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Stan’s head throbs. He groans before he opens his eyes blearily , blinking heavily. He’s thankful Kyle forced him to drink water last night; otherwise, the pain would be worse. Drinking with Kenny, they both got blackout and the last time Kenny had come over, he drank mouthwash by accident and threw up in his bed, trying to cuddle Stan. Kyle had brought mint gum and soothed Stan to sleep.
He was thankful for Kyle’s anxious tendency to overpack and nag, even if it could get annoying.
He swears he feels the mattress shift, but he doesn’t look over. He doesn’t want to face Kyle. He rubs at his eyes, pressing down on them, trying to make himself calm down. He needs to stop. He hates drinking, and he hates that he dragged Kyle into it. He stands up and shuffles to the bathroom, trying not to wake up his mom.
He picks up his toothbrush and angrily scrubs his teeth. The toothbrush Kyle had brought over in fifth grade was still in the dirty cup next to the sink. Stan scrubs harder.
He knows he can’t keep doing this, can’t keep bringing people into his fucked-up orbit, chew them up and spit them out without regard for their feelings. It was like he was becoming his dad, drunk and yelling with no regard for anyone’s feelings, crashing birthday parties and nice dinners. It makes him anxious, wondering just how similar they are. If he can even do anything about it.
He spits out a mixture of blood and kiddy, bubblegum toothpaste he somehow still has, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. First, it was Wendy, now Kyle.
He loved Wendy, really, but they just… didn’t work out. Like the way he and Kyle didn’t work the same, but that was a little different.
It seemed childish to call Kyle his best friend, or super best friend, but there wasn’t really any other word for it, Stan thought. Unconditional.
Wendy loved him when he was sober, when he was smart and funny, and happy. Not when he had bad days. Not when he relapsed. Not when he didn’t want to do anything. Kyle had been through it all, everything from Cartman’s shit to horrible, slimy parties and sobbing in bathrooms, awkward school dances, late-night video games, and watching old trashy comedy movies they pirated together at sleepovers. Wendy was cool, put together always. She complained about offensive stereotypes in movies and knew what seemed like everything about everything. She liked bands that only a few people had ever heard of and judged you (silently but pointedly) if you didn’t know them. She only shopped at second-hand stores, the ones where everything was somehow more expensive because it was “antique” or something. It was kind of insufferable how cool she was.
He rinses his mouth with water, spits it out, and sits on the edge of the bath. He doesn’t want to see Kyle. Even if he agreed to come, he still feels bad about getting that drunk in front of him. He feels like he needs to do something, but he has no idea what. He wants to talk to Kyle about it, but he can’t. His head hurts more.
If Kyle were a girl, he thinks and then realizes what he’s saying.
What the fuck Stan, you’re straight and you have a girlfriend, man what? And Kyle’s not even gay, you creep.
But he can’t help but think about the what-ifs? It’s not helpful, but the thought has erupted into a million spirals of possibilities that will never happen. What if, what if, what if.
It doesn’t matter what if because it wouldn’t happen. Stan looks at himself in the mirror. He looks the same, but he feels completely different. What the hell is he thinking about? Dating his best friend? His best friend who is most definitely a boy?
Is this how it happens? Is this how he finds out something huge and terrible about himself? Wallowing in self-pity in a bathroom, avoiding his best friend, who he’s maybe gay for? He wants to scream. He wants to bang his head into a wall. He wants to go to sleep forever.
He feels bile rising in his throat. He cups his hands together and forces down some water. The world is ending. The world is ending and it’s his fault.
He wills himself to walk back into the room.
Kyle is falling away from him, staring at the ceiling. The light in the room is still off but sunlight is filtered through the windows. Kyle looks at him and smiles and-
Stan can’t shake the thought that he knows, somehow, he knows how disgusting Stan is and what he wants and Stan almost turns around and runs out the door. But he doesn’t. He flops down on the old mattress.
“I think I’m gonna break up with Wendy,” Stan says. Kyle turns to him.
“Like, for real this time? Or is it gonna be a week and you’re getting back together again,” Kyle says, trying to run a hand through his hair and his hand getting stuck in the tight curls. Stan knows that Kyle hates his hair, but Stan thinks it’s kind of cute.
God. He’s so fucking gay. How did he not realize this sooner? How is he talking to Kyle right now? How does Kyle not see he’s a fag?
“For real. Like, permanently.” Stan shoves his face into his elbow to keep from showing his face.
“Why?” Kyle asks.
“Because,” I just somehow discovered I might like boys and more specifically you, and I don’t know how to handle that, and Wendy has seen enough of my shit, “We’re not right for each other.”
Kyle thinks for a second, then shrugs.
“Good for you, man,” Kyle says.
“Yeah,” Stan says, a little raspy, “good for me.”
Kyle walks home. Stan offers to drive, but Kyle says it’s a nice day and that he’ll call him later. Stan waves bye and then locks himself in his room.
“FUCK!” He screams into the pillow.
“Shut the hell up, Stan,” Shelley bangs on his door, “be mad silently like the rest of us.”
Stan just groans.
He puts off the actual conversation with Wendy until he can’t take it anymore. He asks her if they can meet up somewhere, and she suggests her house. Stan feels horrible; she seems to think it’s a date.
Wendy sits on her bed, band posters neatly spaced out on her wall, bed made but messed up purposely a little. Stan finds it equally endearing and annoying.
“Um,” Stan says, sitting down, facing her wall. “We need to break up. Permanently.”
If Kyle were there, he’d probably clap him on the back for being direct.
"Why? What happened?" She asks.
"Uh. You didn't do anything. I just- I think I... might be gay? Or bisexual or something?" Stan's voice tapers off.
Wendy looks at him, bewildered.
"Are you joking?"
"Why would I be joking?" He says. I wish I were.
Stan doesn't mention anything about Kyle. Wendy doesn't ask. He apologizes multiple times and almost cries. Says it's not her fault, apologizes again. She says she'll call him when she gets 'everything figured out'. She doesn't say goodbye, but she doesn't curse him out either, so he counts it as a win. She doesn't talk to him for a few days. He begs her not to tell anyone, and she promises she won't. Stan is slightly relieved but equally anxious, paranoid that she’ll tell everyone, that everyone in this bumfuck town will know he’s a faggot. He spends a lot of time curled up in bed. He sort of misses school, but next year will be their last, and he knows he's not ready for it. He wants to run around the world, he feels so wired and at the same time, no energy to do anything at all.
He can't avoid his thoughts, though. He can't tell Kyle (obviously) or Wendy, definitely not his family. Maybe Kenny. He doubts Kenny would care, given the thing he has with Butters.
When he’s staring at his ceiling, he just thinks. How could he not have known? Or was he making something up now? His best friend since kindergarten? Really? And how creepy, how fucking perverted and disgusting of him to want Kyle in that way.
He rubs his eyes and sinks deeper into his bed, the fan blasting.
There's a knock on his door, and before Stan can do anything, Kyle has opened the door and slammed it shut.
Stan raises his eyebrow in question, trying not to blush and hating that he actively had to try not to.
"I'm bored. Get your bike." Kyle is wearing short-shorts and a tighter tee-shirt and Stan doesn't know if this is great news or absolute hell.
Stan gets up off his bed. He knows that being alone with Kyle will probably send him into an early grave. He wants to tell him he's sick, that he doesn't want to, that he can't. He sighs.
"Sure."