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The specialist didn't help, but Kyle hadn't expected them to. He sat inside another office with warm-colored carpet and sparsely-decorated walls, on another cheap couch worn into softness from overuse, listening to another woman wearing pointed heels and coiffed hair ask him questions about his life for an hour's appointment. He ran through his neuroses and traumas with no problem: he had almost died several times as a young child; he was bipolar; he self-harmed; he had insomnia; his mother was overbearing and his father spineless; he'd been severely bullied for his religion and gender presentation, at times to the point of prepubescent sexual abuse; his parents had adopted a sibling that, though he felt protective over, he could not help but be jealous of; he was on a mood stabilizer and an antidepressant; he'd been hospitalized four times.
"That's an option we could consider again," the specialist said to him, to which Kyle had said, "Fuck you."
The day of the visit to the specialist, Kyle was not feeling swayed towards either mania nor depression. He was not exactly happy nor sad; he was intermittent, floating. He was thinking about his return to college, which would occur in six days, and about how he was going to explain to his parents and Stan that he needed no additional help. He left the specialist's office without making another appointment, got in his car and drove straight to Stan's house.
It was snowing softly, freshly. Kyle hated the snow, hated how quiet it was afterwards, like somebody had turned the world on mute. It made him uncomfortable; it made him want to scream. But today, Kyle was okay, and so Kyle parked his car in the Marsh's driveway and calmly entered their house. He had a spare key, Stan's initials carved into it, that he wore around his neck. Stan had a copy of the Broflovski house key with Kyle's initials that he wore as well; they'd given them to each other for graduation. Friendship necklaces, they called them. Kyle thought they were the gayest shit ever, but he wore his with pride, loved it, and had other things to worry about than whether or not he and Stan were, in fact, gay.
Stan was on the couch, watching a football game on television. Considering he fast-forwarded through the commercials, meaning it was on DVR, Kyle figured it couldn't be that important, and announced his entrance by kicking Stan in the shin.
"Hey!" Stan pressed the pause button and sprung up, tackling Kyle. But Kyle was quick, elusive; he side-stepped and Stan's weight crashed downwards instead. He ended up on his knees. "Some welcome, dude."
"I saw the specialist," Kyle said while Stan stood back up. He was wearing gym shorts, socks and no shirt, looking like he'd just finished working out. "It was, as predicted, total fucking bullshit."
Stan swiped sweaty bangs out of his eyes and sighed. "Do you want to, like. Talk about it?"
"Not really."
"Want to watch the game with me?"
"Nope."
"Well, what do you want to do?"
Kyle considered it. There were a lot of snappy things he could say in response: be normal, not be fucked up, not have to take my medicine, not have to see specialists, sleep an entire eight hours at one time. Instead, he said, "I want to go to the beach."
"The beach is in California. We can't just go to California."
"We can so just go to California. We're adults."
"I don't feel like an adult," Stan said. He pinched the bridge of his nose; Kyle could see just the barest hint of black hair poking out from underneath his armpits. Stan looked pale, like he needed some sun. They'd been cooped up in South Park for three weeks for Christmas break, and now it was the dead of January, snowing outside, and Kyle wanted to run in the ocean. Not swim, run.
"Well, you're twenty-two. That's adult age. Sorry 'bout it."
"I'm a young adult," Stan said. "And you're younger than me." He smiled in a way that was almost lecherous. "So I'm responsible for you."
"Dude, come on. Let's go. I have the money." Kyle did; he did editing for technical work and was famous for his clipped, efficient style. Barely sleeping gave you a lot of free time and he had the tendency to get hyper focused. It was the crashing afterwards that sucked, but his schedule was flexible, so.
"I can't just up and leave for California, dude. I have responsibilities."
"Your only responsibility is me."
"My parents would be worried."
"Tell them that you're going? It's not that big of a deal.'
"What about your parents?"
"They trust you." And then, Kyle played that card: "It would make me happy."
Kyle had convinced Stan to do many things because it would make him happy, ever since Kyle started to show signs of mental instability. It started with small things, like asking Stan to get him coffee before school or go to a movie with him when Stan was supposed to be at football practice, but it had escalated into much larger requests. Most notably was the time Stan had cut a family vacation to Georgia (it was something geological, for Randy, and it was fucking Georgia, anyway) to fly back across the country and comfort Kyle last year while Ike was doing something particularly prodigious in hockey, which he played at an already professional level, slated to become the youngest NHL player ever. Sometimes Kyle felt bad about manipulating Stan in this way, but Stan just kept doing what Kyle asked him to, no questions, little complaint, and it did make Kyle feel better to see Stan, sort of. At least at first. At least in the moment.
And now Kyle watched Stan's eyes soften and drain, his resolve weaken. They turned a more watery, mystical blue. This was the time that Kyle liked best: when Stan melted into something amorphous that Kyle could wrap himself in and feel alright, if just for a few seconds.
"It would really make you happy?"
"The happiest."
An hour later they packed themselves and a few days' worth of supplies into Kyle's tiny car, which they took because a) it was parked in the driveway and b) it had better gas mileage. Kyle would drive the first leg of the journey, and then Stan the rest of the way, and Kyle hoped to sleep. He generally slept better in cars, the thrum of the road calming him like it would a small child.
"Is this crazier than the time you flew home from Georgia?" Kyle asked. He wasn't looking at Stan, but at the road. The Now Leaving South Park Sign calmed him.
"You know I don't like that word," Stan said, referring to Kyle's use of crazy. Kyle rolled his eyes. "But no. That was pretty intense."
"I needed you then," Kyle said, quietly.
"Yeah," Stan said, also very quietly. "Well. Georgia was stupid. I can't believe my dad made us all go."
"I rescued you," Kyle said, and they laughed, because they both knew it was the opposite.
Already pretty late, the sun began to set. It was full-on dark when they stopped at a truck stop diner on the Colorado-Utah boulder. The food was terrible, but the stars were out in full, and they paused on their way out to stand in the parking lot and stare up at the sky.
"You know," Stan said, looking at Kyle. The back of their hands were touching.
Kyle waited a few seconds for Stan to keep speaking, then looked back at him. His face was lit by the harsh parking lot lighting on one side, making the other side look so dramatic. His hair was swept across his forehead, there were pimples along the ridge of his hairline and he needed to shave, stubble on his chin. Kyle furrowed his brow. "What?"
"Never mind," Stan said. He turned his head back at the sky. "Look. There's Orion."
It was a few hours into Utah that Kyle bolted awake from some perfectly good sleep in the passenger's seat, remembering that he'd forgotten his medication at home. "Fuck!" he screamed at the top of his lungs, banging his hands down on the dashboard.
The car jerked; luckily, there were no others around, and Stan swerved off to the side. He put the car in park and immediately leaned over the console, taking Kyle's hands and inspecting them, presumably for injury. "What?" he asked.
"I forgot my meds," Kyle said. "They're in my bedside table at home."
Stan let go of Kyle's hands. "We have to go back."
"No." Kyle pulled his hands away. "It's just a few days. I'll be fine."
"Kyle," Stan said. Now he grabbed Kyle's face, making him look him in the eyes. Kyle darted his own away, quickly, his heart picking up speed. "You can't just. Not take your medicine."
"Maybe it'll help me," Kyle said. He crossed his arm over his chest and snapped his head out of Stan's grip. "Look, we've come this far. It's not worth it. I'll be fine, I promise."
"Last week you tried to kill yourself."
"I didn't try to kill myself! I cut myself. There's a difference. Besides, I'm fine, Stan! I'm not manic! I'm not depressed! Goddammit Don't fucking-micromanage me!" Kyle unbuckled his seat belt and opened his car door, swinging his legs outside. He needed to feel the cold breeze on his skin, which was heating up, and needed to stare out at the Utah nothingness. The blood rushing in his ears and the sound of his heartbeat ensured it was loud enough for him, though it was so quiet all around them, so calm.
"Kyle," Stan pleaded from the other side. "I'm not a doctor, but-"
"That's right," Kyle mumbled. He put his elbows on his knees, his chin in his hand, and looked down at the ground. "You're not a doctor. So don't act like one."
Stan seemed to have nothing to say to that. Kyle became cognizant of the radio; he wished it was playing a relevant song, for the poetic quality of it, but it wasn't. It was playing the beginning of Africa by Toto. And Stan seemed to become aware of it, too, because he was singing, suddenly, his voice bouncing along with the lyrics:
"It's gonna take a lot to drag me away from you."
Kyle immediately responded. "There's nothing a hundred men or more could ever do."
Then, together: "I bless the rains down in Africa!"
And the moment was diffused. Kyle swung himself back inside and Stan turned the song up; they sang it together, stumbling over the parts they didn't know too well, and laughed until they were red in the face. And maybe it was a little relevant, and maybe they were going to do the things they never had, and Stan vocalized that floaty instrumental part in the middle, and on they rolled.
When the song was over Stan turned the radio back down, as a song they didn't care about enough started to play. "Wendy and I danced to that in middle school," he said.
"Yeah, I know. I remember. I was with-Red? I think? We were fourteen?"
"Yup. The eighth grade formal."
"I remember that awful tie of yours," Kyle said.
"You picked that out!"
"Dude. I was fucking with you."
"I'm pretty sure Kenny spiked the punch," Stan said, and it was a conversation they'd had many times before. "'Cause I didn't puke on Wendy when she let me get to second base."
"Red tried to kiss me and I panicked so I punched her in the nose," Kyle groaned.
"And you ran to me." Stan was smiling.
"And they were playing that fucking song again," Kyle said, laughing. "I don't think Red ever talked to me again."
"Whatever. I heard she's living on some commune in Hawaii where they harvest coffee beans to, like, earn their keep."
"Seriously?"
"Yeah, Wendy said. She's pretty reliable."
"Wait. You still keep in touch with Wendy?"
"Yeah?"
"Oh." Kyle drummed his fingers on his knee, the soft pat-pat-pat of skin against denim filling the car. "I didn't know that."
"We Skype every once in a while. She's going to law school after graduation."
"Good for her," Kyle said, distantly.
"She's got a boyfriend up there. His name is Drake. Like the artist."
Kyle snorted at the fact that Stan referred to Drake as an artist, and also at relief. So Stan didn't still carry a torch for Wendy, whom Kyle did not know was still in his life, and he normally knew everything. Maybe he was supposed to assume Wendy was still there, as her absence had never been indicated, but Kyle also hadn't thought about Wendy-or anybody besides himself, his family and Stan-in a very long time. He resented the idea that anybody else held an important position in Stan's heart, even his family, even his fucking dog. "You ever wish you could go back to eighth grade and do it all over?"
"Nah, I think I did it okay the first time." Stan took one hand off the wheel and put it across the back of Kyle's seat. But that wasn't unusual; Kyle was pretty sure he drove that way with his mom in the passenger seat as well, he was just that type of guy.
"So there's nothing you would change?"
"Not for myself," Stan said, looking at Kyle briefly.
Kyle sighed. He wanted to yell at Stan, for making things so heavy again, but maybe it was his fault, and he just didn't have the energy. "Well," he said, trying to be glib again, "I would change my fucking hair."
"Sometimes I miss the jewfro," Stan said, looking at Kyle again. "Wait. No I don't."
Kyle swatted at him. Then he was flooded with memories of his actions last week, of cutting his hair in the Marsh bathroom, of the way he'd rolled the strands between his fingers and felt some perverse satisfaction. He sighed and curled up, stretching his sweater over his knees. "I'm going to try to sleep again," he said.
He must have succeeded, because he woke up sometime later, deeper into Utah. It wasn't light outside but Stan was shaking him awake anyway. Kyle opened his eyes and, slowly, became aware of their surroundings: they were in the parking lot of a 711 and there was a strong smell of coffee, probably because Stan seemed to be holding a cup of it under Kyle's nose.
"Your turn," Stan said. "I was falling asleep behind the wheel. Also, I filled up the tank."
Wordlessly, Kyle opened his door and walked outside. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and looked at the time: 4:44 in the morning. As if it was 11:11, he made a wish to the stars, which were still visible: please let this be good.
Then he stretched his legs and back, took a gulp of the coffee, smiled at Stan as they passed each other in front of the car and got in the driver's seat.
Kyle was envious of the way Stan could fall asleep as if on command. As soon as his ass was in the passenger's sleep he was out, his head against the window. It was probably going to make his neck sore, but Kyle didn't want to wake him, he seemed so peaceful. Something Kyle could never reach. But that wasn't fair; Stan had his own antidepressant prescription, which he probably didn't pack, but he didn't take them half the time, either. Stan had almost grown out of his childhood neuroses. Kyle had grown into his.
Stan being the deep sleeper that he was, Kyle kept the radio on and turned up as he drove to fight off the silence. When it was silent, evil little thoughts liked to sneak into Kyle's brain and take over, and Kyle was trying so fucking hard to make this a good trip. He was prepared to fight off an episode of either sort with his bare hands if needed, because he owed this to Stan, because he dragged him across the country on Kyle's whim on a regular basis and because he inflicted his own infliction upon him on a regular basis. Because, despite that, Kyle did love Stan, deep down, on a primal level where it didn't need to be acknowledged. Kyle loved Stan like breathing; but also like breathing, he was probably doing it wrong and he did not think to reassess the process. But that wasn't what Kyle was thinking about as he drove.
Kyle was thinking about the coast of California. He'd been there a few times, on various vacations mostly related to Ike's hockey playing. Kyle loved it. He didn't care for the sun or the sand too much, but he loved it because it was the opposite of his fucking snowy little mountain town, and even his dreary Washington college, which was nowhere near the fucking coast. In his full four years, he'd never seen the Washington coast, and he never intended to. For it was in Washington that he had his first major manic episode, that he'd first sliced into his skin, that he'd first been hospitalized because his roommate had come back and found him naked on the floor, bleeding from his arm and looking up at the ceiling with a smile on his face. Kyle hated Washington. But California-California was different. California was sunny and beautiful, tall palm trees lining the road, the edge of the world visible in the vast ocean. California was an end-stop, a destination.
An evil little thought knocked the door of his mind: California is where you'd kill yourself. Kyle pushed it away and looked at Stan. Kyle would not let Stan see that, if it came to that, which it wouldn't. The sun was rising; Kyle was feeling alright, no suicide in his future.
They were still in Utah, though nearing the Nevada border, when Stan woke up. Kyle had not stopped for a long stretch of hours and his legs were beginning to ache; when he saw Stan stirring in the passenger seat he smiled.
"'Sup," Stan said, voice thick with sleep, rubbing at his eyes. "My neck hurts, ugh."
"We're nearly to Nevada."
"Cool," Stan said. "I need to take a piss."
"Thank God. My legs are planning to revolt."
This time they stopped at an IHOP. Kyle got them a table while Stan slipped off into the bathroom; when he came back, Kyle went. In the IHOP bathroom, under the harsh light, he took a long, hard look at his face. It was weird to believe that he was an actual person; that he was living an actual life; that there were others like him, occupying a body and thinking thoughts. He dragged the skin down underneath one of his eyes, rolling his eyeball around, looking at it and also at everything. Fucking weird. He shook it off and went back to the table, seeing that Stan had already gotten them drinks, unsweetened iced tea for Kyle and Coke for himself.
"What took so long?" Stan asked over his menu.
"Had an existential crisis. No big deal." Kyle picked his own up and ignored the way Stan furrowed his eyebrows. "It's just, I don't know. It's weird being a person. Knowing that there are other people living their own independent lives. It's weird. Look, you know how they say you realize how drunk you are when you're alone in the bathroom?"
Stan continued to stare at him, his eyebrows furrowing deeper.
"It's the same when you're sober. Or on a road trip. It's just weird, okay?"
"I know what you mean," Stan said. "Yeah. It's weird. What are you thinking about getting?"
They both ordered pancakes, though Stan also got bacon, eggs and toast. Kyle didn't have much of an appetite; that was neither a good nor bad sign because, like with most things, his appetite ebbed and flowed seemingly at random. Stan ended up finishing Kyle's pancakes, claiming he was starving.
"When you're traveling," Stan said through mouthfuls of Kyle's pancakes, "the food you eat is, like, the best food ever. Even if it's shitty. Have you noticed that?"
"No?"
"Well, it is." Stan swallowed.
As usual, Kyle paid and Stan left the tip, since Kyle had disposable income and Stan was unemployed. Stan carried cash, disbelieving in cards, while Kyle didn't carry any cash at all, so it worked out. Yin and yang, Kyle thought. Night and day. Push and pull. All the other opposites in the world. When he and Stan hugged, they fit together perfectly.
"I'm in a good mood," Kyle announced. He was riding passenger now, Stan re-energized, a pep in his step.
"Yeah?" Stan, with an arm around Kyle's seat, turned back as he backed the car out of the IHOP parking lot and back onto the street that would lead them to the highway.
"Yeah. For the first time this whole break, actually." Kyle grinned.
"South Park sucks," Stan announced. "And we're almost done with it."
"We'll never be done with it," Kyle said. "You can take the boys out of South Park, but you can't take the South Park out of the boys. Also, our parents still live there."
"Whatever." Stan paused, then smiled hugely. "Want to move to California after graduation?"
"I was thinking Africa," Kyle said, and they laughed.
Motivated, they tried their damnedest to get out Nevada that day. Despite that, they were both irritable and achy, especially once their food high wore off. Three-fourths of the way across the state they checked into a motel, booking a cheap room with one bed. The motel promised free breakfast and a pool; it was then Kyle realized he had not packed a swimsuit, either.
"There's a Wal-mart down the street," Stan said, looking it up on his phone as he sat on the bed and Kyle inspected their hotel room. "We'll go get you one. We're going to California, how in the hell could you forget a swimsuit?"
"I forgot my pills," Kyle said. "I'm forgetful, sometimes."
Stan sighed and leaned back on the pillows.
"What?" Kyle turned around; he'd been reading the local guide that was on the entertainment stand, learning all that this inconsequential town in Nevada didn't have to offer. "What was that for?"
"What was what for?"
"That sigh!"
"What?" Stan sat up again.
"You sighed. And then you leaned back on the pillow. Like you were, I don't know, mad at me."
Stan pinched the bridge of his nose, his eyes squeezed shut. Africa by Toto was on repeat in Kyle's head: I bless the rains down in Africa, it reminded him, and he tried to push it out but it wouldn't fucking stop. Eighth grade: Red leaning in, Kyle panicking, Kyle punching Red in the nose, bright red blood blooming like a rose across her face, Kyle fleeing to find Stan with his hands all over Wendy's and his lips plump and pink, Kyle crying. Mania, mania, mania. Kyle grabbed fistfuls of hair and tugged.
"Kyle! I'm not mad at you!" Stan was off the bed, approaching him, but Kyle evaded his grasp, a sense of deja-vu flooding his stomach. "I'm just, I don't know, tired. We've been in a car for a long time."
"You're mad because I lost my pills! And now I'm fucking freaking out and ruining everything!" Kyle covered his face with his hands, so hard funny colors started popping in front of his eyes. "You were right, and I am fucked up, and I'm going to have to be fucking hospitalized again, and I'm going to keep being hospitalized for the rest of my fucking life. It's a waste, Stan! I'm useless! Broken! Functionless!"
"Kyle, what?" Kyle could sense Stan trying to get near, but Kyle avoided him, always. "You're not useless, Kyle, what are you talking about?"
"Why do you always act like I'm not making any sense?" Kyle sobbed. He wasn't crying, but his throat felt raw. He took his hands away from his face and jumped away from Stan again. "Why are you always pretending that I'm something I'm not?"
Stan stood still, very still, and Kyle wanted to but he couldn't, so he kept pirouetting about, avoiding attempts to grab him that were not actually occurring. "This is going to pass, Kyle, just like every other episode, right? We're going to California tomorrow. It'll be great. We're going to go swimming tonight. That'll be fun, too."
"But what are we doing right fucking now?" Kyle yelled. "We're fighting!"
"No, Kyle, we're not. You're fighting me. I'm not fighting you."
Kyle said nothing to that, because he felt a sudden, rude wave of hatred. He pushed past Stan and left the hotel room, running. He wasn't faster than Stan but Stan was sometimes slow to react when Kyle did things like this, and that was what Kyle was banking on. Stan, indeed, did not follow him at first, and Kyle exited the motel building, running to the pool area. He unlocked the gate as fast as he could and looked behind him, anxiety filling his chest; he still could not see Stan. His sneakers made a loud noise on the slick tile around the pool and he almost fell, but he didn't, and he darted to the deep end, and then he jumped in.
Whatever peace he was hoping for did not come underwater; instead he felt claustrophobic and panicked as he kicked his way back up to the surface, where he gasped. for air, his eyes blinking like strobe lights. He swam over to the side of the pool and hung onto it, then realized that there were other people around, that they were staring at him, the guy who had just jumped into the pool with all his clothes on. And then he realized Stan was also there, standing in front of him, looking lost and hopeless.
Kyle started to cry. He hoped it wasn't evident, what with the wetness already present on his face.
"Don't fucking say anything," Kyle said to Stan. "Just help me get out of this pool."
They did not go swimming at the motel. Instead Stan helped Kyle, whose heart was still racing, inside. He helped Kyle shed his wet clothes, starting with his sneakers, ending with his underwear, and he helped Kyle inside the shower, where Stan stood with him in nothing but his boxers, holding Kyle's shoulders as the hot water hit his skin. Kyle was shivering, his body shaking alongside his slamming heart.
"It's raining," Kyle said, gesturing to the shower head. "Like in Africa. I bless it."
"Are you feeling better?" Stan asked, tentatively. His thumbs were making small circles on Kyle's skin.
"Um." Kyle bit his tongue. "I'm gonna crash, you know. It always happens."
"I know," Stan said. "I'll be here when you do."
Crash, Kyle did, though not until hours later. Stan hung Kyle's clothes over the shower curtain to dry while Kyle took the little pad of paper and pen the motel provided and wrote the words FUCK UP! over and over again. Then he talked Stan's head off about how much he resented Ike for taking all of his mother and father's positive attention, leaving nothing but lectures and long, disappointed looks for Kyle. Then he did sit-ups on the dirty motel floor with Stan, then he talked about how he should take on an editing job right at that moment, and then, finally, around one in the morning, he slowed down until he stopped.
"I'm so sorry," Kyle said. They were in bed now, both wearing the pajamas they'd packed, facing each other. The light was off. Kyle was sleepy. Besides while in a car, he always slept best when he crashed like this.
"Nothing to be sorry about," Stan yawned.
Kyle wanted to ask him why he had to be like that, so passive and complacent, so chivalrous and diplomatic, but Kyle didn't want to fight again, he was too tired. He fell asleep instead.
That night he dreamed he was underwater and he was peaceful. He was swimming with the fishes but he wasn't dead; instead he was marveling at their wonderful colors and elegant fins, and he panicked when he thought Stan wasn't around to point them out to, but when he turned to his side he found Stan wearing flippers and a scuba mask. Stan gave him a thumbs up; the scene shifted and they were at a fancy dinner, a napkin tucked into Stan's shirt, but there was nothing on the plates, their forks and knives making awful squeaking sounds on the ceramic. The scene shifted again and Kyle was alone, sitting cross-legged on the floor in his childhood bedroom, back he had posters up and a clunky computer. A paper airplane flew in the window and he unfolded it. It was made of pastel blue stationary with an elegant border, and on it was written I LOVE YOU, from Stan. Dream-Kyle was, for some reason, offended. Real-Kyle thought Dream-Kyle was stupid; now aware he was dreaming and therefore asleep, Real-Kyle began to wake up.
"You missed free breakfast," Stan said, when Kyle was back to life, finding Stan dressed and watching a muted show on HGTV beside him. "I saved you a blueberry muffin."
"Thanks." Kyle saw the muffin on the bedside table and took it. He was ravenous; they'd have to stop somewhere before leaving Bumfuck, Nevada. "About yesterday-"
Stan made a dismissive hand motion. "I washed your clothes at a laundry mat."
"I was asleep for that long?"
"No, it's like eleven. I've just been up for a while."
"Oh. Well. California, today."
"Yup."
"I dreamed about you," Kyle said, propping himself up on an elbow.
"What about?" Stan turned the television off and looked at him.
"Um, we were scuba diving, then we were eating dinner, and then I was, like, a little kid in my bedroom and you sent me a paper airplane through my window. It was made of fancy stationary. Actually, I think your grandmother got you that one year for your birthday. The blue paper with the pretty border."
"Well, I dreamed about you, too," Stan said, and he turned red. "It wasn't so. Deep. But I dreamed we were in California. And you were really happy."
Kyle beamed.
It didn't take them long to check out, what with so little to pack. Kyle offered to drive but Stan wouldn't let him, though he did give in to Kyle's request to go through the McDonald's drive-through, Kyle's praising their all-day breakfast. It was peaceful in the car, the weather was warming up, there was no need for sweaters anymore. They were going to make it to California.
When they crossed the border they hollered and high-fived each other. Kyle felt a surge of adrenaline as if he were manic without actually feeling manic; it was nice, to feel exhilarated like a normal person would, and he expressed that sentiment to Stan.
"That's great," Stan said, and Kyle was just glad to see an earnest expression, and not one of concern, on Stan's face.
An hour into California, Kyle had another realization, though it wasn't as dramatic this time. "Dude. I didn't tell my parents."
"Have they called you?" Stan asked, looking over at Kyle.
"Don't know. My phone's been dead since Utah." Kyle had brought a charger but had not thought to charge his phone; with Stan beside him, he didn't need it. "Your parents would've told them, right?"
"Sure," Stan said. "Don't worry about it. Your mom'll bitch you out if you call now."
"I don't want her to ruin this," Kyle groaned. "You know, that's so cliche, the mother being the root of your problems. But it's true!"
"Kyle's mom is a big fat bitch," Stan sang.
"Fucking ugh. Whatever. Ike had a game today, so I'm sure they're busy with that." Kyle could not hide the bitterness in his voice.
Stan placed a hand on Kyle's thigh. Kyle looked at it; so inoffensive, Stan's hand there, but it was like a relaxant, calmness flooding Kyle's body. He remembered the key around his neck and his hands went to it, running over the teeth, feeling their little prickles on his fingertips. Sometimes they called them the keys to each others hearts, but only in private, and when other people said it, they were likely to get punched. Maybe Kyle was a little bit in love with Stan after all. But-
Kyle shut that train of thought down real quick. It wouldn't be the first and it wouldn't be the last, but it would be futile, and it would be painful, and so Kyle put a hand over Stan's on his thigh and they smiled at each other and their little car moved through the Californian highway, their windows rolled down and those beautiful tall palm trees on both sides.
They stopped at another motel before making the coast, just so they'd be able to fully enjoy it. There was another pool; they did not speak of the possibility of swimming, though they did stop and buy Kyle a swimsuit for the next day. They were close; they could smell it in the air.
"I'm so pumped," Stan said as they got into bed. They'd turned the air conditioning down low so they could pile on the blankets, like they were little kids making a fort at a sleepover.
"Me too," Kyle said. "I haven't seen the coast since I was nineteen."
"It's been that long?"
"The passage of time is relative to how old you are," Kyle explained.
Stan laughed, softly, as if they were twelve again and trying not to wake up his parents. "I guess so," he said, and he opened his mouth to say something else, then closed it.
"I'm not going to be able to sleep," Kyle said. "I've used up all my sleep for, like. The week."
"Are you tired?" Stan asked.
"Well, yeah, but that doesn't matter." Kyle rolled on his back and netted his fingers together on top of his stomach. "The pills are supposed to help with that."
"Do they?"
"No."
"Have you told the doctor?"
"I don't want to talk about that," Kyle sighed. "I want to talk about the fact that we're in California. And we're seeing the coast tomorrow."
"Kyle." Stan leaned closer to him, so that he was in his field of vision again. "We're going to have to talk about it eventually. You can't keep running. There's gonna be no place to go."
"Not while we're in California," Kyle mumbled. "Not while we're in the golden state."
Stan tugged on Kyle's arm. Kyle knew what he wanted; he knew what Stan thought he could accomplish. Kyle allowed it, not wanting the small, fragile happiness they'd created for themselves to break. Stan took Kyle into his arms, Kyle burying his face into Stan, smelling the comfortable smell of him, and, contrary to what Kyle had said earlier, he was able to fall asleep. It was only for a few hours and he spent the rest of the night reading the book he'd brought along by lamplight, licking his fingers to turn the page so it wouldn't make a sound, Stan's sleeping arms still outstretched, his fingers trailing along Kyle's side.
Though it was the shortest leg of their journey by far, the drive to the coast bright and early the next morning felt like the longest. Excitement was abundant: the radio was too loud, Stan was drumming along on the steering wheel, Kyle was belting out lyrics to the songs he knew and making up ones to those he didn't. And, because they were listening to a classic rock station, fucking Africa by Toto came on.
Stan looked at Kyle and shouted over the radio. "It's fate!"
"It's destiny!" Kyle shouted back.
"Predestination!"
"Kismet!"
"Karma!"
"I don't think it works like that, but that's okay!"
"Whatever! I bless the rains down in Africa!"
The song carried them to the beach. Stan parked and they practically fell over themselves trying to get out of the car and down to the sand; paying for parking was agonizing, Kyle bouncing up and down in place, Stan fumbling the buttons on the machine.
Walking on sand was like walking on snow, difficult and cumbersome, and they quickly shed their shoes, balling their socks inside them. Stan took Kyle's and carried them both in one, taking Kyle's hand in the other. The wind was strong, whipping around their heads, and it was probably cold to those who lived there, but not to Stan and Kyle's thick-blooded bodies. As a consequence to that, and the fact that it was a weekday in January, there was nobody else around. It was just them and the sea and all the microscopic creatures that populated the beach; it was the best thing Kyle could have hoped for.
"It's so beautiful," Stan said. They were near the water now, verging on it. "I almost forgot."
"I never did," Kyle said.
They took a moment of pause to admire the sight in front of them: the ocean, stretching on for miles. All of their senses were stimulated; all of their nerves were on end. The air was thick and heavy with both the salt and water and all the emotions, swirling around them, so real they could almost see them. Kyle closed his eyes and let wave after wave of euphoria and anticipation wash over him, let himself shiver.
And then, together, they stepped forward, into the sea.
California was an end-stop, a destination, the place the continent of America crumbled into the sea. Kyle had run as far as he could west; he could not walk on water, he could not go any further. His expectations, though he denied them so strongly, were that he would feel better once he were here. And he did; for once in his wretched life something he had wished for had come true. He was in California and Stan was beside him, and there were seagulls and palm trees and sand that caught the light like snow did but it wasn't cold, it wasn't hot, it was warm.
"They say that water is a universal symbol for life," Kyle began, opening his eyes. The surf was cold on his bare skin, deliciously so, the sea spray licking his ankles. He didn't flinch at the feelings of shells on his feet but relished the feeling of Stan's hand in his. "Of rebirth."
"I could see that," Stan said, squeezing Kyle's hand..
Kyle kept walking. "It has cleansing properties," he said. "You know, literally. It's everywhere. The Bible, books, religion, everywhere. Water heals."
Stan was quiet.
"Some modern authors subvert this," Kyle continued on, like he was writing an essay and this was his introduction. He might have planned this speech, a little, while falling asleep in Stan's arms last night, their key necklaces pressed together. "They associate water with death. But I think that's bullshit. To me, water is life. This shit here? This is life."
Stan was still quiet.
Kyle stopped when he was up to his thighs. He turned to Stan, their hand still held between them. Sometimes when Kyle looked at Stan it was a slap in the face, how beautiful he was; not just handsome, but beautiful. Big blue eyes, the face of classics, something in the way he carried himself, confidently but with this shielded vulnerability that you could only see if you knew him. It made Kyle's heart ache in the best possible way, the way that the hearts of normal people ached. It made him want to kiss Stan.
First, he continued on with his speech. "When I was driving here, I thought, California is where I'm going to kill myself."
"Kyle!" Stan gasped, and before he could continue, Kyle pressed his free hand to Stan's lips, silencing him.
"I still think that," Kyle said. "But, like, in another way, maybe? I want to move here. Right here. And I want to be somebody new. It's unrealistic, but it's what I want."
"You know I just want to give you what you want," Stan said, and his voice sounded so pained, like his throat had been grated. "I'd build you a house on this beach if I could."
"But don't you see? You already have. Metaphorically." Kyle kept his hand on Stan's lips, his fingers hooked on the bottom one, exposing Stan's teeth. He got the good gene, the straight, white-teeth gene, that his sister had not. Kyle loved it. Kyle wanted to pass it down to the children he wasn't going to have. "You're like, I don't know, the rock that the waves crash upon. Do you know what I mean? The stability that my instability bounces off on."
Stan did not respond but instead pulled Kyle into a hug, Kyle's hand getting lost between them, eventually settling on Kyle's chest. "I know," Stan said, and Kyle sort of figured that Stan was crying, and that was why he'd hidden his face from Kyle. "I love being your rock, Kyle. I'd never wanted anything else."
"That's so unhealthy." Kyle sighed into Stan's chest, the humidity sticking to his face, own tears threatening to spill. "This is so unhealthy, Stan.."
As usual, Stan said nothing.
"But you know what, fuck it, right? I'm unhealthy. So fuck it. Let's be happy."
Kyle pulled back and, like the waves against the rock, surged up and kissed Stan.
It might not last forever; it probably wouldn't last forever; but Kyle had little concept of forever, could not see into the future, so maybe it would, who knew. Kyle didn't. It didn't matter, though, because in this moment Kyle felt normal, Kyle felt complete, Kyle felt content. Their lips joined together as if it were why their lips were made, to complement one another, and the sound of the surf was loud in Kyle's ears, in rhythm with his own heartbeat, with Stan's heartbeat under his palm., and everything tasted like salt and the sun and the sea. It was the first kiss Kyle had experienced while smiling, mouths stretched wide, so happy,. So warm. He could figure things out later; they had an eighteen hour drive in front of them to talk it over. For now, Kyle could let it all go, let the water wash away his sins, let himself crash against Stan, knowing that Stan had the wherewithal for absorption.