Chapter Text
“Tired, Broflovski?”
Kyle smiled. He didn’t smile because the question endeared him, since it certainly wasn’t asked with enough concern to make him feel appreciated. If anything, it was asked mockingly, as if to ridicule him for the enervation that wasn’t even his fault.
But Kyle still smiled, partially because his exhaustion was making him loopy, but mostly because of the obscene pointlessness of the question; they all knew the answer, after all.
“Is that even a question, Bebe?” he scoffed back, “And what’s with this ‘Broflovski’ business? I thought we were friends.”
Kenny, who was working to dissemble the wooden set at the other side of the stage, raised his head to laugh, “Friends? Oh, come on, darlin’! I think y’all gotta call yourselves a little somethin’ more than just ‘friends’ after that kiss you had!”
Kyle pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. He tried to focus on the paperwork in his hands, pretending to intensely study the rules and regulations for conducting yet another equity show this season so he wouldn’t have to make eye contact, “Kenny, we’ve gone over this. Acts of intimacy onstage are supposed to be professional. Not anything more than that. Right, Bebe?”
The blonde in question, who had just finished her most brilliant femme fatale role with tonight’s performance, hesitated in completing her stitching, her painted nails going still around the needle and thread attached to her costume.
“I don’t know, honey,” she mused, winking, “I’d argue that I had a lot of fun with you this show.”
“Understatement!” Kenny called from the other side of the stage.
“Kenny, don’t you have a job to do?”
“I ain’t gettin’ paid enough for this shit! I should be allowed to fuck around every once in a while!” he exclaimed, but went back to work anyway, squatting down against the side of the set’s platform and using the backside of his hammer to pry away the wood’s siding, “But, hey, if I got to make out with the hot love interest on stage like you did, all this work might be actually worth it.”
Bebe and Kyle shared a brief roll of the eye, with Bebe picking up the next line, “Kenny, the day you actually land a role where you’ll kiss me is the day-”
“-Who said I was talkin’ ‘bout kissin’ you?” Kenny wagged his eyebrows, “I was talkin’ ‘bout smooching Kyle.”
“I don’t play love interests,” Kyle pretended to be nonchalant, doing his best to stifle his irritation.
He’s worked with this theatre for years now, he’s served in every board position, and he’s put blood, sweat, and tears into every single production, but he has never once played the guy who gets the girl. The love interest, the hero, the guy the audience adores; all of these characters were out of his reach.
He could play the hero, he knew he could, if they gave him a chance, but he was smart enough to know it was never going to happen. The hero just wasn’t his type. He wasn’t tall enough, for one thing. He didn’t weigh enough. His voice didn’t drop low enough, no matter how many hours of breath-work training he endured. Because of his sinewy build, vibrant eyes, and head of curly hair, he was often cast as the slight villain, the irksome genius, the mediocre magician, and on rare occasions, the naive young boy.
The play they just finished was actually the first time he had been in an intimacy scene. This time, he had been playing another caustic side character who just happened to steal a bold kiss with the femme fatale by chance. His character and Bebe’s character weren’t even a pair; hell, they barely interacted with each other both before and after the kiss scene. The entire play was just another farce, something the theatre company’s owner had picked simply because he liked the inventive curse words, and the kiss he shared with Bebe was nothing more than a random, sporadic hap for comedic effect. It made him wonder if the theatre company’s owner had specifically picked this play so he could see Kyle writhe and squirm uncomfortably under blinding stage lights and a pair of large breasts.
Speaking of the theatre company’s owner…
“Are you assholes done with strike, yet?” the infamous Eric Cartman demanded, straightening the tie of his three-piece suit as he stalked into the room. His mobility was impressive considering his weight. By some anatomically impossible miracle, he always managed to hold himself tall and secure, like he needed reason to reestablish that he was a step above everyone else (as if they needed a goddamn reminder.)
“We have a gala opening in a few hours,” he was sanctimonious in every way, staring down the amalgamation of few actors and even fewer crew members, “My reputation will be damned if some billionaire donor walks in and has to see you jackasses still stumbling over dissembling the platform.”
Kyle rolled his eyes, “You know, Cartman, if you’re so worried about getting things cleaned up on time, you could always help us strike,” he snorted, “You’re always so insistent we’re doing it wrong, anyway, right?”
The owner raised a challenging eyebrow, pointing his finger deliberately, “Watch it, Broflovski. You’re the only one here who can’t lift forty pounds. Out of everyone here, you’re the only hindrance to cleaning up.”
“Oh, no, no,” Bebe mused as she sewed, brushing Cartman off with a smile on her face, “Kyle’s the only one here who can actually do the paperwork properly. So actually, he’s doing more than-”
“-Anyone seen Wendy? Isn’t she the one who normally does the paperwork?”
“She’s driving costume pieces over to the warehouse right now,” Bebe filled in, “She’ll be back soon.”
“No wonder you guys are going so slow. Testaburger purposely understaffed the operation. The bitch,” Cartman sighed.
“Where’s that boyfriend of yours, anyway, Broflovksi?” he went on, looking at his watch, “Doesn’t he usually help McCormick with the set?”
Kyle felt his face heat up, “Oh. Um. Actually, he-”
“-I’m here! I’m here!”
All pairs of eyes snapped up, looking far downstage to see the proscenium doors flying open, a well-built, dark-haired lad running through. Stan Marsh jogged down the aisle, waving his arms apologetically, “Sorry, I’m here! I’m here.”
Shifting his tool belt to the side, Stan crawled up onto the ledge of the stage and made a beeline for the wooden platform.
He had to have seen Kyle; he was sitting right at the stage’s edge, it was impossible to not see him; but he didn’t acknowledge him in the slightest.
He just went straight to Kenny’s side, retrieving a screwdriver from his belt, and said, “Okay, dude. How can I help?”
Cartman tsked, “About fucking time,” he grimaced down at his watch, and then turned to the redhead in front of him, “You gonna get that paperwork done within the hour?”
“Within the half hour,” Kyle bit back.
“I’ll hold you to that, you know,” he said, probably just to irk under Kyle’s skin; Cartman knew well enough by now that when Kyle said he would commit to something, he damn well meant it, so of course he took immense pleasure in pestering him about anything and everything while he still could. Kyle didn’t care, not really. He and Cartman had butted heads since they were babies. Their relationship wasn’t going to change any time soon.
Unlike a particular relationship he had with a certain noirette onstage.
“Back to work, then,” Cartman said, taking out his phone, “I have a few donors to rob. I expect this place to be almost as spotless as my car by the time you’re done.”
“Aye aye, Cap’n Fatass,” Kenny called from the far side of the stage.
Cartman just responded with the middle finger. He didn’t look up from his phone screen, too busy to give Kenny the time of day, prioritizing out some kind of urgent email instead. He never seemed to appreciate the work Kenny did, always looking down on any blue-collared workers involved in the basic assembly of a play, only demonstrating anything kinder than chastisement for the white-collared theatregoers.
But then again, Cartman never appreciated the work any of them did. Kyle had a theory that the only reason why Cartman went into arts management was so he could boss Kyle around. He more than likely took the position to orchestrate whatever he wanted and make Kyle bend at his will. His power was an impressive feat, and there was only one thing that kept him from assuming the role of an entire dictator, and that was their stage manager, Wendy; Kyle would probably rip his hair out if it weren’t for her, and the rest of the company would collapse if it weren’t for their impeccable dynamic duo.
Kyle and Wendy were both over-achieving scholars with high standards and steadfast discipline. They had competed against each other for every title in grade school; whether it was valedictorian (which Kyle won), student body president (which Wendy won), or even Prom King or Queen (which they both won, and were forced to dance with each other), they were always striving to outwit each other and leave the other behind. So it came as a surprise to most people when they immediately sought each other out to work together after college.
It wasn’t a surprise to Kyle, though, and he could assume it wasn’t for Wendy either, because even though he’s locked horns with her for an entire lifetime, he’s respected her all the while. She could get things done like no one else could. “Reliable” isn’t a term that can be placed on most things in South Park, but she wore the word like a wrestling champion’s belt around her waist. There was no one else he would rather work for.
And considering everything that’s happened with Stan since high school, it wouldn’t be outlandish for Kyle to say that Wendy was actually his best friend.
“Can’t you go set up the gallery already?” Bebe groaned, finishing the last touches on patching up her costume, “‘cause you ain’t helping us very much here.”
Cartman slipped his phone back into his suit pocket. He pointed a warning finger at the actress, “I will, but I need you to get Wendy back in here. I need her for the gallery.”
Bebe snorted, “She ain’t my plaything, dude. I’m not gonna boss my wife around just ‘cause you can’t manage your own company.”
There was one advantage to having Cartman at the top of the theatre company’s social pyramid; even though he was at the top, the rest of the pyramid grew up with him, too. All of them were immune to his bullshit, they knew to not let it bother them.
Cartman turned to Kyle instead, “You, then. Give her hell for me once she’s back from the warehouse.”
“Hell is empty and all the devils are here,” Kyle quoted listlessly, sighing over the paperwork.
Cartman’s fingers flexed like he was holding back from strangling him. He turned on his shoulder, exiting the theatre, but not without muttering, “Fucking hippies,” under his breath and slamming the door behind him.
Bebe rolled her eyes, “Don’t let him get to you.”
“When have I ever?” Kyle quipped, raising an eyebrow.
There was a moment of silence between them, like a beat on a playscript. They worked wordlessly, Bebe with her fingers curled around a needle and Kyle with his around a ballpoint pen. Without their speaking, the theatre was nonetheless filled with cacophony, the noise of Stan and Kenny's hammers pounding, tearing, and dismantling platforms. Each explosion of noise echoed through the proscenium, the space built in such a way to amplify the sound as it reverberated up the walls and buttresses.
It was more than tempting to turn around and steal a glance at the dark-haired man with the hammer. It actually took more effort than Kyle would like to admit to forbid himself from giving in to such a needless desire. He hadn’t known Stan would show up today, he hadn’t expected it at all. They broke up only a week ago; to say both of them were still raw from the disengagement would be an understatement.
It didn’t help that they still lived together, but they needed each other financially. Stan was an aspiring athlete and Kyle was an aspiring actor, so their bank account was “as dry as the remainder biscuit after voyage,” to coin a Shakespeare phrase.
Stan normally helped with set construction. His muscles and endurance were certainly enough to speed up the process, and his congeniality and optimistic support made it go by even faster. He had no obligation to help, it wasn’t like he was getting paid, so he had no reason to be here right now, not after a devastating breakup filled with screams, tears, and thrown objects.
Bebe, who was one of the first people to know about their break-up, picked up on Kyle’s discomfort.
“Did you audition for the next show?” she asked simply. She was an actress, so she hid her objective well, but Kyle could read her well enough to know she was just trying to distract him.
And he took the bait. A distraction was necessary.
“You mean the show they didn’t even give us the name of?”
“That’s the one.”
“I did, ‘cause I need the job. But I haven’t heard anything back yet,” Kyle said, signing off on a release form.
“I didn’t audition,” she blew air out of her lips, “Wendy’s having the baby soon, so I figured I’d play it safe and just book some film gigs for a while. Maybe do a few more modeling shots. Quick stuff. A little more security in the bank account never hurts anybody.”
“You’re telling me,” Kyle muttered, wondering if Bebe knew he was still living with his ex.
She knew they broke up, of course, everyone knew that except for Cartman, but not a single one of them saw it coming. For more than a year, Kyle hid the tumult of their relationship impressively well, well even for an actor’s standpoint. He always spoke highly of Stan and kept sentences curt and vague if he ever felt anyone was prying too deep. He stifled all the strain in his stomach and carried his head high every day of the week. He made sure that from the outside, they looked like the picture perfect couple, and in a lot of ways, they genuinely were.
Inevitably it came as a bombshell to everyone when one night, ever-punctual Kyle showed up to rehearsal half an hour late with ire in his eyes, frizz in his hair, and a distressful bruise beneath his eye as the result of another heated argument with his boyfriend, fueled by the passion of a late night’s fervor and cheap gin. “Ex-boyfriend” would technically be the correct term, because they were done from that point on.
He figured Bebe must not know they were living together. If she did, she already would have blabbed about it to her wife, and Lord knows what would happen to Stan if Wendy ever found out. That, and the ladies would probably force Kyle to live with them, like their little pet to pamper.
“Um,” Kyle realized he left the conversation hanging, “Wendy said the next show will feature a new director?”
Bebe hummed in thought, “Yeah, they’re pulling in a new guy from, like, either New York or L.A. I don’t remember. I think it was Cartman’s idea to get some big-shot flown in for a show. It’ll pull revenue.”
“Do you know anything about him?”
She shook her head, “Nah. I don’t pay attention to that stuff. I should, but-”
“-You should.”
“-I should,” she confessed, then shrugged, “But I don’t. Wendy normally looks out for that stuff for me. You should ask her.”
“I vaguely recall the new director’s name,” Kyle said, “Greg something, right?”
“I think it was ‘Craig,’ so he’s probably an asshole. I’ve never met a Craig who wasn’t an asshole before.”
“Craig Tucker,” came the voice of Wendy from the stage right wing. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail, with not a single strand of hair out of place, not even after hours of striking elaborate costumes in the drafty, dust-filled air of the warehouse. She toted a crate of props against her hip, standing impressively straight despite both the weight of the crate and the roundness of her pregnant belly. Everything about her was composed to a scrupulous degree; her unsullied presentation was one of Kyle’s favorite things about her.
“Honey!” Bebe exclaimed, discarding her needle and thread and jumping from her seat, “You shouldn’t be carrying things!”
Wendy smiled like a Victorian painting, her lips stiff with pride, “I carry this entire theatre on my shoulders. There’s no sense in stopping now.”
“Still,” Bebe huffed, snatching the crate from her, “Let me take this for you.”
“I was just going to put it away-”
“-I can put it away!”
“Do you know where it goes?”
“Of course I know where it goes!”
Wendy raised an eyebrow.
Bebe smiled in embarrassment, “Where does it go?”
Wendy smirked. Instead of answering, she looked to Kyle, asking him to answer for her, just from the look in her eyes.
“Upstage left,” Kyle said, printing a final signature on the last document, “Prop shelf. Second row. Next to the tapestry bin.”
Bebe tsked, “I’m beginning to think you love Kyle more than me, Wendy.”
“No, I just trust him more,” Wendy mused, giving her wife a peck on the cheek, “At least Kyle’s never stolen props.”
“Oh, come on. Shoes don’t count as props. And I absolutely had to have them, they made my legs look so damn good-”
Wendy cut her off with a kiss, her lips still bearing the remnants of a smirk. Bebe melted into her, closing her eyes and kissing back in such a tender way that it made something twitch in Kyle’s chest. He felt a pang of something heavy, watching them interact. He knew it was petty to harbor jealousy over his friends’ marriage, and he felt guilty for it, he really did, but seeing them kiss like that here in the theatre, the same place where he kissed Stan more times than he could count, under the work lights and regal tapestries without a shame in the world, it made his chest ache with remorse he didn’t realize he still had.
“Hold! … Hold! … Goddamn it, Stan, I said hold! Hold!”
All eyes snapped upstage, where Kenny swooped like an eagle, gracefully but hastily diving to catch a horizontal rod as it fell, just barely saving it from collapsing onto the ground. He hissed impatiently, “What the hell, Stan! Do you not know what ‘hold’ means?!”
Stan was equally exasperated, “Why’re you getting mad at me?! I held it, asshole!”
“Bitch, ‘hold’ means stop what the fuck you’re doing and stand still!” he cried, his blue eyes wild with frenzy, his blonde hair frizzing at the edges, “You’ve been with us for years, dude! You should know this by now! Someone coulda gotten hurt!”
Kyle’s throat clenched.
Wendy and Bebe exchanged a glance, and then the blonde gave a curt nod, disappearing behind the curtains to complete her task.
Instead of escalating, Kenny and Stan’s shouting descended to tight and anxious bickering, the two of them arguing so curtly Kyle could no longer make out their words. But over their distant tiff, he distinctly heard the sound of his name:
“Kyle.”
Wendy stood there in her production blacks, her posture as straight as ever. It was like someone had stolen her spine away and replaced it with a metal rod. Her expression was cold but not furious, rather like it was laced with concern.
“I didn’t know Stan was going to be here,” she said.
It took a moment for Kyle to conjure something to say.
He knew he couldn’t lie to her. He was her herald, and she was his ace. They were a dynamic duo in the professional world, but that kind of trust seemed to underlie their friendship in the real world, too. She’d probably gut him alive if he ever tried lying to her; she could read him even at his most factitious of performances.
He ended up shrugging, “I didn’t know he’d be here either. We were just finishing up and then he bolted through the doors.”
“You okay?”
He grinned sheepishly, “He hasn’t said a word to me. Hasn’t even looked at me.”
“I asked if you were okay,” she repeated.
Kyle glanced across the stage, where the masons had stopped speaking to each other entirely. They were almost done with dissembling the platform now, there were only one or two planks left to remove. Kenny was caked in sawdust, his bare arms bulging from his tank-top after all the labor he endured over the course of the day. Since Stan arrived late, he was less worn, his clothes were only partially wrinkled and his body didn’t have a single drop of sweat.
Stan still wasn’t looking in Kyle’s direction. It’s like he wasn’t even there, just an underused prop that should have been shipped back to the prop closet.
Stifling the hollow feeling in his gut, Kyle opted to answer by steering the conversation, “You know, your wife was more or less asking me the same thing earlier. She asked if I was tired.”
Wendy sighed, “Of course you’re tired. We’re all tired. She had a perfectly good reason to ask. Look at you, there are bags under your eyes.”
“Speaking of your wife, Wendy,” Kyle teased, smirking a little, “how does it feel that I kissed her five times a week in front of a massive audience?”
“Are we really getting into this again?” she was fighting back the urge to smile, Kyle could tell.
“Oh and that isn’t even counting all the times we made out during rehearsal. All those intimacy rehearsals,” he raised an eyebrow, “Honestly, Wends, I think with how many times I’ve kissed her, our relationship has evolved to a threesome at this point. I’ve become a bedfellow to the world of the Mrs. Testaburgers.”
She shook her head, smiling whimsically, “Misery acquaints a woman with strange bedfellows.”
“Uh oh. You only ever quote Shakespeare when you’re onto something,” Kyle laughed, “What are you onto?”
“Ignoring the sentiment that we’re in a threesome now, Kyle, I did have something to tell you before I-” she glanced back at Stan, as if to make sure he was still in line, “-got distracted.”
Kyle didn’t glance back, “Sure, what’s up?”
“Firstly, paperwork,” she held out one hand, the other tucked under the curve of her abdomen.
“Certainly, m’lady,” Kyle said, retrieving the stack of fine print he labored over for the past two hours. His hand was stiff from writing and ink smudged his entire right palm, but at least it was over. Relinquishing the paperwork to the stage manager felt like a breath of fresh air.
“Thank you,” her eyes skimmed the top page as she spoke on, “and secondly, have you checked your email today?”
“Not since-” Kyle checked his watch. He didn’t even blink because frankly, he wasn’t surprised, “Oh look at that, it’s two in the morning. In that case, no, I haven’t checked since yesterday.”
Wendy blew air out of her lips frustratedly, “God, I’m sorry. You haven’t had a break in hours, have you?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“We’re almost done,” she said through gritted teeth, “We’re almost done. You can go ahead and go home if you want.”
Kyle felt his face drop, “Wendy, I wouldn’t-”
“-We’ll be fine,” she said, “You completed your job anyway. You’re all done, you have nothing else to do. Kenny and Stan will be done with the set soon and Bebe and I can close up the theatre. Go ahead and go home, okay?”
He felt his veins run cold. Would it be… weird to leave without Stan? When Stan was right over-
“And check your email when you get home. I was told to pass that on to you,” she went on. She had the habit of deciding things for other people, she’s done it even before she became the stage manager. Flipping through the papers one last time, she turned on her heel and started to walk off, “Go ahead and go home. Thank you for all your hard work.”
“Wendy-”
“-Ah, ah, ah, not another word from you!” she called over her shoulder already on the other side of the stage, “Go home. You need sleep!”
Kyle huffed under his breath, “Says the pregnant lady.”
“I know, right? She’s not even human.”
Kyle jumped in his shoes, his heart pounding at an impossible rate in his ears.
He let out a sigh of relief, looking over his shoulder, “God damn it, Stan. How long were you standing directly behind me?”
Stan, sweet Stan, simply smiled, “I’m sorry. I scared you, huh?”
“God fucking damn it,” he was still catching his breath from the shock, “Since when were you so clandestine? You could have been a great stagehand, you’re so fucking quiet.”
“The words you use are too big for me,” Stan chuckled. He shoved his hands in his pockets, “Ready to go?”
“Home?”
“I don’t know many other places to go at two in the morning,” Stan said genuinely, not rudely.
“You’re done with the set?”
“More like, Kenny’s done with me,” he admitted, “He insisted on finishing by himself. Told me to go home and Wendy agreed.”
“Really? Well, um, okay,” Kyle’s words failed him, “I guess I’m ready, then.”
“Okay,” Stan started walking, but then stopped, “Wait, are you cool if we walked out together? Or would you rather-?”
Kyle couldn’t help but curl his lips in discomfort. To live with his ex was to walk on eggshells, and navigating the situation was always either irritating or just plain embarrassing.
“Let’s just walk out together, no sense in making a big deal out of it,” he sighed, picking up a brisk walk.
Stan caught up, and then slowed his pace once they made it outside, because his legs were so much longer. The noise of their footsteps against the sidewalk was the only sound that night besides the soft ebb and flow of wind and noise pollution around them. It wasn’t always a noiseless town at two in the morning, and the serenity of quietude right now was all Kyle needed to clear his thoughts.
That’s one more show in the books. One more role he can list on his resumé, and one more opportunity for a measly paycheck in the mail.
“Tired, Kyle?” Stan asked, keeping his head up as they walked through the darkness of the night.
He couldn’t help but roll his eyes. Same old routine.
“Is that even a question?”
When Stan stumbled into the living room a few hours later, the only thing covering his body was a towel around his hips.
His hair was wet from the shower and his eyes red like soap had touched them. It only took a second for his eyes to widen in surprise, seeing Kyle on the couch with a laptop against his thigh and a glass of wine in his left hand.
Realizing his pronounced state of undress, Stan looked mortified. He was so clearly embarrassed that Kyle almost pitied him. Stan brought his hand to his mouth like a child, “Oh crap, I am so sorry, Ky. I didn’t think you’d still be awake.”
As much as Kyle wanted to say he was disturbed by the sight of his ex-boyfriend walking in while practically naked, that would be a lie. Kyle has witnessed so many vulgar things in the men's dressing room of the theatre that he was utterly desensitized to everything once considered socially appropriate.
He just shrugged, taking a sip of wine, “Don’t worry about it.”
“Crap, I’m sorry,” Stan laughed at his own embarrassment, covering his face with his hands, “After the long day you’ve had, the last thing you need is-”
“-Shut up, you’re fine. Stop it.”
Stan smiled with relief, “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“You look nice with your hair tied back.”
Kyle looked up from his laptop, his jaw clenching.
Stan balked, “S-Sorry. Um… Sorry, this is all still so… new.”
Kyle felt himself cringing, “You mean it’s weird.”
“No, no,” Stan tried to dissuade, “It’s- I mean, it’s not like-”
“-No, it’s weird. You can say it’s weird. It’s weird.”
Stan released a sigh of relief, “Thank God. I thought I was going crazy. I didn’t want to say anything. Because I didn’t want to be the one to say anything bad, since I didn’t know if you felt the same way. So I’m so glad you said something, because I feel like-”
“-Let’s just-” Kyle held up a hand, “-try to have a quiet night, okay? Our sleep schedules are already obliterated. Let’s just not get into it right now.”
Stan took a collected breath, “Okay. Sounds good.”
He moved past the couch, onto the kitchen, “Is it okay if I grab something to eat?”
“You ask that like this isn’t your house,” Kyle sighed, switching to another tab on his computer.
Stan opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, but thought better of it and then closed his jaw shut. He went on to the kitchen, where Kyle could hear him rummaging the cupboards for something, shaking boxes and laying them out on the counter.
His eating habits were the polar opposite of Kyle’s. While the redhead dodged meals whenever he could and picked at food like a bird whenever he was actually hungry, Stan’s appetite was insatiable. Their favorite joke was that his stomach was a black hole, he could eat anything and everything and still ask for seconds afterwards. But his hungriness was reasonable, because he was an athlete after all.
Or, at least, he was trying to be. He has tried to work his way into the professional football world for his whole life, and the goal has yet to take off for him. Instead of adorning a cult classic uniform and flexing with cheerleaders on TV, he was holding down the humble position of a worker at a Boys and Girls Club, helping underprivileged children with their homework after school. He’s brought Kyle to see the kids a few times before, and after witnessing the way they trailed after him like a row of ducklings, Kyle could honestly say there was no gentler human on the face of the earth than Stanley Marsh.
When he was sober, anyway.
Theatre taught him that every tragic hero has his flaw.
And of course, before and after working with the club, Stan devoted hours a day to physical training, preparing his body for the slim chance that his dream may one day come true.
Kyle never wanted to admit that he felt bad for him. He set his wine glass down and returned to his computer work, sorting through his inbox with glazed-over eyes.
After assembling some kind of snack the size of a full meal, Stan returned to the living room, a large bowl between his hands, “What are you working on?”
“Wendy told me to check my email,” he sighed, “Probably for final notes or for promotions for the next show.”
“What’s the next show?”
“I don’t even know, that’s the weird thing. They’re bringing in a new director from either New York or L.A. That’s literally the only thing I know.”
“Oo, boujee,” Stan praised, taking a spoonful of something that looked remotely similar to quinoa, “Sounds like a big-shot.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Actor Housing?”
“I’d hope so.”
“How come you look so frustrated?”
Kyle gave a grated sigh, “Because I’ve skimmed my whole inbox a million times, but I don’t see anything new from her.”
“Really?”
“She hasn’t sent me anything since last Friday.”
Stan frowned in contemplation, “Did she say that she would be the one to send the email specifically?”
Kyle could have slapped himself, “Shit, you’re right. God, I’m so fucking tired. I feel like my brain has been wire-tapped.”
Maybe it was because he was so exhausted that it wasn’t even weird for Stan to be sitting close to him, practically naked, while eating a bowl of mush past four in the morning.
“Kyle,” Stan smiled softly, “You can go to bed. The email can wait.”
“No, no, I told her I’ll check it. I’ll check it. Hold on, I need inspiration,” he held his glass in the air in a faux toast, “For Wendy! And may her unborn child never bear the burden of burning midnight oil!”
“Cheers,” Stan rolled his eyes.
Wine was the only alcoholic beverage Kyle permitted himself to have in front of his ex, because it was the only drink Stan never liked. Wine was too tart for him, and far too smooth. He never felt tempted to drink it, so if Kyle ever brought the bottle out, they were both safe.
Kyle downed the last sip of wine in a single gulp, and then returned to the first page of his inbox. He ignored the junk mail and advertisements, skimming until he saw a name he didn’t recognize. Or rather, it was a name he did recognize, just a name he’s never seen in his inbox before.
From: Tucker, Craig.
He passed his glass to his ex, “Stan. More wine.”
Stan looked uncomfortable, borderline nauseated, “Why?”
“Because I'm doing hot girl shit, that’s why.”
Without any further explanation, Kyle opened the email and proceeded to read.
Dear Broflovski,
Had to confirm with your stage manager twice to ensure your last name is spelled correctly. Couldn’t let it be easy for me, could you?
“Yep,” Kyle said, immediately.
Stan looked concerned, “What?”
“Bebe was right.”
Stan looked even more concerned, “What?”
“Craigs are assholes.”
Stan looked impossibly even more concerned, “What?”
“Never mind, just get me more wine, I gotta finish reading this and I don’t feel like doing it sober.”
While Stan sighed and trudged off to the kitchen, Kyle went back to the message, a resting smirk seated on his lips.
I reviewed your audition tape several times alongside the costume designer and marketing team, and have made the executive decision to cast you as the role of “Fie” in our upcoming production. If accepted, you will earn $30,000 over the course of three separate payments during the rehearsal and production timeline.
You will be provided with the script on the first day of rehearsal, which is next week on Tuesday the 29th at 6:00 pm. Sharp.
Respond to this email with a confirmation or declination as soon as possible.
C. Tucker.
“This is weird.”
“What is?” Stan called from the kitchen, pouring a glass of wine.
“This bitch didn’t provide me with a rehearsal schedule,” Kyle scratched at his hair in confusion, “Hell, he didn’t even give me character insight or the name of the play in the first place. And he won’t give me the script until the first day of rehearsal.”
Stan crossed back to the living room, a glass with ruby red liquid in his hand, “Don’t they usually give you the script a few weeks in advance so you have time to get all your lines memorized? And do research and stuff?”
Kyle groaned, rolling his head back, “The audacity of this bitch to be unorthodox. As if I don’t have enough weird shit going on in my life right now.”
“Are you going to decline the role?”
“Fuck no, did you see what they said they wanted to pay me?”
Stan squinted at the screen, then his eyes widened tremendously, “Holy crap! I’ve never seen a job offering that much before!”
“You’re telling me,” Kyle said, “I’m already halfway through typing the confirmation.”
“You don’t mind that he’s weird?”
“You say the word ‘weird’ while wearing a bath towel, Stan,” Kyle pointed out. He felt the urge to steal a glance at Stan’s abs. They were so close he could feel the heat from his body, which made even more heat flood to his face. It took an excruciating amount of effort to keep his eyes trained on the computer.
“It’s going to be fine,” Kyle said, ignoring his own blushing, “Theatre people are just eccentric like that. He’s probably just trying to make a brand for himself as an emerging director. These things happen all the time. Happened with Bebe when she did her first modeling job.”
“So you’re taking the role?”
“As if I’m going to let you pay the bills on your own,” Kyle said. It wasn’t until he already sent the email that he realized what his statement insinuated. He bit his lip, turning to Stan, “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like-”
“-No, no, it’s okay,” Stan waved a hand, “I mean, we should still share the bills at least until one of us has the opportunity to move out, right?”
Kyle didn’t say out loud that “until” was being too optimistic. The concept of moving out right now was something alien to both of them. With how little money they had together, it was already astonishing how they were able to survive as long as they already have. Kyle couldn’t imagine losing half that income, not even for the sake of authenticating the breakage of their relationship.
“Right,” Kyle indulged in Stan’s fantasy like always, “until then.”
“For now, we’ll just be room-mates I guess,” Stan proposed.
“Right,” Kyle sighed, “Like a David Mamet play.”
“Right,” Stan pretended he understood the reference. He finished off his meal with one final bite, dropping the spoon against the bowl, “So. If you were getting ready to go to bed, it’s my turn to sleep on the couch tonight.”
“Shit,” Kyle’s mouth dropped, “You were just waiting for me to get off this couch so you could sleep this whole time, weren’t you?”
“I mean,” Stan blushed sheepishly, “That wasn’t the only reason. I wanted to hear what was going on with your email situation.”
“But you were waiting for me this whole time?” Kyle groaned, laughing despite the guilt he felt at his own selfishness, “Way to make me feel like a jerk, Stan.”
“No, you’re fine. Honestly,” Stan grinned, “You actors are always dramatizing everything.”
“Nope! No no no no no,” Kyle said, shoving his laptop away, “I’ve been so insensitive. You get bed privileges tonight, I’ll take the couch.”
He could tell from the sparkle in Stan’s eyes that he actually loved the idea of taking the bed, but in his usual passive way, Stan shook his head and said, “No, no. There’s no need. We have a schedule so we don’t share the bed now, it’s your day to-”
“-Fuck the schedule. Asshole behavior on my account takes priority,” Kyle said, already standing up to readjust the couch cushions.
Stan gawked, “You were the one who made the schedule!”
“And I’m the one who will rebuke it, too!” Kyle was already ushering Stan up from the couch, “Come on, you have a busy day tomorrow. Go take the bed.”
Stan stood up, the towel around his waist keeping him covered, “Why are you always so frantic on the night of your final performances?”
“Let’s just say it’s called ‘strike’ for a reason. Go to bed, Stan.”
The athlete sighed, “As long as you do the same.”
“I’m not-” Kyle balked, “-going to bed with you.”
Stan’s face fell, “I didn’t mean it that way.”
“ ...Oh.”
“I meant as long as you get some sleep, too.”
“Oh. Yeah.”
“You need it more than I do.”
“Probably.”
“Definitely,” he said from the kitchen, rinsing his bowl in the sink. He cast a glance over the living room with a look Kyle didn’t recognize, his expression some unforeseeable combination of remorse and apprehension, “Goodnight, okay?”
Kyle kept focused on rearranging the couch pillows, “Goodnight, room-mate.”
It was a weird word. He still hasn’t become familiar with it.
When he heard the door to their bedroom-
No. When he heard the door to the bedroom- Stan’s bedroom- close, he let out a sigh and collapsed down on the couch. He was still wearing production blacks, and underneath he still wore the undergarments from the performance, probably slick with sweat and dusted in powder. He was sure there were still smudges of eyeliner on his face, and he could definitely feel the dryness of his hair from not taking care of it, but none of that really mattered now. He was so tired he didn’t even feel sore anymore.
He felt his bones sink against the couch, every single worn-out muscle of his body cradled against the cushions. He could have laughed; he was so tired that sleeping on the couch was actually comfortable. As he let out a long breath and allowed his eyes to close, a single thought entered his head.
He had less than a week to indulge in this kind of relaxation. Then it would be back to dining tables in the day and running rehearsals in the nighttime. Same old routine, same old exhaustion, same old reward.
That Craig Tucker might have thought he was something special just because he liked to be secretive, when really, he was likely nothing more than a pretentious child trying to irk under Kyle’s skin. And with everything Kyle’s been through this week, his skin was impenetrable. Craig Tucker was nobody.
He slept instantly, like the final fade of stage lights into blackout.