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Kyle Broflovski has always been a contradiction wrapped in a hoodie.
He’s the kid who got perfect grades without trying, who argued with professors like he was doing them a favor by showing up. He’s the guy who could recite Rimbaud at 3 AM and also tell you which frat boys had the worst dick game. He was literally a campus rumor, lit major with a short temper, soft wrists, soft lips. And a mouth that never fucking closes. And then there’s Stan. Stan Marsh, astronomy major, always exhausted and sweet. Boyish with black hair that sticks when he’s sweaty and a face that makes old ladies want to bake him bread.
People say opposites attract, but Stan and Kyle weren’t opposites, they were gravitational, and they’d been that way since kindergarten.
But Stan wasn’t stupid.He just, didn’t prioritize certain things. Like gossip, or himself.
If someone said, “Hey man, did you hear Kyle slept with that guy from the track team?”
Stan would blink, shrug, and go, “Oh. Kyle’s popular, cool.”
And that belief, more than anything else, was why Kyle kept him close. Every evening after classes, after Kyle finished arguing about postmodern irony with a TA and Stan finished banging his head against a textbook, they ended up at the same place: Kyle’s shitty off-campus apartment balcony.
It had two bedrooms, a wobbly metal railing, and a view of the brick building across the alley. Kyle really liked it. He was already out there when Stan arrived. His hair was tied back with a cheap black tie, cigarette between his lips, fingers tapping the railing. His nails were bitten. His hoodie was old and soft and the sleeves pulled over his forearms. He didn’t turn around when he heard the door slide open behind him, he knew who it would be anyway.
Because Stan always came. He dropped his bag inside, stretched like a tired cat, and wandered out onto the balcony like magnet.
“You smoking again this early?” he asked, his voice was thick from lack of sleep.
“You’re late.”
Stan blinked. “…For what?”
“Mmh... nothing.”
Stan stood for a solid second before shrugging it off. He slid his arms around Kyle’s waist from behind, his chin touching the back of Kyle’s shoulder. Kyle leaned back into him just slightly. “Rough day?” Kyle’s voice was softer now, smoke curled off his lips. Stan just hummed. “Always better when I'm here.”
Kyle’s fingers tightened imperceptibly on the railing. He could feel Stan’s breath on his neck, could feel the warmth of him pressed along his spine, and he hated, hated how his body reacted to it. Stan... walked into Kyle’s life like a stray dog and made a home out of his lap.
He tapped ash into the wind. “So weird.”
Stan laughed lightly, thinking it was a joke.
Kyle didn’t laugh at all.
By their second year of college, Kyle’s reputation was basically a campus personality trait.
In classrooms, people whispered:
“He slept with Marcus.” “No, that guy from the physics department.” “I saw him make out with a girl behind the library.” “That's nothing, he literally ruined someone’s relationship last semester.”
Kyle heard them, always. But he didn’t really care, if anything, he liked how it kept people fucking predictable. And, yeah, every rumor had some truth buried inside it, but Kyle didn’t give a damn who wanted him. But Stan asked him once. They’d been sitting on the floor of Kyle’s apartment, surrounded by takeout boxes and half-finished assignments. Stan had a mechanical pencil between his teeth like an absolute idiot. Kyle was reading aloud from some poem and Stan just blurted it:
“Hey, uh… are you… like…” Still chewing on the pencil, “…a whore?”
Kyle blinked slowly. Stan looked mortified the second it came out, face going red. “I mean, not like bad whore?? Just... people say stuff and I’m not- ”
He buried his face in his hands, “f-forget I asked. Oh my god.” Kyle put his book down, then he leaned forward and grabbed Stan’s wrists, pulling his hands away from his face.
Stan looked up, wide-eyed, vulnerable in that way that made Kyle’s stomach twist. The red hair tilted his head and smiled slowly. “Girls are jealous I don’t want them.” His thumb brushed Stan’s jaw, deliberately. “And boys say they fucked me because they wish they had.”
“Stan,” he leaned in, breath ghosting Stan’s cheek. “I let who I want touch me.”
Stan swallowed, visibly flustered. “Oh. Okay.”
Kyle sat back, satisfied. “And no, Stan Marsh,” he added, “I’m not a whore.”
Stan smiled, relieved.
-
Wendy had always been patient with him. Everyone said so. She was very mature, even when they were younger, levelheaded even, she was the type who color-codes her notes and drinks tea before bed (she does). She was literally perfect for him. And Stan liked to think she was. He tried, he really did. He smiled when she held his hand in public, he complimented her hair when he remembered, he went on dates even when he was exhausted.
But the truth she finally spat into his chest that night hit him harder than anything Cartman ever said to him in middle school.
“You don’t see me, Stan.”
He stood in her dorm room doorway, still holding the movie tickets they were supposed to use. She looked tired, like she had been preparing for this conversation for ages. And Stan, being Stan, had no idea what was coming. She kept going, voice trembling with sadness he probably mistook for frustration.
“You- you treat me like I’m your job. Like, it doesn't make me feel enough for you, Stan.” She stepped back from him, folding her arms as if protecting herself from the way he stared at her without understanding anything. “You’re not my boyfriend. Not really. Y-you’re just here.”
He felt his heart dropped down his feet. He tried to stammer something, anything, he apologized in a dozen different ways that all sounded the same. He told her he could fix it, told her that he cared, he really did. He told her he loved her because he thought that was what she needed to hear.
But Wendy still shook her head, dismissing his words.
“No, Stan.”
Then, the part that cracked him apart:
“You’re in love with Kyle." Her arms dropped to her sides, her voice calmer now, like she was delivering the truth she’d rehearsed in the mirror.
“You look at him like you’re waiting for him to choose you.”
Stan felt the ground tilt, he felt his throat close. He heard himself say her name, soft and pleading, like a child asking for the answer to be different. Wendy’s expression softened for only a moment, she stepped forward, rested a hand against his cheek.
“I hope you figure it out, Stan. I hope he doesn’t hurt you.”
Then she closed the door.
And Stan broke.
He staggered down the stairwell like he’d been punched, wiped at his eyes with his sleeve, then gave up and let the tears fall freely. He got in his shitty car, but he didn’t go back his place. He didn’t call anyone else. His body took him where it always went when it was scared or hurting or lost, Kyle’s apartment.
He knocked with the desperation of a drowning man who finally found the dock. And when Kyle opened the door, cigarette smoke drifted out behind him, hair messy, shirt hanging loose, Stan fell forward without speaking a word.
Kyle caught him, of course. Stan’s face pushed into his shoulder, breath shaking, hands clutching the fabric of Kyle’s shirt. Kyle didn’t say anything at first, he didn’t even ask what happened, he just, wrapped his arms around Stan slowly, brushed his hand through Stan’s hair, lifting strands off his damp forehead. “Come here,” he murmured softly.
He led him to the bedroom without turning any lights on. The only glow came from the city outside the window, faint and blue, soft enough to make everything feel distant and unreal. Stan sat on the edge of the bed and immediately covered his face with both hands. His chest heaved again and again and this sharp, stupid, pathetic sound broke out of his throat. Kyle sat beside him. When Stan finally lowered his hands, his eyes were red and wet, Kyle moved forward and placed his palms gently along Stan’s jaw. His thumbs brushed the tears that kept slipping down faster than Stan could wipe them.
“What did she do?” Kyle whispered.
Stan shook his head, voice cracking.
“She left.”
He swallowed hard." S-she said I don’t see her, Kyle. That-," he couldn't finish it. Kyle’s expression softened, his thumbs swept across Stan’s cheekbones again.
"She’s right."
Stan’s breath caught, his eyes widened from his best friend's words. What?
Kyle leaned forward and kissed the tears off his skin. Stan let out a sob, Kyle pulled him into his chest, hands sliding into his hair again, guiding Stan's head to his shoulder.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured, lips brushing the side of Stan’s temple. “Let it out.” Stan clutched him harder, tears soaking into the fabric of Kyle’s shirt. His body shook with each breath as Kyle rocked him slightly, fingertips tracing up and down his spine, grounding him.
“It’s okay, baby, she didn’t understand you.” His fingers curled behind Stan’s neck. “She didn’t know how to handle you.”
Stan made a small, broken noise against Kyle’s throat. His breath came in short, heavy bursts that warmed Kyle’s skin. Kyle pressed another soft kiss to the side of his face.
“You give yourself wrong, you always have.”
Stan shivered, but he still leaned into the warmth of Kyle's voice. Kyle’s hand moved, cupped the back of his head.
“I’ll take care of you." I always do.
Stan didn’t even realize how tightly he was holding Kyle until Kyle shifted slightly and guided him to lie down. Stan followed without thinking, burying his face against Kyle’s chest, gripping his shirt like it was the last solid thing in the world. Kyle laid beside him, an arm around his shoulders, fingers threading through his hair again and again. The tears kept coming, but Kyle kept kissing them away anyway one by one. And every time Stan’s breath hitched, Kyle whispered something soft in his ear, things boys in heartbreak are helpless to resist.
“You’re safe here.”
“You have me.”
“I won’t let anything hurt you.”
“I’ve got you, Stan. I’ve always got you.”
When Stan finally fell asleep against him, Kyle stared at the ceiling with a slow exhale.
-
The room stays dim for a long time after Stan lies half on top of Kyle, cheek against his chest, breaths still uneven. His fingers were still curled into Kyle’s shirt like he’s afraid that if he lets go, he’ll fall straight through the mattress. Kyle strokes his hair slowly, lazily. he can feel how hot Stan’s face is, the lingering tear-dampness cooling against his skin.
It should make him feel guilty. It makes him feel different. Boys were always easy when they were emotional, but Stan, Stan doesn’t cry for anyone. So when he cries for Kyle, into Kyle, something in the back of Kyle’s brain unfurls. He leans down, murmuring into the latter's hair, “Hey. Breathe, Stan.”
Stan shivers, Kyle could feel it through his shirt. He smirks against the top of his head even though Stan can’t see it. He keeps petting him, dragging his fingers down the back of Stan’s neck, up into his hair again. Stan finally shifts, pulling back enough to lift his head. His eyes are red and wet, lashes clumped, face was flushed from crying.
“Sorry,” he whispers, voice raw. “I don’t- I don’t know why I’m like this.”
Kyle taps a thumb under Stan’s eye, catching a tear that was about to fall. “You just got dumped, Stan. You’re supposed to fall apart a little.”
“Not like this,” Stan murmurs, shaking his head. “I shouldn’t be… doing this with you.”
Kyle raises an eyebrow. “Doing what? Lying on a bed?”
“No,” Stan says quickly. “This. You. I-I shouldn’t feel- "
A beat.
“I shouldn’t feel so safe with you. So fucking-”
Ah.
There it is.
Kyle’s pulse jumps, hidden beneath Stan’s cheek. He leans up on an elbow, one hand sliding from Stan’s hair down to his jaw. He presses his thumb gently into the soft dip of Stan’s lower lip, watching it give beneath his touch.
“So 'what'?” Kyle whispers.
Stan’s eyes flutter. “I, ” His voice breaks. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, Kyle.”
Kyle tilts his head, pretending innocence, pretending he doesn’t understand the exact feeling crawling through Stan’s chest. “There’s nothing wrong with you,” Kyle says softly, brushing his thumb along Stan’s mouth again. “People always get clingy after heartbreak.”
Stan makes a barely audible, wounded sound. He pushes his face into Kyle’s palm, desperate for the contact. Kyle feels the heat rush through him. He softens his voice until it sounds like honey poured over velvet.
What a dog.
“You’re just looking for someone to hold on to,” he mutters, stroking under Stan’s ear. “That’s human. That’s- I don't know, normal.”
Stan’s fingers grips Kyle’s wrist. “Then why you?” he breathes out.
“Why… why do I want you?”
Kyle’s stomach flips, he wasn’t ready for that question. He tries to play it off with his usual smirk, but something in Stan’s face. looked so open, so raw, so trusting, it cuts straight through him. “What do you mean?”
Stan's breath quickens he almost sits up a little too quick, leaning over Kyle, hands shaking as they pressed on the mattress beside Kyle's hips. His hair falls into his eyes, he looks terrified. “Wendy said I look at you like, like I’m waiting for you to choose me.”
He squeezes his eyes shut. “And now I can’t stop thinking- maybe, she was right.”
Kyle swallows hard, he doesn’t get nervous, but this, this is Stan. This is Stan saying the exact thing Kyle has denied wanting for years.
“Stan…” Kyle breathes.
Stan’s eyes open again, glassy. “Something’s wrong with me,” he whispers.
“You’re my best friend, Kyle. I’m not supposed to feel-”
Kyle cuts him off. Not with words-
With a kiss.
It’s soft at first, barely there, the lightest press of Kyle’s lips against Stan’s. Like he’s afraid the moment will disappear if he pushes too hard, like he’s testing the temperature of something that could burn him alive.
Stan freezes, completely freezes like a deer stunned by headlights. Kyle pulls back only a breath’s width, lips brushing Stan’s as he whispers,
“Nothing’s wrong with you.”
Stan’s breath rushes out in a shaky exhale that hits Kyle’s mouth. Kyle moves in again, slower this time, fingers curling around the back of Stan’s neck, pulling him down. The second kiss is deeper, warmer, Stan responds without thinking. His body leans into Kyle, he was always meant to, gravity always correcting itself. Their mouths fit too perfectly, Stan’s lips trembling, Kyle’s steady and sure.
Kyle tastes the last of Stan’s tears and something inside him snaps. He cups Stan’s face in both hands, kissing him harder.
Stan breaks the kiss first, gasping, confused beyond belief. “Kyle...” his voice was wrecked.
Kyle presses their foreheads together, thumbs stroking Stan’s flushed cheeks. “Yeah?” he whispers, breath warm against Stan's lips. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.” Kyle kisses him again, this time it was softern warmer. And this time, Stan kisses back without hesitation. He doesn’t even know whose breath is filling his lungs anymore- his or Kyle’s, because they’re so close now the world behind Kyle’s shoulder has turned to this soft, pulsing blur.
Kyle’s mouth curves. “More?” he teases. "Yeah… you always want more, don’t you?”
He’s not comforting him anymore, he’s playing him like a fucking instrument.
And Stan, God, he melts into it. He tilts his chin up, chest heaving, because the air in Kyle’s apartment has turned thick and warm and dizzying. And his skin is hot, oversensitive and raw from crying and wanting and not knowing what the hell he’s doing. “Kyle…” His voice fractures. “I-I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
Kyle’s lashes lift in slow motion, or maybe that's what Stan sees, he looked like he woke up from a pleasant dream and not actually sitting here with Stan trembling under his hands. He taps Stan’s cheek lightly, teasing. “There’s nothing wrong with you,” he says softly, tilting his head, curls brushing Stan’s forehead. “You’re just confused. Boys get confused when they’re lonely. When someone actually gives a shit.”
He leans in, breath warm, his lips brushing the corner of Stan’s mouth as he talks.
“When someone touches them just right.”
Stan’s breath stutters, a violent shiver ran down his spine. His hands slides up, they find Kyle’s waist. But Kyle doesn't stop him, he just curls closer, slow and catlike, almost draping himself over Stan’s lap. “Kyle... ” Stan tries again, but his throat closes when Kyle’s fingers slide under the hem of his shirt, just enough to graze warm skin. Stan gasps, eyes fluttering shut. Kyle hums, pleased with the reaction. “See? That wasn’t so hard.” He laughs softly. “You really are a mess tonight.”
Stan should be pulling away. He should be asking what the hell they’re doing. He should be thinking about Wendy, or the breakup, or like how this is probably the worst possible place to be right now. But Kyle’s got his hands on him steady, and now, Stan just wants to sink into it. He wants Kyle closer so fucking bad. He wants the way Kyle’s thumb runs across his lip teasingly.
He looks up, eyes half-lidded and dazed. “Kyle… I think- I think I like you.”
Kyle freezes for exactly one heartbeat. Then he smiles.
“Oh, Stan…” he breathes. h]He was so close, his lips brushed Stan’s. “You don’t like me...”
“You just like the way I make you feel.”
Stan’s response never gets past his throat because Kyle closes the distance. And kisses him, kisses him like he’s claiming the heat pouring off Stan’s skin, swallowing every trembling breath. Stan clutches his waist, fingers digging in, pulling him closer. Kyle’s hands frame his face, guiding his jaw open, kissing him harder. Stan whimpers weakly against Kyle’s mouth, hips pressing up involuntarily, it makes Kyle smile into the kiss before licking into him again.
Stan is gone, so lost. Destroyed by the softest, most beautiful boy he’s ever known.
-
Stan wakes up like someone dropped him straight from a rooftop into his own body.
His skull pulses, his throat tastes like old cigarette and something bitter. His chest is tight and sore, like he cried too hard, which he did, and when he tries to move, there’s this warm weight on his ribs. A knee pressed against his thigh, a soft rustle of sheets that don’t feel like his.
He freezes.
Kyle.
Kyle.
Kyle Broflovski is in his bed.
No- Kyle’s bed. Right. The too-soft blankets, the fresh detergent, the faint scent of citrus shampoo on the pillow smashed against his cheek. And Kyle isn’t exactly holding him, more like half-draped over him lazily, face mashed into Stan’s shoulder, he sleeps with absolutely zero shame. Stan’s heart flips violently. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to remember what happened after the kiss, after Kyle crawled into his lap and touched him until he felt his body melt.
There’s only fragments, like Kyle’s mouth, Kyle’s laugh against his hair, warm hands sliding up his stomach, gasping and shaking
Then nothing. Stan’s stomach plunges. Did they... ?
Before he can spiral, Kyle shifts, groaning sleepily, his curls tickle Stan’s chin, then he opens his eyes just enough to look up at Stan with heavy lids and this lazy, morning-soft smile. “Oh,” Kyle murmurs, voice gravelly. “You’re awake, good. You looked dead.”
Stan wants to die again. He’s sober, entirely painfully sober. And Kyle’s chest is pressed to his, warm and real. He sits up and pushed some curls out of his face. Sunlight spills across his shoulders, turning the freckles on his arms almost gold. It’s stupid how good he looks in the morning. Music drifts up faintly from the apartment below, something soft, old, a slow bass line humming low through the floorboards. He yawns, stretches, and then tugs on Stan’s wrist. “Come on,” he says, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “Shower with me.”
Stan chokes. “Wh- Kyle, dude hold on-”
But Kyle just laughs, Kyle just smiles light and bright like last night didn’t happen. Stan stares at him, dizzy. He glances back, then smirks. “Relax. We didn’t fuck. You passed out on top of me, actually. Heavy as hell.”
Stan’s face goes nuclear. “Fuck.” Kyle just shrugs, pulling him toward the bathroom anyway. “You made out with me like you were dying, though. That part was pretty cute.” Stan could feel his knees giving out. He follows because he can’t not follow.
Because Kyle’s fingers are curled around his wrist gently, confidently, and Stan’s tired body moves along like muscle memory. Because the bathroom fills with warm steam as Kyle turns the water on, the mirror fogging almost instantly. Because Kyle strips like it’s nothing, shirt off in one tug, shorts kicked aside, he tries not to stare, fails immediately. He catches Stan staring and grins. “You’re so hungover you forgot how to be subtle.”
He steps close, close enough that Stan feels the heat of his skin, the steam curling around their bodies. He touches Stan’s jaw with the back of his knuckles.
“C’mon,” he whispers. “Shower. Before you throw up on the floor.”
Stan breathes out shakily. “Did I… say anything dumb last night?”
“You said a lot of things,” Kyle murmurs, stepping into the shower and tugging Stan with him. “Most of them were just, something drunk you would say."
The water runs hot and Kyle laughs softly as Stan finally steps in with him, he could feel his head pounding and his heart beating in quick intervals. Kyle stands under the spray, tilting his head back, letting the water run through his hair. He laughs when it hits his face. He stupidly beautiful in the light and steam. And Stan can only stare at him with a pained smile. Kyle notices, of course he does. He steps closer again, presses his forehead lightly to Stan’s.
“Good morning,” Kyle says.
Stan closes his eyes.
It’s going to ruin him.