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It’s Kyle’s birthday, and he feels like shit.
That second slice of strawberry cake was one big fat mistake. He’s nauseous, swollen, and every sluggish step down the hall to his room feels like white noise and regret.
Knees starting to buckle, Kyle almost considers himself lucky when he crashes face-first against his pillows instead of the floor. Before the pain hits, that is. Kyle clutches at his stomach, whimpering from the pressure, all the way up till he’s abruptly rolled over. Stan’s concern is like a too-heavy blanket: warm and inviting at first, suffocating the longer it’s over him. His eyes roll in slight annoyance, only to snap open when Stan’s phone clatters across the nightstand. Because, despite the countless times he’s warned Stan that it’ll end up broken that way, the keyboard is still slid out. Kyle opens his mouth with full intent to nitpick, but a flash of a memory freezes him.
“Kyle, if you want a girl to like you, you have to be nice to her. You can’t treat her like you would your little friends. Girls are softer. More delicate. You understand, bubby?”
Ma’s advice hasn’t failed him yet, even if his past relationships only ever met their ends through fiery means. Still, as Kyle watches Stan trade his long sleeve for a t-shirt—with a faint blush searing freckled cheeks—he wonders when exactly he’ll stop feeling like this. Stan isn’t a girl, and they’ve been friends since before they even learned to count.
“Did you brush your teeth?”
“Huh?” Stan looks up from his current predicament—dragging the blankets out from under Kyle, who is doing jackshit to help—then nods. “Oh. Yeah, dude. Thanks.”
Kyle has a sneaking suspicion that Stan is lying, but when he finally slips beneath the covers, a breath of mint smacks him square in the face. It makes him feel a little guilty for having doubted Stan, but not that much. He still pisses in the shower, for fuck’s sake. The only reason Kyle knows at all is because he’d caught Stan in the act weeks ago. There weren’t any clean towels left, so he brought some, and… God. Sick bastard.
Stan sidles away from the edge until they’re eye-to-eye, breaths mingling as they share the too-small pillow. His irises are so viciously blue, though not like a summer sky or Tolkien’s freshly cleaned pool. Stan’s eyes appear to hold the ocean itself—dark and deep to the point of fear, yet far too captivating to possibly ignore. Kyle swallows dryly as they lay there, trying with all his might not to slide back, because it’ll be weird if he does. This might stop entirely, and he isn’t really sure why, but he doesn’t want that.
To be honest, Kyle is increasingly surprised by Stan’s continuous agreement to sleep over. They’re not kids anymore, which is glaringly apparent every time they squeeze into bed together. It’d be one thing to sleep separately, but they don’t; they never have, and it’s no secret that Stan fights about it with Wendy. More and more—almost every week. Kyle doesn’t have to wonder why they’re on another infamous break at the moment. He just knows. It’s obvious. Part of him is filled with a sickening sense of pride, while another screams and cries about how said feeling is wrong. Disgusting.
Whatever. It’s his birthday, and he shouldn’t have to think about it.
At least for one night.
Something startlingly warm brushes across Kyle’s forehead, though when he looks up, Stan doesn’t make any move to stop. If anything, the attention only makes him work harder, his calloused thumb rubbing slow circles into Kyle’s worry lines. It’s strange, but not really. Not when it’s them. Kyle resists the urge to smile, not wanting it to stop so soon. He knows that it can’t last forever, and as Stan’s hand falls between them, Kyle has a very-super-not-normal thought. What if it could? What if it did? He presses against the pillow in lieu of continuing that idea, his mouth squished on the off chance he tries to reveal anything in his sleep—like these feelings that just won’t disappear.
Ike had alluded to it when they’d passed out together a few nights ago. They’d been up late in the living room, trying to make their way through the Dark Carnival campaign with scorched retinas and two mostly empty bowls of Cool Ranch Doritos. Kyle woke up the next morning with a mouthful of lint, courtesy of the three pillows stacked over his face. After flailing so hard it made Ma shout from her bedroom, Ike viciously smacked him with a fourth pillow, grumbling about how he dreams too damn loud.
Kyle doesn’t remember much, but it was nothing. The dream itself was a culmination of bad luck. For example: sweating beneath loads of fabric, the lingering taste of salt in his mouth, and the fact that he’d rejected Ma’s idea of a pool party two days earlier.
It’s not as if Kyle didn’t want to. He had deeply considered it, but then he remembered how puberty is doing wonders for everyone except him. He’s not tall—not much of anything apart from wide hips and thin shoulders. Kyle hardly checks the scale anymore because he doesn’t need to look to know where all of his new weight is going, and it isn’t to any masculine places. Still, he promised Ma that he’d think about it. Then, just as he anticipated, his meet-up with Stan at the basketball court shattered any remaining ‘what ifs’. One glance at his growing biceps in a sleeveless tank was more than enough to ditch the idea entirely, even if his mom was a bit miffed about it.
Thus, shitty luck, an ass of a brother, and a normal (re: super fucked-up) sense of self-worth had given Kyle a dream he couldn’t make sense of. That’s all. It’s not a big deal. They’re just weird hallucinations at the end of the night. So what? Is it a crime to want a body he can be proud of—a body like Stan’s, who was drenched and sun-bathed in a way that looked scarily similar to the borderline pornographic Mel Gibson poster above Cartman’s bed? No. Of course not. If anything, Kyle is the victim here. He didn’t have a choice, because no matter where he looked, every path led back to black nails and the beads of water that clung to Stan’s olive-toned skin. It seemed as if there were an endless supply, some grand illusion that kept Stan wet, even in the sun-baked yard.
The water stroked down Stan’s torso like he was kodesh, pooled in the band of his swim-shorts as if leaving him was unnatural. Stan’s hair was darker than usual, flung out of his dusky blue eyes with a strong arm, and it meant nothing. Nothing at all.
“Hey, Kyle?”
“Mm,” Kyle mumbles. Stan has always been slow to fall asleep, which would be fine under normal circumstances, like not being close enough to kiss. This weirdness has gotten out of hand, too, because shit like this is something he would normally never think about, and the excuse of ‘it’s just puberty’ gets weaker with each passing day.
“It’s kinda dumb,” Stan starts. He shifts like he’s nervous, which isn’t a surprise given how prone he’s been to self-doubt lately, but it does have the unintended effect of spreading his scent—woodsy, the smell of clean sweat. Kyle presses his face even harder into the pillow, trying not to think about what it means to want to move closer.
“S’not dumb, dude.” Kyle holds back an almost instantaneous complaint of being tired because he’ll only regret it when Stan retreats. Instead, he opts to be gentle. “Tell me.”
“Nothing. It’s just…” Stan rolls onto his back, and Kyle opens one eye to look at him. “It’s like, I don’t even know why I keep thinking about it? Maybe ‘cause no one else seemed to care?” Kyle turns to face him properly, feeling more than a little curious about what Stan means. The only other people who’d been here all day were their friends, so what was there to say? That Kenny was late and cryptic as hell, like usual?
Kyle watches Stan grapple for the right words beside him, his brows pinching as if the idea of Tolkien’s gift—a hundred-dollar Visa gift card—still didn’t sit right with him. He’d acted strange after it had been passed to Kyle, staring down at their brand-new shared copy of Grand Theft Auto V with an odd look. That’s probably nowhere near what Stan is trying to say, but Kyle can’t think of much else. Well, except for one thing.
“It’s Craig,” Stan answers. Kyle immediately raises an eyebrow, wondering what the hell Craig could have possibly done aside from sit there and stare into space. Right as he tries to ask, though, Stan continues on. “I don’t think he talked to Tweek even once today. It’s like they’re not even dating. And, like, I know, dude. It’s probably gay or whatever to pick up on it, but. You know what I mean? You saw that shit too, right?”
“Um. What?” Kyle says—bewildered. Of all the things he might have expected, this didn’t break the top hundred. Even a thousand would still be too much for Craig.
“I know!” Stan flips over with a light gleam in his eyes, which is usually a sign that he’s been spending far too much time with Cartman. “That’s so fucking weird, right? What’s up with that? I tried asking Clyde, but he’s kind of a dunce. So, then I asked Bebe—”
Kyle stares at him. Blankly.
He’s still trying to piece together the information from before, and Stan deflates.
“...But she didn’t really know much. Well, she had this theory about Kenny—” Stan’s eyes soften, probably from Kyle’s increasing confusion, and then he shrugs. “Whatever. It sounded like she was taking the piss, anyway. So, you really didn’t notice anything?”
“No.” Kyle shifts slightly, angling his eyes away from Stan’s and towards the ceiling. “Maybe. I don’t know. At least not for them. Well, there was one thing, but…” His voice trails off. Honestly, Kyle still isn’t sure what to make of the incident. Or if he ever will.
Ike had cornered Kyle on his way back from the bathroom, then leaned into whisper, “Some of your friends are gone, KyKy. Dunno. Mom wants you to find them for cake.”
Kyle knew that it was a lie because birthdays are the one day a year where neither of them has to do shit, but he had been too tired to argue. With a grumbled “fine,” Kyle had turned on his heel and stupidly wandered around the house like a jackass. He didn’t even know who was missing or if they’d passed him somewhere along the way. Several empty rooms and a whole lot of thinking later, Kyle decided he would strangle Ike if the garage was empty. No doubt. This dumbass birthday prank wasn’t even good.
The light was already on when he stepped inside. In hindsight, that probably should have been his first clue, but it did nothing to stop the strangled gasp he let out upon seeing Cartman and Wendy lip-locked against his mom’s crappy minivan. Wendy’s eyes had gone wide immediately, her hands already outstretched as she turned, and the vivid familiarity of forest green on someone else had spurred Kyle into moving his ass.
He spun around like the news was life-threatening, which it likely would be when Stan heard about it, but Wendy stopped him. Manicured nails dug into Kyle’s thin forearm, so tight that he thought he might not actually live long enough to step foot out of the garage. He’d looked back then, yet Wendy couldn’t even meet his eyes. She was so… ashamed. Downtrodden, meek, not headstrong or smug like Kyle has always known her to be. Although, what really sold Kyle was the suspicious lack of Cartman’s vitriol.
He was as pale as a ghost—completely and utterly afraid.
As if he had something to lose.
“Kyle?” Stan waves a hand in front of Kyle’s face, stirring the air around him while his brain plays catch-up. “There was what? Tweek? Did he say something to you, dude?”
“Tweek?” Kyle’s face twists, then quickly clears as Stan’s eyes narrow. Shit, shitshit. “Oh, no. Nothing. I was thinking about Ike. He, uh…” Kyle scrambles for something believable—anything to fix his mistake—before he finally lands on, “...has a girlfriend?”
It’s not a lie, per se. Kyle is absolutely certain that all the time Ike spends at the park is less ‘play’ and more ‘crushing on Tricia Tucker’. Of all people to become brother in laws with, it just had to be Craig. Speaking of, they need to do something about that.
“No fuckin’ way.” Stan moves closer, lightly grasping Kyle’s cheek. It’s only to turn his head, but the slight touch makes his skin burn. Luckily, the moonlight is at his back, so his face should be darkened enough to keep him in the clear. “You serious? Who?”
“Guess all you want, dude. You’ll never even get close, seriously.” Stan takes a second to ponder this, and Kyle snorts at how thoughtful his expression turns. Dumbass.
“Shut up, Ky. I’m thinking.”
Kyle bites back a grin. He’s never been one for nicknames, but this one always makes his heart skip a beat. Even before this: the awakening, or whatever bullshit Google tried to spoon-feed him after he started researching his freaky symptoms over a year ago. It was back when they were just two kids plopped into daycare, their eyes locked with each other’s because they happened to mimic the same voice. It felt special, even then.
“Can I call you Ky?”
Something only Kyle could ever have.
“Okay!”
Stan drops his palm over Kyle’s eyes, groaning as he kicks his feet beneath the blankets. Kyle grabs Stan’s wrist in an attempt to pull him off, but he presses harder.
“What’s your deal, shithead?!” Kyle turns as he laughs, trying to muffle the sound against his pillow, and Stan’s heavy hand follows him all the way down. “Let me go!”
“You’re thinking too loud!” Stan whisper-yells, his free hand reaching for Kyle’s arms. “Jesus Christ, your eyes are boring into my skull, dude. I’ll figure it out on my own!”
“Oh god,” Kyle groans. “You’re such a shitty liar.” He rolls onto his stomach, squirming across the sheets to escape Stan’s grip. “This is all just one big stall for time! Isn’t it?! You don’t have a clue, Stan!”
Stan flips Kyle with ease, looming over him with a wicked smile. His fingers curve like shadows, taking on a sharp claw shape that darts for the ticklish spot hiding in the bend of Kyle’s waist at an alarming rate. Kyle chokes back a high, scared noise as he shifts out of the way. It’s nearly too late, and he grapples for a grip on Stan’s forearms.
“Stop, stopstop!” Kyle dodges another grab for his side, panting from the sheer effort it takes to hold Stan off these days. “Cut it out, come on! You know how my Ma is! Stan!”
Stan relents instantly. Kyle swallows down another laugh, lest they start all over again.
“Fuck. She’s even scarier after dark, dude.” Stan settles beside Kyle again, fixing the blankets with one strong swing. “No offense, I love her. I just mean… You know…”
“Yeah, man. I know.”
Kyle rubs his face against the pillow with a sigh, eyes closed and warm all over. His heart is beating a little too quickly, but the fog of sleep isn’t all that far from where he left it. Shortly after he’s settled, though, Stan taps the pillow twice, and Kyle peeks out.
“Happy birthday,” Stan whispers, slightly breathless. “One more?” Kyle hums, his mouth catching on a soft yawn. It’s Stan’s way of asking for a final round—which can apply to anything—but here in the dark, it’s only conversation he wants. “What’d you wish for?”
You, Kyle doesn’t say. To always be around, even if I don’t know what that means.
“Won’t come true if I tell you,” Kyle mutters. “You know that.”
“Fine. Wanna know what I wished for then?”
Kyle sits up on one elbow, peering down at him with incredulous eyes. “What are you, Cartman?” He shoves Stan, who has to grip the sheets in order to stay on top of the bed. “Why the hell would you make a wish on my birthday? You’re such a dick, dude.”
“The more, the merrier, right?” Stan dodges the next hit effortlessly, then swipes his fist under Kyle’s arm, throwing him face-down against the pillow. Kyle readjusts with a huff. “I don’t know. It just felt right, I guess.” Stan reaches out to grab Kyle’s loosely curled fingers as he says this, like it’s a secret of some kind, and Kyle bites his cheek.
“We always share. You know?”
“Sure.” Kyle nods. That makes sense. The hours they spent dicking around in the new video game downstairs is living proof of that, but this feels different. They haven’t held hands since they were toddlers, probably, and when Stan doesn’t let go, Kyle wonders if he’s supposed to bring his other hand up too. “What’d you wish for?” His fingers trail along the sheets, inching upward. “You asked if I wanna know, right? I do. So? Tell me.”
Stan’s eyes flit away. “I don’t really get it.”
Kyle’s arm accidentally bumps Stan’s in his slow, weird-as-fuck process, and he mentally prepares himself for this bubble to burst. Screw it. Kyle closes his fingers around their intertwined hands, drawing Stan’s attention back in a blink. His gaze lingers there for a long, long time, to the point that Kyle begins to feel even more self-conscious than he already is. His palms start to sweat, but right as he gathers the courage to pull back, Stan wraps his free hand around their knuckles. Two for two.
“I want to tell you,” Stan says at last. “I’m just… not sure how, yet.” Their eyes meet across the pillow. Kyle isn’t sure what the look on Stan’s face means, but it makes his cheeks warm. “I know you hate it, but do you think you could wait? Just a little longer?”
For a split second, it’s almost like they’re not talking about wishes anymore.
Kyle dips his head, a slow back-and-forth motion. The pillow squishes his cheek when he stills, something that would normally bug him for hours on end until it was fixed, but it’s the last thing on his mind now. All he sees is Stan, the question within his eyes.
“Why wouldn’t I?”
Stan smiles. Slow. Serene. His eyes slip shut for the first time all night, like Kyle’s answer was the only thing keeping them open. After a few beats of silently watching, Kyle closes his too. He’s been in this position enough times to know that they’ll wake up in the morning without an inch of space between them—no matter how much they started with—entangled so thoroughly that Kyle will ask himself how they ever lived so far apart. Stan always wakes with the sun, but he’ll stay tucked behind Kyle regardless.
And Kyle will wonder about that, too.