Archive of Our Own

Kyle can't sleep.

He wakes up in a cold sweat remembering his voice and his grip. He swallows, clutching his blankets between trembling fingers, and lets out a shaky sigh.

Music, he thinks quickly, and shifts in the bed to grope for his iPod in the dark; it's buried deep between his pillow and the edge of the sheets. He puts on slow-tempoed electronica and shuts his eyes.

Kyle, you are such a queer for Stan, it's so obvious, it's been like that since fucking kindergarten.

Kyle urges himself to sleep.

You should test it out, Jew.

Kyle clicks the volume on his iPod three notches up.

I say ten bucks you'd come if I fucked you, Kyle, because you're such a fucking fag.

Kyle sits up in bed and yanks his earbuds out of his ears. He flicks on the lamp on his bedside and almost doesn't make it to the toilet to retch last night's kugel into the bowl, tears stinging his eyes.

Of course, with his parents' room being right next to the bathroom, his mother hears him vomiting and almost immediately rushes into the bathroom. "Bubbeleh, are you alright?" she exclaims at a volume inappropriate for the ungodly hour they're up at. These days, his mother seems to exclaim everything at a volume unsuited for Kyle's mental state.

Kyle merely trembles and nods, raising himself shakily to brush his teeth in a vain attempt to rid his mouth of the disgusting taste of bile and raisin-noodle casserole. "I'm fine, Mom," he sighs, letting his eyes slide shut for a moment. As he's squeezing toothpaste onto his toothbrush, he hears Ike calling for their mother from his room, followed by Sheila rushing into the other room to reassure him that things are okay. Once he's alone in the too-bright bathroom, he wipes away stray tears and brushes his teeth. He doesn't look in the mirror and goes straight back to bed, trying to forget.

*

"Hey, dude, do you wanna go see that new movie The Last Stand downtown?" asks Stan one overcast Saturday. On Saturdays, the only movie theater in South Park lets students watch any film for just five dollars, so this is usually the day when Stan and Kyle go see a movie together.

Kyle is excited to hear Stan's voice, because it is comforting to him in times of overwhelm, like a light from a beacon in a storm. It is also worth noting that he has liked Stan that way since the eighth grade, which may or may not be the reason why his cheeks are reddening at the sound of his voice. He balances the phone between his ear and shoulder as he takes out his insulin kit from the kitchen drawer. "I dunno, who's coming with?"

"Uh, so far it's me, Cartman, Butters if his parents say it's okay– which I doubt– and Kenny if we all scrape together four more dollars," Stan responds, "why?"

Kyle pauses, insulin pen hanging in midair, finger unpricked. "But why does Cartman have to come with?" he blurts out too quickly.

"Uh, dude, I dunno, he just tags along to all the other movies we've watched, too," says Stan quizzically.

"Well I mean," Kyle tries to cover up his slip, "he's not even really our friend, so I thought why bring him this time, is all."

"Er– I mean, he's... ight-ray ere-hay," Stan says, a bit quieter, followed by Cartman's indignant whine in the background. Among the many great things about Cartman being an ignorant idiot is that he can't understand Pig Latin. One rainy afternoon when Stan and Kyle were children, Kyle's mother had taught them how to speak Pig Latin, and from that day forth, they agreed to use this crude language as a sort of secret code around Cartman. It hasn't failed them to this day. "We're outside the theater right now and we already basically decided he was going. So, uh. Maybe next time, Kyle?" Stan sounds apologetic, as he often does. Kyle is used to it, but sometimes it drives him up the wall because Stan is usually the person least at fault when he apologizes.

"Yeah, okay," Kyle swallows, putting the insulin pen down on the counter in front of him, next to his half-eaten peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It is imperative that his friends suspect nothing; after all, Cartman will be there, and the more he keeps his cool around him, the less susceptible he'll be to his predictable smug insinuations. Cartman just loves to poke little needles of reminder into Kyle's skin around the other guys, like some cruel, sick inside-joke Cartman would try to resurface in Kyle's memory– and meanwhile, Stan and Kenny would have no idea this would be going on under their noses.

"So we'll see you soon, then, dude? The movie starts in like twenty minutes and fatass is complaining about the food lines," Stan says, prompting another disgusting whine from Cartman in the background.

"Yeah, I'll see you in ten," sighs Kyle, and hangs up the phone. He uses his pen, finally, and shoves the rest of his sandwich into his mouth, standing up to get his coat and boots. "I'm going to see a movie with some friends, Ma," he calls up the stairs as he's shoving his arms through his coat.

"You're going to a movie now, bubbe?" his mother asks, coming down the stairs and using that slightly accusatory-slash-pitying voice she does when she wants to passive-aggressively dissuade someone from doing something. "Your brother's performance is at five, but..."

"Don't worry, I'll come straight home after it's finished. I'll be back in time," Kyle reassures her, a bit resentful of her tone.

"Did you need money, Kyle?" she asks as she reaches the bottom of the staircase, digging around in her handbag to search for any loose change.

"No, it's fine, mom," Kyle affirms with a slightly snippy tone, and shoves his feet into his boots. "I'll be back before you know it."

"Call me when you get there, sweetheart!" she calls after him as he rushes down the walkway. Kyle rolls his eyes and forgets to answer her.

It takes about sevenish minutes for Kyle to reach South Park's downtown area, and he can see Stan, Kenny, and Cartman leaning against the wall of the theater from a few blocks down. Stan looks up from his phone as Kyle walks up to the group of them, and smiles a little. "Hey, dude," he greets, and pockets his phone.

"Hi," Kyle says, warily glancing over Stan's shoulder at Cartman, who is grinning at him like a Cheshire Cat. "Did you guys get your tickets already?" he asks, trying to focus on Stan's face only.

"No, we were actually kinda waiting for you, so we could try and get Kenny in too. He's short four dollars," Stan replies, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at Kenny, who is currently on his shitty flip phone, talking to someone with a funny expression.

"Yeah, okay. I have a few bucks to spare, I think," nods Kyle as Kenny closes his phone and joins them again.

"Butters is grounded again, so it's just us four," says Kenny. "Hey, Kyle."

"Good, because Butters is a faggy loser anyway," chimes Cartman.

"Shut up, you fat fuck, Butters is less of a faggy loser than you are," Kenny rolls his eyes, an automatic response by this point. They've all been dealing with Cartman's shit for so long it's become ingrained into their systems to just shut him up and call him a name.

"Like you can talk, you poor asshole. The movie is five bucks and you're short four," Cartman scowls, digging through his pockets. "No, you know what, I'm saving my extra cash for the concessions, screw you.”

"Hey, fuck you, man, you know Kevin blew the last check on meth," snaps Kenny, his cheeks turning pink. Kevin McCormick is now nineteen years old, a high school dropout, still living at home, and addicted to meth. As a result, Stuart and Carol have now put the pressure on Kenny to clean himself up, get himself to college, and break out of their family’s residual poverty, which has (understandably) put Kenny under a lot of stress lately. Stuart and Carol have also stopped letting Kevin pick up the monthly checks from the TANF office.

“It’s okay, Kenny, we got you,” says Stan, pointedly ignoring Cartman and counting the bills from his pockets. “I have two extra. Kyle?”

Kyle digs out the remaining two dollars and hands them to Kenny, who gives him a grateful and embarrassed look. “Thanks, you guys,” Kenny says, but he doesn’t look either of them in the eyes.

“Speaking of money,” Cartman suddenly says in a weird, sugary-sweet tone, “Kyle, do you have those ten bucks you owe me?”

Kyle freezes, his knees growing weak. “Wait, since when do you owe Cartman ten bucks?” asks Stan innocently, and all of a sudden Kyle wants to punch his gentle, beautiful face.

“Oh,” Cartman smiles knowingly at Kyle, though it’s more of a subtle smirk than a smile, “that. It’s just a bet we made together, and he lost, is all.”

“I, um,” Kyle swallows and shoves his hands in his coat pockets. “I don’t have it.”

“It’s cool, Kyle,” Cartman gives him the biggest smile and pats him on the shoulder. “You can give it to me some other time.” The phrase 'give it to me' combined with Cartman's hand on him makes weird chills go down Kyle’s spine, and all he can do is nod.

"Uh, okay," Stan quirks his eyebrow at Kyle questioningly, but Kyle doesn't look at him. "Let's get our tickets, the movie starts in a few minutes."

"Ey, I fucking told you about the food lines, Stan, you goddamn hippie," says Cartman angrily, back to his old self again. "Now we won't get good seats if we go get food."

"So don't get food, asswipe," says Kenny.

"Don't tell me what to do, you welfare queen!"

"Cartman, just shut the fuck up!" shouts Stan, and buys his movie ticket. Kyle, saying nothing, buys his too, and follows Stan closely, maybe a bit too closely, into the theater.

"I call not sitting next to Cartman," says Kenny matter-of-factly, and sits on Stan's left side once they're inside. Kyle wants to sit next to Stan as well, so he takes the seat on Stan’s right, but he realizes much too late that this means he’ll have to sit next to Cartman.

“Okay, let’s just fucking stay put and watch the movie already,” sighs Stan, exasperated, and Kyle feels that objecting to his seat would upset Stan, so he doesn’t, and tries to settle back against the seat as the lights dim. He hears Kenny’s voice chime a little “amen” and his stomach flops.

Fifteen minutes into the movie, Kyle is bored and disinterested out of his mind. He was never really one for these types of films, especially not those with Arnold Schwarzenegger in them. He glances to the side, quite upset, because the fact that he's going to have to sit through this bullshit another hour and a half is very, very disheartening.

Stan's hand lays on the seat rest, his fingers a bit curled, and Kyle swallows kind of nervously, because his hand is bony and for some reason very attractive right now. The tendons leading down from Stan's knuckles are visible, which for some reason looks impossibly manly and Kyle suddenly has an impulsive urge to hold that hand. Instead, he wipes his palms on his jeans and grips the edge of the seat with his left hand. Stan is right-handed, and as Kyle glances back at his strangely elegant hand he wonders briefly to himself if Stan jerks off with that hand. Oh, god. Does he have foreskin, Kyle asks himself– of fucking course he does, he's not Jewish. Kyle feels a flutter in his chest at the thought of Stan's foreskin, and he feels so disgustingly gay he could scream– and then he freezes, because there is a hand on his knee, but both of Stan's hands have remained motionless.

Kyle sneaks a sidelong glance to his right, where Cartman is smirking and otherwise pretending to innocently watch the movie. He looks over at Kyle and leans towards him to whisper, "You are so gay for that fucking hippie, aren't you? Wouldn't you just love him to slam you against a tree or something?"

Kyle is frozen. He can't say anything. Cartman's hand grips tighter on his knee.

"Think of how disappointed and disgusted your whale-hugging beau would be that you're already tainted?" Cartman whispers, a sneer obvious in his tone. "You belong to me now, Kyle, because you were practically begging for me to stuff it in you like the slut you are. You came like a little bitch for me, so I own you, you got that, Jew? You are mine and I– So Kyle, won't you be super kewwwl for me and get us all some popcorn? My treat."

Kyle is confused now– what just happened? He looks to his left now, and Stan and Kenny are listening in with great bewilderment. Cartman's hand has since disappeared from his knee. "Dude, Cartman, what are you doing?" Stan whispers accusatively.

"Just asking Kyle if he would just get us all some popcorn and maybe some Raisinets or some shit, what's it look like?" Cartman whispers back, rolling his eyes at Stan as if this is the most obvious thing on the planet.

"Asshole, Kyle isn't responsible for the food, if you want food then get it yourself, fat boy," whispers Kenny, harshly.

"It's fine," Kyle says suddenly, and stands up. "I'll do it, I'll be back soon." The tension is proving too much for him and he's starting to feel his throat constrict. He needs air.

"But Kyle," says Stan, probably confused that Kyle is giving in to Cartman so easily.

"I said it's fine, Stan," Kyle snaps, and makes his way through the aisle. He feels bad for snapping at Stan, but is also glad for the relief of tension.

Once he's out of the theater, he feels a slight panic rising in his stomach. He makes a run for the restrooms, and splashes cold water on his face. In the mirror, a sleepless-looking, crooked-nosed teenager stares back at him. It takes him a second to recognize himself. Flashes and bits of memories of the incident with Cartman dance around in his vision, and he swallows shakily, blinking rapidly to clear the awful images away.

Kyle steps out of the restrooms and makes his way toward the concession counter. A jumbo popcorn and a box of Raisinets costs him $8.50– plus the extra butter because he knows Stan likes extra butter– and he forks over the money resentfully, because popcorn should not be six dollars, that is ridiculously overpriced, even more expensive than the film itself.

Grateful for the breather, Kyle shuffles back into the theater and makes his way through their aisle, handing the popcorn and candy to Stan. Cartman whines a little– Kyle smiles at this small and very insignificant revenge– and Stan, being the peacekeeper that he is, announces everyone should take a handful of popcorn and a handful of Raisinets, and when the time comes the food will be passed around for top-ups. Kyle sits through the rest of the film somewhat calmer, knowing Stan is next to him. When he feels like touching Stan's hand, he eats a Raisinet to stop himself, because he hates raisins almost as much as he hates bananas.

When the film is over, Kyle blinks quickly to adjust to the outside light. Kenny announces his departure, says he has to take Karen to shop for training bras, and Stan and Kyle bid him goodbye as Cartman laughs at Kenny's expense. Stan insists Kenny bring the rest of the candy back with him, at least for his sister, and Kenny thanks him profusely while avoiding his eyes as the half-crumpled box is pushed into his hands.

"What have you got going on now?" asks Stan as the three of them walk back towards the residential section of South Park. Cartman is eating the dregs of the popcorn and the half-kernels, his fingers nauseatingly greasy from the extra butter.

"Ike has a piano recital, it's his solo night. It's really important to him," Kyle replies. "How about you?"

"I've got that stupid SAT prep class my mom signed me up for. It's awful."

"Oh right, how's that going? Do you feel ready?" They're taking the SAT in a month, but Kyle has had prep since the eighth grade. His mother disgusts him sometimes with her overly-perfectionistic ways. He's even seen some of his SAT books in Ike's room, and he's eleven. Their mother probably slipped them onto his desk so he could start practicing now.

"I guess so, but I still get nervous taking tests. I'll probably really fuck up the essay part. Don't they only give, like, twenty-five minutes?"

"Yeah, but have you gone over it in the prep class?"

"No, dude! The teacher said she expects us to already know how to write a decent essay. She won't listen to us when we tell her it's timed." Stan seems genuinely distressed, and if Cartman weren't here, Kyle would probably hug him.

"I could help you with the essay part if you want. Do you wanna come over tomorrow or something?" Kyle asks.

"Oof, get a fucking room, gaywads," Cartman bursts out suddenly, looking pleased with his less-than-mediocre taunt. "If you're done fingerbanging each other right here on the sidewalk, I was gonna ask Kyle when I would be receiving my bet money," he says, tone changing to a liquid-sugary drawl.

"Cartman, he bought the goddamn popcorn and chocolate for you, get a life," Stan says, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, dude, that would be really cool, how does eleven sound? That's when we get back from church."

"Sure," nods Kyle; that should be fine with his mother. She'll probably insist on making some elaborate lunch to forward the cause of academia.

Stan smiles at him, looking relieved. Oh, that fucking smile that makes Kyle's knees go funny. "Thanks, Kyle, you're a lifesaver."

"Jesus, I'm out. Try not to blow each other in front of the park," Cartman sneers, turning onto his street. "There are children watching."

"Whatever, dude, what a dildo," says Stan, as if they haven't been saying this for over ten years. Kyle is personally getting kind of sick of berating Cartman, because all of the half-insults they throw at him fly right over his head. He would prefer to find something Cartman is actually insecure about, and then torpedo the fuck out of him for it.

They come up to Kyle's house and Stan touches the small of Kyle's back, which makes him jolt, feeling suddenly on edge. "Um," Stan says, jerking his hand away. "So I'll, ah, see you tomorrow, dude?"

"Yeah!" Kyle says, nodding vigorously. "Just text me when you're on your way."

"Okay," Stan replies. "Hey, Kyle? Is everything, like– well– I mean. If you need to talk," Stan says, rubbing his nose thoughtfully. "You know I'm here, right?"

"Yeah, dude, thank you," says Kyle, a little too tersely. "See you tomorrow!" He dashes into his house, trying to avoid more conversation with Stan. He's sweet, but Kyle knows his limits and he is feeling much too uncomfortable right now.

Inside, it is bustling like mad and Kyle swallows, overwhelmed, as he drinks in the scene: Ike narrowing his eyes at his sheet music and making notations in pencil, Sheila running around busily and yelling at nobody in particular, and Gerald on the phone with someone, gesticulating wildly with his hands every so often.

"Oh, God, Kyle, thank goodness you're here!" exclaims Sheila, making Kyle flinch a little. "Your brother is very busy with his composition, it's his big night, of course, so don't disturb him! And my god, just look at what you're wearing– go change into your best immediately, come on, we're leaving in fifteen minutes!" She punctuates this with a pat on Kyle's rear towards the staircase, trying to push him upstairs to change. Kyle grimaces and does what he's told.

There have been only three occasions in Kyle's life where he has been forced into a cummerbund by his mother. The first was his aunt's second wedding when he was six. The second, his Bar Mitzvah. And the third: to Ike's piano recital. Although, Ike and his mother have been correcting him all month, no, Kyle, it's not some kiddie recital, it's Ike's piano concert, his magnum opus, perhaps even the most important night of his life so far. And now Sheila has laid out this disgusting cummerbund that's becoming much too small for him, and he groans slightly at the thought of this ancient torture device binding itself around his bladder area for an entire night.

He dresses in his most formal attire and squeezes into the cummerbund– almost ripping it in the process– and jogs downstairs, barely bothering to check his unruly hair. Entropy will do its thing and fuck it up by the time they get to the recital anyway, so there's hardly a point in bothering with it now.

"Kyle, my goodness, did you even brush your hair?" Sheila says disdainfully, dragging him over to stick her thick hands into his frizzy rat's nest and executes her idea of "fixing" his hair. God, his mother is so controlling.

"Are we all ready to go, everyone? Ike?" Gerald asks, calm now after having hung up the phone.

Ike makes his grand entrance into the foyer now, still studying his sheet music intensely. "I'm ready," he says in a very grave tone.

Sheila exclaims a loud and enthusiastic cheer, although it's more of a squeal than a cheer. "Oh, Ike, bubbe, my little composer!" she says, squeezing him the best she can without wrinkling his suit. "Everyone in the car, snap snap! Right now!" she yells, ushering Ike outside delicately like he's precious merchandise that cannot be manhandled. Kyle rolls his eyes and follows.

"Kyle? Are you feeling well?" asks Gerald as he's locking the front door. Kyle is surprised that he even noticed Kyle having an emotion, which nowadays, often go undetected unless there's an argument between him and his mother– which leads the entire family to believe that the only emotion he's capable of feeling is "tantrum."

"What? Yeah, I'm fine, Dad," he nods, pulling his tie's knot closer to his throat.

"Okay," says Gerald, "but I just want you to know I'm proud of you too, son, alright? We're proud of you," he corrects himself.

Kyle knows better than that– his mother is hardly proud of her older son, not in the way she’s proud of lovely Ike– but all he can say is, "Thanks, Dad," because Gerald is stressed at work and needs to be validated once in a while. His father smiles and pats him lightly on the shoulder, and Kyle starts, but has to regulate himself as his mother calls for them, impatiently.

It is a tense ride in the Broflovski family Prius, and Kyle has never felt so grateful for anything than for when they finally pull into the lot of the concert hall after driving all the way from South Park to Evergreen. Sheila still treats Ike as if he's the Crown Jewels, and leads him proudly inside the hall as Kyle and Gerald, who is busy frustratedly texting, trail behind. It's February and it still hasn't stopped being snowy and wet, and Kyle shivers in his stupid suit as the wetness in the air settles on his cheeks and nose.

Inside the concert hall, Ike's piano master (he isn't just some teacher, apparently) greets them and takes Ike from his mother, who looks like she's just about to cry. She bids him good luck and joins Gerald and Kyle so they can take their seats. The auditorium buzzes with a low but electrified hum of voices as everyone waits for the concert to start. Kyle tugs at his tie, feeling claustrophobic, but follows his parents to their reserved seats.

Kyle starts playing around on his phone once they're seated, needing a distraction from his mother's sudden loud squawking as she schmoozes with the Rosenbergs from the Park County JCC. The Rosenbergs have a daughter named Abigail who is a year older than Kyle. He isn’t very close with her, but he sympathizes with her because her parents are complete nutjobs– which must be why they get on so well with Sheila.

"Hey, Kyle," says a familiar voice, and speak of the devil, it's Abigail Rosenberg.

"Hi," he says, "are you performing tonight too?"

She looks very resigned, as always. Kyle knows this feeling well. "Yes, but not until seven. How's Ike?"

"Same as always, I guess. He's got his big thing tonight, so my mom is really stressed out," he replies, whispering the last part so his mother doesn't overhear him.

"So are my parents. I think they were expecting me to be as stressed as they are, but I just don't care anymore." Abigail straightens her skirt, sighing.

Kyle's phone buzzes, and Abigail shuffles in her bag to retrieve her book, taking this social cue as her leave. hows the concert? reads a text from Stan, and Kyle smiles a bit to himself.

Boring so far, hasnt started yet, he types back. You done with SAT prep?

It takes Stan a while to reply back, but eventually sends sry i was getting in my moms car but yeah i just finished. wish i was there w/ u dude, which makes Kyle's heart feel funny.

Same here. Everybody is so boring. And Jewish! Remember I told you about the Rosenbergs? Theyre here too and my mom k

"Ladies and gentlemen, if you could all silence your cell phones and all other electronic devices," announces a voice over the speakers, "we'll be starting our evening shortly." Kyle quickly deletes his text to say Wish u were here too dude but gotta go! Talk to u later and shuts his phone off.

"Thank you all for joining us this evening for our twenty-fourth annual Colorado Gifted Youth Concert, where incredible musical talent from all over the state is showcased in one breathtaking evening," smiles the man on stage, and Kyle cringes at this human thesaurus as the audience claps politely.

The show drags on for ages, and Kyle starts to feel queasy in his cummerbund– and then suddenly, Gerald is bringing out the video camera, because Ike is set to perform.

"And now, we are pleased to present eleven-year-old Isaac Broflovski, with his self-composed piano piece entitled 'Fallen Leaves.'"

Ike strides onto the stage, trying his best to look humble but obviously enjoying every bit of this, little prick. All month he's been so incredibly high-and-mighty because he was selected to perform his piece in front of thousands of people, and now his big moment has finally arrived: the entire audience's attention is now focused on him.

He sits at the piano with a flourish that makes Kyle roll his eyes, privately. And then, after a very pregnant pause, Ike begins playing. And Ike is good, and he knows it. He wears an inadvertent smug little asshole grin as his hands gracefully fly over the keys in a perfect choreography. Kyle has not heard the song in full before tonight– only small chunks of it every so often when he does his homework in the living room, where the grand piano sits in the corner.

Of course, once he's done, he receives a thunderous applause and grins way too big for his own face when he bows. Kyle smiles to himself; he'll have to congratulate him later, in private– he really is proud of his brother, despite his narcissism.

The rest of the concert carries on as tediously as before– complete with Abigail on at seven, performing more with her eyebrows than with her flute– and finally, at eight-thirty, the concert segways into the reception. While Kyle just wants to go home and sleep, there is food at the reception, and Kyle is hungry, because the last thing he ate was the greasy popcorn from hours ago.

He can't find Abigail anywhere in the reception hall, and gives up on finding Ike, who is probably being congratulated by fifty rich old Jewish people who want to send him to Berklee, so he ambles over to the food table and serves himself some fancy-looking salad, and a couple of mini potstickers.

"Kyle, man! That you?" a voice calls.

Kyle turns around at the nasally voice: it's Jared, nasty Jared Goldstein, and his friends. Kyle knows these assholes from Hebrew school, when he used to go as a kid. Thankfully, these douchebags all live in Conifer, so he doesn’t have to deal with them on a daily basis, but it’s always nice if he can avoid them at all costs. Unfortunately, thirteen-year-old Kyle was wrong when he thought the end of Hebrew school meant the end of Jared and his dunces.

“Hey, Jared,” he smiles tightly, and moves away from the food table. Suddenly he’s lost most of his appetite. “How have you been, dude?”

Jared rolls his eyes. “This place is so fucking gay. My sister did her cello thing tonight and my parents dragged me. I bet you hated it more than I did, your brother being a prodigy and all.”

Kyle stiffens; he hates being compared to his brother, regardless of how much he loves Ike. “Yeah, whatever, I didn’t have anything better to be doing, though,” he manages.

Jared scoffs, then picks a potsticker off of Kyle’s plate and pops it in his mouth. “Kyle, you’re so weird.” He glances around. “So, what’s the deal with Abigail?”

“What about her?”

“You guys were talking, dumbass,” Jared says. “You fucking her?”

Kyle wrinkles his nose. “No? She’s older than me. She’s like– almost like my sister, dude.”

“Hot,” Jared says, looking bored, “but lame, as always, Kyle. Well, I’m fucking this Shiksa at school, she’s a freshman, always on my dick. I took her virginity,” Jared smiles a wicked, disgusting smile. “I totally raped that bitch, dude.”

Jared’s friends laugh, and Kyle swallows down a queasy, mealy bite of his salad. There might be quinoa in the salad and Kyle’s throat may be coated in it when he can only whisper a shaky, “oh.”

Jared laughs now, at Kyle. “Kyle,” he says, stealing another one of his potstickers. “You ever raped a girl?”

Kyle is silent. He can’t explain why he’s thinking of Cartman right now, or the incident last Sunday night, in his bedroom, after Stan and Kenny left and he was left all alone with Cartman, all alone in his room while his parents were at the museum with Ike–

“It’s so fucking killer,” Jared continues, “the girl gets all tight cause she doesn’t want you in–”

“I have to go to the bathroom, be right back,” says Kyle suddenly, and shoves the plate of potstickers and half-eaten salad into Jared’s hands. Jared calls after him as he speedwalks, but he doesn’t want to listen. He needs to get out. He needs to leave.

In the men’s bathroom, Kyle pushes open the handicapped stall and falls to his knees next to the toilet, in case he needs to vomit– only bile remains stuck in his throat, but no vomit comes out this time. His mind is racing; what is happening to him?

The word rape was what set him off, definitely, but why now, why here? It is suddenly very frightening for Kyle to think: was he raped?

In grade school, Mr. Mackey once ran an assembly about rape and how when a man had sex with a girl and she didn’t want it, it was called rape, and it was a very serious crime. Kyle knows for a fact that men can get raped too, but he imagines this kind of rape as some poor unsuspecting man gang-banged in an alleyway by several big, strong, dirty men– by strangers.

Last Sunday, Stan, Kenny, and Cartman came over to play videogames, and by nightfall, Kenny had to go and pick up dinner at Wingstop for his mom’s birthday, and Stan had to go take Sparky on his evening walk. This left Cartman still hanging around his house, and although he didn’t want to hang out with just Cartman, there was no discernible way to get him to leave, so he didn’t say anything. This led Cartman to stick around for another couple of hours, and they even ordered pizza, since Ike and their parents would be out for another three and a half hours. After pizza, as Kyle checked his FarmVille crops, Cartman sat weirdly close to him and asked him some rather personal questions: Ever fucked anyone before? Got your eyes on anyone, Jew boy? Don't you think it's fucking obvious whose dick you've been thirsty for since the beginning of time?

Kyle feels tears stinging the edges of his eyes. It's not rape if you came, Kyle. You still owe Cartman ten bucks because you're dirty dirty dirty disgusting–

"Kyle, what–?"

Kyle looks up from the toilet, takes one look at Ike, and then vomits onto the toilet seat and down the front of his suit.

*

"Kyle, I am so incredibly disappointed in you!" cries Sheila as they drive down the highway back to South Park.

Kyle sits in the back seat with a still-vomity suit, still nauseous from the dizzying smell. Ike has let him use the jacket from his own suit as a pillow, which is probably just another thing their mother will yell at him for.

"Sheila, I'm sure Kyle didn't mean to throw up on himself," supplies Gerald, quite weakly.

"Gerald! He embarrassed us in front of the entire concert hall! Think of Ike's opportunities– all crushed now because he's the boy with the older brother who vomited on himself like a toddler!" barks Sheila.

Kyle feels Ike lightly patting his hand; he looks over to see Ike glancing back at him, worried. Ike has never seen him so– disheveled, and he looks almost mortified with concern.

"It's okay, mom," Ike says. "Kyle has a fever, I just felt his forehead. He's probably delirious." Ike did not, in fact, touch his forehead at any point in time, and Kyle smiles gratefully, a tiny, private smile.

"Well, Ike, bubbe, that certainly didn't stop him from seeing a movie with his friends today," Sheila rebuffs, as if Kyle isn't even in the car with them anymore.

"People can get sick very suddenly," Ike replies. "Remember, mama, when you took me to the pre-med conference we learned that?" Clever, clever Ike: he knows the old ego-stroke technique. It always works with their mother.  

"Ike, sweetie, I'm so glad you're so– well." She peers through the rear-view mirror at Kyle, saying nothing else.

Once they get home, Ike insists on ushering Kyle up to his room, and neither of their parents argue at this point. Once Sheila gets upset to this degree, she doesn’t want to recover from it until the day is done, and Gerald is so codependent that he’ll resign himself to whatever Sheila is feeling and doing, if it means he gets the least amount of conflict out of it.

As Ike pulls him out of his barf-stained suit in the bathroom, Kyle’s eyes sting wetly again, feeling pathetic and very much like an invalid. “Ike, it’s– I’m okay, I’ll do it,” he says quickly, and Ike backs off a little, still looking very worried. Kyle peels himself out of the godforsaken cummerbund and the vomit- soaked tie as Ike sits on the closed toilet seat and plays with a loose string on his pants.

"Did you eat something weird, or, like– did something happen?" he asks, and Kyle instantly feels very protective for his eleven-year-old prodigy brother who, given his intellect and genius, is still very much a child.

"Ike, I, I'm sorry I ruined your– thing," Kyle hiccups, and sits on the edge of the bathtub, crumpling a bit. "I– you were so good tonight and I, I just fuck everything up for you–"

"Kyle," Ike rushes to sit next to him on the bathtub, "no you didn't. Not a whole lot of people noticed, and Mrs. Rochman offered to give you a Tums, remember–"

"Dude, fuck Mrs. Rochman!" Kyle almost shouts, and starts crying, way past the point of embarrassment. "It was your night and I made our family look like a pile of shit. I made you look like a pile of shit! Look at me, I'm," he sniffles. "I'm sixteen years old and I can't even vomit into the toilet, and my little brother has to take my gross clothes off for me because I can't do anything for myself." He shakes with a multitude of emotions– rage, embarrassment, hopelessness– and lets out a few more fat tears.

Ike is silent for a moment, and shakes his head. “Kyle,” he says, and swallows, “are you doing okay? Did something bad happen lately?”

Kyle can’t tell Ike what happened. Ike is just a little boy, nobody can know what he did with Cartman, nobody can know– especially not his little brother.

“No, it’s. It’s alright, dude,” Kyle says, and gingerly puts his arm around Ike’s shoulders, kissing his forehead. “I’m okay.”

*

hey dude church just got out and dads driving me to ur place okay?

Kyle shifts in bed and squints to look at his phone. It's eleven-thirty AM, his curtains are drawn shut, and he still hasn't gotten out of bed. He doesn't particularly feel like facing his family unless Stan is over, honestly, and his whole body is cold and achy.

But, he did make a promise to Stan, and so he types back: Great, see you soon then & Ill tell my mom to make us lunch. Slowly and gingerly, he slips out of bed and stretches, wincing when several of his joints crack. He runs his hands through his hair, rubs the sleep from his eyes, and throws on some clothes before brushing his teeth and heading downstairs with a couple of his SAT books.

"Kyle, honey, are you awake?" calls his mother from the kitchen, bad mood from last night completely dissipated.

"Yeah, Ma, it's me," he says, joining her by the dishwasher to help her load it up from the breakfast he skipped.

She strokes his hair, kissing it, and smiles at him a bit. "Is your stomach better from last night, bubbeleh?" she asks.

"Yeah, think so," he nods, "Ike helped me a lot last night. Hey, Stan's coming over in a few minutes so I can tutor him for the SAT, so would you mind making something for us to eat, mommy?"

Sheila beams, obviously proud of her child being smart enough to tutor his friend. "Of course I wouldn't, sweetie, you just set up in the living room and I'll bring you boys some sandwiches."

"Thanks, mom," Kyle replies, kissing her cheek, and heads out the living room to set out the books on the coffee table.

When he hears the knock at the door, Kyle jumps and answers it almost immediately. Stan grins at him when he opens the door.

"Hi, dude," says Kyle, almost breathlessly, "ready to get started?"

Outside, Randy honks the car's horn and calls, "Be home in time for dinner, Stan, mom's making pot roast!"

"Okay, dad!" Stan calls back to his father, stepping inside and kicking his dress shoes off by the welcome mat. Kyle tries not to think about how... attractive he looks in a suit. "Thanks for doing this for me, Kyle," he says.

"Hello, Stanley, how are you, dear?" As if on cue, Sheila bursts into the room carrying a tray of sandwiches and tall glasses of water.

"I'm okay, Mrs. Broflovski, how are you doing?" Stan says, ever-respectful of Kyle's mom. "Thanks for lunch."

"I'm doing well, thank you," she smiles, setting the tray down on the coffee table. "I used the last of the Gefilte in these, Omega-3 is very good for you boys while you're studying." Kyle silently grimaces, but he knows Stan loves Gefilte, for some reason, so he doesn't object. Stan thanks Sheila for the sandwiches as she leaves and Kyle opens up one of the SAT books.

"So, this essay," Stan says, looking nervous, suddenly. "Have you ever done it before?"

Kyle is grateful to be focusing on something he knows so mechanically well that he just can't fuck it up in any conceivable way. "Yeah, dude. See, twenty-five minutes for an essay seems like nothing, but here's how you can really succeed at it: pace yourself. Take like, two minutes to demystify the prompt, five to plan out your examples and your thesis, and take the rest of the time to just plug everything in. Here, let me show you."

Kyle sets his phone on the table and sets the timer to twenty-five minutes. "Watch," he says as Stan takes a bite of his Gefilte sandwich. "This prompt says,'There’s no success like failure.' What is your view on the idea that success can begin with failure? In an essay, support your position using an example, or examples, from literature, the arts, history, current events, politics, science and technology, or from your personal experience or observation."

Stan looks sick, and puts his sandwich back on the plate. "Okay, now what?"

"Now, I'm gonna start the timer," says Kyle, then looks at Stan. "What do you think the prompt is saying?"

"Um," he furrows his brow, leaning over to look at the prompt in the book, and Kyle tries not to blush. "Basically, give an example of something that either supports or refutes the quote?"

"Yeah, dude! Exactly," Kyle says, and Stan smiles, looking kind of proud of himself. "Okay, can you think of an example of something that supports or refutes it?"

"Well– fuck, okay," Stan says, thinking hard. When he takes a while to answer, Kyle tries to help.

“Usually the best thing to do when you’re writing an essay for a standardized test is to use an example from a book you read in class,” Kyle supplies, “that always impresses the graders ‘cause it makes you sound like an intellectual. I've used tons of books from like ninth and tenth grade, sometimes ones from middle school, since they tend to like it when kids actually retain information from class."

Stan seems somewhat relieved by this, and ends up using Jean Valjean as his evidence. Kyle helps him to construct his thesis, and by the time the alarm buzzes on Kyle's phone, Stan's finished his essay, having put down his pencil just seconds before the twenty-five minutes were over.

"This is really good, dude," Kyle says, when he's done proofreading the essay. Stan smiles back at him, almost bashfully.

"Well, you helped!" he says, shoving Kyle playfully. "I actually feel, like. Not nervous about it right now."

"Do you feel like you need more practice? There are tons more prompts in here," Kyle offers. Stan agrees, and ends up working on four more essays before he's confidently time-managing and writing organized essays.

"Kyle, I think," Stan starts, and looks at him earnestly. "I think if you're with me I won't be so nervous during the real thing."

"Well!" Kyle says, blushing, "we'll be in the same room, but on opposite sides. The seats are alphabetized by last name. Will you be okay then?" It's not really a challenge he's presenting, more of a quiet and concerned inquiry.

Stan pauses, thinking. "As long as I can see you in the room. I know we're both okay if I can see you."

Kyle can feel his face turning pink and warm, but before he can say anything his mother bustles back into the room, this time with Ike in tow.

"Boys, I'm taking Ike to Denver to sign up for a pre-college program at Yale this summer," she says, "so we won't be back until evening. Stan, dear, you're welcome to stay for supper if you like, I'll bring home something from the city we can all eat."

"Actually I need to get back home for dinner, my mom is cooking," Stan smiles politely, which he knows Sheila lives for. "But thanks anyway."

"Anytime! You say hello to your mother for me, alright? Come on, Ike bubbe, let's go. Get your coat! It's cold out there." She hefts her purse over her shoulder. "Kyle, you call me if anything goes wrong, okay?"

"Yes, ma," he replies, though he feels very protected with Stan here at the house with him– like absolutely nothing could possibly go wrong.

Ike peers at them from the foyer, bundled in a large coat and scarf. "Ready, mom?" he asks, then glances over at Stan. "Hey," he waves, smiling, and Stan waves back. Sometimes while Kyle is too busy with AP homework, Stan watches the BBC and Animal Planet with Ike, and in return, Ike talks to him about Gothic literature, which for some reason he still hasn't let go of since his goth phase in elementary school. Poe still remains Stan's favorite writer, and although Stan thinks he's good at keeping secrets, Kyle knows for a fact that he still keeps a poetry journal. This just makes Stan all the more endearing, honestly.

When Sheila and Ike leave, Kyle proposes a study break for video games, and Stan grins and agrees. They play Portal 2 on co-op for a couple of hours, then decide to get fresh air in the backyard for a bit. Kyle runs upstairs to grab his secret carton of Marlboros and his lighter, which he keeps in a very elaborately-hidden hole in the boxspring of his bed. (Both of these, of course, provided by Clyde Donovan, who turned eighteen in November because he was held back in first grade, and charges people in their grade for cigarettes. Kyle thinks this is probably the only intelligent thing Clyde has ever done in his life.)

"That air's not going to be very fresh," Stan points out, and Kyle just shrugs. His mother has been all over him the past week, and with his current mental state, he fucking deserves a cigarette.

"You've been a little.. off, lately," Stan observes as they sit on the deck stairs. Kyle's thumb fumbles against the lighter as he tries to light the cigarette perched between his lips. He curses under his breath and retrieves the lighter from the snowy ground. "Are you sure you don't wanna, like. Talk about it?"

"No, dude, it's okay," Kyle promises, finally lighting his cigarette. The first inhale makes him cough a little, always– he's still a fairly new smoker, and infrequent, too, but when you're a sixteen-year-old in a tiny redneck mountain town, you pick up smoking at some point or another, whether it's cigarettes or pot. Kyle would much rather be in full control of his brain, thanks.

"Alright, but," Stan sighs, and Kyle feels uncomfortable. "Whenever you wanna talk about it."

"Thanks, man," he replies, and he means it.

After a fairly short silence, Stan reaches towards his cigarette and asks, "Can I get a little?" and Kyle shares it with him. Often, they can just sort of sit somewhere and stay silent with each other, and Stan is honestly the only person he never has an awkward silence with. For a while, Stan sits with him and smokes, and even when Kyle has to light another cigarette they never consider the possibility of each smoking their own. Kyle likes it better that way, and he's pretty sure Stan does too.

When it gets colder, Stan checks the time and announces it's already five o'clock. Kyle stretches and stands, stomping out the second cigarette on the wet, dirty-snow ground. The days are progressively getting longer, but lately Kyle always feels like sundown is creeping up on him, like a wolf on his unsuspecting prey. Ready to pounce and smother.

Inside, Kyle proposes hot chocolate, and they drink steamy mugs of Swiss Miss topped with Cool Whip at the kitchen table. Stan picks at the gross fake whipped cream on top of his and looks up at Kyle.

"Kyle," he says, "I really kind of– well, what would you say if I said I– think I like you?"

It takes Kyle a moment to process this, considering he has ruled this particular romantic possibility as 'unfathomable and stupid,' but he finally says, "Okay, I'd say that I think I like you back." He's trying to play it cool but under the table his legs are shaking.

"Like," Stan swallows, and he looks nervous. "Like, as a like-like?"

"Yeah," says Kyle, and that's all he can say for a good minute or two.

"Cool," Stan nods, smiling a bit, but looking like he might puke.

And then, Kyle hears the door unlocking. He feels culpable for something, all of a sudden, like he's been caught in the act for some unmentionable and embarrassing wrongdoing. He gulps down shitty hot cocoa mix, getting nasty Cool Whip on his nose. Even Stan looks sheepish as he stirs the leftover blob of fake whipped cream with his finger.

"Kyle?" It's his father's voice, and Kyle is somewhat relieved, but not much. "Are you home?"

"We're in the kitchen, Dad," he calls back, wiping the Cool Whip off of his nose.

“Ah– hey, Stan,” Gerald greets him. “How’s your dad doing?”

“He’s fine,” Stan replies. “I should probably get going, I promised him I’d be home for dinner.” He stands up from the table and makes sure to rinse his mug out at the sink. “Thank you so much for helping me, Kyle,” he says, and there’s a tinge of pink on his cheeks.

“Yeah, no problem– let me walk you out, dude,” Kyle says, and shoves his mug in the sink, vowing to take care of it later.

Outside, Kyle isn’t sure what to say to Stan now that they’ve informed each other of their feelings. He shuffles his feet as they walk down the stretch of pavement between their houses, and Stan coughs once, clearly feeling the awkwardness too.

“Hey, so.” Stan runs his hand through his hair, and faces Kyle just before they reach his house. “I’ll text you?”

“Yeah!” Kyle says, probably a little too enthusiastically. “Yeah. I’ll text you too.”

Stan grabs Kyle’s hand and squeezes it– something he hasn’t done since they were about ten, because they started getting called fags for it.

"Okay," Stan says again, nodding bashfully. "Okay. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Alright," replies Kyle, and feels about two years old. "Goodnight, dude."

Stan holds his hand for a few seconds longer, looks a little upset when he has to let go. After he finally dashes up the walkway to his house, Kyle sprints home through the snow in the house slippers he'd shoved his feet into at the door. He feels lighter, somehow, and smiles all through the dinner from Olive Garden his mother brought home.

hey so um.. are we really doing this? asks Stan in a text as Kyle is brushing his teeth. Kyle smiles and sets his toothbrush down to reply.

I think we are. I didnt think it would happen but... Im just happy it did dude! he types back.

The message from Stan a few minutes later is wow same, ive thought abt this for a long time but wasnt sure when was the right time to bring it up yknow

Kyle blushes, and tries typing his message out about three times before sending Thats crazy, i felt the same way, I just didnt even know if you were interested or whatever.

well shit, texts Stan, and then, i really do like u tho dude. i think ive liked u since we were like 12 or smth

Kyle grins, and sends I think Ive probably liked you for longer than that! And then starts to type out This is so weird, but erases it.

jesus this is so weird, Stan types, and Kyle laughs out loud. It’s like they have some sort of metaphysical brain link. sorry not like bad weird but like awesome weird yknow??

I know exactly what you mean, Kyle types back, and his stomach does happy backflips.

*

"Did you do that stupid APUSH homework?" asks Kenny as he and Kyle walk down the hall, between second and third periods.

"Yeah, but it was super confusing and took me forever," Kyle says, enjoying the commiseration. "Who the fuck cares about old white men anymore?"

"Mrs. Sorenson, apparently," Kenny smirks at his jab at both the class and their teacher's recent hobby of hitting on not one, but several members of the older male faculty. "Dude, I heard you and Stan hung out on Sunday?"

Kyle blushes all the way to his ears, but he's glad Kenny's flipping through his Honors Pre-Calc notebook. "Yeah, I mean, he needed SAT help and we played video games after, or whatever." He swallows. "And anyway, who cares? We hang out all the time, dude."

"Yeah, okay," laughs Kenny, opening his locker and switching his math notebook for the AP LangComp binder. "Your body language says something good happened, though."

"What are you talking about, Kenny?" Kyle says, defensively, just as Stan joins them to open his locker, too.

"Hey, dude," Stan says, blushing. The text conversation from last night rushes into Kyle's brain as Stan flashes that terrible, incredible, spellcasting smile at him. Stan grabs his Chemistry textbook and closes the locker.

"Hi," he says, barely able to find his voice.

"I'll– I'll see you at lunch?" Stan says, glancing at a grinning Kenny momentarily, then back at Kyle.

"Yeah! I'll see you," Kyle almost stammers, nearly slamming his own fingers in his locker.

"Later, guys," Stan says, but he only looks at Kyle as he walks away.

"Ooooooooh," Kenny says teasingly, elbowing Kyle. "You are sooooo in love with him." Coming from Kenny, this is way, way less offensive than Cartman's hushed insults in the movie theater, but it still makes Kyle turn red down to his toes.

"Holy shit– you guys are both super gay for each other!" whispers Kenny, because he knows how much the word 'gay' means to South Park teenagers– it's a bad idea to be proclaiming those kinds of things in public. Kenny, the only person Kyle knows to be queer other than himself, told Kyle one night at a sleepover in seventh grade that he was pansexual and dabbling in his gender identity, but subsequently made him promise to never repeat this to anyone. To feel less awkward, Kyle then confessed that he believed he might be gay, to which Kenny replied, 'I know.' Since when, Kyle had asked; 'Since forever,' Kenny had replied.

"Shut up!" Kyle says, embarrassed that Kenny can see through him, but it's probably true– Stan may very well be gay for him too. "It was nothing, Kenny, okay?"

"Sure, okay," Kenny smirks again, "nothing. See you at lunch, Kyle," he says teasingly, clapping Kyle on the shoulder, and retreats into the AP LangComp classroom, laughing to himself.

Kyle fumes to himself, more out of embarrassment than anger, in AP Conceptual Physics. Kenny is sweet, and very intelligent– to be able to go to a good college to support his family, he maintains a 4.1 cumulative with all AP classes– but also very perceptive, to Kyle's occasional dismay. He enjoys keeping things to himself, but it's Kenny who draws the most private things out of him.

"What's your damage, Broflovski?" It's Craig Tucker, Kyle's unfortunate lab partner, and he is, as usual, disgustingly apathetic and very standoffish. Kyle knows from a not-so-anonymous source (read: Kenny) that Craig boxes with Tweek Tweak on the weekends, and may or may not be in a very secret relationship with him.

"What, Craig?" Kyle says, a little annoyed.

"Are you going to graph this with me or not, asshole?" Craig asks, impatiently. Craig has expressed several times that he wants to go into the field of physics in university, and that Kyle would purportedly, quote, "not be slowing him down in the least, so he'd better not fuck around." Kyle honestly feels sorry for Tweek if there actually is a relationship there; it must be difficult to have a robotic, self-centered nutsack as a boyfriend.

"God, okay, give me a chance to pick up my pencil," Kyle snaps, and snatches the calculator from Craig's cold, bony hands to see the table of values.

At lunch, Kyle sits at the usual table with his tray of nasty cafeteria food, and waits for the others. He normally sits with the same people from elementary school that he's always sat with, minus Craig and his friends, because they're all douchebags by extension of being Craig's friend. This leaves Stan, Kenny, Butters, and unfortunately, Cartman. Kyle is in a relatively good mood today, though, considering what happened between Stan and himself last night, so the fact that Cartman will be most likely at the table is of minor concern to him at the moment.

Butters arrives at the table first, and Kyle is immediately drawn to his fingernails, which, for some reason, are a neon pink.

"Hey– wow! Who did your nails?" Kyle asks, pointing at Butters' hands, and privately, he likes them a lot– somehow, the campy nature of the harsh pink suits him. Butters is a sweet kid who needs validation, so he indulges.

"Bebe did!" Butters says, beaming, and sits across from him. He opens the sack lunch he brought and takes out a plastic snack bag of baby carrots. "She's doin' makeup for the spring musical and she wanted to test this shade out, so she asked me! I– I should really track her down before the end of the day, though," he says, distantly, a baby carrot pressed worriedly to his lips as he inspects his bright-pink nails. "I'll need to have this stuff taken off before I head back home."

"Yeah, she probably has nail polish remover, don't worry," Kyle reassures him. Ever since they were kids, Butters' father has held a particular frightening weight in everyone's eyes; in elementary school especially, Butters would come to school in the aftermath of the belt, which would make it very difficult and painful to sit down at his desk. His frequent grounding has been consistent to this day, but occasionally, Butters will have to face the belt again, and anyone around him knows not to question him about it, or he'll break out in violent tears, like the time back in middle school when Kevin Stoley asked why he was limping. The result was Kevin going to Hell's Pass for a broken nose, and, subsequently, more punishment for poor Butters. No teacher or administrative person at any of the schools has dared to file a report with CPS yet, though, which makes Kyle feel kind of bad, but they're almost out of high school anyway at this point– a lonely filing of suspected abuse would hardly do much good now.

"My god, you guys," Cartman says loudly, slamming his tray on the table as he sits angrily. "That psycho hippie bitch will just not quit."

"Who, Wendy? What did she say this time?" asks Butters, trying to play Cartman's personal therapist again. He seems glad, however, that Cartman is too upset to notice his garishly neon nails.

"She fucking– she's starting a queer club! What the fuck!" exclaims Cartman, shoving pizza into his mouth.

"Eric! Don't use that word, it's a slur," chides Butters.

"No, I'm fucking seriously, she's calling it a fucking queer club– the Queer and Allies club, she thinks she's so goddamned clever! Here, look at this bullshit!"

Cartman shoves a flyer towards both of them, fuming. Are you looking for a queer safe space? the flyer reads. Do you consider yourself an ally? Are you Questioning, or are in need of Answers? Come to the Q&A (Queer and Allies) club's first meeting on February 16 in Ms. Hodges’ room during lunch! Contact Wendy Testaburger for more info.

Kyle is honestly impressed– of course Wendy has always been very vocal in her progressive views, and this is no exception. He's worried she'll get a lot of backlash for this, though, and not just from Cartman.

"Do you see this? This is the kind of shit that she pulls because she's a self-righteous goddamn–"

"Hey, what's happening over here?" asks Kenny, Stan red-cheeked and trailing behind him.

"Eric was tellin' us about Wendy's new club," replies Butters, shrugging. "I think it's a nice idea, actually!"

"Oh right, Queer and Allies," Kenny agrees as he sits down next to Butters. When Stan sits next to Kyle, he knocks their knees together playfully and Kyle's head spins, in a very good way. "Yeah, Wends tried recruiting me, but, y'know. It's a nice idea, Butters, sure, but who really wants to put themselves on blast like that by even associating with that club? Regardless of whether they're actually queer or not."

"I think it's cool too," says Stan through a mouthful of spaghetti, which is for some reason very endearing to Kyle, however gross it may be. "I don't think I'd go either, though."

"What, Stan, are you a faggot or something?" Cartman asks snidely.

"Cartman, you're one to talk for someone who ha–" Kyle nearly shouts, but a very frightening warning glance from Cartman silences him.

"What was that, Kyle?" Cartman asks, with a sugary-sweet lilt in his voice. He knows he's got Kyle trapped, and he obviously loves it. Kyle swallows, nervously.

"I mean, you're one to talk for being such a huge gaywad, so shut up," he says, quieter, and eats his gross spaghetti. He can feel Stan looking at him questioningly, but tries to ignore it. Under the table, Stan gently takes his hand, very subtly, and Kyle feels like crying– out of happiness, sadness, frustration, or panic, he isn’t sure.

*

As usual, Kyle gets a ride home with Stan, since he inherited Grandpa Marsh’s old Saturn SW1 after he passed away. Shelly had already bought her own car during her senior year, and Stan didn’t really mind driving his dead grandfather’s car– given all of the death wishes he expressed when Stan was younger, he figured that’s what Grandpa Marsh would have wanted. So, after some convincing, Sharon let him keep the car.

“Dude,” Stan says, starting the engine, “what the hell is Mrs. Sorenson’s problem? She expects us to do three chapters for Friday? What does she think, we don’t have homework in other classes?”

APUSH is the only AP class Stan takes, and one of the only classes he has with Kyle, so they frequently talk about the class on the way home, since it’s something they can connect about as they come home from school. “Yeah,” Kyle agrees. “She has no idea how to run a classroom.”

“Yeah,” Stan nods, and pulls out of the student parking lot. “Hey–” he starts as they’re driving down the road, “what’s Cartman’s deal with you?”

“Jesus, Stan,” Kyle mutters, peering out the window a bit angrily.

“Kyle. There’s obviously something wrong.”

“Dude! It’s not a big deal, so why don’t you just fucking drop it already?” Kyle shouts, tears threatening to spill, clinging to his lashes.

“What– Kyle, are you crying?" Stan asks, looking worried. When he addresses this, Kyle really does start crying, and covers his face in embarrassment while Stan pulls the car to the side of the dirt road that leads away from the high school.

Stan kills the engine and reaches a shaky, nervous hand to touch Kyle's shoulder. "Dude," he says, hoarsely, "please tell me what happened."

"I," Kyle starts, but his voice catches in his throat. "It's stupid, and– if we're dating right now I don't think you want to know, dude." In his terrible way, Cartman was absolutely right: Stan would never want to be in a relationship– romantic or otherwise– with someone who was tainted by that fatass.

"Um," Stan says, "I think we are dating– if you want us to be– but I don't think I'd ever be mad at you for anything, dude. I don't think I'm physically, or emotionally, able to be mad at you."

Kyle shivers, and looks up at Stan. "I– slept with Cartman. But I didn't want to!" he almost yells, disgusted with himself.

Stan bites his lip worriedly, then swallows. "What do you mean, you didn't want to?"

"He– two Sundays ago, after you and Kenny left my house. He asked me a bunch of... really weird sexual questions and then he, ah–" Kyle stammers, looking at his boots. "He said he would f– ugh."

"He would what?"

"He said he was going to... fuck me," says Kyle, spitting out the word disgustedly, "and I let him– I fucking let him do it and I didn't want to. But I let him do it to me."

"Dude," says Stan, and he looks on the verge of tears himself. "I think that's rape."

Kyle says nothing.

"I think Cartman raped you," whispers Stan. "You need to take this to the police, like. As soon as possible."

"Stan," he says, sick to his stomach, "it's not rape if the person– comes. I... I did."

Stan shakes his head, seeming almost horrified. "Dude, it doesn't matter if you came or not. What matters is that you didn't want it."

"I didn't even know... what I was doing," Kyle says, trying not to cry again. "It all kind of went really fast, I didn't– I didn't mean for it to happen–"

"I'm gonna drive to the police station, okay?" asks Stan, starting up the engine. Kyle quickly lays his hand over Stan's.

"Please don't, Stan– I don't want to," he pleads.

"Kyle, it's really important that you report him as soon as possible," Stan says. "I really think you should."

"Okay, and what will the South Park police do, exactly?" Kyle replies. In all seriousness: considering how they handled Ms. Stevenson sleeping with his little brother and all the times Butters went "missing" as a child, not much.

Stan knows this as well as Kyle does, because he says, "The Denver police, then."

"Dude, it'll take us hours. Our parents will wonder where we are, it'll be... kind of a mess. Just,” Kyle sighs, “I just wanna go home. Okay? Let’s go back to your house, Stan.”

Stan is obviously upset, but he nods and pulls back onto the road. “At least think it over, okay?” he asks. “You can’t just allow Cartman to walk away from this unscathed.”

“Okay,” says Kyle, “I will.”

Back at Stan’s house, Sharon lets Kyle stay for dinner, and afterwards, they retreat to Stan’s room to finish up their APUSH homework. Kyle notices Stan staring at him worriedly over his textbook, and feels like a zoo animal. He doesn’t like it.

“Stan.”

“Huh?”

“Stop staring at me. I’m fine.”

“It’s not that!” Stan says, holding up a hand in defense.

“Then what?” Kyle asks, cocking an eyebrow at him.

“You– I think you’re, well. You’re cute. That’s all.” Stan blushes, red rising high in his cheeks.

Kyle can feel himself turning red too, and he might be sweating right now even though it’s February. “No you, dumbass,” he laughs nervously.

Stan’s fingers clutch the desk in a vice grip when he asks, “Can I– Is it okay if I, ah. Kiss you?”

“Yeah,” Kyle whispers, because his voice has just disappeared.

Stan just smiles, looking just as nervous as Kyle is, and kisses his shaking lips.

*

"Did you hear what happened to Wendy Testaburger?" asks Clyde on Wednesday morning before school, as Kyle is buying more cigarettes from him.

"No?"

"Yeah," Clyde nods solemnly, and digs through his backpack. "Apparently she's a he now, and someone spraypainted something on her locker."

"'She's a he'? What the fuck does that mean?" Kyle asks. Clyde can be quite inarticulate.

"Wendy's a tran-whatever," Clyde shrugs, lighting a joint from his shirt pocket. Clyde is oft to get high before school– it’s been that way since the seventh grade. "Told everyone yesterday during that gay club she made. Principal's making a huge stink about finding whoever did it. She's real mad about it."

Kyle furrows his brow. "Our principal is a dude, what do you mean she's mad?"

"Wendy, dumbass."

"Clyde, if Wendy is transgender, then he's a he, stupid," Kyle snaps.

"What the fuck is your problem with it? Are you a queer too or something?" Clyde asks, though Kyle knows he's not inherently or necessarily homophobic– just a bit of a social lemming. In a big way.

"Just give me that," Kyle says, a bit annoyed, and slaps the five dollars in Clyde's other hand when he grabs the Marlboros. Clyde might have called something after him as he storms away, but he doesn't care.

As Kyle walks down the hall, he realizes it isn't a very hard concept to grasp that Wendy– well, whatever name he is calling himself– is trans. He had a brief stint in experimenting with his gender identity back in the fourth grade, and honestly, it was the happiest that Kyle had ever seen him.

"Dude, look at this bullshit," says Kenny when he appears out of nowhere, grabbing Kyle's arm and tugging him toward Wendy's locker. He pushes them through the throng of students gathered around the offending locker. On the worn metal surface, the large, drippy-red spraypainted DIE WENDY TRANNYBURGER is jarring to look at. "Who the fuck would go this far?" Kenny asks, sounding slightly rhetorical.

But Kyle knows exactly who would go this far, because it is with a sick, sinking feeling in his stomach that he recognizes exactly whose handwriting it is.

*

In APUSH, Stan smiles bashfully at Kyle when they sit next to each other. Although Kyle would like very much to hold his hand for some comfort, with all the queer trauma going around the school today he'd rather not stir up more.

"Hey," Kyle says, grinning back. "You okay?"

"Mmm-hmm," Stan replies, and Kyle wants to ask him what he's thinking about– he wants to ask him everything, but someone unpleasant drops into the seat on Kyle's other side.

"Hey, fags," Cartman says smoothly. Unfortunately, he takes this class too. Somehow he ended up in the same APUSH period as Kenny, Stan, and Kyle, so it's the only class where the four of them converge in a single period besides lunch.

Kyle bristles, and narrows his eyes at Cartman. "Hear about Wendy lately?" he asks cooly.

"Oh, well, perhaps you haven't already heard her new handle, Kyle. He goes by Ben now," Cartman says, with a subtle air of disdain. "Isn't that lovely?"

"Woah– Wendy's trans?" asks Stan, looking to Kyle for guidance. "Well, good for him." Apparently Stan didn't catch the commotion around Ben's locker this morning.

"Yeah, and some dickhead spraypainted something shitty on his locker," Kyle says, glancing pointedly at Cartman, because there isn't a doubt in his mind that the only person that could act this childishly and this cruelly is him.

"That's fucked up, who would stoop that low?" Cartman says, looking mildly offended on Ben's behalf. "That's really fucked up, okay."

The bell rings before Kyle can think to reply to this, and Cartman looks at him smugly, like he just won a fight between them. Kyle scowls as Mrs. Sorenson stands in front of the class.

"Alrighty then, people," she says– this is her way of addressing them, and honestly, it weirds everyone out. "I hope you did that homework last night, because the Lend-Lease Bill is going to show up on the AP test, and you all had better know about it. Bebe, can you collect everyone's–"

"Eric Cartman to the principal's office immediately, I repeat, Eric Cartman to the principal's office," the scratchy PA system interrupts Mrs. Sorenson. She gives him a look of annoyance as he stands from the desk.

"Eric, just leave your homework on your desk and Bebe will pick it up," she sighs.

"Oops," he shrugs as he shuffles out of the room, "I must have forgotten it."

There is a great pause after the door slams shut, and Mrs. Sorenson rolls her eyes, visibly upset. “Okay, people, let’s just...” She sighs. “Bebe, get that homework as fast as you can, okay?”

*

At lunch the next day, Butters runs to the table with an ostensible urgency. “Fellas! Fellas!” he yells, tossing his sack lunch onto the table. Stan looks up from his tomato soup, startled, and Kyle wants to scoop him up and run away from this miserable fucking playpen full of teenagers.

“What happened now, Butters?” asks Kenny.

“You’ll never believe what they found out!”

“What who found out?” Kyle asks. Stan rubs his knuckles over Kyle's under the table. Kenny grins at them, pretending not to notice.

"When Eric got called to the principal yesterday, it was because they had video footage of him sneakin' into the school at night!" Butters says, almost breathlessly. "He's the one who spraypainted Wendy's locker!" Of course, Kyle knew this from the very fucking start– he has some sort of intuition for sniffing out Cartman's shit, somehow– but he stays quiet.

Kenny makes an unpleasant face at this. “Oh, of fucking course. How could I honestly be surprised?” he says, giving his food a particularly rageful stab with his fork. “What a shithead. That’s fucking pathetic, dude.”

“It’s Ben now, not Wendy,” corrects Stan. “What did he even spraypaint, though? Like, what did it say?”

“It said,” Kenny spits every word with contempt, “‘Die Wendy Trannyburger’.”

“Classy,” says Stan sardonically, and takes another spoonful of his soup.

Butters shakes his head, chewing at his thumbnail. “How awful,” he says sadly. “Wend– I mean– Ben doesn’t deserve that. Nobody does.”

“Obviously not,” Kenny says shortly, and stands up, carrying his tray with him. “I’m not hungry anymore. See you in APUSH, Stan and Kyle.”

“I’ll come with!” exclaims Butters the perpetual peacemaker, and grabs the sack lunch to run after Kenny.

When Kenny and Butters have long left, Stan turns to Kyle, a worried expression curling around his features. “Dude,” he whispers, leaning in close so that Kyle can smell all of him– a strangely lovely mixture of tomato soup breath and Speed Stick deodorant. “Cartman’s not gonna be able to get away with this one. Not when there’s hard evidence against him, in video form.”

Kyle supposes this is true; Cartman has a way with convincing everyone around him that he is never, in fact, guilty of any accusations or allegations made against him. Either that, or the townspeople of South Park are too afraid to take action against him. For example, the time he made that eighth grader eat his own parents. “Yeah,” he nods. “Think they’re gonna do anything to him?”

“I hope so,” Stan sighs, shaking his head.

“You think Kenny’s okay?” asks Kyle. As far as he knows, he’s the only person Kenny’s told (perhaps besides his sister) about his gender fluidity, and Kyle can only imagine that this entire situation hits very close to home for him.

“Yeah, probably,” Stan says. “Butters is with him, so I’m not as worried about him as I would be if he were alone right now. I think he’s taking it pretty hard.”

Kyle moves a fraction of a millimeter closer to Stan on the lunch table bench, and Stan smiles at him.

“Hey,” says Stan. “You wanna ditch the rest of today and go to Breckenridge?”

Stan has never suggested ditching before– and although this violates every moral code Kyle has been fastidiously instilled with since he was very young, he feels that perhaps he’s in need of the break. With all of the crazy shit going on, maybe it would be nice to get away for the afternoon. “Alright,” Kyle grins, and Stan grins back– a wild, daring smile that makes Kyle go dizzy.

They sneak out to the student parking lot during passing period between lunch and fifth period, being careful that Mr. Adler doesn't catch them– after a long-standing career at the Elementary school as the shop teacher, he finally decided to opt for a less stressful job as Student Manager at the high school, which basically served as a glorified security guard who was meant to catch kids if they tried to cut classes. In his old age, though, he isn't too great at being observant enough to catch anyone, just mostly yell at kids for screwing around. Stan and Kyle are relatively safe, and as Stan quickly pulls out of the student lot, Kyle feels a sort of high– something overwhelming and awesome, and it's intensified by the fact that he's sharing this moment with Stan.

On the way to Breckenridge, Stan blasts the oldies station full volume, because Sweet Home Alabama is on and since they both agree that it's a terrible song, they also equally agree that it's the best song to drive longer distances to. Stan holds his hand the entire way, and when they drive down a particularly long and empty stretch of the freeway, he shouts over the music to make himself heard.

"Kyle, I– I think I love you," he says loudly, and Kyle’s entire body tingles with adrenaline.

"I think I love you too," he shouts back, and he knows he couldn't possibly find a way to feel more alive.

*

hey kyle

Kyle looks up from his AP LangComp homework and reaches for his vibrating phone. He is surprised to find a text from Cartman, of all people. Against his better judgment, he replies.

What do you want.

The immediate reply from him is damn dont period rage at me. look out the window

Reluctantly, Kyle leans back to lift his curtain away so that a tiny sliver of the outside is visible. What takes him off guard, though, is Cartman standing in the snow, looking up at him. Kyle quirks an eyebrow at him when he motions for him to come outside.

When Kyle pulls his coat and boots on and goes outside, Cartman looks at him ruefully.

"Hey, man," he sighs, almost sadly.

"What, Cartman?" Kyle asks, feeling regretful that he even responded to his text.

"Nothing, it's just– why don't you walk with me for a sec?"

Kyle's heart slams in his ribcage. "Where are we going?" he asks, trying to keep a deadpan.

"Just down to Shakey's or something, c'mon," Cartman says. "I just really need to talk to you, Kyle. It may be the last time."

Going to a public place makes Kyle feel a bit better about going with Cartman, so he agrees and locks the door behind him. The only person who's home right now is his father, but he most likely won't even notice Kyle is gone.

It's a mostly silent walk over to Shakey's Pizza, and when they get there, Cartman holds the door for him and everything. Kyle is very put off by all of this– something's up, and he shivers to think of what Cartman may want from him.

"So," Cartman starts, once they sit at a table. "You must have heard about what happened."

"You mean the thing where you called Ben a tranny?" Kyle asks, frowning.

Cartman sighs like Kyle is slow, and takes a drink from his soda. "Yes, Kyle. That thing."

"So, what about it?"

"She's sending me out to Nebraska. My mother, I mean. I'm going to live with my aunt and uncle. Principal Hartford agreed with her– my mom hopes I'll learn to be good again," he says, tracing the water droplets on the table from his sweating drink.

Kyle did not expect this. Liane Cartman is so fucking enabling of her son's antics that it's surprising to hear that she's finally doing something about it. "When do you leave?" he asks.

"Tomorrow morning," says Cartman. His eyes light up briefly when their large pepperoni pizza is served. "That's why it was imperative that I talked to you, Kyle," he says through an enormous mouthful of pizza.

"Are you going to school there, or?" Kyle asks, picking the pepperoni off of his pizza and mopping the grease off with a napkin.

"Yeah, I will," Cartman says. "Though it'll be okay, I think."

"Why's that?"

"Because I finally achieved it, Kyle. My biggest accomplishment, that is. I've finally soiled and destroyed you," he smiles, taking another drink of his soda.

Kyle turns red and shivers a bit, angry. "You did not do either of those things."

"Oh, Kyle, but that's where you're wrong," Cartman says, starting on his second slice of pizza. "Because now that you totally whored out for me, you've got an eternal reminder of me how disgusting you are and how much you belong to me."

"I didn't do it on purpose," Kyle says firmly, trying to keep calm– but his eyes are beginning to sting at the edges. "You forced me, Cartman. That's rape."

Cartman laughs, as if he just heard a child talking about his imaginary friend. "And who told you that, your faggy hippie boyfriend? Or the social justice tranny?"

"I'm not going to stay around for any more of this bullshit," Kyle says, standing up. He hopes Cartman doesn't notice that his hands are shaking.

"Face it, Kyle. No matter how hard you scrub, the stain of what you did will always be there," Cartman calls after him when he walks in the direction of the restrooms.

In the men's room, he frantically calls Stan, hyperventilating. In the middle of the second ring, Stan answers with a lovely, calm, and very unfitting "Hello?"

"Stan– are you– where are you right now?" he asks, trying not to cry.

"I'm just coming from walking Sparky, why? What happened?" Stan sounds increasingly concerned.

"I'm at Shakey's– Cartman, he..." Kyle swallows. "Can you come pick me up?"

"Yeah– yeah, I'm starting the car right now," Stan says, and it's true: Kyle can hear the engine revving up.

"Come to the back entrance," Kyle shouts before he gets disconnected, and Stan yells back an affirmative before hanging up.

Kyle sneaks out to the back door of Shakey's and sees Stan's car already speeding towards him a few hundred feet down the street. The moment Stan pulls up in front of him, he jumps in and buckles his seatbelt.

"What happened?" Stan asks, looking a mixture of worried, relieved, and sick.

"Just drive," Kyle says shakily, staring straight ahead.

"Where should I–"

"Just go, Stan!" he shouts, and immediately feels bad for yelling at Stan, because he wordlessly follows Kyle's command and peels out of the Shakey's parking lot.

"Would you just tell me what happened, please?" asks Stan, almost frantically.

Kyle wipes tears away from his eyes, angrily. He didn't even notice he was crying. "Cartman fucking– took me to Shakey's just to remind me about... what he did."

"Kyle," Stan says, keeping a firm focus on the road, his voice steady and calm. "I'm going to drive to Denver so we can talk to the police. Okay?"

"But he's leaving for Nebraska tomorrow," Kyle says. "He just told me. It's too late."

"All the more reason to go tonight, then," replies Stan.

"Stan, if you take me to the police I'm going to jump right out of this fucking car. I'll do it."

"No you won't."

Kyle sighs, frustrated, because Stan is always right. "I really just don't want to go to the police about this, okay?"

"I know you don't," says Stan, merging onto the freeway, "but it's the right thing to do. Remember when we were kids, Kyle? And you were always so eager to bring Cartman to justice?"

Kyle scowls. "Yes."

"Where's that kid now? He's in there somewhere, I know it," says Stan. "He needs you to help him right now. Okay?"

"Okay," Kyle says reluctantly, though he means it. Stan is right. He hadn't meant for the incident to shake him so off-kilter that his morality was skewed beyond recognition, but he supposes if anyone could bring him back to reality, it's Stan.

The car is silent while Stan drives to Denver, but it's not one of their comfortable ones. It's a nervous, staticky silence, the kind that stems from too little to say and too much to worry about. Kyle tries to think of how he can get his old self back– he thinks of poor Kenny discovering Ben's locker, and Butters with his pink nail polish, and how neither of them are safe in their environments. He thinks of Ben coming out to a school full of ignoramuses, and all the kids who hide who they are every day, just to fit in, like Craig and Tweek, always just boxing partners but never partners. He thinks of himself, and he thinks of Stan. He thinks of Big Gay Al and Mr. Slave, reduced to nothing more but one-dimensional gay jokes in their town, and Mr. Garrison, forever hating himself. He thinks mostly of Cartman, and how it makes his blood boil to know that he will always be covering for himself, manipulating his way out of everything. This does it for Kyle, and by the time they're walking up the steps to the station, Kyle feels the old spark of passion waking his nerves again.

"Do you want me to come in with you?" asks Stan, looking nervous as he squeezes Kyle's hand.

"No thank you," Kyle says, and kisses him firmly, confidently, in front of everyone around them. "This is my loose end to tie."

And as Kyle asks to speak with an officer, he feels as if, after an eternity of darkness, he has held Stan's hand and turned on the light.