Chapter Text
It’s true that the best parts of Kyle’s life are also the worst. Saturday mornings, for example. There are three minutes from when Kyle first opens his eyes that are blanketly blissful, something warm pressing against his side and the scent of someone else seeping into his sheets. In these three minutes the objecting voices in his head are still dead to the world, and he can enjoy the situation for what it is. His best friend asleep next to him in bed, breathing steady with his mouth open just a little. Kyle’s made fun of Stan countless times for being a secret mouth breather—an accusation Stan refuses to own up to. Kyle could of course just take a picture while Stan’s sleeping, but he doesn’t trust himself to get rid of the picture after the ridicule is over. Tamping everything else down is hard enough.
Minute four of the morning is when things tip from bliss to blistering. There’s a gap in his curtains that the sun manages to snake through every morning, lasering at his eyes so he can’t go back to sleep despite his efforts. Then his brain wakes up and his heart and hormones kick into gear, followed shortly by his bladder. If he’s being honest, his smaller-than-average-bladder has saved him from a lot of awful mornings, when it feels like getting out of bed would literally kill him. His bladder insists, no, morning wood will not kill you, but me exploding will. By the time he’s flushing, shame has fully replaced whatever misgivings he had about leaving Stan’s side, and his usual response is to channel his self-flagellating into something more productive, like throwing a pillow at Stan’s head.
A hand emerges from the mass of blankets, flipping Kyle the bird.
“C’mon, if you don’t eat now my mom’s gonna rope you into staying for lunch.”
Stan groans. “Who says I don’t want to stay for lunch?”
Kyle huffs as quietly as possible. Stan’s head has emerged now, shaking a hand through his hair. “Dude, Shabbat lunch sucks,” Kyle says. “You always forget and then get mad that you’re bored.”
“It’s just ‘cus your dad prays really slow.”
“Dude.” Kyle pulls the pillow out from under Stan’s face. “Get the fuck up or I’m gonna send Ike in here.”
“Ugh, god, ok.”
Ike and Kyle are far from friends, but he never turns down an opportunity to jump on top of a sleeping person, feet to sternum. Sometimes feet to throat, if he isn’t aiming carefully. Puberty hit Ike about a year ago, hard, and frankly Kyle is glad he won’t be living here to see what high school does to him.
“Dude, are you ok?”
Stan has shifted his torso to Kyle’s side of the bed, flopped on his stomach with a hand clutching at his hair.
“I don’t know,” Stan says. “I think...” His back spasms before he belches. “Dude I might still be drunk.” He laughs then winces, groaning into the mattress.
“You know you’re supposed to have your binge drinking phase in college, right?”
“What can I say, I’m an overachiever.”
“Here.” Kyle throws Stan’s shirt and pants onto the bed. “Get dressed, I’ll tell my mom you’re coming down.”
“Dude, can you just wait, like, five fucking seconds?”
“I’ll see if I can get her to make waffles.”
Kyle closes the door behind him and heads downstairs. He could wait five seconds for Stan to get dressed, but he doesn’t feel like going through it this morning. He’s admittedly extremely bummed that he’ll be missing this routine for the next three weekends when the Broflovskis travel to Toronto for Ike’s “cultural heritage” trip over winter break. Ike’s eighth grade class is traveling there for their grad trip, and when Kyle’s mom found out they were going to Toronto she signed up to be a chaperone. And wouldn’t it be a great experience to bring the whole family along, to really support Ike through all of it. The rest of the class isn’t joining in until after Christmas, but since Hanukkah happened earlier that month, Kyle’s parents thought it’d be nice to take some vacation on top of it. For Kyle, a week alone with his overbearing parents and his little brother who thinks he’s the lamest person alive, followed by two weeks with 20 eighth-graders who all tend to share Ike’s opinion, is not what he would call “taking time off.” Now that they’re leaving in two days, he wishes he had fought harder against it.
Ike is at the dining table texting. Kyle’s heard that he has a girlfriend, possibly two, since he cites both a ‘Jessica’ and a ‘Bethany’ when asked about it.
“Hey, Ike.”
No response. Kyle’s not surprised, though he’s hopeful that maybe before he leaves for college he might get at least a nod back. Kyle walks into the kitchen, his mother already working on sides for lunch.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Good morning, Kyle!” She brightens when she sees him, though she doesn’t stop stirring. “How did you sleep last night?”
“Fine.”
“You didn’t come back until after your father and I went to bed.”
This is a favorite of hers, stating a fact as a form of interrogation. Kyle hates it for its effectiveness.
“Yeah, we ran into Butters while we were out and got sidetracked.”
“Oh. I see.”
They hadn't run into Butters, but he’s the best scapegoat among his classmates to pretend he’d hung out with. Even his mom knows Butters is a wimp, and his mother has some vague beef with Mrs. Stotch that usually gets her to change the topic entirely.
In reality, after dinner Kyle and Stan took a walk like they usually do. They got high in the park, like they usually do, but Stan wanted to stop at his house to grab beer from the garage fridge before going back to Kyle’s. My dad’s not even supposed to buy it, so he’s not going to say anything if it’s missing. Kyle couldn’t argue with that, and didn’t have the energy to fight with Stan over his drinking again. He was already high and just wanted to have a good night. It’s not like Stan’s an alcoholic. Kyle would know if he was. Definitely.
Stan needled him about how pathetic drinking alone is until Kyle agreed to sip on a can too. He doesn’t remember finishing it, but all the cans were definitely empty by the time they left the park. They shooed away a group of sixth-graders who were stalking them from the bushes, whispering among themselves like they had an ambush plan. Kyle remembers being younger than that, watching the older kids pass beers and cigarettes between them, couples sneaking off into the trees together. Kyle had wondered then what they’d be like at that age, how tall they would get and if they’d all have girlfriends by then. Who would leave South Park for college, if they’d even all still be friends by that time. Kyle’s dad wasn’t friends with any of his childhood pals, he knew it was a possibility. Kyle-Now thinks Kyle-Then would be happy to know he still has Stan, at least.
Stan was swaying on his feet as they walked back to Kyle’s and they waited in his backyard for the light in his parents’ window to go out before they snuck back up the stairs. Stan was in the mood for talking but despite Kyle’s best efforts, he’d hit the part of his high that made coherent thought almost impossible, thoughts slipping away as soon as he’d had them. He barely remembers falling asleep, each of them tucked into opposite corners of his full mattress, no touching. That’s how they justify it. Although maybe it is justified, and Kyle’s just doing it again. This morning, sober, he’s glad he passed out without overthinking it. Stan doesn’t overthink things. He’s kind of taking a while to come downstairs, too.
“Is Stan staying for lunch?” his mother asks.
“Can we have waffles for breakfast?” He doesn’t know the answer to her question, isn’t sure what he wants the answer to be either.
“Kyle, do you see the state of this kitchen? Do you think I have time to be making you and your little friend waffles?”
He hates when she calls him that. “Sorry, I’m just being nostalgic. You always used to make them for us.” Preying on his mother’s empty nest worries has been especially effective lately. It occurs to him that her redirected anxieties may be why Ike hates him so much.
“Oh, alright,” she rolls her eyes. “But you have to set the table for yourselves, I don’t want you eating in front of the TV.”
“Sweet, thanks.”
“Now give your mother a kiss.”
“Ugh, Mom.”
“Do you want your waffles or not?” She displays her cheek, index finger poking into the flesh.
Kyle groans and walks around the counter, giving her a quick peck before hurrying out of the kitchen. Maybe it’s a good thing Stan can’t get his ass out of bed.
Ike’s not at the dining table anymore, instead at the top of the stairs pointing his thumb back at the bathroom. Kyle trots up.
“Dude, I think your boyfriend’s sick.”
Kyle shoves past him, knocking on the door.
“Stan? Are you ok?”
No answer. Knock again.
“Stan?”
Muffled, from the other side, “I already told you.”
“Dude, can I come in?” The accompanying whine seems affirmative, and Kyle steps in, closing the door behind him. He hears Ike shouting ooOOoo! from the other side and ignores him.
Stan’s head is bowed into the toilet bowl, his back lurching as he dry heaves. Kyle sits on the tile by the door.
“Fuck dude, are you good?”
“Never better,” echoes from the porcelain.
“How much did you even drink last night?”
“I don’t remember.”
Kyle remembers picking up roughly six beers from Stan’s house, smuggled into their coat pockets and chilling his ribs as they walked.
“My mom said she’ll make us waffles.”
Stan’s head lifts from the bowl and he wipes his mouth, sour smile on his face. “Dude, I don’t think I can eat anything right now.”
“Well you fucking better.” Kyle kicks out his leg at Stan. “She was kind of pissed I even asked. She wants to know if you’re staying for lunch.”
“Am I allowed?”
Kyle grunts. “Whatever, dude. Just don’t complain this time.”
He holds up the Star Trek hand sign. “Scout’s honor.”
Already color is returning to Stan’s face. Kyle doesn’t understand how that works so well for him. When Kyle has to vomit, for any reason, it feels like his insides have been carved out like gelatin with a pocket knife, and it takes no less than ten hours to recover. Stan stretches his arms up like he’s just getting out of bed, comfortable, and smacks his lips. Kyle will miss this. Even this.
“Eugh. My mouth tastes fucking rank, dude.”
“You brought your toothbrush, right?”
“I think I forgot it. Do you have like, mouthwash or anything?”
Kyle digs under the sink for a bottle and hands it to Stan, who tips it back, bottoms up.
“Uh, dude,” Kyle laughs. “Careful not to swallow any, it has alcohol in it.”
Stan’s eye roll seems pointed somehow, like he’s saying I know. He swishes for a full minute, holding a finger up to Kyle when he tries to say something, before pushing up onto his knees and spitting into the sink.
“My mom’s gonna ask what took you so long,” Kyle says. It’s not that he minds lying to his mother, he’s just not very good at it.
“Tell her I have the flu.”
Kyle barks a laugh. “You do not want to say that. I know you know what she’s like.”
“Good point. Whatever, Ike’s probably already told her we’re up here circle jerking or something.”
It’s not fair when Stan makes Kyle blush, complexionally challenged as he is. “Wouldn’t you need another person to make that a circle?”
“I’ll just say your dad was here too.”
“Ugh, sick, dude.”
Stan pushes himself to his feet and they join the others downstairs. Ike gives them a look as they put place settings down, Kyle shoving a fork under Ike’s elbow on the tabletop. Kyle’s mom luckily barely acknowledges Stan with a quick good morning, Stanley, entirely wrapped up in whatever she’s making and their insufficient supply of sour cream. Kyle grabs the plate of waffles from the countertop and brings them to the table. Ike takes one without asking or looking up from his phone. Kyle and Stan eat mostly in silence, Stan stealing glances at last night’s game playing in the living room that Kyle’s dad is watching. Stan doesn’t understand this about Kyle’s parents, and frankly, neither does Kyle. Despite observing Shabbat they don’t adhere to the no technology rule, and they only go to temple on the High Holy Days. It was annoying for Kyle, as a child, to never really know what the rules were. These days he’s happy to live in ignorance of the intricacies of what his parents find acceptable and unacceptable.
It’s lunch before Kyle knows it, and he’s still too full from the waffles to eat much of the feast. Since Stan is there, Kyle’s mother serves extra helpings of slaw and cholent. Kyle can tell that Stan’s mouth is watering just by the look on his face. Sometimes he thinks his mother would’ve been happier if she’d had Stan as a kid. At least he has an appetite.
Kyle’s father joins the table last, standing by the candles and challah. Stan is right, Kyle’s dad does pray slowly, and incredibly out of key, but they stay silent as he takes up the tune. Baruch atah, Adonai Eloheinu, melech haolum...
At this point Stan can say Kiddush under his breath while Kyle’s dad recites aloud to the table, and Kyle does his best to ignore the feeling that crawls into his stomach watching him mouth the words. The worst is when Kyle’s saying it, his voice breaking when he notices Stan smiling at him like it’s taking everything not to laugh. I wish I could get a video of you doing it, Stan said once. I’d murder you in your sleep if you ever showed anyone that, ever, Kyle had said. He’s dared Stan to try leading it more than once, but he claims it would be sacrilegious, which is probably true. He can only imagine the shock and happy surprise on his mother’s face as Stan sings the words, slurring the syllables together. It’d still be more impressive than any performance of Kyle’s. He’s wondered how Stan memorized it considering his memory is what he blames 90% of his academic problems on. Maybe he just cares more, Kyle thinks, before shoving the thought away. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a tiny bell dings. One point for the Does list.
Kyle doesn’t like to think about the list, not consciously anyway. It’s patently stupid, he knows this, and yet the tally continues. Neurotic as it may be, the system is fairly simple: every interaction with Stan concludes with Kyle filing it away under one of two lists—the Does Like Kyle list, and the Doesn’t Like Kyle list. He’s aware that things aren’t as black and white as that, so sometimes it gets filed under both. When the calculations are all done, they’re about even. This is the hilarious torture that is Kyle’s life—compiling arguments like he’s an attorney either against or in support of reciprocation. He lays out the evidence of one list against the other in his head, mostly in the shower, whether he’s for or against depending on his mood. These days he prefers to stay cynical; it feels safer and strangely comforting as graduation approaches. But what about this, why does he remember the prayer? Why does he bother letting Kyle know, like he wants to impress him? Although, Kyle has the pledge of allegiance memorized, and that doesn’t mean he’s patriotic. Counterpoint for the Doesn’t list.
Stan mimes chugging the wine cup when it comes to him, then takes a polite sip and passes it to Ike. To his credit, Stan’s faring better than Kyle would’ve thought. Usually by now he’d be tapping his foot and looking at his phone, checking the time and making excuses to use the bathroom or leaving completely. Those moments are littered all over the Doesn’t list. Today though, he seems calm and a little far away. He catches Kyle’s eye as they sit down and start passing around food. Small smile, a nod to check his text messages. Ding—point for Does. Kyle looks at his phone from his lap.
dude I took this weed gummy thing from Kenny after the waffles. im F L Y I N G.
Kyle rolls his eyes and nudges Stan’s foot under the table. Stan stifles his laughter with cholent. Now his appetite makes sense, and his doofy smile. Point rescinded.
“So, boys, how did your finals go?” Kyle’s mom asks.
“Fine,” they say in unison.
“Just fine?”
“Oh, come on, Sheila,” Kyle’s dad says. “You can’t expect complete sentences from teenagers.”
Kyle sighs. “It went ok. Better?”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Sheila says, with a look over her glass at Kyle that he knows means she’ll be speaking to him later about his ‘tone.’ “And how about you, Stan?”
“Oh yeah, all good. I mean.” He pauses a few seconds longer than is normal as he dislodges something from his teeth with his tongue. “It wasn’t a breeze or anything, but I definitely passed.”
“That’s — that’s very good.” Kyle’s mom looks at his father and they share a look of restrained concern. Ha— Kyle thinks. If only they knew how much of a struggle it was to get Stan to turn in work the whole semester, to even stay awake while they were supposed to be studying.
The reality is that Stan only really needs to pass three classes to make sure he gets to college. The college counselor said that his grades weren’t great, but with a good enough essay and recommendations he could get into CU Denver. Kyle did early decision with University of Denver. He thinks the full ride had something to do with appearing inclusive to all faiths, but he wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. The three classes Stan needed were 12th grade English, Government, and Honors Biology. The first two because it was required of every student, and the last because Stan had failed it freshman year and waited this long to make it up. Kyle has tried not to let on how happy he is that Stan passed; it would implicate his doubt. There were several nights in the last week that he dreamt of crossing the stage at graduation, Stan waving at him from the stands because he couldn’t get his shit together.
Stan passing English brings another relief, as it means he hasn’t been lying to Kyle.
Ms. Dacey is pretty, sure, but Kyle wouldn’t have thought she was Stan’s type if he didn’t spend so much time with her. It started out as hanging behind a few minutes after class, a book recommendation or an explanation of a grade. She’s the youngest teacher at Park High and if Stan liked her, he’d have plenty of company. The weird part was how she seemed to like talking to Stan, too. The first time Kenny made a comment about it, when they’d been waiting for Stan for fifteen minutes out in the hall, Kyle thought Kenny was just being a dick.
“Do you think he’s getting a BJ in there?” Kenny elbowed him.
“Shut the fuck up, dude. That’s gross.”
“What’s gross about getting a beej from a hot chick?”
“She’s not ‘a hot chick,’ she’s our teacher.”
“Same difference dude.” Stan had come out of the room just then, hitching his backpack onto his shoulders. “Dude!” Kenny clapped a hand on his back. “Where are we at, my man? Are we laying the groundwork still, or are you in?”
“In where?” Stan asked.
“You know.” Kenny put his hands on the back of his head and thrust his hips forward, making a high pitched squeaking noise as he did.
Stan rolled his eyes, not deigning to respond. It had been encouraging to Kyle, though the blush that crept up Stan’s neck didn’t escape his notice. Within a week all the guys were talking about it, cracking jokes during class — even in front of Ms. Dacey — all to Stan’s sheepish denial. Kyle had the sense that Stan was flattered by the rumor, if not bolstered by it, and to put it mildly, the whole thing drove Kyle fucking crazy.
In early November, Stan spent the entire lunch period in Ms. Dacey’s room. Kenny was absent that day, some vague reason that’s hazy in Kyle’s memory, and Kyle waited alone at their table for 25 minutes before he went looking for Stan. All 16 of his texts went unanswered, their tone shifting from curious to concerned to pissed to Very Concerned. Eventually though, and to no one’s surprise but Kyle’s, he found Stan sitting on a desk in Ms. Dacey’s room, her standing in front of him, looking serious while she smiled. The door was open but the hall was quiet, and Kyle knew they probably thought they were getting away with it. He stood outside the door trying not to hyperventilate, grabbing Stan’s arm when he walked through the door and taking him outside to the frost.
The ultimatum was simple: “Tell me what’s she’s doing to you or I’m calling the cops.” Either way, Kyle was going to call the cops. He just wanted to know if Stan was going to try to defend her or not.
Stan’s face had gotten red and he tripped over his words as he talked, but sighed more than anything else, like it hurt him to say it out loud. It’s nothing like what people think, he’d said. The truth of it was that Stan was failing English, despite the popular belief that she gave him good grades for “good behavior.” He’d been staying after class to discuss extra credit assignments, get tutoring before exams, that kind of thing. She didn’t like him that way, he didn’t think, but he was ashamed to say he didn’t really care if she did. He needed to pass the class and if that’s what worked, it worked.
Kyle thought he was going to cry. Stan looked like he might too. They were kids the last time they’d done that.
“That’s rape, you know that, right? If she did something to you that would be rape.”
“God, Kyle, she’s like, not even thirty, she’s not old.”
“That doesn’t fucking matter. Ok? Tell me you fucking get that, and, and that you won’t do it anymore.”
“Kyle. I have to pass. I don’t graduate if I fail.”
“I know that,” Kyle swallowed, pretending he wasn’t thinking about it all the time. “But you can’t just — ”
“It’ll be fine, dude. I promise. I can take care of this, ok?”
He didn’t stop hanging with her after class, but it was less. Kyle hoped she would get the message, and that it wouldn’t come with retribution.
Stan shoves a quarter of the challah loaf into his mouth and almost snorts it through his nose laughing at Kyle’s face. Kyle knows he’s doing a bad job of playing it cool, but he doesn’t normally have to tell his parents six lies before noon. It’s unusual for daytime Stan to be this reckless. Nighttime Stan is a different animal, but while the sun is up Kyle expects him to not trip balls during Shabbat. They kick each other under the table for a few minutes, Stan making bug eyes at him and then giggling into his glass.
“Stanley, how are your parents?” Kyle’s dad asks after an interminable period of choked laughter.
“They’re super, Mr. Broflovski,” Stan says, smiling toothily. “Thanks for asking.” He squeezes his lips together then flashes a mouthful of dough where his teeth should be at Kyle.
“Oh, I’m, uh. Glad to hear that.”
In truth, Kyle doesn’t really know how true Stan’s statement is. It’s been a few months since he’s had any kind of real conversation with Stan about life at home. Even then, he usually says a variation of the same thing. My parents hate each other. I wish they would’ve stayed divorced. It’s fine, they’re just assholes. Kyle might believe him, that it’s the same old shit, but Shelly moved away to college three years ago and has only visited once since. Stan coming over for Shabbat dinner only really started as a tradition in sophomore year, right after she left, and even then it was usually just once a month or so. Now his mother makes meals for five on Fridays, and if things keep up, for Saturday lunch, too. Does gets points for Stan wanting to spend so much time with him, Doesn’t gets points for Stan’s homelife getting so shitty he’s practically moved into Kyle’s bedroom. It feels sleazy to warp Stan’s personal tragedies into exhibits in Kyle’s mental courtroom, but if he could stop doing it, he would have by now.
“Say, Stanley, is your dad still into that tween wave music?” Kyle’s dad sits back and looks into his head, remembering something Kyle’s probably blocked out. “Ah, Randy, he’s always been quite the risk-taker.”
“Oh, haha,” Stan says, suddenly faraway sounding and monotone. “No, not really. These days he’s into Norwegian death metal.”
“Is that so?” Kyle’s parents give each other a look, then his father leans forward, ready to ask questions. Kyle hates this part where everyone is laughing about their own joke in their own heads—even Stan smiling at something unknown—except none of it is actually funny.
“Can we be excused?” Kyle asks, standing up before anyone can answer.
“Kyle, help your mother clean up first.”
“I can’t, Stan has to be somewhere, I’m walking him out.”
“Kyle!” His mother stands as Kyle drags Stan out of his seat and pushes him toward the stairs.
He doesn’t look back, he’ll lose his nerve. “What, Mom, what?”
“Kyle, where are you going!”
“Stan doesn’t want me to tell you, it’s private,” he calls over his shoulder, starting up the steps. They get into his room and Kyle leans against the door after closing it. His arms are crossed and he’s aware of how pouty he looks, but the guy acting like a toddler probably won’t notice anyway.
“Dude, I wasn’t done eating,” Stan says, sitting on Kyle’s bed.
“What the fuck, Stan.”
“Hm?”
“Hello! You’re high?”
“Oh. Yeah.” Stan laughs, then flops back onto the mattress. Kyle sighs and walks over to look down at him.
“What the fuck, dude, why didn’t you tell me?”
Stan reaches out and grabs onto Kyle’s wrist. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Kyle, that was shitty of me. I just started thinking about how boring the lunch was gonna be and then I remembered I had the gummies in my bag…” He trails off like that’s a sufficient explanation.
“You could’ve at least offered me some.”
“Sorry.” Stan’s brow worries like it’s hurting him. “I thought it would stress you out.”
He’s right, it would’ve stressed him out. It was bad enough struggling to cover for Stan while sober.
“Whatever.” Kyle starts gathering up Stan’s stuff, shoving things into his backpack.
“Oh, do you actually want me to leave?”
Kyle’s stomach twists at his tone. Does points for being sad to leave, Doesn’t points because it probably pissesd him off.
“I’ll meet you at the park,” Kyle says. They’d agreed to a pickup game with Token and Craig around four that afternoon. Only three hours of being apart, but it still makes Kyle’s stomach clench uncomfortably.
“Ok. Yeah, that works I guess.”
“I just have to help my mom clean up here, then I can head over.”
“I can wait for you, if you want.”
“It’s fine,” Kyle says, though it’s not what he wants at all, and not really fine either, depending on one’s perspective. Their days of unchecked codependency are coming to an end, like it or not, and Kyle’s instinct tells him to start dealing with it sooner rather than later.
“If you say so.” Stan heaves himself upright and pulls his bag onto his shoulder. “But if I walk off a cliff or something because you weren’t watching me, I will haunt you.”
“Dude, it’s just weed, not acid, right?”
Stan shrugs. “It’s from Kenny, so who knows.”
Kyle wishes he could say he’s gotten sick of babysitting Stan while he’s fucked up, but it hasn’t happened yet. It’s annoying, yes, and he wishes Stan didn’t feel like he has to be on something to have a good time, but it isn’t the same as babysitting Kenny. A high Kenny is horny and reckless and has a tendency to wander off, whereas a high Stan likes to lean against Kyle and fall asleep talking about guitar chords and brain waves somehow being connected. There are times Kyle even enjoys it, spending time with a Stan that doesn’t worry or brood or lie to him. But to cop to that feels like admitting something, and six months before graduation doesn’t feel like a good time to start confessing.
At the end of the driveway Stan gives Kyle a particularly long hug, though his arms are loose around Kyle’s sides. Points for Does ? When he pulls back and smiles at Kyle with a glazed face, the point goes into the ether—too vague to work for either case.
“Ok, dude, I’ll see you in a little bit.”
“Bye, Kyle!” Stan waves and shouts.
Kyle waves back and starts composing a text: dude let me know when ur home & that u haven’t walked off a cliff
Twenty minutes later, while Kyle’s laying out clothes on his bed to pack, he gets a response in the form of a very closeup blurry shot of Kenny’s nose.
not at home. went to kenny’s.
Kyle huffs, replies: r u still coming later?
Stan, after a minute: yea. clyde’s coming too. sry.
Kyle closes his eyes and sighs, chewing on his inner cheek. Clyde’s presence is almost enough to make Kyle not want to come, because wherever Clyde and his friends are, Cartman is likely there too. They haven’t had real beef in years, but Kyle’s guard has never dropped for a second when it comes to him. Whatever. It’s worth it to see Stan before Kyle leaves.
it’s fine. see u then.
Stan’s ability to tolerate being around people he hates is something Kyle has both despised and envied throughout their friendship. It probably stems from a lifetime living with Randy, but Kyle still thinks it would be pretty great to not boil with rage every time someone says something he disagrees with. Dumbass bro-talk and pissing contests aside, Kyle has his reasons for hating Clyde. Stan might know what it is, but he’s never said anything, and Kyle is fine to never bring it up ever.
Kyle still debates whether it was the best night of his life or the worst—almost four years on and the trial continues. Their friend group became less insular as they entered middle school, hanging with the girls more and the rivalry with Craig and those guys dissolving for the most part. The girls made other lists over the years, Kyle and Stan ending up not too far from each other, Stan always higher. Kyle suspects they can smell the testosterone or something, the normality. In any case, it made Kyle dateable in the girls’ eyes, which was fine by him.
Until freshman year, Kyle’s desire to have a girlfriend was mostly derived from wanting someone there for him while he tagged along on Wendy and Stan's dates. He was sick of third-wheeling and sick of feeling like Stan pitied him every time he declined to join them on an outing. Between the ages of 12 and 14, Kyle went on five dates with two different girls — all accompanied by Stan and Wendy’s presence. Two dates with Heidi Turner, before he figured out it was a ploy to piss off Cartman, then three dates with Bebe, though he suspects Bebe going out with him had more to do with her and Wendy wanting a matching set than actually liking him. Their texting tapered off to noncommunication and it was over before a month had passed.
Kyle’s anger was luminous when he got wind of the talk going around, that he couldn’t keep a girlfriend because he was too obsessed with Stan. “Stan invited us to double date. I’m pretty sure it was Wendy’s idea anyway,” he explained to Kenny once. Kenny shrugged, said people like to talk shit, not to listen to them. Kyle agreed, people are dumbasses. What did it matter if the dates were group or solo, it’s not like they really needed privacy for anything. No one was having sex. It was actually sort of nice having Stan there for his first kiss. For as many times as Kyle had teased Stan about vomiting out of nervousness, it all made perfect sense when face to face with Bebe staring at him, batting her eyelashes like that did anything, expecting him to seal the deal. The girls sat on a low wall in the park while Stan and Kyle stood between their knees. Stan and Wendy went for it—her cupping Stan’s face and neck while his thumbs kneaded at her waist. When Kyle got the courage to lean in he was greeted with a wet, open mouth. It was kind of gross, but making out had always seemed gross. He expected the emotional aspect to make up for the physical sensation. It did not.
Apparently Clyde was pissed that Kyle had dared to go out with his ex. Kyle didn’t think Bebe really counted as Clyde’s ex if she was only dating him for shoe discounts, but his anger about it carried over the entire summer and up to his birthday party in fall of freshman year. Thanks to Kenny—Kyle thanks god for Kenny every day—they had the heads up on Clyde’s plan before they got there.
The prank, if you could call it that, was to simply dare Stan and Kyle to kiss each other during truth or dare. If they accepted the dare then ha ha, you’re gay, but if they refused then uh oh, what’s the matter? What do you have to hide? In the end it was Stan’s genius idea to do what they did.
Wendy and Stan had taken a break for the summer and failed to rekindle their romance. That would come, in another two months, but Kyle was buoyant from a summer filled with Stan and Kenny and nothing else to distract them. He believed Stan that it would work. His classmates sat cross legged in a circle, taking turns asking the question: truth or dare? Several people had been dared to kiss before their turn—Rebecca and Jimmy, Bradley and Nichole—games like this were designed primarily to facilitate kissing. It wasn’t exactly shocking when Stan’s turn came and Clyde announced with pomp, “I dare you, Stan, to kiss…” Everyone looked at each other in darting glances, they knew what was coming as well as the two of them did. “Kyle. I dare you to kiss Kyle.”
“Well,” Stan had turned to Kyle and shrugged, biting down a smirk. “Bring it in, dude.”
As Stan leaned in, Kyle had time to think I never ever ever should have agreed to this.
Stan held up his end of the bargain. He launched at Kyle tongue first, slobbering at his face more than his mouth. The ew’s and groans started quick and Kyle could feel Stan’s chest hitching with laughter as he continued. Kyle wasn’t responding how he was supposed to. He’d promised to get into it, to make as big a joke of it as possible, lurching his tongue in and out of Stan’s mouth in the same sloppy fashion as was done to him. Instead he couldn’t breathe and his cheeks were so hot they hurt. He clumsily moved his lips a little, kept his mouth open, let it happen. His only move of real autonomy was the hand he dug in Stan’s hair, the other cradling his neck. It felt like molten liquid being poured down his throat to burn low in his stomach, verging into painful as it wore on. After about ten seconds Stan pulled back with a smack of his lips, mmm-ing for affect at their classmates’ laughter.
Stan was right, it did work. Cartman tried to make fun of them for the first few weeks, but for the most part everyone agreed it took balls to do what they did, and the gay jokes evaporated. Kenny wouldn’t shut up about how “epic” it was, how they “totally owned” Clyde and Cartman. There was nothing Kyle could do but laugh and agree. What a hilarious joke.
Kyle wonders how long he would’ve lived in ignorance of his feelings if it weren’t for the dare. It was confusing. He’d liked girls, he had. They were pretty and nice to talk to—he’d even thought about his wedding before and if there were any girls in his class that would be willing to convert. This didn’t feel like liking someone. For one, it had never been this painful before. It hurt when Stan chose someone else for a group project. It hurt when Stan got back with Wendy, inviting her to sit on his lap while they ate soggy cafeteria french fries. It hurt for the good moments, when Stan put his arm across Kyle’s shoulders as they walked to their lockers, saving a seat for Kyle on the bus for field trips, his fingertips brushing Kyle’s ribs while they slept. Every day was a new realization of how weird they’d always been—he’d always been—only he was too stupid to notice. In time Kyle found that it’s actually not normal to sniff the pillow your best friend slept on because it still smells like him. It’s not normal to search for the scent every time they stand near each other. Paranoia overtook Kyle for several months, convincing him that everyone had always known something integral about himself that he never picked up on.
Kyle thinks over their friendship, horrified that his carelessness about hiding his jealousy in their earlier years might have given the game away. As a fourteen year old his natural inclination was to overcompensate, calling anyone and everything “faggy” until eventually Stan was the one to tell him to lay off. “It’s just not funny anymore,” he’d said. “People are kinda pissed at you for it. Like, there’s nothing wrong with being gay.” Kyle thought this was rich, considering how their entire world demonstrated the complete opposite. But still, he didn’t want to be accused of being hateful or god forbid, admit that he should be allowed this privilege because of who he is, and never said the word again.
Reminiscing on this feels ironic as Kyle walks up to the basketball court, overhearing Clyde call Craig and Token “fucking fags” after making a shot. Cartman isn’t there, thank god. Neither is Stan, to his dismay. If Stan flakes on him he’ll have Kenny’s head.
Token nods at Kyle as he walks up to them. “Where’s Stan?”
Kyle shrugs, gestures for the ball. It both delights and angers Kyle that everyone expects him to know Stan’s whereabouts at any given time. He doesn’t feel like explaining, throws the ball at the hoop. To his surprise, it goes through.
“Whatever,” Clyde says, not even looking at Kyle. “There’s four of us, let’s just start.”
They look at each other, assessing. Kyle’s not short but he’s not as tall as Token or Craig.
“I call dibs on Token,” Clyde says, smacking the ball out of Kyle’s hands and dribbling away.
Craig shrugs. “Whatever.”
Kyle doesn’t care either—having Clyde for a teammate is a handicap in itself. They play for twenty minutes, Kyle and Craig trailing 2-5. He suspects Craig might be sabotaging him, shrugging and saying sorry every time he fails to pass the ball to Kyle. Not surprising, Craig is an asshole. Kyle’s jacket is starting to stick to him and he peels it off, throws it on a bench. He planned his outfit poorly, assuming it would be colder than it is. He should’ve worn shorts instead of sweats or bothered to do his hair before leaving home. Now he’s going to have to take off his hat and if he acts like he gives a shit about what his hair looks like they might figure it out.
This is a stupid train of thought. Logically, Kyle knows this. He keeps his hat on anyway, wiping at sweat trails that drip past his eyebrows. He hasn't decided if/when he wants to come out. Until he’s out of South Park it’s the least of his worries.
At a quarter to five Stan and Kenny walk up to the court, waving at the rest as they sit on one of the benches. Kyle wants to pause and go over to say hi, but the score is actually tied and Craig seems willing to pass to him now. Kyle is distracted, every spare glance thrown over to the benches, watching Stan and Kenny huddle around Kenny’s phone, laughing at something on the screen. Through no fault of Kyle’s they win, Craig taking a moment to whoop and flip off the other two.
Kyle jogs over to the benches.The last rays of light are leaving the sky and the floodlights kick on as he stops in front of them. It takes a second for them to look up, Kenny the first to say anything.
“Hey, champ.”
“Hey,” Kyle nods. “What took you so long?”
“Sorry, that was my bad,” Stan says. “I thought we were meeting at 5.”
“Yeah and then I reminded him that you guys don’t usually play after it’s dark.” He nudges Stan who’s texting. “Dumbass.”
“Are you sober now?” Kyle asks Stan.
Kenny and Stan exchange a look, then chuckle to themselves.
“Depends on what you need me to do,” Stan says. Craig comes up to them, bouncing the ball off Kyle’s shoulder.
“Come on,” he says. “Clyde wants a rematch.”
Kyle looks at the bench. “Alright, you guys need to split up, who’s going with who?”
Kenny yawns. “I’m gonna sit this one out.”
“Same,” Stan says, not quite meeting Kyle’s eye.
“Seriously?” Kyle says this only to Stan, though Kenny doesn’t seem offended.
“I’m fucking beat, dude, sorry.”
Clyde walks over. “Craig, what’s up? Is Kyle gonna pussy out?”
“Fuck you,” Kyle says, glancing back for Stan’s reaction. He’s texting again.
“Well?” Craig asks. Kyle looks at the bench, both their heads hunched over phones. Kyle joins the others on the court, reminding himself to chew Kenny out for this later.
Kyle loses purposely to make the game go faster, which earns him no allies by the end of it. “It’s not fucking fun if he just lets us win!” Clyde yells at Craig. Kyle doesn’t really care about his bitch fit, just wants to hang with Kenny and Stan and get high to calm the anxiety building in his stomach.
“Ok, I’m done,” Kyle says, breath puffing little clouds into the air. Kenny and Stan look up at him, eyes glazed. Stan watches Kyle put his jacket back on but his mind is clearly elsewhere. “So, um.” Kyle clears his throat. “What do you guys wanna do?”
Kenny shrugs. “I’m good with whatever. What are you guys gonna do?”
Kyle and Stan share a glance as Token calls over to them. “You guys wanna play Call of Duty at my place?”
“Sure!” Kenny calls back. “You guys?” to Stan and Kyle.
Stan looks at the phone in his palm and says, “I gotta head home.”
“Boo, Stan.” Kenny shoves his hand over Stan’s head, knocking his beanie into his lap. He gets up and walks to the other guys, gesturing at Clyde for the ball to attempt a three pointer. He makes it and whoops.
“Sorry,” Stan says. “It’s my dad.” He’s putting on the tone that means this is worse for me than it is for you. “You can still go with them if you want.” Kyle declines, uses packing as an excuse. Their houses are in opposite directions from the park; if they were alone he’d walk Stan back. If they were alone, Stan might actually tell him what’s wrong. But maybe not. Kyle senses more and more lately that the times Stan needs someone most is when he wants to see Kyle the least. Token’s house is in the right direction so he heads off with the others.
“Are you actually good, dude?” Kyle asks.
Stan’s texting with one hand while nodding back at Kyle. “Yeah, yeah, just this stupid stuff. I’ll text you about it later.”
“Am I seeing you tomorrow?” Kyle hates how needy he sounds but the truth is that he is this needy.
“Oh. Yeah, sure.” He’s blinking at nothing, voice high like he’s lying.
“...You know I’m leaving on Monday, right?”
Stan scoffs. “Yeah dude, you think I forgot that you’re ditching me the whole break?”
“I’m not ditching you—”
“I’m just kidding, dude, calm down. I’ll text you later.”
Kyle is tempted to extend his hand, maybe for their super-secret-super-best-friend handshake, the one they stopped doing seven years ago because it was “gay.” Letting Stan walk away like this feels doomed somehow, like there’s something he’s missing. Except Stan still seems a little high, so it’s probably just that. He watches the group walk away from him like a fucking loser, only turning around to walk home once they’ve turned a corner.
Kyle’s phone says 1:36 AM. His mom had been in and out of his room until 11 PM, declaring upon seeing how much he was taking on their trip that he needed to get rid of half his wardrobe. There are unfortunate people who need this much more than you, Kyle, his mother said, and he couldn’t come up with a counterargument. He pretty much wears the same things everyday anyway. He contemplates whether or not dressing better would put in him Stan’s favor—maybe he wouldn’t look so dorky all the time—or if paying attention to that kind of thing would send up flares. In truth, this line of thinking is optimistic at its core. It assumes that Stan would notice anything about him to begin with. Why the fuck did Kyle kick him out after lunch? He could save time and money by skipping his bachelor’s degree altogether and going straight to getting his PhD in Ruining Own Your Fucking Life Studies.
The entire afternoon belongs on the Doesn’t list, a dozen points for the various ways Stan rejected his company. This is a dour assessment, Kyle knows, and if anyone other than him could hear his thoughts they’d just laugh— fucking drama queen —but it’s in his best interest to remain pessimistic. The entire break is going to suck, Canada is going to suck, struggling to get his AP homework done with a bunch of 8th graders around is going to suck, and so will the rest of the semester, watching Stan get farther and farther away until they’re completely different people without ever saying a word to each other about it. It’s best to keep his expectations realistic.
These are the times in which the literal iterations of the lists would be helpful. They existed once, a word document on his computer that he kept open and minimized so he could refer to it after school and throughout the evening. Just a month after its creation, Kyle found Ike at his desk chair looking at something on his computer. He launched at his brother who screamed and closed out the window before running from the room. If Kyle had wondered whether he was ready to tell anyone, the fervent desire to literally murder his brother with his own hands answered the question for him. Kyle’s parents grounded them both—Ike for snooping, Kyle for overreacting—though he didn’t really care as long as he got to go back to his room and check his computer. After a long lecture from his mother, he sunk in his desk chair, fearing that the lists would be up, read, and already laughed at. Kyle stared at his desktop, no windows open. The Word application was open, but the window with the list had been closed. His browser application was open too, a blank google page pulled up. It was just as likely that Ike read it as he closed the window and looked up porn, ignoring it completely. Kyle had no choice but to delete the lists on the off chance that Ike planned to use it against him. Ike never mentioned anything about it, which could’ve meant that he really hadn’t read it, or that it was so strange and disturbing that even Ike was too embarrassed to confront him about it. He vowed never again to commit his feelings or analyses to paper.
Still, Kyle wishes he had the data, or a better memory of the data. There have been plenty of nights spent exactly like this one, where Kyle dreads not only that Stan doesn’t like like him, but he doesn’t like him either, and is just too nice to say it. It’s easy to convince himself of this after a day like today, where Stan couldn’t give two shits that Kyle is leaving and can’t stay sober even just to humor him.
There are well-tread paths of memory that he relies on in these moments. Weighty, saccharine highlights from the Does list that talk him off the edge of giving up hope completely. Sophomore year, the winter ball, Wendy breaking Stan’s heart two days before. Stan spent the first day whining about how relationships are a sham, love isn’t real, and the second day convincing Kyle to be his date to the dance.
“Just try selling your tickets to someone else,” Kyle had said, sure that any minute Stan would notice his transformation from human to tomato.
“Everybody already bought their tickets. I’m gonna lose like $80 on this.”
“Stan, come on—”
“It’s just as friends!”
Kyle imploded, sputtering. “Obviously, dude, I fucking know—”
“Then what’s the problem?”
In Kyle’s memory Stan fixes him with a stare that’s asking for something. His exact response is lost, but Kyle distinctly remembers Stan’s hissed fuck yes! and his arms wrapping around Kyle’s neck in a brief but hard hug.
Stan walked to Kyle’s, waiting for Kenny to pick them up with his date, a junior girl who was said to put out. As soon as Kyle opened the door he knew he’d made a mistake. Stan was in one of Randy’s blazers, black pants—new—with a pink carnation on his lapel. His cheeks were pinked from the cold walk over and his hair was swept in an odd way like he’d been running. He was chewing his lip as he waited at the door, and his mouth stretched into the sweetest smile as soon as he saw Kyle. The smile, however, was quickly replaced by Stan’s hand covering his mouth as he doubled over in laughter.
Kyle’s bar mitzvah suit unfortunately still fit him better than it ought to, just a little short around the ankles, and it was pretty much the only formal clothing he had. His mom wouldn’t let him take off the tie while he was in the house and Kyle felt like he was choking.
Kyle glowered. “If you don’t stop laughing I’m not going.”
“I’m sorry,” Stan clapped a hand on his shoulder, stifling his laughter. “I’m sorry. Seriously. I just really didn’t expect that.”
“Yeah, yeah, fuck you too.” It was 30 degrees and Stan was visibly shivering. “Dude, didn’t you bring a coat or something?”
“Uh, no.” He fussed with his hair, teeth chattering a little. “I had to get out of there pretty fast, I guess I forgot.”
“Kyle?” Sheila called from upstairs. “Is that Stanley?”
“Uh oh,” Stan said, stepping inside.
“Stay right there,” she yelled. “I’m getting my camera!”
They posed by the stairs, arms slung over each other’s shoulders, making Kyle’s cuffs slide up to his elbows. Maybe not as well-fitting as he thought. Kyle blushed through Sheila’s every comment about how adorable they were, thankful for his father’s indifference and refusal to come ogle them too. Ike snickered throughout the entire thing, side-eyeing them from his video game. Kyle was already paranoid about Ike—he thought if any of them suspected, it was him. His teasing had always walked the razor thin line between taunting and truthful. Kyle was overjoyed to hear Kenny’s honk at the curb. Stan borrowed one of Kyle’s father’s coats, dark brown wool that matched his outfit. Kyle wore his orange parka over his suit, flipping Kenny off as they got in the car before the laughter even started.
Park High is a 9 minute, 2.6 mile drive from Kyle’s house. Kenny, the driver, was plastered for all 2.6 miles and almost ended their lives approximately four separate times on the way over. Stan looked green as they crawled from the back of the beat-up Taurus, sucking in lungfuls of fresh air. Kyle wanted to linger in the parking lot, delay the humiliation of being seen by everyone they know, but Kenny winked at them, said he had plans, and trotted on ahead. Stan turned around to grab Kyle by the wrist, yanking him toward the entrance. Kyle thought he waited a breath longer than usual to let go. The memory isn’t clear enough to substantiate the claim.
Despite his mother’s assumption, there was no coat room, everyone relegated into draping their jackets and coats over the bleachers on the east side of the gym. Kenny disappeared into the crowd with his date as Kyle and Stan took their seats at the top of the bleachers.
Kenny said the punch would be spiked, so Kyle was surprised when Stan produced a flask from his inner pocket and took a swig. He offered it to Kyle as he swallowed. At that point in their adolescence, drinking was still a relative novelty. All elements of teenage rebellion were exciting, though Kyle did take a second to wonder if he should really lower his inhibitions with this much proximity to Stan. Who knows , something inside him said. His guard will be down too. He took a sip from the flask and winced as it burned down his throat. Stan laughed and bumped their shoulders together. “Atta boy,” he’d said.
They finished the rest of the flask from the comfort of their perch, commenting on their classmates dancing and milling around below. Wendy came after a half hour with her friends, dressed in something sparkling and pale pink. Stan didn’t say anything about her arrival, so Kyle didn’t either, though he watched Stan’s eyes for signs that he was watching her, hurting. The reasons for their breakup had been vague. She wanted space, he was both too invested and not committed enough. Kyle was secretly overjoyed at the announcement, and subsequently plagued with guilt after seeing how sad Stan was the day after. The guilt washed happily away as the alcohol wound its way through Kyle’s blood stream, and after thirty minutes they were hanging off each other, laughing at the pisspoor dancing skills of the students of Park High.
“Come on,” Stan said, standing up suddenly so that Kyle’s head dropped from his shoulder. “Let’s go outside.”
“Outside?” Kyle was aware of how drunk he sounded, how little he cared.
“Yeah, dude. I’ve got something.”
It was freezing, Kyle regretted leaving his parka the second the air hit his face, but to say anything about it might change the trajectory of the evening and whatever Stan had planned. They headed to the side of the gym, passing the goth kids smoking cigarettes and bemoaning the entire event. Kyle wanted to hassle them, why did you even fucking come if you’re just going to complain? But he was really the last person who should speak on decrying things one is secretly drawn to.
When they found a spot in the shadows, Stan looked around before pulling a joint and lighter from his back pocket.
“Dude,” Kyle laughed. “Are you the new Kenny?”
“Psh. As if. Who do you think I got this stuff from?”
This was the first time Kyle ever got high. He’d watched Stan, Kenny, and a few others partake at various functions over the last year, but he felt it was safer to observe before taking the plunge and work out whether he could trust himself to imbibe.
Stan coached him, holding the joint up to Kyle’s mouth as he instructed him on the proper technique for a good hit. The filter hit his teeth as Stan slotted it between his lips.
“Just breathe in and then hold it for ten seconds.”
Stan’s fingertips were millimeters from Kyle’s mouth, side of his palm brushing against a frozen cheek.
Kyle burst into a coughing fit half a second after he inhaled. Stan laughed until Kyle got it right, then they took turns with it, the joint staying in Stan’s hand the whole time. He’s not sure why Stan never handed it to him, or why he didn’t ask him to, either.
Kyle’s hearing focused like a laser and he thought he could catch individual conversations from inside the gym like they were standing next to him. Oh yeah, that’s the super hearing, Stan said. All your senses get heightened, it’s so sick. Kyle agreed, every detail of his surroundings zooming into crystal clarity then fading into blurriness as his attention went elsewhere. It was also the first time Kyle had ever been cross faded. He didn’t particularly like the way it made him sway on his feet and the world tilt back and forth, like he was on a cruiseliner in the middle of the ocean. Stan seemed happy though, laughing about something Kenny had said in the car. Kyle did his best to pay attention but distraction was overwhelming each time Stan brought the joint to his mouth. A pale stripe across three of Stan’s fingers from where he’d pressed his hand against an oven rack when they were 12. Kyle didn’t think Stan had a single scar he didn’t know the meaning of. They were just like that. Best friends, super best friends, so close he could probably hear his heart beat just then. Super hearing was fucking amazing.
“Dude, you’re like, shaking.”
“Sorry,” Kyle said. “It’s fucking cold.”
“Do you want to go back in?”
“No.”
Stan smirked. “Ok.” He put the joint between his lips, speaking around it. “Stay still a second.”
Kyle did as he was told, straightening his arms against his sides. Stan brought a hand to each arm and rubbed from shoulder to elbow over the fabric in quick motions. Kyle let out a surprised ah and they laughed, eyeing each other.
“It’s like I’m a frozen puppy and you’re rubbing me back to life,” Kyle said.
Stan chuckled. He put on a drill sergeant voice, joint hanging from the corner of his mouth. “ Don’t die on me, soldier! ”
“I won’t.” Kyle closed his eyes for a moment and concentrated on the feeling alone, but it was hard to balance without literally keeping track of the ground beneath him. He stared at Stan’s shoes. He’d been there when Stan bought them—Clyde was behind the register and Kyle thought he might have overcharged Stan on purpose.
“Ok,” Stan took his hands back and relit the joint, hardly any left. He gave Kyle another drag then said, “You do me.”
Kyle returned the gesture, unsure where to look as he did. Stan looked straight ahead at Kyle, clearly thinking something but not saying anything. It looked mostly like he was about to laugh. He took two more drags off the joint before stubbing it out on the wall and letting it fall to the ground.
Kyle rested his hands at Stan’s elbows, pulling on his arms that flopped like jello. Kyle pressed his thumbs into the inside juncture, daring himself to use inebriation as an excuse.
“Warm yet?” he asked.
Stan shrugged. “Warm as I’m gonna be.”
Kyle always thought this was when something that didn’t happen should’ve happened. Instead Kenny and his date rounded the corner, the sound of rubber stopping short on asphalt echoing against the wall.
“Oh, hey,” Kenny said. “‘Sup.”
Stan turned like he’d been expecting him. “Oh hey dude. Hi, Angie.”
The girl shrugged her coat closer around her neck and waved.
“Want us to clear out?” Stan asked.
“Um,” Kenny looked at Angie, her eyes screaming yes! “I mean, you don’t have to, but—”
“No worries,” Stan said, nodding at Kyle to follow. “We’re gonna head back in anyway.”
Kyle was luckily too faded to be particularly devastated at the time. He was still with Stan, and at least it was warm inside. They climbed back up the bleachers and said nothing for fifteen minutes, watching their classmates filter in and out of focus.
Stan flicked Kyle’s knee. “Dude it’s kinda lame in here, do you wanna bail?”
Either the drunkenness or the high was fading, Kyle couldn’t tell which. Returning to the cold just after having thawed was actually painful, and without a hat or gloves the parka wasn’t enough. He wanted to be less sober, still uncaring—about the cold and the company. He wasn’t often nervous around Stan, even when it was just the two of them alone in Kyle’s bed, and his present jitteriness left him feeling disadvantaged somehow.
“You know what I mean?”
“Mhmm.” Kyle didn’t know what Stan meant, he hadn’t been listening at all.
“It’s like, he’s just getting worked up about a fight that hasn’t even happened yet. It’s so fucking annoying.”
Right. Shelly coming to visit for winter break in the morning. Stan was upset that he couldn’t sleep over at Kyle’s.
“It’ll be alright dude,” Kyle said, weaving into Stan’s path so the sides of their shoes brushed. “Things always work out in the end.”
Stan furrowed his brow and smirked, bemused. Before Kyle could ask what, Stan threw an arm around his shoulder, play-choking him for a moment.
“You’re really funny when you’re high,” he said. They were pretty much the same height, Stan just slouched more. Kyle reached up to grab onto Stan’s sleeve hanging over his shoulder. He knew it was bold, but Stan didn’t acknowledge it.
Kyle scoffed. “What does that mean? How?”
“I don’t know. You’re just like,” a glance at Kyle, eyes narrowed. “So calm.”
“Am I? I seem calm?” He did not feel calm.
“Yeah,” Stan laughed. “I mean, I thought you were going to bitch the entire time we were there.”
“Fuck you.” Kyle shrugged Stan’s arm off his shoulder and immediately regretted it. He was still smiling.
“I had to beg you to come, dude. I was bracing myself.”
“Well. You’re welcome? I guess?”
Stan weaved into Kyle’s path this time, their shoulders bumping. “Seriously dude, thanks for coming with me.”
“We probably could’ve just stayed home and had the same amount of fun.” He’s not sure why he said this. It was bull shit.
“Still,” Stan said.
They’d made it to the start of Kyle’s block. He thought he must still be drunk because he usually didn’t let himself feel this maudlin about his situation. He went with a platonic friend to a shitty school dance where they got drunk and high and stood in the freezing cold. There was nothing promised.
“I’m sorry you got dumped,” Kyle said, and wanted to hit himself as soon as he realized what an asshole he was being.
Stan just laughed. “Whatever. Fuck her. I’m glad we didn’t go together. This was way more fun.”
Kyle probably looked like a pig in shit. His memory is kind and only recalls Stan’s animated face as he tried to get in an anecdote about Cartman making a fool of himself during gym before they got to the door.
They walked up the steps and Kyle took his time digging around in his pockets for his keys. Stan leaned his head against the doorframe, just beneath the mezuzah.
“Well,” Stan drawled as Kyle pretended for the third time that he hadn’t felt his keychain in his left coat pocket. “Are you going to invite me in?”
Kyle froze with his hand around the keys.
“You know,” Stan lurched forward and then just as quickly back. He cocked his head, doing an impression of someone Kyle couldn’t recognize. Stan was very, very drunk. “A little nightcap?”
“Um,” Kyle said, aware that he was botching this. “What?”
“I’m just kidding,” Stan straightened up with a slack smile. “I am a gentleman, after all.”
Kyle had put the key in the door but not turned it when Stan grabbed his free hand, bowed dramatically and kissed his knuckles. The porch light was on, Stan could probably see what color Kyle’s face turned, but he dropped his hand and hopped over the steps onto the concrete driveway.
“See you, dude!” He called with a wave before turning and heading back down the street.
Kyle called after him, aware that every single neighbor would hear how flustered he was.
“Are you ok walking back? I can probably get my mom to drive you!”
Stan called back, “I’m good,” voice far enough to sound distorted, or like someone else entirely.
The problem is that every time Kyle conjures this memory, hairline fractures turn to crumbling corners, and its corruption furthers. He used to be able to recall the anecdote about Cartman, and there was something Stan said to him before rubbing his arms that had made him blush. The finer details decay upon each review and inverses come to mind again, the more he needs this memory the cloudier it gets. It would be easy, he thinks, to conjure with clarity the moment Stan told him, just two weeks later, that he and Wendy were back together. Kyle avoids remembering it because he was painfully transparent in his opposition, as he was in his excitement when they broke up again a month after that—this time for good. It’s another thing among many things he needs to wean himself off of.
At 1:47 AM Stan texts Kyle a gaming-related variation of the Bad Luck Brian meme. This bodes well. When Stan is really sad he usually sends links to Reddit conspiracy theories.
LOL, Kyle sends back with an emoji. Then, doing ok?
He waits thirty minutes for a response that doesn’t come. It’s fine. He probably fell asleep. It’s fine.