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The sky is hazy, but South Park isn't exactly known for the best views. Stan rattles off something about the environment and global warming as Kyle turns up the song playing tinnily from the shitty speakers in Stan's car.
"Dude, turn this loser shit off," Stan says, laughing, hands clenched on the wheel. His car smells like pot.
"You fucking love this loser shit, asshole," Kyle says, thinking of them together in eighth grade, screaming the words to 'Creep' at each other, "and Radiohead is basically mainstream."
"Whatever. And it being mainstream doesn't make it bad."
"Yeah man, I know, that's why I'm playing it," Kyle says as Thom Yorke croons out melancholy lyrics. He rolls his eyes, annoyed for no real reason, pressing his forehead to the cool glass of the window and sighs.
Stan hums along, slightly off tempo. He's a surprisingly good driver. Whenever Kyle drove, he always felt like his head would fucking explode from how anxious he felt. He always went at least five under, and Stan would bite his tongue as Kyle's hand's twitched, breathing hard. Kyle was happy to let Stan drive them.
It was kind of awkward, but it had been like that recently. Stan and Wendy had been on-and-off-again for as long as Kyle could even remember them together, but things had been different, more tense, more real. High school is almost over, and Kyle is still to much of a wimp to ask Stan about Wendy. Kyle scratches him arm, thinking about what Wendy would do if she was here, what kind of music she would play.
It wasn't that he hated her, although sometimes he felt like it. Wendy was great. If Kyle tried to think objectively, she probably was above Stan and their whiny, middle-school relationship. It was like they both regressed or something when they came together, Stan more lackluster and Wendy more argumentative. Kyle could hardly stand it.
He was wasting the only time he had alone with Stan thinking about other people and he knew it. Some of their only time without Cartman's stupid lisp calling them faggots. Insults that held more truth than he knew. Cartman had only gotten crueler with age, towering over them and reminding them of stupid things from when they were eight, his hand perpetually stuck in a chip bag.
Stan choses the next song, some cool soft rock ballad, something Wendy probably told him about. Kyle hates that he likes it.
The car is quiet except for the music and Stan's low humming. They don't talk because they don't have to, Kyle thinks, and besides, he didn't want to small talk with Stan.
Kyle normally doesn't like drinking with Stan, and tonight isn't any different. When they get to their location (blessedly empty), Stan pulls out a pack of warm beers and smiles with his crooked teeth and Kyle wants to kiss him so badly it hurts. Echoes of 'he's straight and has a fucking girlfriend, Kyle!' rattle around in his head, colliding with a panicked chant of 'god fuck fuck fuck I want him to kiss me and hold me and fuck me and love me and love me and and and'. He bites the inside of his cheek and puts his hand out to take one. He knows he's gonna be the one who was going to have to drive them both home. He brought mint gum and three bottles of water for Stan. He opens the beer but doesn't drink any.
The grass is damp, and Stan is already downed his first beer. In the process, he's moved closer to Kyle, their sides touching.
"Dude, slow down," Kyle says, swiping at beads of condensation on his can.
"Yeah, okay, okay," Stan says, putting his hand up in mock surrender. He crushes the can between his hands. Kyle swallows his spit and sucks his teeth. He's antsy.
"It's getting dark out," Kyle says, looking up, "you can see all of the stars."
"That's gay as fuck."
"You cry at dog-food commercials, dickwad," Kyle says, and Stan snorts.
The sky is still sort of blurry, but the stars shine brightly and neither of them care anyway. Kyle sips at his beer and scrunches his nose. Stan smells like faint shampoo and and sweat, and Kyle digs his hand into the grass and pulls.
Stan moves somehow closer and says, "I miss you."
"I'm right here," Kyle says, even though he knows what Stan means, how they drifted apart without meaning to. Stan opens a new can and takes a sip.
Kyle gives him a look. Stan huffs.
"You know what I mean. It's been different since high school and everything and you know it. And part of it's my fault, but you pushed me away."
Kyle could argue with him. He wants to. What Stan said gets on his nerves. He wants to deny that he and Stan weren't as close as they had always been, but he knew it was true. He sighed. He didn't want to fight with Stan, not really.
"I'm sorry, Stan." The only sound is cicadas humming. Kyle can't help but think about what could happen, if this was romantic. He feels like a pervert, but he's use to it. Middle school locker rooms had been a rude awakening on sexual fantasies about boys. About Stan. Kyle puts his can in the grass.
"I'm here," He says, and instantly feels stupid. What does that even mean?
"Thanks. I mean it," Stan says. His breath smells like booze.
"Yeah," he says. A pause. "Are you and Wendy gonna break up for college?"
It's a stupid question and Kyle regrets it when he sees Stan blink a few times and frown. Kyle wants to punch himself. Everything used to fit together perfectly, and now Kyle can't even talk to Stan without saying the wrong thing every time.
"I don't know. Why do you care?" Stan says sharply. Kyle breathes out and tries to stay calm.
"I dunno. Sorry," He says quickly.
"Whatever," Stan says.
"I just care about you, jerk. Even if we don't talk as much, you're still my super best friend."
Stan smiles fondly. "That's so lame."
Kyle shrugs. "We've always been lame."
Kyle lets himself finish the one beer while Stan drinks two more. And then another.
Kyle stops Stan from grabbing another beer when he's blubbering about he feels bad for Wendy because of him being a shitty person. Kyle holds him as he cries. He hopes for something he can't name desperately, his heart aching. Stan is clutching him like he's the only person left in the world, and Kyle kind of feels like they're all alone, the stars looking down on them.
"Okay, let's go home, Stan, come on and get up," he says softly. He's kind of ticked off at how drunk Stan got, but he can't really blame of him. He wonders if Stan worries about getting addicted. Kyle knows how much Stan hates Randy for being drunk all the time. Stan throws up next to Kyle's feet.
"I'm sorry," Stan says as Kyle leads him to the car.
Kyle doesn't know what he's apologizing for, besides the obvious. Kyle would let him do anything and wouldn't be mad.
"It's okay. You're okay."
Kyle puts on some soft instrumental music as he drives Stan back to his house. He makes Stan drink at least one water bottle.
"I feel like, like I'm just with her because I have to be right? And I think she feels like she has to too. And I kinda hate it but, it feels- it feels good. Like comfortable." Stan says. Kyle hums sympathetically. He wants to tell him to break up with her, but he knows that advice comes from a place of jealousy.
When they make it to Stan's house, the lights are all off. Kyle guides Stan to his own bedroom, giggling about nothing. They've done this a million times.
Kyle plans on leaving Stan, but after Stan launches himself onto his bed, he turns his body to face Kyle.
"Stay. Please."
Who is Kyle to say no?
He pulls his socks and jeans off. Stan has already closed his eyes.
Kyle feels kind of awkward but overwhelmingly tired. He turns his face into the pillow when he feels Stan's warm arm wrap around him. He wishes he was dead. He wishes Stan was gay. He wishes Stan didn't have a girlfriend. He wishes he wasn't gay.
Stan murmurs something into Kyle's neck. Eternal suffering. Drunk, affectionate Stan.
Kyle lets himself be held, let's himself sink into Stan's touch, trying to ignore the waves of self-hatred and disgust for the warm embrace of sleep. Stan is straight and Kyle has made his peace with that, made his peace with daydreams and small touches and lonely jerk-off sessions. He's okay with it, he really is. He lets himself cry a little bit, a few hot tears streaking down his face before he sniffles and shuts his eyes. Feeling sorry for himself got him no where, but it was easy and familiar. Kyle drifts off to sleep with Stan's body radiating heat, his fingers clenched. The tear stains dry quickly.
(Kyle wakes up before Stan. He gently takes Stan's arm off him and rolls a few inches away from him, facing the wall. Stan groans when he wakes up, and swears under his breath. Kyle shuts his eyes and thinks about cicadas.)