boyfriend at the same time.
Both his legs and his vision shook as he slowly pushed himself to standing, taking two tentative steps backward. The branch required a bit of a leap to reach, but with the light at the end of the tunnel being the only thing on Butters’ mind, he readied himself to take it.
Get. Out.
Without thinking any longer he took two steps and leapt, arms extended outwards to catch himself on the trunk. The rough bark tore at his soft hands.
Until his foot slipped right off the side of the branch and gravity yanked him down.
Twigs and leaves whipped at his face as he tumbled to the ground, knocked left and right by branches that wanted to kick him while he was down. The grass came with a sickening crack and a sharp pain up Butters’ right leg.
Butters gasped, eyes clenched shut as he quickly rolled off of his sore back, pulling his leg to his chest with his forehead pressed against the grass. White hot pain ambushed him from every corner of his body, ripping a cry from his throat as he flopped over onto his side. The world spun too fast. He strained to remember if he had ever seen it move this fast before.
He blinked quickly, processing the fact that it was his house he was watching spin and the fact that he wasn’t out yet. He had to get out. He wasn’t out.
He took a shuddering breath in, sitting upright and looking down at his leg, much to his throbbing head’s displeasure.
Leg’s still there. Good start.
He tentatively pulled his knee to his chest, and reveled in the fact he could still do that. He slowly rotated his ankle and almost cried out at the stab of pain that overwhelmed him. He shuddered.
Okay. Ankle’s down for the count. We can work with that.
He looked to his right at his house. It was a ticking time bomb.
Need to move. They’re gonna get you.
He stumbled upright once more, shooting looks over his shoulder as he hobbled as fast as he could towards the street.
Once he reached the asphalt, he broke into a jerky kind of sprint, the sound of phantom footfall behind him driving him faster forward. His surroundings were a blur as he lost track of where exactly he was, knowing he only had to keep moving forward. Away. Out.
He only faltered once he reached the bus stop, his body seemingly giving out as he dove to grab at the pole of a street sign. He clenched his eyes closed as he fought to catch his breath, his right foot hovering just off the ground as he leaned his entire body weight onto the sign.
He didn’t know he was sinking until his jeans were shocked with the cold wetness of snow, and he didn’t fight it as he leaned his head against the cold metal. He blinked his eyes open, squinting at the terrible pounding of his head, ankle, and back. It was almost comical how evenly dispersed his pain was.
Rest here, here is good. Take just a quick break. Just…a quick one.
Butters blinked and the first thing he realized was he didn’t know what he was doing by the side of the road. The second thing was how much that thought scared him. Two words, however, ran on repeat.
Get out.
With a jolt, he remembered Kenny’s voice, and suddenly him lying on the ground made sense. He took a shuddering breath and pushed himself upright.
You were hurt by Dad. You’re running from Dad. You fell out of the tree. You need to go to Kenny's.
Step…3. Go to Kenny’s.
The world spun as he hobbled forward.
Easy, now. Get out of danger. Get out of danger. Go to Kenny’s. Get out of danger.
His eyes drifted closed.
He blinked just as his feet caught on something, sending him toppling forward into gravel. He blearily turned to see that it was the railroad he had tripped over, and he couldn’t stop himself from laughing as he set his head back on the ground, cheek against rock.
Poor Butters Stotch. Poor, poor Butters Stotch.
Step 2. Get off the train tracks.
Butters rolled himself over and off the tracks, yelping as his back made brief contact with the sharp rocks below. He laid there, squeezing his eyes to gather his bearings.
You were hurt by Dad. You fell out of the tree. Kenny can help.
He laid there briefly, trying to catch up with his own thoughts. At some point, the sun had started to set.
Kenny’s near the tracks.
He shakily inhaled.
Step 5. Get to Kenny’s.
Butters crawled across the ground a yard or two before hauling his feet up and under him. As he was biting back tears at the sensation of pressure on his ankle, he contemplated crawling the remainder of the way.
You need to get out. They’re going to get you.
He hobbled his way forward in a pathetic jog, clenching his teeth as the bleary mess of the world tried to form shapes around him. His eyes ached. He let out a cry. He slowed to a walk.
His inner dialogue reduced itself to nothing more than a dizzying mantra of out out out out out, each word seeming to leave his brain, fly circles around his head, and spin it around and around like a Looney Toon. He felt like he was walking backwards.
He blinked and almost sagged to the ground at the sight of the green, dilapidated house in front of him. A tear dripped from his jaw. He messily ran his hands across his face and limped forward, somewhere between a walk and the pathetic run he had adopted. He dragged himself across the patchy grass, leaning heavily against the handrail as he stumbled up the groaning steps to the porch. Butters tripped forward and caught himself on the door frame, forcing himself upright as he raised his knuckles to knock on the door.
Seconds felt like hours as he stood there, eyes closed against the rattling in his skull. The squeak of the hinges startled his eyes open, and he looked down waveringly at seven-year-old Karen McCormick, whose face lit up like a Christmas tree at the sight of the boy.
“Oh, perfect! Say cheese, Leo!” Before Butters could comprehend anything, a white flash of light overtook his vision, sending jolts of electricity into his head and through his body. With a cry he stumbled backwards, arms waving wildly. He slapped his hands over his eyes. “Isn’t it neat! Ken got me a disposable cam-”
Butters hunched forward and hurled all over the McCormicks’ porch, summoning a scream at a decibel only seven-year-old girls can reach.