I Know You Are But What Am I?

[sop]

chapter 1/10, 
~20,000 words; nc-17
stan/kyle, minor: kenny/butters, craig/tweek

Stan and Kyle are in their senior year at South Park High. Stan plays quarterback while Kyle aims for the title of class valedictorian. With only seven months left before graduation, they’re both more than ready to leave their childhood mountain town far behind, hoping to attend college together somewhere on the west coast. But a Friday night house party at the Black estate and regrettable, drunken life choices throws an unexpected wrench into their plans, leaving Kyle questioning sudden non-platonic feelings for his super best friend. Meanwhile, Kenny thinks he’s come up with a pretty kick-ass senior prank, Butters joins the cheerleading squad, and Cartman is Cartman. Oh, and Craig and Tweek might actually be in love.

warnings: implied drug use, underage drinking, slight dub-con (drunk), homophobic language (cartman), racism (cartman) cartman (cartman), implied/referenced child abuse, and minor insinuations of canon-compliant off-screen death
 

"You going to Tolkien's party tomorrow?"

Kyle quickly jerks his left joystick and mashes the right bumper, dodging Stan's attack. He sucks at fighting games. But Stan sucks even more. "Yeah," Kyle answers mid-shield break. "Are you?"

Stan's character lands flat on his back. Kyle's curbstomps him until the platform's covered in pixelated blood. "If you're going, I'm going," Stan replies, trying his best to get out of Kyle’s bullshit combo. 

It’s only the beginning of their senior year at South Park High, and there’ll probably be plenty of other parties to crash by the time they graduate, but this one’s important. Because it’s at Tolkien’s house, the only residence in their school zone disproportionately responsible for their high school’s shiny, new football field—courtesy of exorbitantly high property taxes and the democratic process. Anyone who’s anyone is going to be there and Kyle’s hellbent on making as many memories as he can before they graduate. He figures it’s better to experience the chaos firsthand rather than hear it all from Kenny the next day. Kenny’s a great guy, and probably one of Kyle’s best friends, but he’s not exactly the most reliable narrator. And there’s only so much of Butters Kyle wants to hear about before he starts to wonder whether Kenny paid attention to anything else at all.

“It’s supposed to be the party of a lifetime. The party to end all parties,” Kyle parrots.

That’s just what he’s heard around school. The student body’s been talking this thing up for weeks now, embellishing and exaggerating until the very idea of it might as well be the stuff of legends. Every time Tolkien squashes one rumor, two more take its place—like some sort of pimply, seven-headed hydra. There'll be jugglers, a flaming obstacle course, live animals, and enough booze to put Skeeter’s Wine Bar to shame. Kyle’s only going for the free beer. And because Stan is.

Stan’s character flies off screen, the echo of his fighter’s screams trailing behind him. “Yeah, that’s what they say. You think there’s really gonna be strippers?”

Kyle grimaces. He’s not opposed to the idea of them, he’s just not excited about the potential for more tits flapping around. He’s unwillingly seen Bbebe’s rack more times than he can count to realize that boobs are most definitely not his thing. “Dude, really? You think Tolkien’s hiring strippers for a house party?”

Stan shrugs. “I don’t know! Maybe! Crazier things have happened. Like that time Selena Gomez came to our school and got beat up by Principal Victoria and Mr. Mackey.”

“Yeah,” Kyle laughs. “Or when Butters joined the cheerleading squad.”

Stan’s face scrunches in horror. “Dude, don’t remind me. I have to see his ass in Spandex every morning and it’s actually traumatizing.” He shudders at the memory.

“Which part?” Kyle teases. “His ass in Spandex or the fact that he’s actually good at it?”

Stan dodges mid-air, but Kyle manages to grab him anyway. “Both.”

Kyle rolls his eyes and takes Stan’s second to last life. “How long’s it been since we went to Tolkien’s? Like five years?”

“Longer than that,” Stan grunts, solely focused on trying not to lose to Kyle yet again. “Like ten? I wonder if he still sleeps in a racecar bed.”

Kyle snorts. “No way. He’s probably got a California King and gel-infused memory foam or something by now. What seventeen year old’s sleeping in a racecar bed?”

Stan shrugs. “Craig?” he offers.

They both groan in disgust at the mere mention of his name.

“That guy’s a douche,” Kyle states matter-of-factly as he charges up for a game-ending punch.

“Totally,” Stan agrees.

The match ends about ten seconds after that. Stan gets caught in yet another combo and watches helplessly as Kyle pummels him to death, stunlocked into a flurry of right and left hooks followed up by a spine-shattering knee crunch. The screen flashes WINNER in bold, yellow text with Kyle’s character doing a post-dismemberment victory pose.

“Goddamnit!” Stan chucks the controller to the floor—not intending to break it. He just knows Kyle’s carpet is soft enough to cushion his juvenile outburst.

Kyle smirks. “Dude, you kinda suck. Considering how much we play this, you’d think you’d be better at it by now,” he gloats. He’s being immature, but this is really all he has over Stan, besides booksmarts and a stupidly high GPA.

Stan leans across the bed and shoves Kyle’s right arm, but it’s playful; he’s not actually mad. “Shut up. You’re just good at reading my moves. It’s like you know what I’m gonna do before I even do it. It’s weird.”

Kyle nudges Stan’s knee with his own, liking the way Stan doesn’t pull back. “Maybe you shouldn’t be so obvious then.”

The familiar, shrill call of Kyle’s mother slips beneath the crack under Kyle’s bedroom door. They’ve been through this routine long enough to know exactly what that means. Stan and Kyle hop off the bed, power down the TV, then race for the stairs in a mad dash to get to the kitchen first.

Dinner’s ready.

Kyle can tell what his mother’s prepared the second fresh basil and tomato sauce hits his nose.

Out of the oven, between two rooster patterned mitts that his mother’s held onto since the nineties, is a big, fat tray of cheesy lasagna. Kyle’s stomach growls. Sheila places the scorching hot dish on their brand new granite island—they remodeled last year, after Kyle’s father had earned a huge bonus for brokering a settlement in a near impossible case—and huffs in appreciation. She takes off her mitts and plants her hands on her plump hips, smiling.

“You boys go wash up while it cools,” Kyle’s mother says with that usual chipper tone. “Who knows where your grubby hands have been?”

Ike, Kyle’s younger, adopted brother who’s just now at that age where everything’s edgy and embarrassing, shuffles into the kitchen right behind Kyle and Stan. If Kyle knows his brother, which Kyle honestly doubts these days, Ike was probably watching one of his favorite streamers or YouTube Let’s Players with a bunch of his online friends. Ike’s become a tad anti-social over the years, not nearly as affectionate or kind as he used to be when they were both in elementary school, when Kyle was his hero and the definition of cool. Kyle tries not to take it personally. He, too, went through a phase.

“Probably down each other’s pants,” Ike mumbles mostly to himself as he throws the fridge door open, searching for something to drink that isn’t water.

Kyle’s mother doesn’t hear him, or Stan for that matter, but Kyle does. He’s not in the mood to pick a fight right now, though, and lets it slide. There’s no way he could come up with a decent comeback when he’s this hungry, anyway.

Stan pumps a handful of dish soap into Kyle’s palm, then his own, and scrubs. “Dude, I love your mom’s lasagna,” he says as the faucet runs.

Kyle nods. “Yeah, me too. I think she made it because she knew you were coming over today.”

“Really? That’s so sweet. Your mom’s cool.” Stan rinses the soap off and then shakes his hands dry before wiping them onto his blue jeans. There’s a perfectly good dishtowel hanging on the stove. Kyle doesn’t know why Stan can’t just use it like any normal, civilized person.

“Yeah, for the most part. When she’s not embarrassing me,” Kyle says.

Sheila fetches a spatula from the utensil drawer and starts cutting the lasagna into squares. “Come bring your plates, boys. This might be a little messy until it settles, but it’ll taste just as good.” She serves Ike first, then Kyle, and then plops a generous portion onto Stan’s plate. It’s nearly twice as big as Kyle’s.

Kyle stares at Stan’s monster slice and then at Stan. Stan’s beaming. “Ma, why is Stan’s twice as big as mine?”

“Because he’s a growing boy who plays football, bubbe,” Sheila replies. “Stan needs all the extra calories he can get so his throwing arm is big and strong. Maybe when you’re quarterback, you can have an extra slice.”

Stan can’t help but grin. “Thanks, Mrs. Broflovski. I really appreciate it.”

“Oh, don’t even mention it, Stan. You’re like a third son to me,” Sheila dotes. She pats Stan’s right shoulder affectionately.

Kyle frowns. “What about your first son?”

Sheila matches Kyle’s expression. “He needs to go easy on the cheese or he’s going to be gassy for the rest of the night.”

“Ma!” Kyle shouts, mortified.

Stan smiles good-naturedly and nudges Kyle with his elbow. “Yeah, Kyle, watch that cheese. Wouldn’t want you hotboxing the bed later.”

Kyle scowls. “Shut the fuck up,” he whispers just low enough for Stan to hear.

Sheila plates up a fifth slice and gestures for the boys to move. “Let’s go sit down in the dining room and eat before it gets cold. Your father should be home in a few minutes.”

They settle around the dining table, Stan and Kyle sitting next to one another opposite Sheila and Ike.

Kyle doesn’t remember who started it (probably Stan if he had to guess), but it’s an unspoken tradition at this point that one of them will toe the other until they’re full on playing footsie under the table for the rest of their meal. It probably started as a way to help relieve anxiety back when Stan was really going through it in the fourth grade (his parents threatened to divorce at least five times that year alone) and he’d end up spending more time at Kyle’s place than his own. There’s really no good reason why they’ve kept it going to this day, but Kyle’s not one to complain. Or, rather, he is. Just not about this.

Like clockwork, Gerald, Kyle’s father and South Park’s only lawyer worth a damn, walks through the front door. He joins them in the dining room shortly after and kisses his wife. “Sorry I’m late,” he apologizes. “Who knew suing a dancing monkey would involve so much paperwork!”

Sheila pats Gerald’s seat at the head of the table. “You’re just in time, dear. Come, eat. We were about to dig in.”

Kyle’s grateful that his family doesn’t really pray before meals, like Stan’s does. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands with his eyes closed, or what he’s supposed to be thinking about while Sharon recites the same Catholic prayer Kyle could probably repeat by heart at this point.

“So, Stan, how goes the football season?” Gerald asks.

Stan swallows a large mouthful of lasagna. “Oh, um. Great. We’re undefeated so far. Coach thinks that if we keep at the pace we’re going, we might even make it to states this year.”

“That’s wonderful, Stan! Mazel!” Sheila praises. “I’m sure your parents are proud of you!”

Kyle feels Stan’s foot rub against his, which can only mean one thing: Stan’s anxious.

Stan’s parents are a bit of a touchy subject. Sharon and Randy have had a tumultuous relationship—to put it very fucking lightly—these past ten years. They were off, then on, then off again, then on again, then working through it, then divorced, then eventually remarried, all in the span of two years. Stan's parents might as well be Merriam and Webster’s official dictionary definition of the phrase “shit show”. Stan hates when people ask about them, because he’s never really sure what to say. Yeah, they’re good; Mom didn’t kick Dad out of the house today. But he’s not big on setting conversational boundaries either, especially if it makes smalltalk awkward. He’s a bit of a people pleaser at times, and Kyle thinks Stan could benefit from being a bit more assertive, to be quite honest. But that conversation’s been beaten to death in a way that makes Principal Victoria’s smackdown of Selena Gomez look wholesome by comparison.

Stan presses his foot a bit more forcefully this time and Kyle instantly reciprocates.

“Yeah, they are,” Stan answers. “Not as much as you guys are of Kyle, I’m sure. He’s, like, the smartest kid at school.”

Now it’s Kyle’s turn to poke Stan.

Kyle’s been busting his ass to finish valedictorian of their graduating class by the year’s end and he’s currently in a three way tie with Scott Malkinson and none other than Stan’s long-time girlfriend: Wendy Testaburger. If anyone’s capable of overtaking Kyle, it’s Wendy. She’s hardworking, smart, and disgustingly driven. It’ll come down to the wire, most likely, but he’s confident he can beat her. It’s just a matter of willpower. Knowing where Stan falls on the Wendy/Kyle t-chart sure would help Kyle’s wavering self-esteem, though he’s not entirely sure he wants to find out the answer.

“He takes after his father,” Sheila says with a smile. “You two are so alike, it’s almost scary sometimes.”

Gerald nods in agreement. “Keep those grades up, son, and maybe there’ll be another lawyer in the family.”

Kyle’s not exactly sure what he wants to do with his life just yet, but “practice law” ranks pretty low on his totem pole of hierarchical wants, just above “suck Cartman’s balls”, but below “swim in pee”.

“Maybe,” Kyle answers noncommittally. “We’ll see. It all depends on where I get into, right?”

Stan shoots him a knowing glance. Kyle pretends not to notice.

“If we’re lucky, hopefully Yale,” Gerald says.

Sheila nods. “Or even Harvard! You know your Uncle Murrey went to—”

“—went to Harvard,” Kyle interrupts as he pushes a noodle around. “Yeah, yeah. I know. You’ve only mentioned it a thousand times.”

“You should ask him, Gerald. See if he can pull some strings for Kyle. Maybe he knows someone in admissions,” Sheila continues.

Gerald hums thoughtfully. “Wouldn’t hurt to ask.”

The rest of dinner goes by uneventfully. Sheila asks Stan if he’s staying over for the night, to which Stan replies yes, he intends to. Which means an automatic phone call to the Marsh residence to let Sharon know that her son will be at Kyle’s for the evening, like they’re still ten years old and incapable of exercising independence. Kyle’s parents are a little old-fashioned and slightly overprotective, but they mean well. Stan doesn’t seem to mind.

“You know, if you two are going to be gay as fuck,” Ike starts as he scrapes a few noodles into the trashbin before loading his plate in the dishwasher, “could you at least save it for a time other than dinner? Watching you two flirt seriously makes me wanna hurl…”

Kyle pauses mid-wipe and puts the spray bottle down. It’s the kids’ job to clean after their mother cooks. Family rule.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know having an actual, real-life friend was fucking gay,” Kyle snaps. “You should try it some time. Way less homo than whatever the fuck you do with those ‘friends’ of yours online.”

Ike groans and slams the dishwasher shut. “We watch YouTube. That’s it.”

“Really? Then what were those noises coming from your bedroom last night?” Kyle’s not above a little bullying, especially when it comes to his younger brother. Ike started it.

Ike’s cheeks flush and his expression sours. “You guys can do the rest,” he mutters, then stomps back up the stairs.

“Have fun watching PoopyPie!” Kyle yells between two cupped hands.

“It’s PewDiePie!” Ike shouts back before slamming his door closed.

Stan stretches some cling film over the leftover lasagna. “Dude, your brother’s a dick.”

Kyle sighs. “Yeah. He kind of is. He wasn’t always, but lately it’s gotten pretty bad.”

“You think it’s from all those streamers he watches?” Stan muses as he makes room for their leftovers in the fridge.

“Maybe. Or maybe it’s all that pent-up, Canadian rage.”

“Were we like that?”

Kyle thinks back to their time as pre-teens and shrugs. “I don’t think so. For one, we never roleplayed as chicks online so we could call each other daddy in Call of Duty lobbies.”

Stan snorts. “Jesus, Ike’s weird.” He shoves a pod into the dishwasher compartment and runs it. “Wanna go another round before bed?”

Kyle throws away the paper towel in his hand and smiles. “You’re on.”

Their rematch does not end well for Stan. He loses two more times before calling it quits, blaming the controller for “input lag” and “joystick drift”. It’s a little funny how Stan’s got the reflexes of a cat when it comes to actual, real world sports, but when it’s video games, he’s got the reaction time of a corpse—specifically Kyle’s deceased grandmother. Kyle tells him so when Stan falls into yet another life-ending combo. That’s when Stan calls it quits and announces that it’s time for bed. Because he has football practice in the morning, not because he’s a sore loser or anything.

Kyle changes into a pair of pajamas and towel dries his hair while Stan showers in his adjoining bathroom. As he pulls on a few strands (they reach down to his chin), Kyle realizes he’s due for another haircut soon. The curls are a little out of control. Stan says he likes them, though. Kyle’s indifferent.

The water abruptly cuts off and the bathroom door swings open. Out walks Stan with one of Kyle’s striped towels around his waist, trailing water as he heads toward the dresser. Kyle tries not to stare. But it’s really fucking hard not to. Stan’s built up some considerable bulk over the years. He was never really scrawny the way Kyle’s always been, but the muscles kind of just multiplied until Stan got big enough to make even some of the adults in South Park think twice before messing with him. Notably Randy, who’s more or less just a background character in Stan’s life now.

Stan opens the top drawer and rummages around. “My extra pair should be in here, yeah?”

Kyle nods. “Yeah, on the right.”

Stan keeps a spare set of clothes over at Kyle’s house in case of spontaneous sleepovers. They don’t do it as often as they used to back when they were eight or nine (their schedules are a little fucked this year), but it’s a common enough occurrence to justify keeping a few extra t-shirts and boxers Stan won’t miss.

Stan pulls out a pair of red boxers and a white t-shirt that’s probably too small for him now. His chest’s gotten bigger since the tenth grade and he somehow grew a couple more inches this past summer, officially putting him over six feet according to his last physical. Kyle’s almost as tall, but he feels microscopic by comparison, like an ant waiting to be squished by Stan’s size ten cleats.

Kyle heads into the bathroom to hang up his towel and brush his teeth.

“You didn’t tell your parents,” Stan says from the bedroom.

Kyle starts working on his back molars. “Huh?” he mumbles around a mouthful of toothpaste and the brush.

“You didn’t tell your parents about California,” Stan clarifies.

Kyle changes sides. “I haffen ha tie to.”

Stan walks into the doorway. Thankfully, he’s dressed. “What?”

Kyle spits out the toothpaste and rinses. “I said I haven’t had time to.”

“Dude, we’ve been talking about this for years,” Stan counters. “When did you figure would be a good time? While we’re packing our bags and heading to the airport?”

“It’s not exactly an easy topic to bring up, Stan. You heard my parents. They’re practically planning my whole life for me,” Kyle says as he opens the medicine cabinet for mouthwash.

His parents aren’t nearly as terrible as Butters’ or Kenny’s, and he really shouldn’t complain all that much considering they’re actually still together and in love (unlike Stan’s), but Kyle’s a little exhausted. He’s tired of having to explain where he’s going with his friends on a random Wednesday night, or why it’s a little weird that he’s the only kid who still has to text his mom when he makes it to someone else’s house. They’re uptight and overbearing—so much so that Kyle almost envies Stan’s situation in a way—and he kind of wishes they weren’t so anal about his plans for the future. It comes from a place of love, he has to remind himself. But he won’t be shocked if they already have his wedding scheduled (to a nice Jewish girl of course) the second he graduates from college.

Stan props one arm against the doorframe and sighs. “Look, I can’t tell you when to do it, but you’re gonna have to tell them eventually, Kyle. This school year’s gonna go by so fast, the next thing you know we’ll all be standing on stage with diplomas in our hands. Christ, it feels like it was just yesterday when we were in Mr. Garrison’s homeroom.”

Kyle swishes the Listerine in his mouth a few more times and then spits. “Okay, okay,” he grouses. “I’ll tell them soon. Just…give me a few weeks. I’ve gotta work them up to the idea of it first.”

Stan smiles. Kyle hates how much he likes it. He wants to feel annoyed, but Stan’s pretty good at making him feel the exact opposite. “Cool. You done pampering now? Ready for bed?”

“Oral hygiene is not pampering!” Kyle snaps. “You could use a little mouthwash every now and then, Mr. ‘I Got Three Cavities in the Seventh Grade’.”

Stan touches his jaw with his free hand and frowns. “Okay, then let me use yours.” He reaches for Kyle’s Listerine.

Kyle yanks the bottle out of Stan’s reach and grimaces in disgust. “And let you put your lips on the cap? Ew. No fucking way, dude.”

Stan laughs. “Germaphobe.”

They crawl into Kyle’s full size bed and fight for every inch, Stan shoving Kyle closer to the wall and Kyle nudging Stan to the edge because he’s taking up the entire middle along with all the pillows. They’re both a lot taller now and Stan’s not quite long enough for his feet to stick out past the bed frame, all cartoon like, but he’s pretty close. After five minutes of tossing and turning, Stan rolls to face Kyle, his head cradled atop his bicep.

“Dude, I can’t wait for California,” Stan says almost dreamily, like he’s already envisioning their entire lives near those beaches.

Kyle rolls over to face him. “Yeah, me either,” he whispers, as though they were sharing secrets. The way the moonlight filters in from the window and his curtains makes Stan’s eyelashes look even longer than they already are. Kyle blinks and wonders if Stan thinks the same about his own.

“I’ve only been once, when I did that whole anti-bullying video thing. Remember?”

“Was that when they flew you out for that Dr. Oz episode that they didn’t even air?” Kyle clarifies.

Stan rolls his eyes. “Yeah.”

“Dude, that was so lame.”

“Yeah, I know” Stan licks his lips. Kyle tries not to stare. “But Randy took me to the beach after they finished taping and I finally got to dip my toes into the ocean. Dude. It was amazing. So much better than a pool.” Stan closes his eyes for a moment. “And all that sand. I swear I made like three sandcastles that day. They weren’t even good. Just wet mounds of sand piled together, but it was so much fun. Way better than all the snow out here.”

Kyle’s been to the beach several times before. His cousin’s family has a house down in Florida they escape to when the winter months in New Jersey become unbearable. The Broflovski’s go with them on occasion, just to get away from South Park and to keep family tradition alive. Which sucks. The Schwartzes are weird and Florida’s too fucking humid for any sane person to enjoy. Kyle remembers one year when they’d left during the holiday break and how devastated he’d been because Christmas and Chanukah were actually on the same day for once. He and Stan had planned to celebrate at each other’s houses and eat as much gelt and chocolate cake as possible. That phone call to Stan three days before boarding was probably the hardest one Kyle’d ever made.

“The snow’s not so bad,” Kyle comments. “I might miss it.”

“Dude, no way,” Stan laughs. “You can’t actually think it’s better than sand. Sand’s softer and you can just rinse it off.”

“I’m just saying that snow is pretty cool, too! Remember when we went sledding with Kenny and Cartman that one year?”

Stan sighs. “Yeah. That was fun. Except for when Kenny crashed into a tree. I have no idea how he survived that.”

“Me either,” Kyle says. Kenny’s weird like that. He gets into a lot of accidents, but somehow comes out of them just fine. Dude’s got insane luck.

“But just think about all the positives,” Stan continues. “We’d never have to shovel a driveway again, no snowstorms, plus all that water. Actual water, Kyle. Not just a shitty lake you go to to bone your girlfriend. Unless…you’re freaked out by it.”

Kyle rolls onto his back and frowns. “I’m not freaked out…” He is. A little.

Stan scoots closer and pokes Kyle’s arm. “Oh my God you totally are. It’s all the piss, isn’t it?”

“It’s not funny!” Kyle hisses, recoiling in embarrassment.

“Man, that water park fucked you up, huh? Not everyone pees in the ocean, dude,” Stan says with a grin. He’s actually enjoying this. “And, if you think about it, it’s already pre-peed. Billions of fish and crabs and shit like that piss in it every day. It’s, like, more urine than water probably.”

Kyle groans and covers his face. “You’re not making it better, Stan!”

Stan nudges Kyle’s elbow. “Dude, I’m just joking.”

“It’s an actual phobia, asshole!” Kyle says with a little more bite than he intends. It’s annoying how Stan sometimes takes his teasing a little too far. Or maybe Kyle’s too sensitive to it all.

Stan reaches over to try and pull Kyle’s hand away, Kyle shoves it on instinct, and then they’re fighting. It’s not serious, though. Not like those times when they were actually out for blood because of some dumb disagreement or cause or whatever, none of which Kyle can remember anymore. It’s performative, less gory, and Kyle’s winning. Until he isn’t. He thinks he has the upperhand, and then Stan reminds him just how much stronger he is when he pushes Kyle up against the wall, both of Kyle’s wrists pinned beneath the weight of Stan’s hands.

Stan pants above him, grinning like a cat that got the cream. “I win,” he teases. His black hair sticks up in every direction. Kyle almost wishes he could reach out and smooth it down.

“Okay, okay,” Kyle grunts. “You win. Lemme go.”

So Stan does. “Now we’re even,” he says and then settles down beside Kyle, facing the door.

Kyle turns to face the wall and snorts. “Just go to sleep, asshole. You’ve got practice in the morning.”

“Fine. But if you fart on me once, I’m gonna kick your ass.”

Kyle rears back his foot and kicks Stan square in his. Stan hisses and Kyle laughs. “Not if I kick yours first.”

*

The alarm goes off sometime around 06:00.

Kyle groans and sits up. He reaches over Stan, who’s still dead asleep and softly snoring into his pillow, to grab his phone. He dismisses the alarm and then rubs his eyes, trying to adjust to the daylight suddenly pouring in through the curtains. It feels like they climbed into bed just minutes ago. He yawns, sighs, and then turns to wake Stan. It’s a wonder he even makes it to school on time.

“Stan,” Kyle says, gently. “Wake up.”

Stan exhales choppily and then mumbles something incomprehensible, still asleep.

So Kyle tries again. “Stan, dude. It’s time for school.”

Stan buries deeper into the mattress.

They don't have time for this.

Kyle shoves Stan with more force than he probably should, and then Stan’s tumbling, careening over the edge like he’s featuring in one of Kyle’s bad dreams.

“Dude!” Stan shouts. He’s tangled in the blankets, annoyed, and turning redder by the second. He rubs the back of his head and grunts.

Kyle just laughs.

They get ready in silence. Kyle showers—beceause he’s a big believer in taking two every day—while Stan brushes his teeth with a spare from the cabinet (his own spare from his house to be precise) and takes a piss. Kyle tries not to focus on the sound of it, choosing instead to believe that it’s just the water from the showerhead even though subconsciously he knows it’s not. He’s trying to get over it. Really. It’s just hard. It’ll prepare you for the beach, dude. Baby steps, Kyle. Baby steps. That was Stan’s logic behind the whole suggestion—exposure therapy. Which made about as much sense as trusting Bebe with a secret.

After they get dressed, Stan heads into the kitchen to cook some eggs. It’s the one thing Randy taught him that Stan’s halfway proud of. He agitates them in the pan until they’re about at a soft scramble, the way he and Kyle like. The toast pops a few seconds after and Kyle butters both slices. Stan could probably eat more, Kyle thinks, but this’ll have to do until lunch. Stan’s too polite to raid his fridge.

“You coming with me?” Stan asks around a mouthful of egg. He’s got a crumb on his chin.

Kyle swallows some orange juice and shoots Stan a dry look. “Dude. You know how this goes.” Stan should by now. It’s ritual at this point.

“Just asking…” Stan mumbles, then smiles, hiding it behind a slice of toast.

They leave their dishes in the sink (Kyle’s mom won’t mind) and then walk outside.

Stan left his car here overnight and since Kyle doesn’t have one, he's thankful for the free ride. It beats walking, especially in this weather. Stan’s car is some stupid eighties deathtrap Randy bought him for his sixteenth birthday, the complete antithesis of “environmentally friendly”. If Randy had half a working brain—and laid off the Bud Light every now and then—he’d know Stan had actually wanted a hybrid, or something that at least got more than twenty miles per gallon. But working under the outdated assumption that all teenage boys want pussy and chicks dig muscle cars, the Mustang was purchased. Stan plans on selling it the second he graduates.

Some top forty song drones on the radio and Stan leans over to fiddle with the dial, almost missing the red light in front of them.

Kyle shoves Stan’s hand away. “Focus! You’re gonna get us killed!” he shouts, then changes the station to something Stan likes—indie rock.

Stan rolls his eyes. “There’s no one else on the road, dude. It’s practically a ghost town.”

“Well I’d rather not add to the population because you can’t keep your eyes straight ahead,” Kyle admonishes. “Just drive, dude.”

The light turns green and Stan steps on the gas.

“You know,” Stan starts as he makes a right, “it’s gonna be like this every day.”

Kyle props his elbow against the window and rests his head in his hand, watching all of the familiar stores fly by. Much about South Park hasn’t changed, for better or worse. “What’s gonna be like what?” he asks, noticing a group of kids across the street. Four in total, all different heights.

“College,” Stan replies. “Like last night. Play some games, hang out, do whatever we want, then rinse and repeat until we graduate. It’ll just be us, and, like, maybe two other guys or whatever in our dorm. But no parents, no rules. It’s gonna be awesome.”

“Yeah,” Kyle agrees. Stan’s oversimplifying it—and conveniently leaving out the studying part—but he’s right. Going to college together just might be the one thing after high school Kyle’s looking forward to. “Though I doubt we’ll get to see each other all that much, with you going to practice and all. You'll be too busy throwing balls around.” Stan’s set on playing football in college, possibly getting a scholarship for it, too, if he can. Then it’s off to the pros. Kyle already feels as though he doesn’t see Stan enough as is. He doubts he’ll even see him at all once they start next fall.

Stan readjusts his seatbelt and shoots Kyle a sympathetic smile. “I mean, a little. But you know I’ll always make time for you, dude.”

Kyle snorts, trying very hard not to be pessimistic. “Yeah, just pencil me in between laps around the field and hook-ups with cheerleaders.” He worries his thumb between his teeth and tries not to visualize that last part.

Stan shakes his head. “Dude, I told you. Me and Wendy aren’t breaking up. We’re gonna try it, the long-distance thing. See if it works.” He doesn’t sound convinced, but Kyle’s not brave enough to push him on it.

The mood in Stan’s car quickly shifts into something uncomfortable and awkward. So Stan changes the subject.

“Should we bring something?” he asks a few seconds later. “To Tolkien’s party.”

Kyle looks over at Stan and raises a brow. “We? What, like we’re going together?”

“Yeah,” Stan replies. “I mean, unless we’re not?” He looks a little heartbroken at the idea. “I thought I’d pick you up.”

“No, I didn’t say that. It just sounded like—” Kyle fidgets in his seat. It sounds like what Stan does for Wendy on occasional Saturday nights. “—never mind. Yeah. Sure. Um, I think my mom’s got a bottle of wine or something I can steal. They won’t know it’s missing.”

“Dude, you can’t bring a bottle of wine to a house party,” Stan laughs.

Kyle sighs in frustration. “Okay then, asshole, what’re we supposed to bring?”

“My dad’s got a ton of beer in the basement fridge; he won’t mind if some goes missing. I’ll just sneak those in my backpack or something.”

It’s a solid plan. And easier to smuggle than a jug of table wine. “I never thought I’d say this, but it’s pretty convenient your dad’s a functioning alcoholic.”

Stan chuckles. “You’re telling me.”

The rest of the ride goes by in relative silence with just the sound of some husky, male vocalist crooning about love in the background.

*

Stan pulls his car into the parking lot around 06:30. He’s going to have to hustle if he wants to make it to the locker room on time. His coach is a hardass. And as captain and star quarterback, Stan really should be setting an example for the rest of his team. He’s the lynchpin holding them together, or something. That’s what the entire school thinks. As Stan sprints away with a last minute wave and a loud Later! cutting through the lot’s eerie silence, Kyle regrets not waking Stan up a bit earlier. He’s totally getting in trouble.

The bleachers are cold this morning, chillier than usual because of the shift in temperature this time of the year. Kyle takes up a spot somewhere in the fourth row—right in the middle—and digs around for his chemistry book. There’s a couple questions he needs to finish from yesterday's homework. Stan sort of took up his entire evening. Not that he’s upset about it or anything. He’s fine with putting off a few assignments if it means cramming in some much needed alone time with his best friend.

There’s hardly anyone here—just the football team and, eventually, the cheerleading squad if they’re set on practicing a few new dances.

This part of his day, right before the rest of the kids get to school and it’s just him and Stan sharing space, might be Kyle's favorite.

A loud laugh echoes across the field.

Kyle looks over and spies Bebe shamelessly flirting with Clyde on the forty yard line. He gropes her ass and she pretends to swat it away out of modesty, but she’s not fooling anyone. She’s cheer captain and Clyde’s a wide receiver, a picture perfect high school couple if there ever was such a thing. Minus the meltdowns and breakups and messy reunions and—

Clyde leans over and shoves his tongue down Bebe’s throat. Kyle grimaces. It’s too fucking early.

Kyle ducks his head down into his AP chemistry book and stares at question number five: Which of the following gases has the weakest attractive forces between particles? He thinks he’s figured out the answer, and then Bebe’s voice mutates into twenty and the next thing Kyle knows the whole damn football team’s here. Kyle considers leaving, but he catches Stan running out onto the field. It’s somewhere in the mid-fifties, but Stan’s dressed in athletic pants and a thin South Park High t-shirt, completely unfazed by the temperature. He’d probably wear the exact same thing even if it were snowing.

Stan finds Kyle in the stands and waves. Kyle can’t help but smile and wave back.

A sudden flash and a loud, mechanical shutter pulls Kyle’s attention away from his best friend.

Jimmy Valmer must’ve climbed up the bleachers while Kyle wasn’t paying attention. Which is kind of impressive for someone who’s been using metal crutches his entire life. Jimmy lowers his camera and smiles warmly at Kyle. “Oh, h-hey Kyle! Fancy seeing you here this morning.”

Jimmy’s the editor in chief of their school newspaper and the announcer for all of South Park High’s football games. How he landed that particular role, Kyle doesn’t know, but no one seems to mind the occasional vocal stims and tics when he delivers his play-by-plays.

Kye covers his eyes—it’s starting to get a little too bright—and looks up. “Hey, Jimmy,” he greets. “What’re you doing out here so early?”

Jimmy shifts his weight onto his left crutch and adjusts the camera lens. “Just takin’ some p-p-p-pictures for the school newspaper. The girls go crazy for the football team.”

Kyle nods thoughtfully. Makes sense. Sex sells. And now he’s wondering whether Jimmy’s going to snap a few close-ups of Stan’s ass in those pants and feature the pictures on the very first page of the sports section. Lisa Berger might buy two copies if he does.

Jimmy snaps another photo as the team starts doing push-ups. “W-what are you doing out here, Kyle? School doesn’t start for another h-half hour.”

“Homework,” Kyle answers, dryly. “Or I was. Until Bebe and the rest of the cheer squad showed up.”

They filtered onto the sidelines a moment ago, Bebe clapping her hands and whipping the girls—and Butters—into shape before attempting a quick pyramid. Butters does a great job at being the base. His pikes and toe touches aren’t bad either.

“Y-you know Kyle, there are other places to study besides the bleachers. If you’re looking for s-somewhere quiet, I think the l-library’s open.” Jimmy takes another photo of Butters tossing Esther.

“Yeah, I know. But Stan’s kind of superstitious. Says I’m his good luck charm or something.” Kyle blows a stray curl out of the way. “Might as well kill two birds with one stone and finish these last couple of questions out here so he doesn’t break a leg or something.”

Stan’s paranoid, to be more accurate. When Kyle didn’t show for their first game of the season last year (he was sick and bed ridden due to the flu), South Park had lost in the most devastating of ways. A complete blowout. The whole school was embarrassed, Stan most of all. When Kyle came to their second match, they’d crushed Middle Park decisively, a near reversal of the previous week. From that day on, Stan made Kyle promise not to skip a single game ever again. Rain, snow, sleet, or nuclear fallout, Kyle had to be there. No exceptions.

“Well, you better come to a-all of the games this season,” Jimmy jokes. “The team’s got a good chance of making it to states this year.”

“Yeah,” Kyle says, watching Stan practice a few throws with Clyde, “so I’ve heard.”

Those thirty minutes feel more like five and before Kyle knows it, the bell’s ringing. He makes brief eye contact with Stan, fighting to find him amidst a sea of jerseys and nylon, and feels his heart speed up the second they find one another. Stan waves Kyle a quick goodbye and then disappears into the athletics building. He has to shower and change before heading to free period. Hopefully Stan remembered to pack some extra clothes this time.

Kyle grabs his backpack and races down the bleachers. He needs to visit his locker before class starts.

Along the way, he spies Tweek and Craig hanging out by the vending machines. Craig puts in a few coins to buy a soda and the fizzy drink thuds down into the dispenser. He then picks it up to hand to his boyfriend without so much as a glance. Tweek takes the can with shaky hands and impatiently pops the tab, sucking down a big gulp like he’s chasing a quick fix. Those two have been together about as long as Stan and Wendy, usually attached at the hip and sulking in a corner of the school somewhere. Craig’s still making videos using a wide-angle lens and Tweek…well, Tweek’s around. Kyle’s never seen them do more than hold hands, but they’ve gotta be in love—ten years is nothing to sneeze at. Why else would they be dating if they weren’t?

Kyle puts in the code to his locker and dumps all of his textbooks inside. He’s about ready to leave, when Eric fucking Cartman decides now is as good a time as any to stop by and harass him.

“Well hello, Kyle,” Cartman sneers more than says—with the stale scent of Cheesy Poofs on his breath, no less. He’s downing a whole bag of them all before first period. The artificial smell turns Kyle’s stomach.

Kyle frowns and slams his locker shut. “Fuck off, Cartman.”

They’re not friends. Not that they ever really were. But it’s especially obvious now. Cartman’s an asshole and a social pariah, the creature that lives under the school’s metaphorical bridge. Even fatter and more unpopular than he was in elementary school, Cartman hasn’t grown up in the slightest and still revels in the misfortune of those around him. Specifically Kyle’s. And occasionally Butters’. Kenny’s there to protect Butters, though, to make sure Cartman fucks off to the furthest reaches of the Earth if he so much as insinuates anything that could be interpreted as rude. Kenny’s a bit overprotective of him, but it’s not without reason. Kyle’s usually able to handle Cartman on his own. He doesn’t need Stan to hang around him like his personal guard dog on duty, but sometimes—like now—he wouldn’t mind a little back-up.

Cartman shoves another handful of Cheesy Poofs down his gullet and chews with his mouth open, making a point to smack his lips and waggle his tongue around. Because he knows Kyle hates it. “I saw you hanging out by the bleachers earlier. Were you watching your boyfriend, Stan, perchance? Perhaps admiring his tight ass while you jerked it under your backpack?”

“Cartman, I don’t have time for this right now. I’m going to be late,” Kyle snaps.

Cartman grins. Kyle can count at least fifteen orange crumbs stuck between his teeth. “You guys are like two faggy little love-birds,” Cartman adds. “All nestled up in one homoerotic pear tree.”

Kyle sighs. “That was a partridge! And no, we’re not! Now if you could fucking get out of my way—”

Cartman blocks Kyle’s exit. “Or what, Kyle? What’re you going to do?”

An orange arm slips around Cartman’s broad shoulders, catching him off guard, and he damn near drops the Cheesy Poofs when he realizes just who it belongs to. 

“‘Sup, dudes,” Kenny says with a big shit-eating grin.

Kyle sighs in relief. He should’ve known Kenny would be around. Their lockers are straight across from each other, after all.

Cartman shoves Kenny’s arm away from him, like he’ll somehow catch his poverty. “I’m kind of in the middle of something, Kenny. Can’t you see I’m talking to Kyle?”

Kenny passes a glance between them and smirks. “Looks more like you’re doing all the talking and he’s trying to tell you to fuck off.”

Kyle folds his arms. “That’s precisely what’s happening.”

Cartman groans. “Must everyone misinterpret my intentions? I only wanted to greet one of my best buds in the whole wide world, Kyle, before we must mournfully depart for class,” he monologues. And then adds in one breath, rushed, “And check in on his faggy love affair with Stan.”

Kyle sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. If murder were legal for one single, solitary day, Kyle would consider asking Stan to drive his Mustang into Cartman’s fat ass. There’s no guarantee it would kill him, though. The car might give out first.

Kenny stands next to Kyle and adopts a semi-protective stance, puffing out his chest a little and cocking his head to the side. “You tryin’ to get in on it or something? You wanna get sandwiched by Kyle and Stan, is that it? Talk about the pot callin’ the kettle black. Or the repressed homosexual calling the baked cornmeal a poof,” Kenny jokes.

Cartman turns red. It’s incredible just how much he resembles a giant pimple when he’s this mad. “Ew, no! Don’t be gross, Kenny!” Cartman shouts.

“Then what’s your fascination with them then? It’s not like they’re gonna blow you. Not that they could even find your dick under all that gut.”

“You’re just jealous because I can actually afford the school lunch!”

Kenny works at City Wok, like he has been since he was nine years old. He can definitely afford more than shitty cafeteria food these days. Not much more, but a bit. Every blue moon or so. "And you’re pissed because I can actually see mine every time I stick it in your mom’s ass.”

Cartman strangles his Cheesy Poofs between his hands. “Screw you guys, I’m going to class!” he announces after flipping both Kyle and Kenny the bird.

“Dude,” Kyle laughs. “I think you almost gave him a heart attack.”

Kenny shrugs. “Couldn’t happen to a worse person. Hey, by the way, you goin’ to Tolkien’s later?”

“Yeah,” Kyle says. “Stan’s picking me up.”

Kenny quirks a brow, but doesn’t comment on Kyle’s statement. “Sweet! I'm bringing Butters along. This is his first time at a house party and he can't drink for shit, so someone's gotta make sure he doesn't puke on the Van Gogh.”

“Let’s hope he doesn’t have a repeat of his sixteenth birthday. Remember the bowling alley?” Kyle asks. They both shudder. “Thanks for the rescue, by the way. I wasn’t sure if he was actually going to leave.”

Kenny unzips his signature parka and ties it around his waist. “No problemo, amigo. I love watching that fat fuck squirm. Now hurry up and get to class, Broflovski, or two of us are gonna be late at this rate.”

Kyle starts heading down the hallway. His class is only a few doors down. “Aren’t you going to Home Ec?” he asks just as the bell clips his sentence.

Kenny just waves his hand and starts walking the other way. “Nah. Not important. I got me a date with a hot cheerleader.”

Kyle’s not sure if Kenny’s talking about Mandy or Butters.

*

Salisbury steak.

Perhaps the most disgusting thing on the entire planet, and here it is jiggling on Kyle’s tray. There’s nothing worse than Salisbury steak day, except, of course, whatever the cafeteria ladies label as beef stroganoff. Those days are a “you better bring something from home or you’ll be sorry” kind of day. Kyle learned his lesson back in the ninth grade. Never again.

He grabs an orange and a carton of two percent milk, then makes his way toward the table where Stan, Kenny, and Butters are sitting. By the time Kyle gets there, Butters is in full swing about the party. It’s a little cute how excited he is.

“Oh, boy! I ain't never been invited to one o’ these fancy shindigs before!” Butters exclaims, hands flying everywhere because he doesn’t know what to do with them. “Tolkien’s house is pretty huge. You think I should wear a tie?”

Kenny shakes his head and rests his arm on the back of Butters’ chair, a gesture Kyle considers too intimate for people who are supposedly just friends. “Nah, you'll look great in what you've got on now. Those jean’re pretty cute,” Kenny says. Kyle can practically hear his unspoken Like you.

Butters blushes. “Aw shucks, Ken. That's mighty nice of you to say.”

Kyle looks over at Stan, who looks back at him, whose face almost certainly mirrors the same exact expression Kyle wears on his own. A look that says: They’re gay, right? They’re totally fucking. Is this for real? Perhaps it’s better if Kyle doesn’t know.

Stan leans forward and coughs, trying to subtly interrupt Kenny’s and Butters’ blatant eye fucking. “Butters, how are your parents even letting you go to this thing?” he asks. “I thought they'd be freaking out about you accidentally consuming all of ‘Satan’s temptations’. Or being out past ten. Remember your birthday at Mick’s Lanes?”

The infamous bowling alley birthday. Butters drank enough vodka mixed with not nearly enough Sprite until he was bold enough to go home and puke on the carpet while flipping the bird to his mother. He would’ve gotten a month for that if Bebe hadn’t magically pulled some strings. Kenny never did explain how that little incident managed to work itself out.

Butters squirms excitedly in his seat. “Well, uh. The thing is—”

“—I’m sneaking him out,” Kenny cuts in.

“How?!” Kyle exclaims. The Stotches’ house might as well be a maximum security prison. There’s no way in hell Kenny’s pulling this off.

“Through the window. Duh.” Kenny takes a big bite of his apple. “After his folks pass out, Butters’ll climb down the ladder I brought and come with me,” he says around half-eaten chunks, like they’ve done this all before.

“Don’t they check on you in the morning though? There’s no way you’ll be back before noon, dude,” cautions Stan.

“Oh, well, I-I’ll just use the sack of potatoes my mom keeps in the pantry!” Butters explains.

“A sack of potatoes?! Are you kidding me?!” Kyle wants to laugh, because that might be the most ridiculous—most Butters—thing he’s ever heard.

“It’s been workin’ for years! I stuff it under my blanket and glue yellow yarn to a head of lettuce! They can’t tell the difference.” Butters beams.

Kyle sighs. “Butters, no offense, but your parents are fucking stupid.”

Butters giggles. “Well, shit. I know that.”

The whole table laughs with him.

Wendy walks over from the other side of the cafeteria and stops right beside Stan. The fact that she hasn’t sat next to him yet tells Kyle she's just here to make the rounds. She leans down and quickly pecks Stan on the lips. Stan’s Adam's apple bobs as he reciprocates, trying to deepen the kiss into something a bit more scandalous than what Kyle’s hoping to see while eating lunch. Kyle busies himself with making hatch marks into his Salisbury steak using the back of his spork while they awkwardly swap spit less than ten inches away. Wendy breaks away first and bites her bottom lip.

“What’re you guys laughing about?” she says with a smile. Her black hair’s neatly plaited into a braid today.

Kenny leans back in his seat and pats Butters’ shoulder. “Butters’ parents, and how fucking stupid they’d have to be to believe this cute lookin’ guy resembles anything like cabbage.”

“Lettuce,” Butters corrects with a blush.

“Lettuce,” Kenny repeats.

Butters explains his grand plan to Wendy. She quirks a brow and her lips thin. “Well, that’s certainly, uh, unique,” she offers. “And you’ve been doing this for how long?”

Butters grins. “Since I was eight!”

Wendy shakes her head and laughs. “Well if it isn’t broken,” she comments, then turns to look at Stan. “I’ll see you later?”

“Yeah,” Stan answers dopily. He watches her walk away and then goes back to stabbing corn kernels.

Kenny wolf whistles. “Did I ever mention that your girlfriend’s pretty hot?”

Stan frowns, but can’t keep it for long. Kenny’s just teasing. He’s like this with everybody. “Shut up, Kenny,” Stan says, there’s no bite to it at all.

Kenny raises two open palms. “Listen, dude. I’m just sayin’. I don’t think any of us expected Wendy Testaburger to turn into a total smoke show, and yet here we are, all wishing we had something as good as you guys.”

It’s true. Stan and Wendy are practically South Park High royalty, the very concept of well-adjusted and normal. They don’t fight or argue like Bebe and Clyde or creep around like Craig and Tweek. They’ve had ten years to know everything there is to know about each other and might as well be married at this point, sans the certificates and matching rings. They’ll probably end up having a couple kids after Wendy establishes her career. Then turn into those people who host brunch—complete with caviar and mimosas—at their house in the suburbs.

Stan pokes at his congealed mashed potatoes and gives Kyle a pleading look. “You still want me to pick you up, right? For the party?”

Kyle can feel Kenny’s eyes on them both and he wants to ask Stan why he’s asking this again, why he’s bringing it up. They’d gone over this already in the car. Maybe Stan’s looking for an out, for permission to go with Wendy. He doesn’t need permission, though. Because she’s his girlfriend. And Kyle’s just his friend.

“You sure you don’t wanna go with Wendy?” Kyle asks, and he wants to take back the question before it even leaves his mouth.

Stan shakes his head. “No, she said she's going with Bebe. Something about wanting to be independent and rejecting outdated, chauvinistic traditions, or whatever that means. I'd totally pick you up even if I was, dude. You know that.”

Ah, yes. The honorary third wheel treatment. Kyle’s hung out enough with Stan and Wendy to know that being around both of them, together, just makes everything weird and awkward. Like he’s the red-headed step-child born of their vanilla love life.

Kyle doesn’t want to hurt Stan’s feelings by saying all of that and instead opts to keep the conversation moving along. “Yeah, okay. Cool. Um, what time are you coming?

Stan shrugs. “I dunno. Like nine?”

“Nine?!” Kyle balks. “Isn’t that a little early?”

“Well, yeah, but I thought maybe you'd need a hand picking out something to wear considering you're so anal about your appearance,” Stan rationalizes.

Kyle scoffs. “I am not!”

“You used to steal your mother’s concealer to cover up your freckles because Tammy Warner said they looked like chicken pox,” Stan counters.

Kenny nearly chokes on his milk.

“Oh, fuck you, Stan!” Kyle crosses his arms and hopes he doesn’t look like a sulking child. Stan wasn’t supposed to bring that up, especially in front of Kenny.

“Chill, dude. I didn't mean anything by it,” says Stan, his voice taking on a pleading tone. “How many times’ve I told you that you look perfectly fine the way you are? You don't have to do all that shit just for school.”

Stan wouldn’t get it. He’s got this natural boy-next-door charm that takes minimal effort to maintain. He’s what Kyle imagines teenage girls drool over in their cheap, drugstore magazines. If they still do that these days. “I just don't want to look like a fucking slob, sue me.”

“Don't worry dude, Cartman’s got that part covered,” Kenny interjects, half jokingly, half to defuse whatever’s blowing up between Kyle and Stan.

Kyle groans. “Jesus, is he going too?”

“Well, yeah. Tolkien invited, like, everyone. Even the goth kids, I think,” Kenny responds.

“Would they even go? A house party seems too conformist for them,” comments Stan. He would know. He was one of them for all of, like, five minutes.

“Probably not. But Tolkien offered anyway,” Kenny says. “Which means more booze for us then!” He starts working on the meat paste that is their Salisbury steak. Kenny’s like a garbage disposal. He’ll eat just about anything.

“Gee, you think the cops’ll show up?” Butters worries.

“I doubt it. The Blacks probably paid ‘em off. That or they don't wanna risk losing that hefty ‘donation’ they get every year,” Kenny replies. “But, my dudes. We have something a little more pressing to discuss.”

Kyle swallows a spoonful of canned corn and regrets it. “Like what?”

Kenny leans forward and braces both hands against the table, smiling with all of his teeth. “Our senior prank!”

Stan sighs. “Here we go again.”

“Hey, man. This is important business, all right?” Kenny argues, elbows resting behind his tray. “We only get to do it once, and it needs to be epic. Something the kids’re are gonna talk about for generations to come.”

Kenny waxes on a bit about the few ideas he’s got in stock—stink bombs, dyeing the football field pink, planting snakes in all of the girls’ toilets (which is a little derivative of last year’s prank; Stan ran away screaming like a bitch the second he saw a python slithering out of the math building)—until his train of thought comes screaming to a halt when Bebe and Clyde enter the cafeteria.

They’re arguing again, something about matching outfits—which probably has to do with Tolkien’s party tonight—and causing a big scene. 

“You knew you were supposed to buy that shirt, Clyde!” Bebe shouts. “Now it’s all ruined!”

Clyde trails after Bebe like a lovesick puppy. “I’m sorry! I forgot! You’re still gonna look hot as fuck, babe.”

Bebe groans. “Of course I am! That’s not the point, Clyde!” 

“Then what’s the problem? Why’re you mad?” Clyde pleads.

“I’m mad because we agreed to coordinate! This is the only party that matters, besides prom, and you can’t even remember to hit the checkout button! Now how are we supposed to take cute pictures together when we don’t even match?!” Bebe yells for everyone to hear.

“I could probably go to the mall and find something similar…” Clyde mumbles. 

Bebe rolls her eyes. “Oh, please. It’s too late for that, Clyde. You had one job. And you somehow managed to screw that up. Honestly, I don’t even know why I bother. You clearly don’t care about how much this means to me or our future children. Have fun at the party by yourself, asshole. We’re over.” 

Clyde looks like he might burst into tears. “Bebe, wait!” he cries, trailing after her. 

“Oh no, Clyde and Bebe are fightin’ again!” Butters exclaims.

Kenny rolls his eyes. “What else is new?”

“Place your bets. Who’s gonna win this round and how long until they get back together?” Stan jokes.

“Bebe, dude. She always wins. And they'll probably be back to face sucking in three hours,” Kyle says.

Kenny sits up and smirks, outstretching his hand toward Kyle. “Two and a half,” he counters.

Kyle grins back and seals the deal. “You're on, McCormick.”

*

Kenny wins.

Kyle has to cough up ten bucks at the end of the day, as per their agreement. He does so near the double doors to the parking lot five minutes after the last bell rings, slapping the crisp bill into Kenny’s expectant hand. Kenny grins at him with smug anticipation when he sees that all too familiar green plucked from Kyle’s wallet. It’s a little freaky how Kenny always seems to know on some weird, cosmic level about the immediate future, like he’s catching glimpses of their lives a few hours from now between the cracks in the mirror separating the here from then. And storing it all in his noggin for instant gratification and easy bets. Maybe he’s psychic. Maybe it’s all the concussions.

Stan can’t drive Kyle home after school because Coach Mondale wants them to practice a few more plays for South Park’s upcoming game against North Park. Kyle’s fine with walking. It’s what he usually does most days after school. Stan’s apologetic still, wheezing out his sorrys between pants as he books it to the football field, promising to be done in time to get home, shower, eat, and pick Kyle up. Kyle’s fine with waiting, too.

The autumn air whips past Kyle’s cheek and he regrets not wearing a thicker jacket. The sudden transition of summer barreling into fall always sneaks up on him and he’s never really sure which season to dress for on any given day. In the morning it could be snowing, by noon a high of seventy-two. 

As he passes by his old elementary school, Kyle spots a familiar group of kids—the same ones he’d seen this morning, all four of them heading down main street from the looks of it. Probably on their way to the store for some off-brand soda and cheap candy. They can’t be more than nine or ten years old, most likely in the fourth or fifth grade if he had to guess. The tallest one in his blue jacket pokes and teases the shorter kid beside him while his other buddies cheer him on. There’s nothing malicious about it, though. Just a friendly game if the big smiles are anything to go by. The shorter kid finally has enough and steals the hat right off of his taller friend’s head, sprinting away like he’s just captured the flag. The other boys chase after him, shouting and screaming.

Kyle watches them disappear down the road, then kicks a rock out of his way and continues home.

He almost misses those days. Shootin’ the shit with Stan, Kenny, and even Cartman to a degree, if he’s being brutally honest. Pranking their parents, ruining Craig’s life, convincing Butters to cross-dress so he could sneak into the girls’ slumber party. Good times. Until they weren’t. It was a little after puberty when all of their immature antics really stopped doing it for him. Cartman was the last to hang on—and still is, actually—to their delinquent lifestyle. The games just didn’t feel fun anymore, like all of the joy was sucked from Kyle’s lungs the second his balls dropped or something.

So much about him has changed, and yet South Park’s always stayed the same.

The houses down his street wear the same coats of paint, the same doorknockers, the same numbers that Kyle remembers growing up with. Each one a still photograph from his memory, unchanging and immortal. He can’t think of a time when this place actually tried to modernize. Maybe when they’d gotten that Wall-Mart a few years back, but even then, not entirely. The Wall-Mart had ended up adapting to South Park’s quirks, forgoing the full, corporate takeover many assumed was on the way. Now it’s just another spot kids go to hangout and get high at when the mall’s about to close.

It’s not bad here, really. Sure the people are a little…kooky. And Kyle will definitely miss home the second he lands in California. But he’s tired. Exhausted, even. Like he’s too old to keep pretending that this town is actually enough. Because it isn’t. And he thinks it might be time to pack this whole place up. Seal it in a box with all of his old toys and clothes so he can shove it to the very back of his closet, where everything else he’s outgrown inevitably goes to die. Kyle’s ready to say goodbye to just about everyone and everything.

Except Stan.

And Kyle’s glad—so fucking glad—that Stan feels the same way. Because Kyle doesn’t know if he could ever leave Stan behind. Stan, the one eternal constant in his obnoxiously boring life, his super best friend, the only reason this place doesn’t completely suck ass. It’s selfish of him, but Kyle wishes they could just skip ahead to the part where they’re both in college and eating Cheerios in their pajamas at four in the afternoon, watching re-runs of Terrance and Phillip or meme compilations on YouTube. The novelty of running through sprinklers, scraping knees, and sharpie-ing penises on the bathroom stalls kind of died sophomore year. Kyle’s ready to be an adult now, and to take Stan along with him.

But that’s precisely the part that’s been nagging at him the most.

What comes next?

Would Stan even want to stick around after they both graduate? Surely not. Stan’s going to marry Wendy, probably, if this whole long-distance thing works out. And even if it doesn’t, there’s a girl somewhere out there that’s destined to give Stan two clones of himself, little miniature Stans running around the living room with their matching, shit-filled diapers and Broncos themed jumpers. Kyle might end up in the picture as the estranged uncle who visits for birthdays and Christmas.

That’s if he figures out what he even wants to do with himself after college—hell, during college. Kyle can’t even settle on a major, much less imagine where his life’s headed four years from now. It’s too much and too confusing. And he hasn’t planned anything out. Which is only marginally ironic considering he’s the one that’s always scheduling and organizing.

All he knows is that he wants Stan somewhere in the picture, as a background element or the subject.

He’s just not sure which.

*

Kyle gets done with his homework at around eight. AP classes are no joke, and there’s always some bullshit they want him to work on over the weekend.

Stan calls him a half hour later. He sounds like he’s in the middle of opening and closing every cabinet in his room.

Kyle’s busy trying to pick something to wear still.

“Are jeans okay?” Kyle asks. He pulls out a pair from his closet. They’re skinny and ripped at the knees. They look good on him, or so he’s been told.

He can hear Stan laughing on the other end. “Yeah, why wouldn’t they be?”

Kyle shrugs, and then remembers that Stan can’t see him. “I dunno, dude. This is Tolkien’s house. The toilet paper’s probably lined with gold.”

“Yeah well everyone else in this town is piss poor so I doubt it’s gonna be black tie, dude,” Stan comforts.

“Yeah, I guess. Just. Hurry up and get over here okay? My mom’s trying to get me to spend quality time with Ike again.”

Sheila came upstairs a little while ago and tried to convince the whole family to come to the living room and play a round of Monopoly. No one seemed enthused.

“Wait, you haven't told her about the party?” Stan says, panicked.

“No way. She'd never let me go out if I said we’re gonna crash at Tolkien’s and play beer pong.” His mother doesn’t even know that he’s drunk alcohol outside of supervised family functions, much less watched Bebe offer body shots.

“So tell her something else. Tell her you're sleeping over.”

“If I tell her that, she’ll probably call your mom to confirm,” Kyle sighs. “Don't worry, I'll figure something out.”

A plastic-y pop goes off in the background and then the sound of something being sprayed. “God sometimes I really hate how fucking strict your parents are,” Stan laments.

“Yeah they blow, but at least they're not as strict as Butters’. Those guys are fucking wackos,” Kyle says.

“Christ, dude. That kid practically lives in a prison cell. I don't even know how they let him go to school anymore.”

“Or let him hang out with Kenny. That's the bigger mystery.”

“Hey, you think they're like… You know…”

Kyle stops comparing shirts in his full-length mirror. “Like what?”

Stan lowers his voice. “Boning.”

“Jesus Christ, Stan! How would I know?!” Kyle almost shouts. And then adds a bit quieter, “You really think they are? I thought Kenny was into chicks.”

“He is, but he's into dudes, too. Apparently Craig caught them kissing in the boys’ bathroom on the second floor of the language arts building.”

It makes perfect sense now. The goo goo eyes, the flirting, the hot dates with an undefined and seemingly genderless cheerleader. Kenny’s into dudes. Huh. “Damn, I never pegged him as someone who liked dick,” Kyle breathes as he takes in this realization.

“I mean, it's not that crazy considering all the strange shit he did as a kid.”

“Yeah, I know, but this is Kenny, dude, the guy at South Park High infamous for banging almost every chick in our grade. And maybe the hot art teacher, too.”

“Dude, just cuz he's into Butters’ cock doesn't mean he's suddenly squicked out by vaginas. Bisexual people exist, Kyle,” Stan states matter-of-factly, like he’s trying to prove a point here. “There's like, more of them than you think.”

“Okay, Jesus, sorry. You're right. I'm just a little shocked that two of my best friends are sticking it to each other.” Kyle doesn’t know if he can ever look at Kenny and Butters the same way again.

“Yeah I don't think Butters is doing any of the sticking. If anything, he's the one getting stuck. A lot.*

“Oh, ew, Stan, that's sick! Can we please not talk about Butters and Kenny fucking, Christ!”

Stan laughs on the other end. “Yeah okay, sure.”

“You almost here?”

“Five minutes.”

“Cool. Hang up and start walking, asswipe.”

“Fine, dickwad.”

Stan actually shows up ten minutes later. He had to sneak the beers from his dad’s fridge into the trunk of his car, all without getting caught by his parents. Sharon’s on the couch watching romcoms and Randy’s working on something in the garage, blasting Steely Dan loud enough to warrant a noise complaint.

He looks good. Handsome, even, Kyle thinks. Stan’s got on a pair of black jeans, a fitted white tee, and a flannel shirt around his waist. When Stan’s all the way in his bedroom, Kyle can smell the department store cologne and cheap deodorant on him. It’s woodsy with a hint of spice. He looks clean and his hair’s combed straight. The lack of stubble along his jaw means he probably shaved, too. Kyle realizes he’s staring and goes back to comparing shirts in the mirror.

“The blue one,” Stan says as he leans against Kyle’s dresser.

Kyle holds up the blue v-neck in his right hand and looks over himself. It was a Chanukah gift from his aunt two years ago. The color contrasts nicely with his red hair and matches the style of his jeans. He shucks off his old t-shirt and pulls the blue, long-sleeved number on. He swears he catches Stan watching him for a split second in the mirror.

“You sure your dad won’t notice?” Kyle asks as he combs his fingers through his curls.

Stan stops playing with the stress ball on Kyle’s desk. “He won’t. He’s got like a million bottles in the fridge, dude. It’s sick.”

“Jesus, how is your mom okay with that?” Kyle asks. He tries tucking in his shirt, but notices Stan shaking his head no and quickly untucks it.

“She’s not, but he keeps it hidden in the basement. I don’t think she knows about Randy’s little collection down there,” he replies. Kyle slips into a pair of sneakers and turns around one last time. “You done preening now?” Stan jokes.

“Shut up,” Kyle snaps. “You ready to go?”

“Yeah.” Stan fishes his keys out of his pocket. “You know what you’re gonna tell your mom?”

Kyle grabs his own. “Kind of.”

Stan’s brow hikes up worryingly. “Kind of? Kyle, I need a little more than that, dude.”

“Relax. I’ve got it all figured out.” It’s more like a concept of an idea and not a concrete plan. But it should work. Probably.

They rush downstairs and find Kyle’s mom in the kitchen. She’s re-organizing the pantry. “You boys look like you’re heading out somewhere.”

Kyle looks at Stan who’s trying to tell him with his eyes to hurry up and get this over with. Kyle clears his throat. “We’re, uh, going over to Kenny’s. Gonna watch a couple movies and play some video games for a bit.”

Sheila puts down the giant jar of pickled beets and adjusts her robe. “What time are you planning on getting back?”

“We’re gonna sleep over?” Kyle offers.

She crosses her arms. “All right. Lemme just call his mother and see if she’s okay with it.”

Kyle blanches. “You can’t!

Sheila pauses, hand hovering over their outdated landline still attached to the wall. “Why not?” she asks, suspicious.

Kyle clears his throat and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Because they, uh, forgot to pay the phone bill this month. They don’t have any service, ma.”

Sheila considers Kyle’s statement carefully, looking to Stan for affirmation. “Is this true?” she asks him.

Stan shuffles around and nods. “Y-yeah,” he says. “Their phone’s dead.”

Sheila crosses her arms. “No cellphones?”

“No,” Kyle answers a little too quickly.

His mother’s staring straight at Stan, though, like she knows she can pry something out of him. And because Stan’s the worst fucking liar on the entire planet, she does. “Just, um, Kenny,” he confesses.

Kyle wants to take the jar of beets on the counter and slam it over Stan’s thick head.

Sheila humphs. “All right, then call your little friend Kenny, Kyle. Ask him to put his mother on the phone.”

This is disastrous, a colossal fuck-up. There’s no way they’re getting out of this now. Stan and his stupid, ginormous, idiotic mouth. Kyle fishes for his cellphone and starts dialing Kenny’s number. Maybe he won’t pick up. Kyle can try and rationalize it as yet another expense the McCormicks can’t afford. Try to convince his mother that this is all perfectly kosher and there’s nothing illegal about their Friday night. The number rings and rings and Kyle thinks he’s home free until—

“Yo, what’s up, Kyle?”

Kyle swallows and his saliva thickens like peanut butter. “Hey, Kenny. I, um, just was wondering if you could put your mom on the phone. My mom wants to confirm with yours that we’re coming over tonight. If that’s cool.”

Kenny doesn’t say anything on the other end for a few seconds. And then he laughs. “Yeah, okay, dude. I got you. Pass her the phone.”

Kyle extends his hand and waits for his mother to take the phone from it. Sheila grabs it and puts it to her ear. “Hello, Mrs. McCormick? This is Sheila Broflovski, Kyle’s mother. I was just wondering if you were—”

The conversation cuts out. Distantly, Kyle can hear the sound of someone on the other end saying something. He doesn’t know what, though. All he knows is that his mother is nodding her head and listening very intently.

“Oh, really? Uh-huh…uh-huh. Yes…of course,” Sheila says.

Stan and Kyle both hold their breaths.

“All right, well it was nice chatting with you, Mrs. McCormick. I’ll let Kyle know, thank you.” Kyle’s mother passes his phone back to him and smiles. “All right, bubbe. Your friend Kenny’s mother said you could come over. Drive safe and be back by tomorrow morning at nine. Love you.”

Kyle stares down at his phone, mouth agape like a goldfish. “Thanks, mom,” he mutters. “See you later.”

Before Kyle can even question what just happened, Stan’s grabbing his arm and dragging him to the entryway. “See you later, Mrs. Broflovski!” he shouts before shutting the front door behind them. “Dude, what the fuck just happened?” Stan exclaims.

The sound of static-y laughter echoes through Kyle’s phone. Kyle puts it to his ear and hears Kenny choking back tears. “What the fuck did you say to my mom?” Kyle asks, a little breathless and stunned.

Kenny clears his throat and the voice that travels through the speaker sounds nothing at all like his friend. “I just told her that you two boys are more than welcome to come over for the night,” Kenny intones, voice pitched high and sounding a whole lot like the performance he puts on when he’s playing Princess Kenny.

Stan and Kyle stare dumbly at each other.

And then Kenny’s back to his usual, silky smooth tone. “You owe me, Broflovski!” he shouts loud enough for both of them to hear. “Now hurry up and get over here. The party’s starting without you.”

The dial clicks and Kyle pockets his cellphone.

Stan sighs in disbelief. “Dude. Fucking Kenny, man.”

Kyle laughs. Because yeah. “Fucking Kenny.”

“How did you know he was going to pick up?”

Kyle walks down the path from his house to the driveway and laughs. The answer’s almost too good to be true. “I didn’t.”

*

By the time they get to the Black estate, the party’s going strong.

Kids’re pouring in through the double doors non-stop and there’s an impressive amount of RGB stake lights littered all over the front lawn. Through Stan’s windshield, Kyle can spy a pair of white spotlights projecting from somewhere in Tolkien’s backyard. The muffled thump thump of heavy bass rattles their car doors. So the rumors were true about one thing—Tolkien hired a DJ.

Stan pulls up along the curb and cuts the engine. “Dude, this is insane,” he breathes, a little mesmerized.

Kyle’s the same way, too. The fanciest thing he’s ever attended was his own bar mitzvah at the community center. “Yeah. All this for a house party. That’s nuts. I wonder what’s inside.”

Stan swings open the driver side door and steps onto the street. “Only one way to find out.”

They grab the backpack full of beer from the trunk and walk up to the front door.

Inside is even crazier than the outside. There’s strobe lights, dry ice, a fucking karaoke machine, and enough alcohol to cover every inch of Tolkien’s kitchen counters. Stan and Kyle drop off their meager offering—which looks ridiculous in hindsight compared to the sheer volume of booze just hanging around—and grab a couple of cold beers from the cooler. In the den across the hall, Kyle can hear Kenny shouting something about taking another shot followed by loud cheers, whoops, and applause. He convinces Stan to walk over with him to go investigate.

As expected, there’s a game of beer pong in progress. On one side, Kenny and Tolkien, the other Bebe and Clyde. Butters floats between them, just watching and offering encouragement—mostly to Kenny. Clyde gingerly sips the tequila shot in his hand until Bebe forcefully snatches it from him, downing the whole thing in one go. She slams the glass onto the table and exhales loudly. Clyde looks at her like he’s ready to drop to one knee.

“Let’s go, McCormick,” she challenges, waiting for Kenny to start another round.

Kenny’s about to throw the ping pong until he sees Kyle and Stan waltz in. “My dudes!” he shouts, arms wide. He walks over to them both, like he owns the fucking place, and envelops Stan and Kyle in a big hug. “Glad you could make it.” He’s buzzed and a little wobbly, but still in control.

“Yeah,” Stan laughs, amused by Kenny’s red cheeks and goofy expression. “Thanks to you.”

“Well of course, dude. Who else is gonna save your sorry asses?” Kenny laughs. He clears his throat and raises his voice. “Now you boys kick off your shoes and help yourselves to whatever’s in the fridge.”

Kyle jabs Kenny’s side with his elbow. Kenny pretends like it actually hurts. “I can’t believe that fucking worked. Have you been playing in my brother’s COD lobbies or something?”

Kenny shakes his head and then nods it in Butters’ general direction. “Nah. Just practicin’ a little role-play with Butters, if you catch my drift.”

Sensing their eyes on him, Butters stops whatever he’s doing and waves. “Hey, fellas!” he greets before going back to shaking his hips to the techno song playing in the background.

Kyle and Stan smile uncomfortably.

Tolkien notices them a few seconds later and waves, too. He’s clearly sober and wearing some expensive looking cardigan, dressed more like a librarian than a high schooler. “Hey guys, thanks for coming!” he shouts over the beat drop.

“Thanks for the invite!” Kyle shouts back.

Bebe taps her foot impatiently. “Hurry up, Kenny! We’ve got a game going on here.”

Kenny dislodges himself from Stan and Kyle. “Yeah, yeah. Keep your panties on, Bebe. Wouldn’t want you to lose those just yet.”

Clyde sobers up a little and registers what Kenny just said. “Hey!” he drawls, realization smacking him in the face like a dead fish.

Bebe shushes her boyfriend. “Shut up, Clyde. Just focus on the cups.”

Kenny takes his position on the opposite side of the table and steadies his aim. He closes one eye, angles his wrist back, and lets the ping pong ball fly. It lands in the cup closest to Bebe and the impact of his shot splashes beer in her face, stale Budweiser dribbling onto her dress. Tolkien high-fives him and Kenny reaches over to not-so-subtly play grab ass with his not-so-secret boyfriend.

Bebe takes the cup, hands Clyde the ball, and starts chugging. When she’s done, she shoots him the most serious expression Kyle’s ever seen in the ten years that he’s known her. “Okay, now pay attention, Clyde. See that one in the middle? Go for that one.”

Clyde gulps and steadies his arm. He aims for the cup Bebe told him to and lets go. The ball flies through the air. And then lands on the rim, bouncing onto the table in dramatic defeat. Bebe screams and glares daggers at her boyfriend.

“Dude, I think she’s gonna choke him,” Stan says as Bebe’s face turns an almost unnatural shade of pink.

Kyle sips his beer and nods in agreement. “Good thing Clyde’s into that.”

Everyone in their high school unwillingly knows a little too much about Clyde and Bebe’s sex life.

The sound of the microphone being tapped echoes from across the house and Kyle slowly drifts towards the noise. Stan stays behind to cheer Kenny on and to take a few pictures of Clyde’s face slowly turning green.

In the dining room are Jimmy Valmer and Timmy Burch. Timmy’s got on the top half of their school’s mascot costume, a giant cow head (why he brought it here, Kyle doesn’t know; he’s going to trash the thing at this rate, all before their next game) and is currently funneling a rum and coke through the mesh opening where his mouth is supposed to be. Jimmy stands beside him, hogging the karaoke machine as he tries to crack a few jokes to the other kids lingering around, more interested in dancing than his stand-up.

“W-which d-disorder did God create for the thinkin’ man?” he cracks. No one seems to be paying attention. “C-Cerebral Palsy!”

Timmy claps excitedly in his wheelchair.

“Wow, w-what a great audience!”

Back in the living room, Kyle can hear Wendy and Cartman barking at each other like two junkyard dogs, arguing over something political by the sound of their conversation. He heads there next and snags a jello shot from one of the butlers (there’s butlers?!) walking by with trays full of red solo cups and shot glasses.

“And that’s precisely why we need to build a wall to keep them out!” Cartman shouts over his cup filled with what looks like a Dirty Temple.

Wendy rolls her eyes and folds her arms across her chest. Before this night’s over, she might actually strangle Cartman. If she can get her hands around his fat neck, that is. “Building a wall isn’t going to stop asylum seekers from crossing the border, you dumbass. It’s just a waste of money. And furthermore, how would that even hypothetically keep out American Jews! They already live here, idiot.”

Cartman takes a long sip. “We quarantine New York, of course. Section off the whole goddamn state. And do the same thing to Florida, too, while we’re at it. That’ll prevent them from spreading their perverse ways.”

Kyle sizes Cartman up and scowls.

“Speaking of illegal immigrants, hello, Kyle,” Cartman sneers. “Come to invade my personal border? Where’s the rest of your little caravan, huh? And by caravan I mean Stan. He get tired of harboring an enemy of the state in his ass?”

Kyle rolls his eyes and takes a long drag from his can, then chucks it into the trash bin near the hallway. “Shut the fuck up, Cartman. He’s watching Kenny play beer pong. It’s not like we’re attached at the hip. We can do other things without each other, for your information.” That doesn’t mean Kyle won’t go looking for Stan in the next thirty minutes or so.

Just then, Stan comes rushing into the living room with a jello shot in his hand, too. He’s wearing a glowstick necklace and headband. Kyle doesn’t know where those came from. “Dude!” he says a little too excitedly. Kyle can tell he’s getting tipsy. “Did you see the butlers? What the fuck? I didn’t know Tolkien had those!”

Cartman shoots Kyle a knowing look. Kyle telepathically projects a string of expletives right to Cartman’s brain.

Wendy looks at her boyfriend with mild concern. “Stan, are you okay? You look a little…sweaty.” That’s what happens to Stan when he drinks, usually.

Stan slings an arm around Kyle’s shoulders and relaxes his body against him. Kyle doesn’t mind, and actually leans into Stan’s weight. “Yeah, ‘m fine,” he slurs a little. It’s not too bad yet. He’s just mildly drunk. “Just wanted to come over and say hello is all.” Stan bends forward and tries to kiss his girlfriend.

Wendy frowns and redirects his mouth with the back of her hand. Stan kisses that instead. “You smell like Bud Light,” she groans.

Stan smiles. “I probably taste like it, too.”

Kyle looks up at Stan’s mouth. It’s coated in beer and spit, and he unintentionally imagines Stan’s lips wrapping around the red solo cup in his hand.

“Wanna do a shot?” Stan asks, turning to Kyle. He lifts his plastic shot glass filled with wiggly blue gelatin.

Kyle shrugs. “Yeah, sure.”

Stan beams. “Cool. Um, here. Finger mine for me. My hands are full.” He obviously means his shot, but the way it comes out heats Kyle’s cheeks. He tries not to choke on his own saliva.

Cartman sniggers at them both. “Why stop there? Why don’t you finger each other’s assholes, too, while you’re at it. Wasn’t Stan’s promised to you three thousand years ago or something?”

Kyle ignores him and gives Stan a sheepish grin. “You sure you want my fingers in your jello, dude?”

Stan sucks down another sip of whatever drink he’s currently nursing. “Yeah, dude. It’s fine. I trust you.”

Kyle hesitantly reaches forward and rolls his sleeve back, then sticks his finger into Stan’s shot glass, working it around the outside of the cup so that the gelatin loosens. It’s gooey and gross, but over and done with in about five seconds.

Stan smiles and hands Kyle his red cup. “Dude, try this. It’s good.” Then he tips his head back and sucks down the shot in one go, chewing on it a bit before swallowing. Kyle watches how it slides down his throat.

If this were anyone else, Kyle would probably shove the drink away in horror, traumatized by the very idea of ingesting someone else’s backwash. But because it’s Stan—and because he wants to blame it on the one beer he’s already had—Kyle apprehensively puts his mouth to Stan’s cup. He considers where Stan might’ve placed his own lips and wonders if he’s accidentally touching the same spot. He takes a sip. The first thing Kyle tastes is rum. And then something pineapple-y followed by a hint of coconut. It’s pretty good, actually.

Stan smiles when he notices Kyle’s. “Pretty good, yeah?” he says, reading Kyle’s mind.

Kyle nods. “Yeah, actually. You make this?”

Stan shakes his head and tosses his plastic shot glass at the trash bin. “Nah. Kevin Stoley if you can believe it. Said it was um, Chaotica’s Death Flay. Or Ray. Or whatever. Some Star Trek drink, I don’t know. But it’s kickass.”

Kyle takes another gulp. It’s strong. He can feel himself developing a buzz.

The jello shot in Kyle’s left hand sits intact and Stan suddenly takes personal offense to the fact that Kyle hasn’t had his yet. “Here, dude. Lemme do you.”

Before Kyle can even think of the word no, Stan’s reaching forward and sticking his finger into Kyle’s glass, working it around the circumference until the lime green jello is loose enough to shoot back. Stan puts his sugary finger in his mouth and sucks it clean with a wet pop.

Kyle’s neck flushes, but he downs the gelatin anyway. Germs be damned.

Cartman gags dramatically. “Oh, ew, you guys. Can’t you keep your gay foreplay to yourselves? I’m drinking here.”

Stan flips Cartman off. “Yeah, more grenadine than actual alcohol, loser. Seems pretty fruity to me.”

“Says the dude who’s suckin’ down pineapple juice like a queer,” Cartman shoots back. “You trying to make your cum taste all sweet for Kyle later?”

Kyle thinks Stan might actually tackle Cartman until Wendy gets between them and diplomatically raises both hands. “Boys, boys. Let’s just calm down and go about our separate ways.” She looks at her boyfriend pleadingly. “Stan, go and check out the Twister mat by the pool—”

“—There’s Twister?!”

Wendy sighs. “Yes. Now go and play a couple rounds. I’ll catch you later, all right?” She squeezes his elbow reassuringly.

Stan shuffles off to the backyard to presumably attempt drunken Twister.

Wendy stares imploringly at Kyle. “Please do not let him fall into the pool.”

Kyle smiles into his cup—Stan’s cup—and laughs. If Stan falls in there, Kyle’s not sure he could fish him out. Stan weighs about as much as a moose. “Sure thing,” he says anyway, trying to comfort Wendy in some capacity.

As Kyle follows Stan to the patio, he can hear Wendy and Cartman start up exactly where they left off. How she has the patience to deal with him, Kyle will never know, but he supposes it’s a good thing that there’s someone at school willing to challenge Cartman on his bullshit.

By the time Kyle meets up with Stan, Stan’s already in the middle of a round. He’s got his right hand on yellow and his left foot on blue with Tweek Tweak beside him splitting his hands between red and green. Scott Malkinson, who still hasn’t corrected his lisp after all these years, is in charge of the spinner. Craig watches from one of the many lounge chairs near the edge of the pool. He’s sipping some undefinable cocktail with a big, tropical umbrella. The game goes on until Stan’s effectively blocking off an easy path for Tweek to place his left foot. He has to find an open spot somewhere on green and Stan’s hogging two of them.

Tweek twitches anxiously. “Oh man, oh Christ! This is too hard!” he yelps as he tries to reach over Stan’s body.

Craig slurps his straw. “You got this, Tweek,” he encourages with about as much enthusiasm as a substitute teacher calling roll. Craig never really did learn to modulate his tone.

Tweek’s foot looks like it’s going to make it until a few of Stan’s football friends stumble out onto the patio, laughing and too drunk off their asses to pay attention to where they’re going. Derek or David or whatever his name is—Kyle can’t remember them all—walks backwards into Tweek. Tweek shrieks and loses all semblance of balance, trips over himself and Stan, and then crashes head first into the deep end of the pool. He pops up a few seconds later, arms and legs flailing around like he’s re-enacting a scene from Titanic.

“Craig! Help!” Tweek screams. He’s not a particularly good swimmer, but Tweek’s tall enough that he could just stand and be fine.

Craig sighs, puts down his cup, and walks over to the edge. “Gimme your hand,” he drones and then yanks his soggy boyfriend out of the pool.

Scott puts down the spinner and smiles. “Stan wins!” he declares.

Stan stands up straight and grabs a beer from one of his teammate’s hands. “Sweet!” he cheers, chugs the whole thing, and then follows Dylan (maybe Drew?) back inside the house so they can laugh and gossip.

Kyle watches Stan disappear with a twinge of disappointment he knows he doesn’t deserve to feel. They’re not attached at the hip. He said so himself.

The party rages on for another two hours.

Kyle floats in and out of the house, grabbing drink after drink every time he catches one being offered. He hangs out with Kenny and Butters for a while, acting as their third wheel of sorts, and chooses to ignore the PG-13 groping that goes on when they think he’s not looking. He gets bored of that after thirty or so minutes (he also can’t stomach Kenny dirty talking Butters) and entertains himself by listening to some raunchy story Clyde’s in the middle of telling—something involving lesbian cheerleaders, a broken down bus, and strawberry lube. It sounds like the plot to a porno, but Clyde’s trying to sell it as something he’s heard of in real life; a mystical bonding experience between friends by way of scissoring and oral. No one seems to buy it, except for Kevin Stoley, who compares it to some Star Trek episode starring the Trill.

At around one in the morning, Tolkien announces that it’s time for more shots. Everyone in their grade crowds around the living room to toast the upcoming year and South Park High’s football season. They all throw back some vodka and Kyle feels his vision start to blur. He catches Stan with Wendy out of the corner of his eye and he lingers on Stan’s arm around her waist a bit longer than he should. They look good together. Great. So fucking perfect. Kyle reaches for another shot and throws that one back, too.

Jimmy and Bebe compete in a drinking contest fifteen minutes later and Jimmy actually gives Bebe a run for her money. She wins, though, but kisses Jimmy on the cheek as a consolation prize.

Kyle ends up back near the beer pong table with his sixth drink of the night half-way finished in his hand. He’s supposed to be playing against Tolkien and…uh. Someone else. He can’t remember. Kyle doesn’t even know where the ping pong ball is.

Tolkien touches Kyle’s shoulder. Kyle doesn’t remember him being that close either. “Kyle, you good, dude?”

Kyle blinks out of time and smiles. “Yeah, m’fine.” And then he cringes, because that sounded a little messy.

Tolkien pats him on the back and carefully removes Kyle’s cup. Kyle doesn’t fight it. “Why don’t you sit down. Maybe go get some water.”

Water sounds great, actually. Maybe some crackers, too. Kyle nods dumbly at Tolkien’s awesome suggestion and heads to the kitchen to raid his cabinets. On the way there, a small crowd of kids blocks the entrance, forming a circle around something going on in the middle. They’re chanting and cheering, yelling Fight! Fight! Fight!. It’s only when Kyle nudges himself past two boys whipping out their phones does he realize they’re all egging on Cartman and Wendy. Cartman rolls his sleeves up and cracks his knuckles. Wendy throws down her sweater and balls her fists. They’re not actually going to fight, though. Probably. It’s all bluster. A few seconds later and they’re back to screaming about women's rights and the benefits (of course Cartman would argue in favor) of discrimination.

Kyle almost wants to stick around to see what happens, but then a hand’s grabbing him and pulling him out of the crowd. He gasps, and the room spins a little, but he relaxes the second he realizes it’s just Stan. Kyle turns around to look at his best friend. If Stan’s any indication as to how drunk they both are, then, yeah. They’re fucking trashed. Stan grabs Kyle’s wrist and yanks him toward the hall.

“Dude,” Stan mumbles. He bumps into a corner. “Missed you.”

Kyle trails after him and nearly stumbles over his own two feet. “It’s only been a couple hours, Stan,” he says, but wishes he’d said me, too. “Where’re we going?” Stan’s jiggling handles left and right, looking for something.

“Somewhere quiet. Wanna hang out with you,” Stan slurs. His grip on Kyle’s wrist tightens and Kyle feels something funny flop around in his chest.

Stan throws open a door and finds Kenny, Clyde, Tweek, and Craig crowded around a bed. They’re passing a joint back and forth and taking turns getting high. Kenny waves at them both with a big, dopey grin.

Craig gets up and grabs the handle from the other side. “Find your own fucking room,” he snaps, and then slams the door closed.

The third door on the left seems to be a winner, the grand prize a guest bedroom completely devoid of any classmates. Stan pulls Kyle inside and quickly locks the door. From a distance, Kyle can hear Lorde’s Push pounding against the walls.

Kyle rubs his forehead and closes his eyes. Oh, fuck. He shouldn’t do that. “Aren’t you worried about Wendy?” Kyle asks. “It looked like she was about to throw down with Cartman.”

Stan shakes his head and toes off his sneakers. “Nah,” he replies. “She can take him. She kicked his ass really good in fourth grade that one time. Plus he’s too slow to catch her. She’s tough, dude. Like a pitbull.”

A mad Wendy is like dealing with an extremely well-researched hurricane.

Stan throws himself onto the bed and groans. “Dude, c’mere. Come feel this bed.”

Being drunk—which Kyle can admit to now that he’s having trouble taking his own shoes off—definitely helps relieve his anxiety about being in someone else’s bed. He flops down beside Stan and curls into the mattress. “Shit, it’s good,” he moans. He’s never felt anything so soft in his life.

Stan laughs. “Right?”

Kyle rolls over so he’s facing Stan. “Dude, we’re gonna be around each other all the time when we get to college. You sure you don’t wanna hang out with your girlfriend a little more?” He’s giving Stan an out. It’s logical, after all, for Stan to be with Wendy right now. It’s where most other boyfriends would be.

“Nah. ‘M good. Wanna hang out with you, dude,” Stan replies. He scoots closer to Kyle and Kyle can smell artificial cherry and Malibu on his breath. “By the way, Bebe was totally right.”

“About what?” Kyle asks.

The longer he stares at Stan’s face, the harder it is to look away. He’s all sharp angles and smooth skin in the dark, an inviting dream thought up by his own selfish desires and the three Long Island’s he’d had earlier. Kyle wants to reach out and run his fingers across Stan’s jaw, feel the briefest hint of stubble already growing back, before gliding down over his thick Adam’s apple, watch it bob under the pressure of his thumb. Stan would grab his wrist and call him gay, though. Laugh at the whole thing like it was some kind of prank. Kyle’s not even sure if he’s in on the joke.

“About your ass, dude. It is pretty sweet.” Kyle’s whole body goes hot and that same queasy gurgle in his stomach comes back. It’s probably the beer. “Looks really good in those jeans.” Stan drops his hand to Kyle’s waist and gently squeezes his hip. Kyle unintentionally rocks into the touch.

“Dude, that's so fucking gay,” Kyle laughs, but it’s thin. “How the fuck would you know that? You been starin’ at it all night?”

“Maybe,” Stan whispers breathlessly, like he’s locked inside a confessional and ready to admit to his every sin. Stan licks his lips and inches closer. The space between them shrinks. “It's like round and—fuck—what's the word, shit. Pert. Perky! It's perky!”

Kyle snorts. “My ass is perky.” It’s a subconscious reaction on his part to stick it out just that much further.

Stan takes notice and his hand on Kyle’s hip slides down a bit to cup him fully now. Kyle bites his bottom lip and tries not to push back into Stan’s palm. “Yeah. It's like the perfect shape, dude,” Stan says. “I bet all the girls talk about it.”

Ah. Girls.

“Not really,” Kyle replies. “I don't think they're into me. I mean, I kinda gave up on them after that homeschooled chick from the spelling bee turned out to be a total slut. She like, ruined my expectations of them or something.” And the fact that they do nothing for his libido isn’t something Stan needs to know.

Stan laughs and rolls onto his back. Kyle misses his hand. “Dude, we were like nine!”

“I know!”

“You gave up on girls before your balls dropped?!”

“Look, it's not like any of them wanna date me, so. Yeah. I guess,” Kyle says with a shrug. “And it’s not like high school romances matter! They never last. Plus we’re going to college soon. What’s the point in getting attached?”

Stan frowns. “I dunno dude, some do.” He rolls onto his side again and props his head on his bicep. “You gonna date a smart college chick then, Kyle? Jizz over differential equations together?”

Kyle’s face flushes red. “Jesus Stan, shut up! How the fuck can you even say that word right now?! Diff… differ—fuck!” Kyle laughs. “Like you're not gonna score all the hot cheerleader ass you can get when you play in the starting lineup, dude.”

“You know I'm not,” Stan replies, his voice small. “Wendy and I are gonna try and stay together. Like long-distance and shit.”

Right. Wendy. “You think that'll work?” Kyle asks.

“I dunno,” Stan answers and this time he sounds honest. “Maybe.”

“Wow, you sound so confident, Marsh,” Kyle teases. He shouldn’t, but it’s hard not to.

“Hey, fuck you, man. It’s not like she wants to go to California with me, okay? She’s going to Dart—uh—Dart...something…”

“Dartmouth?”

“Yeah! That. She’s going there. All the way on the east coast, dude. The east coast!” Stan throws his hand in the air, gesturing to some invisible map above them.

“That’s pretty fucking far,” Kyle states. “How are you two gonna see each other?”

“I guess I’ll have to fly or hope she comes back here over break.” And the way Stan says it sounds so sad. “But, like, you’re not leaving me, dude. And that means so much to me.” Stan closes his eyes and his hand finds its way back to Kyle’s ass. Kyle can feel Stan’s fingers gently pressing into his jeans. “God, Kyle, I’m just so happy we’re gonna be roommates. We’ve been waiting for this since we were kids. It's like we’re finally starting our lives or something.”

Kyle sighs dreamily. “Oh, dude, I know. It’s like I keep trying to make the days go by faster, but this place is like the Bermuda fucking Triangle or something. I swear it feels like we’ve been trapped here for eternity. Like we’ve been crawling through life just to get to this moment.”

Stan smiles. “Where? Tolkien’s guest bed?”

“Yeah, jackass, Tolkien’s guest bed. Which is really fucking soft. Jesus, is this a Tempur-Pedic?” Kyle turns over for a second and finds a remote. There’s four different settings and temperature controls, too.

“There’s a massage setting. Christ,” Stan exclaims.

Kyle’s about to push one of the buttons when a loud crash followed by shouting echoes down the hall. He freezes. “Hey, you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Stan mumbles.

“Shh.” Kyle covers his palm over Stan’s mouth. He swears Stan might’ve licked it. “Dude, I think that’s your girlfriend beating the shit out of Cartman!”

Stan sits up a little and his jaw drops. “Holy shit, you’re right!”

The distant screams of Cartman getting his ass whooped surrounded by a crowd of bawdy, drunken teenagers all cheering for his impending downfall leaks beneath the crack in the door. From the sound of it, Wendy’s kicking his shit in.

“Don’t you wanna go out there and help her or something?” Kyle asks. Another out. Again, he’s thinking logically.

But Stan just shakes his head and lays back down. “Nah, she’d probably bitch at me for trying to white knight her cause. She kind of likes doing these things on her own. My inherent masculinity might inadvertently suppress her feminine voice.”

He’s relieved in a way. He doesn’t want Stan to leave him just yet. “Damn, dude. Is that what she told you?”

“Yeah, but, like, it doesn't bother me, I guess? It's cool she wants to handle things on her own. But it kinda makes me feel useless, too, you know? Like I wanna be the stereotypical jock boyfriend sometimes and just pummel some dude’s face in for her, but she'd probably flip out. I'm okay with it though. Honest. I guess I kicked enough ass protecting you in middle school.” Stan's hand travels from Kyle’s ass to the back of his neck, just resting it there for a moment, working the pads of his fingers into Kyle’s searing hot skin, like a brand.

“What, like you were living out some sick little fantasy through me back then?” Kyle asks. The idea that Stan ego tripped on fistfighting Kyle’s bullies makes his heart pound wildly in his chest.

“Maybe. You liked it, though. Don't even lie.” Stan’s voice takes on a heavier quality and the deep, throaty sound of it goes straight to Kyle’s cock. He shouldn’t be feeling this way. This is fucked. But Kyle can’t help himself. “Hey, Kyle?”

“Yeah?” Kyle breathes. Every inch of his body tingles in anticipation. He doesn’t know what for, but he’s ready. He licks his lips and stares at Stan’s mouth.

“I really love you, dude.” The genuine emotion behind Stan’s words makes Kyle think Stan might cry.

“That's fucking gay, Stan. And you're drunk.” Kyle pushes against Stan’s chest, but his hand gets stuck there, and he forgets to move it.

“Okay, yeah, but, I really love you, man. A lot. You’re like my favorite fucking person, dude.” Stan lifts his left leg and wraps it around Kyle’s thigh, drawing him closer. Their hips slot together and Kyle bites back a groan.

“You’re my favorite, too, Stan. God, you think anyone’ll notice we went missing?” He hopes not. Kyle wants to stay in this perfect little world they’ve made for themselves, wrapped up in each other and distantly aware of the whole school on the other side of that door.

“No way, dude. I bet Bebe’s fucking Clyde in another guest room or something and Craig and Tweek are—”

As if on cue, an embarrassingly loud moan echoes down the hall. It’s high-pitched and strangled, and sounds an awful lot like Bebe.

Kyle’s eyes widen. “Dude, was that Bebe?”

Another moan follows, along with the sound of a slap.

Stan bites back a laugh. “I think that one was Clyde.”

Another smack, another moan. And then Bebe screams, shouting Clyde’s name so that the whole neighborhood can fucking hear it.

Kyle feels mortified on their behalf because how in the hell are Bebe and Clyde ever going to live this down? If the rest of the school didn’t already know they were fucking, well they sure do now.

“Is he spanking her?” Kyle says through a grimace because the mental image alone is vomit-inducing.

“I don’t know, dude. Maybe she’s spanking him.”

Kyle definitely didn’t need that picture in his head, either. “Is Clyde into that?!” he whispers.

Stan shrugs. “Clyde’s into whatever Bebe tells him to be. She could put him in a gimp suit and dogwalk him down the street and he’d be happier than a fucking clam. It’s kind of sick.”

“Oh, ew, Stan! I’m actually fucking leaving,” Kyle threatens and pretends to start getting up. He’s not actually going anywhere. He just wants to see Stan’s reaction. It’s a little flirty, he admits, and it’s kind of weird that he did it in the first place, but he’s not disappointed when Stan pulls him back down and worms his arms tighter around him.

“You can’t. I won’t let you,” Stan breathes through a big, dumb smile. Kyle melts against him and guiltily loves the idea of being kept. “‘Sides, I’m like, all tangled up in you, dude.” For emphasis, Stan sneaks a hand beneath Kyle’s shoulders and pushes the other under the hem of Kyle’s blue v-neck. He rubs the notches along Kyle’s spine and Kyle shivers because Stan’s a little cold. It feels good, though, like Stan’s trying to pet him.

“Your hand’s in my shirt, too,” Kyle says, as if Stan doesn’t already know this. Maybe he doesn’t and Kyle’s words will break whatever spell’s been cast on them both.

“Oh, shit, sorry.” Stan freezes. Kyle almost fucking whines. “Want me to take it out?”

If he were sober, he’d tell Stan Yes. You’re being weird. But he’s not. “Nah, feels good.”

“What, this?” Stan’s hand slides down all the way to the edge of his boxers, fingers toying with the elastic band, and for a second Kyle thinks Stan might actually slide it inside to cup his bare ass. His nipples harden uncomfortably beneath his shirt.

Kyle nods, too keyed up to articulate exactly what he’s feeling. “Yeah. Don’t stop, okay?”

“‘Kay.”

It happens slowly. Glacially slow.

They drift closer together until they’re both chest to chest. Stan’s chin bumps into Kyle’s and Kyle balls his fists into Stan’s shirt, gripping the cotton to help ground himself back into this plane of existence so he can't float away to the fourth dimensional dream world he’s somehow concocted inside this room. The air between them grows humid and warm and Stan pants against Kyle’s mouth, lips parting invitingly. Kyle wants to lean forward and lick them. The look chapped and dry—Stan’s probably dehydrated and he’ll have a wicked hangover come morning—but Kyle can’t think of anything more hypnotizing than the way Stan chews on them after he wets both corners with his tongue.

Kyle nudges Stan’s nose with his own, like a challenge, just to see if he’ll chicken out. One last chance. But Stan doesn't. He pushes back.

And that’s the moment when Kyle realizes—with some questionable clarity from that last shot of Bacardi—that he desperately wants to kiss him.

So he does.

He presses his mouth to Stan’s, the smallest bit of contact, and waits to see if there’s any sort of reaction. Stan doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe for what feels like hours, and Kyle panics because shit. Did he just fuck everything up? Anxiety bubbles in his stomach, like a cauldron, and his hands start to shake, but then Stan’s surging forward and capturing his lips with his own, moving them hungrily in a way that feels primal—like Stan’s trying to eat him and devour his soul.

Kyle wraps his hands around Stan’s neck as their kiss becomes this reciprocal game of push and pull, Stan trying to take the lead just like he does on the field, and Kyle fighting back, forcing Stan to cede some ground when he moves up to adjust their position. Stan’s throat muscles contract beneath his fingertips and it's erotic how thick they feel. The rest of Stan would probably feel just as hard. Solid and strong and smooth in Kyle’s palms, years of football and exercise molding Stan’s body into a perfect representation of raw masculinity, something irreproducible for even the most skilled of artists—sculpted and completely worthy of Kyle’s adoration.

The kiss deepens and Kyle can tell that Stan’s just as into this as he is. Stan's groaning soft noises now and his jugular hammers feverishly against Kyle’s thumb. It's disorienting. Because this is Stan. Stan! And Kyle never imagined he could want, much less have, his best friend like this—the same way Wendy gets to on weekends or game nights. That thought almost surfaces to the forefront of Kyle's mind, but then he quickly shelves it just as fast as he'd conceptualized the idea when Stan sucks Kyle's bottom lip between his teeth and tugs. A burning pleasure pools low in Kyle’s belly and his cock swells inside his boxers. He hopes Stan’s will too. Or else it wouldn’t be fair.

Stan cups Kyle’s jaw and forces his mouth open a bit wider, sliding his tongue inside, moving it against Kyle’s with slow, gentle rolls. Kyle’s head swims and his equilibrium shifts back and forth at a dizzying pace that’s partly his own fault (he really should have stopped after drink number three) and partly Stan’s, who’s kissing harder now, working his jaw with frenzied urgency, like he can’t get his tongue, his lips, him deep enough to make Kyle understand just how painfully he wants.

A needy whine echoes inside the room and it takes Kyle a good five seconds to realize that the noise actually came from him. Sober Kyle would be horrified. But drunk Kyle is delirious. And he wants—no, needs—more. Stan bumps his groin into Kyle’s hip and Kyle can feel just how hard Stan is trapped behind the fly of his jeans. Now they're even.

It would be embarrassing if they weren’t drunk for this. The sounds between them are wet and shameless, and Stan's not exactly shy about hiding just how vocal he can be. If Kyle didn't know any better, he would've thought Stan was replicating some shitty porn noises he’d heard from a video Kenny sent him, but he’s not emulating anything as far as Kyle can tell. Stan’s just so desperate to be close that he can’t hold back the aching need in his own chest. Kyle feels the same way and whimpers when Stan drags his lips lower, mouthing against Kyle’s neck. He’s shaking so hard Kyle thinks Stan might actually lose it. But he doesn’t and just nips at a sensitive spot under Kyle’s jaw, scraping his teeth there as if to warn Kyle that he could.

And the fucked up part is that Kyle really thinks Stan should.

The first accidental bump of their erections feels electric, like Kyle’s about to jump out of his own skin. So he does it again, rocking forward with a bit more purpose this time. Stan moans enthusiastically and presses back, rubbing eagerly against Kyle’s dampening crotch. Kyle’s mind goes blank and he tries so very hard not to come on the spot. It’s good though and he’s making a filthy mess in his boxers. But he can’t. Not yet. Not unless Stan does, too.

They build a steady rhythm, moving carefully, getting used to the outline of each other’s dicks straining tightly inside their pants. It’s awkward and unsynchronized, and Kyle doesn't know what he’s doing. Neither does Stan, but he wants more. Stan proves as much when he grunts out a gentle fuck after they experimentally try a new angle and actually start coordinating their thrusts. Stan rolls his hips with a particularly rough upstroke and Kyle gasps because it's just enough pressure to help ease the throbbing of his own cock and because he’s never felt anything so addictive before in his life. Stan must like the sound because he repeats the motion, trying to hit that same spot until Kyle’s whispering Stan’s name in the dark. It’s shocking how pathetic he sounds, his voice tinny and high-pitched, floating somewhere detached above his body, but Kyle can’t bring himself to care. Because Stan’s going to make him blow his load faster than Kyle's hand ever did.

Stan moves his palm from Kyle’s jaw to his ass and pulls, forcing them even closer, daring Kyle to grind as shamelessly as he is now. There’s not enough friction and the denim chafes, but Kyle’s too afraid to say anything, scared he might ruin the magic if he so much as speaks one wrong word. So he focuses on just breathing and the beating of his own heart and lets himself drown in the tidal wave that is Stan.

He’s so close—almost there—and Kyle can tell that Stan is, too.

They’re fucking aimlessly now, rutting together so frantically that the bed starts to squeak. Kyle’s actually grateful for Bebe and Clyde in this moment, because any sane person walking by would easily blame the noises on them. Stan pushes down just right and Kyle hiccups out a moan, toes curling inside his tube socks. Stan picks up on the cue and does it again. And again. And then Kyle’s coming, violently, inside his boxers. His balls tighten and his cock throbs as semen, hot and sticky, floods the inside of his jeans. His eyes pinch shut and he digs his nails into Stan’s skin, holding himself very still as everything explodes around him. Distantly, he hopes that Stan’s experiencing the same thing.

It takes a minute for him to remember where he is, what just happened, how to breathe, and that Stan—his best friend in the whole wide world—made him cum.

Kyle opens his eyes and wheezes a choppy exhale, startled by the sound of his own voice.

Then pales when he realizes that Stan’s not moving. His eyes are closed and he’s breathing through his mouth. And that’s when Kyle realizes that Stan must have fallen asleep. Kyle reaches down to feel if Stan came, too, but doesn’t detect anything wet. He’s only semi-hard now, and getting softer by the second. Kyle peels himself from Stan’s body and shuffles to the bathroom. He grabs a few squares of toilet paper to wipe himself clean, then dumps it in the toilet, flushing away the evidence of what they just did. His boxers are still gross though, but the water from the sink kind of takes care of that. Sleeping in wet jeans doesn't feel nearly as bad as sleeping in crusty, dried cum-filled ones.

When he’s done, Kyle drags himself back to the bed and flops like a dead fish onto the mattress, bone-weary and exhausted.

The last thing he can remember before drifting off to sleep is wanting to reach over and hold Stan’s hand.

*

A loud metallic clang startles Kyle awake.

He jumps and his whole body shivers. He’s sticky with sweat and his stomach churns aggressively, as if berating him for downing those two picklebacks because Kenny dared him to on a whim.

Kyle looks over at Stan, who’s still whistling soft snores from his nose. He’s dead to the world and everything around them. And then the reality of what happened last night hits Kyle with all the weight and force of a freight train carrying steel. He kissed Stan. Stan kissed him. They dry humped. And Kyle liked it. His blood races, head dizzies in a way that’s not a result of his hangover, and the nausea twists his insides until he can feel it clawing its way up his throat.

He’s gonna hurl.

Scratch that. He is hurling.

Kyle clamps down on his mouth before anything can come out and he sprints to the bathroom. He throws open the toilet seat and vomits loudly into the bowl. So much comes up and the acidic tang burns Kyle’s nose. He feels pathetic, disgusting, and he hates himself for being this out of control.

Stan finally wakes the second time Kyle throws up and he flings himself out of bed. He squats down next to Kyle, still disoriented and sleepy judging from his wobbly balance, but he rubs Kyle’s back through it all until Kyle feels as though there’s nothing more he could possibly retch.

Kyle flushes the toilet and falls back on his haunches.

Stan touches his forehead to brush the curls away from his damp skin. “Dude, you’re clammy,” he says.

“I think I’m going to die,” Kyle breathes.

“You’re not gonna die. You’re just hungover. What you need is a greasy breakfast.”

Kyle’s stomach lurches. “If you mention food again, I’m gonna puke on your shirt.”

Stan chuckles and sits criss-cross next to Kyle. “How much did you drink, dude? And here I thought I packed away the whole bar.”

Kyle doesn’t remember. There were too many red cups floating around him last night. Not to mention the shots. “I don’t know,” he answers honestly. “A lot. Too many.”

Stan sighs and tamps down his bedhead. “How much do you remember?”

And that’s when Kyle thinks he might projectile vomit onto Stan. He doesn’t want to answer—can’t answer. Because he remembers everything. The beer pong, the drunken Twister, the fucking DJ, and the way Stan licked and moaned inside his mouth. Kyle presses his lips thin and swallows, then throws the question back in Stan’s face, letting him go first.

“What do you remember?” Kyle repeats.

Stan pales and rubs the back of his neck, staring down at the black and white tiles beneath them. “Um, not much. I kinda blacked out sometime after Butters started dancing to Born This Way.”

Which happened after Bebe and Jimmy did shots, but before Wendy and Cartman argued in the kitchen.

So. Nothing.

Stan remembers nothing that happened in this room.

Great.

Kyle’s off the hook.

Except he’s disappointed in a way that fills him with shame. His chest deflates and he feels as though he lost more than just his dinner down Tolkien’s wall-mounted toilet.

His right pocket vibrates and Kyle jolts. He fishes his phone out and stares at the lock screen in disbelief. It’s 12:29 in the afternoon and his mother’s calling for the fiftieth time if his call history is to be believed.

Stan sees the caller ID too and his eyes go wide. “Oh, shit,” he whispers.

Kyle sighs and picks up, knowing that he’s fucked.

Well and truly fucked.