This is all my fault, God. How can I be such an idiot?
Stan's eyes flicked back and forth between the liquor resting in his hands across the bar in short intervals. Fifteen seconds, I counted them. Part of those fifteen seconds was focused on what was right in front of him: the glass of Irish whiskey on the bar; the men, young and old, chatting around him; the collection of Denver Broncos merchandise scattered like decor across the bar along with the multiple drinks and glasses the bartender was busy with; and so on.
Sometimes he forced himself to look anywhere else for more than fifteen minutes. Any other face. Like the one of the blue-haired woman showing off her bohemian tattoos to the group of friends behind him. Or the one of the strapping old man in a cowboy hat leaning over the pool table to sink a point while complaining about that year's halftime show host. Trivial stuff. Whatever.
Stan wasn't a bar guy. He used to be, during his early twenties, when the bars in the small colonial-style downtown near CSU were his most frequented places after classes and his flat. Then bars became the only places he frequented when he dropped out of football and his scholarship money was cut, so he had to drop out of college too, find a job, and a place to live. In the end, the only places he ended up hanging around were the downtown bars, his job as a customer service representative for American Homes 4 Rent , and his apartment. At 26, he grew tired of them, so he kept his bad drinking habit at home, alone; the sound of the television and his secondhand couch being his only companions.
That day, however, he was in a good mood. He didn't know if it was because it was his day off, because of Super Bowl Sunday—he stopped getting excited about them when he turned 16—or because the Broncos were playing that year, but he decided it was a nice day to stop by the bar to watch the game. He bought a set of buffalo wings—a set that was done before halftime—and a beer to start.
The bar was full. Packed. It was easy to get lost in the sea of faces moving this way and that. From one side to the other...
But Stan couldn't. He was incapable.
Then, when he hadn't looked across the bar for almost a minute, his curiosity betrayed him again, and his attention was focused, once again, on those tables, pressed against two large windows that opened the door to the darkness outside.
It was a good corner—one of many packed with loud, obnoxious people enjoying the game while choking on beer and chicken wings. His attention could be focused on them. Like the group of crashing teenagers sharing a bottle of rum and a box of pizza at one of the tables, or the elderly couple smiling at each other with half-full glasses of wine and garlic breadsticks resting between them. Maybe he was hungry. Yes, that was probably it. Maybe he'd had one too many to drink, and the best thing to do would be to leave the bar and go to the nearest Wingstop. Or the one more than 70 kilometers away from that bar.
And yet he still couldn't.
It was as if his presence—or the possibility of it, rather—were pulling him to the ground. To the underground. As if Stan were made of tons of metal instead of flesh, and beneath the floor were millions and millions of magnets controlling his movements, holding him in place.
For a moment, he thought he was seeing things; that his voluntary isolation had finally driven him mad. Maybe the alcohol was giving him a bad time, even though he'd only had that first beer and the glass of whiskey he ordered afterward and couldn't bring himself to finish. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.
Maybe it was him, damn it. Kyle Broflovski, in all his glory, ready to torture him to death.
But, ah, what a glorious death. Like that Smiths song, such a heavenly way to die . He was at that table, sitting alone, staring blankly at the cars coming and going outside the window; A half-empty wine glass rested on his table. Every now and then, he checked his watch, or his cell phone, or sometimes he became absorbed in the television screen on that side of the bar. Stan wondered if he'd noticed him and decided to ignore him. Maybe that's what he was supposed to do, too.
And yet, damn it, he couldn't. He couldn't .
Because Kyle looked so different, and yet he hadn't changed a bit. Not a single bit. The last time he'd seen him, his hair was longer, and the faintest shadow of a beard barely textured his cheeks. Now, that texture was more closely trimmed; confined to his chin, with a small mustache for company that formed a well-detailed anchor beard. Two vermillion sideburns, his curls long enough to fall in small reddish ringlets in the middle of his forehead. The same green eyes. A blazer and khakis that hugged him tightly. That was more than fifteen seconds.
Stan thought of all the times he'd pictured that man across the bar, when he was twenty and in cloud nine. When the limits of the world laid in his bed and his best friend’s freckled arms. The times he dreamed of a future where they grew old together and formed a happy family. Where they spent mornings making breakfast amid stolen kisses and newlywed giggles; nights slow-dancing under the refrigerator light. Where he woke up with that same face every day of his life, watching his hair grow grayer and new wrinkles appear around his eyes. Every morning, always. Until death do them part.
But that never happened. They let go.
Fuck it , he thought, then he downed the rest of his whiskey and bolted upright.
Halftime had just ended, and the players had taken their places. The Broncos against the Tennessee Titans, two mediocre teams, one less so than the other. Stan stalked to the other side of the bar, drink in hand, trying not to bump into anyone. And before he knew it, he was across the table from the man he'd once called his super-best friend.
"Kyle?" A rhetorical question, of course. As if he'd have a hard time recognizing him in a million years. "Kyle Broflovski?"
He hadn't exactly planned how he'd approach him. How he'd greet him, or how he'd start talking. What he'd say, or why he'd even come see him. Damn it, what was he doing there?
Kyle blinked once, then again. With a bewilderment laced with innocence, so that, to Stan's eyes, he didn't seem to have aged a day. That flooded him with relief. The last thing he wanted was to talk to a complete stranger.
"Stan!" He grinned and shot up, leaning forward to envelop Stan in a brotherly hug. "Fuck, dude, it's you!"
Marsh smiled back, pulling away from the hug. "You don't look so bad yourself."
Kyle laughed. "You know that's not what I meant, it's just... Damn, how long has it been?”
"Ten? Eleven years? I don't know, you tell me."
That answer seemed to interfere a little with Broflovski's good mood, causing his smile to twist into something resembling a grimace. He looked away for a few seconds and sighed.
"Sit down, dude! I'll sit on this side. Do you want something to drink?"
"That's fine, I think. I drank some whiskey earlier."
Kyle cleared his throat. "Sure, sure. I'm trying not to drink this wine too fast."
There was some tension between them, and Stan hated it. Because there didn't have to be. Because it had never been there before. Those tensions, that discomfort, that need to tiptoe over hot stones to prevent starting an uncontrollable fire that would spread and turn the remains of their relationship to ash... he hated it.
And he didn't understand why Kyle behaved this way. If he was angry with him, let him show it. Let him show his true colors, let out that frustration that Stan knows is weighing him down inside. Let him lash out at him instead of trying to provide him with the kindness he doesn't deserve.
"How have you been? What's become of your life?"
"I'm working as one of those customer service guys at AMH."
He burst out laughing. "Really? And do they pay you well?"
"Oh, yeah... I have an apartment downtown and sometimes I come here or go out to eat or... you know."
"Sure, sure. Well, I still live in South Park. I came to Denver to pick Ike up from the airport, and he told me his flight was delayed and the next one was for next week." He explained. "He gave me a late notification, which was kind of weird, and since I was already in town, I decided to come over and get a drink while I watch the Broncos get their asses kicked once again in my life."
"Where does Ike live?"
"Toronto."
"With his wife."
"With his wife, of course. I thought he was in New York."
"He was. After the bar exam, he moved to Toronto and is working at a firm there."
"So what do you do for a living? Did you end up staying at your father's firm back in old South Park, or…?"
Kyle smiled and looked away, as if embarrassed. "No, nothing like that. I… I dropped out of law school and moved into psychology. I'm a therapist."
"Oh, right…"
There was an awkward pause that made Stan even angrier; but really, what the hell did he expect? So many years without speaking to each other. That bond they once had couldn't just resurface. And maybe it wasn't even meant to resurface at all.
They both looked toward the window. It was then that Stan realized—at the same time as Kyle, apparently—that it was snowing. Tiny flakes like sugar grains defined masses of gigantic white snow. That explained the early chill.
Kyle stared into his glass, ignoring the game above his head. It was almost over, and things didn't seem to be going well for the Broncos. Hell, even against the pathetic Tennessee Titans? Seriously?
"You... Stan..." He muttered, self-conscious.
Another thing Stan hated. He hated it when he got like this. It wasn't the first time. The previous times, that suddenly fearful attitude had heralded the arrival of a bomb. It had triggered a deadly explosion. Their last argument had started with that attitude and ended in shouting and insults that led to his own forced displacement.
"Are you... Are you doing okay?"
His eyes, a pair of emeralds that shone with sincerity. His mouth, a grimace of uncertainty, waiting for his reaction, unsure if it would be positive or negative. But there was concern, real concern. And Stan wondered if it had stemmed from their last conversation or if his current appearance—the dark circles around his eyelids, his three-day-old clothes, his scruffy, untidy beard—had given him away.
And that angered him, too. Because Kyle had no right to be concerned about his well-being after all these years.
"Considerably, I think. I don't know, dude, I mean... My situation hasn't changed much since we last saw each other. Why do you ask?"
Kyle frowned and opened his mouth as if to say something, only to close it and open it again abruptly.
"Well, excuse me for assuming you're doing well in life before jumping to my own conclusions, dude. Sorry for assuming the best of you."
"Thanks."
"Though, of course, knowing you, I should have assumed you'd still be wallowing in your misery, alone. Like now. What are you doing here?"
Ah, that was what Stan wanted. A sincere reaction. An honest attitude. No fake sympathy, no fake friendships.
And yet, it didn't bring him any satisfaction.
"I don't know, just..." He clicked his tongue. "I just saw you across the bar and thought... I don't know, goddamnit”
With one hand ruffling his hair, he wondered, What am I really doing here? Why did I come here in the first place?
“Of course. You never know anything."
“And what the hell do you want me to say, huh? That I came here to fix things and that's it? Apologize on my knees?”
“Well, yeah, that would be nice, thanks. And really appropriate, now that you mention it.”
Stan let out a coarse laugh. “I really can't believe you. You kicked me out, and you want me to apologize?”
“Oh, no. Don't twist my words to your liking. You dropped out of college for God knows what reason, and without your financial aid, all the expenses fell on me.” He explained. “I had to pay the electricity bill, food, and rent. And you weren't doing anything.”
“I was in a bad place, okay?! I didn't know what to do. I didn't want to stay playing football, I didn't know what to study, I didn't know what I wanted to do with my life. I wanted a chance to think instead of making hasty decisions without knowing what I wanted yet!”
"And you know what you want now? Tell me. I'd like to hear."
Stan frowned. Because no, he didn't know what he wanted to do with his life. But it wasn't fair for Kyle to throw it in his face just like that.
"That's easy for you to say, isn't it? You always had your parents' support. I don't know how you can compare us. They paid for everything, and..."
"You really don't know anything ." His voice was taking on an exasperated and disdainful tone.
"I don't know anything? Am I lying now? You're gonna tell me the receipt for all your expenses wasn't in Gerald's name?”
"When I was preparing for law school, yes, but not when I changed majors," he said firmly. "He cut me off. I had to sustain myself solely on FAFSA and student loans, which I'm still paying off to this day, by the way. For a while, we couldn't cross paths without a fight. He wouldn't stop calling me a bum and a freeloader.”
"Honestly, even I don't understand why you changed majors. I thought you liked law."
"Oh, so now care? Well, I can change my mind and not screw up my life or anyone else's in the process."
Stan blinked in shock, as if recovering from the impact of a slap. It was true, but it still hurt.
"I…"
"What? Now what?" Kyle's voice trembled, as if on the verge of tears, but he refused to show it.
"You still kicked me out."
He blinked several times, in disbelief, as if to say, Is that really your answer? He squeezed his eyes shut and turned his face toward the window. Then back to Stan.
"All I asked you was if you were looking for a job. You were the one who blew things out of proportion, as usual.”
"Well, of course I was looking for a job! You wanted me not to be offended? You made me seen like a parasite taking advantage of your money!”
"That was never my intention. You were the one who made you feel this way. You and your inferiority complex."
"Yeah! Of course, why wouldn't I?!" He bellowed, exasperated. " You always seemed to have your whole life made up! You never seemed to have doubts about anything! You had two parents who supported you, no questions asked! What did I have?! What did I have, Kyle?! Fucking Randy Marsh?!"
"You could have stayed playing football!"
"It wasn't what I wanted to do!"
"You didn't even know what you wanted to do! Why not do that while you thought things through?!"
"Because... ugh!" He clicked his tongue. "Because no! Okay?!"
Kyle leaned back with an exasperated snort. He took a sip from his glass, watching the snow fall in larger and heavier quantities, thickening on the sidewalk, while muttering to himself. The starchy mass reflected in his eyes, making them shine like Dresden green in the light. Long reddish eyelashes fanned around his eyelids. Small freckles dotted his cheeks, giving a boyish tinge to his stubble-rimmed skin. A beard as red as his hair.
Stan let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding, also releasing the tension in his shoulders. The fire of anger had dissipated with the snow.
"I miss you, dude." He admitted without a hint of anger. "I miss you a lot."
He received a wide-eyed look, moved by surprise and bewilderment. Stan wanted to believe he shared the same feeling. That he also missed him so much he felt like tearing his skin off.
He squeezed both eyes shut and shook his head.
"You're a dumbass, Stan," Kyle sighed. His anger had also dissipated. Neither of them knew how to stay angry with each other for long.
A roar of loud disappointment made it clear that the Broncos had lost the game. The crowd started booing even louder than before, throwing things and cursing at the television. Stan looked over his shoulder at the screen. He didn't even care anymore.
Kyle drained the last of his wine and stood up from the table, ready to leave the place, no matter how tedious it was amid the sudden explosion of collective fury. Stan followed him with his eyes, mentally wondering if he'd let him go once more.
But last time, he was the one who left.
Although anyone would do it under pressure from your best friend-almost-boyfriend-but-it's-complicated-okay? kicking you out of his apartment. The apartment they used to pay for together, but Kyle ended up paying for it alone, which was the reason for the dispute in the first place.
And that disastrous argument, as much as it hurt him, was enough to make him realize how much he missed Kyle. How much he missed his company.
So, he followed him.
The snow was falling faster than ever, ready to cover every corner with its dense mass. Most people were leaving in their cars, others were running under it toward their homes. Stan would have been one of the runners if it weren't for his new priority. He lived close enough to that bar to not need a car.
Kyle was wearing a turtleneck sweater under his jacket, which he pulled up over his nose as he surveyed the place.
"Are you going back to South Park like this?" Stan asked in a self-conscious tone. He suddenly felt sorry for having ruined the whole thing earlier.
"I don't know," Kyle said in a sharp tone, his arms crossed. "None of your business.”
“People should start driving carefully. The snow will get worse, especially the higher up you go, and South Park is an hour and a half away.”
“I don’t want to rent a motel room full of rats, okay? I’m willing to take risks.” He bit his lower lip and glanced at his car across the parking lot. “Maybe I’ll sleep in my car.”
“What? No, dude, please.” Stan shook his head. “Come with me. My apartment isn’t far. I walked here.”
“Stan, no…”
“Please.” He begged, and hoped the look he was giving him conveyed all the sincerity he held inside. “Let me do this for you, okay? You deserve it, after all.”
Kyle pressed his mouth shut and hesitated for a moment before relenting.
He insisted on taking his car, because there was no way he'd leave it outside that filthy bar, so prone to theft. The snow was getting heavier and thicker as they drove. There were a lot more people around them than there usually were on any other day, especially on a Sunday. Luckily, it wouldn't take them long to get there.
Stan was nervous. He couldn't believe Kyle was actually there with him, much less sleeping in his apartment. Maybe... No. Definitely not.
Or maybe...
"How are… like—what’s your job like?" he asked once they arrived at the complex.
"Mhm? What do you mean?"
Kyle's face had vanished all traces of anger or disdain. That gave Stan some peace of mind. At least they didn't have to spend the night gritting their teeth with each other in their memories.
"So, do you have your own office or do you work at, like, a hospital? Because I've heard there are people who work one way or another."
“Well, I started in a hospital, but I have my own office right now," Kyle replied, holding back a smile. "And what’s… you know."
They went up the stairs, too lazy to wait for the elevator. Luckily, his apartment was on the second floor.
"AMH? Boring office job. You can imagine."
"Really? I heard they let you work from home."
"Sometimes. Not all the time. But now that you mention it, if you're wondering why I have a landline, it's theirs."
"Oh, okay."
Stan figured the conversation would end there as soon as he opened the door. His place wasn't very spacious, really, but it held up. It had one bedroom and a few other things. A kitchen, some things in the refrigerator, a couch, and a TV. Sometimes he slept in his room and other times on the couch, and he sustained himself on instant noodles and frozen food.
He waited for Kyle's reaction to his pitiful man cave, but he was distracted by conversation.
"Are you still in touch with any of the guys?" He asked.
Stan blinked. "I know Kenny's doing well; I read about him every now and then. I saw he was teaching at MIT."
"Yeah, yeah. We've kept in touch; he's doing great. I've visited him once in a while, but we both have less and less free time," he explained. "He's invited me to a few parties, but... I don't know. It's weird. What would I do among so many successful and important people?"
"What do you mean? I think you'd fit right in."
Stan was being a flatterer, and he knew Kyle could tell by the way he rolled his eyes. But he had a goofy grin and a blush on his cheeks, so mission accomplished.
"If I did something revolutionary, maybe, but I'm not fucking Freud. I just listen to people's problems and give them advice." He said as he walked toward the couch. "Besides, knowing Kenny, I don't think it's my type of party. I think he's just trying to play matchmaker and get me hooked on one of those professors or physicists."
"You're single?”
Of all the new things he was learning about Kyle, this was the one that genuinely surprised him the most. Even more than his career change or whatever. And he couldn't even put his finger on why exactly.
Kyle narrowed his eyes.
"Dude, you are too."
"No, I mean." He cleared his throat. "I mean..."
"Or am I wrong?" He gasped in surprise. "Is she asleep? Am I bothering you two?"
"No, no!" Stan shook his head between laughs. "Nothing like that!"
Kyle's face had taken on a shade as red as his hair. He could tell he wanted to burrow underground and never come out, but he just sat awkwardly on the couch.
"I'm not seeing anyone," Stan assured him.
"Me neither, since you asked. I've had my share of adventures, yes, but…”
He trailed off suddenly, and Stan would trade ten years of his life to find out what he was holding back. To know what was going on inside his mind, every moment.
"But...?"
Kyle shook his head. "Nothing, forget it." He cleared his throat. "What do you know about Cartman? The last time I saw him, he'd been arrested for disturbing the peace, or something. But that's all I knew about him, and that was about a year or two ago."
"I really know nothing about Cartman. Although I wouldn't be surprised if he was still arrested."
Stanley thought he looked like a fool standing across the room, so he decided he and Kyle were comfortable enough that it was okay for him to move closer to the couch next to him. For them to be close to each other. For Stan to be able to see those freckles more clearly.
It was absurd to think about all of that, like he was a nineteen year old over again. And it was silly back then too. It was nothing more than a game between two horny boys. Things that don't mean anything.
Just like it shouldn't mean anything that he stared at Kyle's lips for too long. Or that he thought about the pinkish hue his pale skin would take under the thick sweater he was wearing. A sweater he could rip off with his teeth.
"Stan? Stanley? Are you listening to me?"
"Huh? Yeah." He straightened. "Yeah, yeah. What were you saying?"
"That you could get a job coaching high school football. I heard that's what Clyde's working on right now."
"Clyde?" he said in a gruff tone.
"It doesn't sound so bad. I mean, you're really good at it. Were. I don't know. I don't know how you're doing right now..."
"Kyle, let's not talk about work, okay?"
"It's just... God, Stan, AMH? Really?"
"They don't ask for that much experience. And I make good money. I've been there for years."
"Since you dropped out of college? Jesus Christ. It's just... sorry. I can't. I don't think—I mean..."
"Kyle. I really don't want to talk about all this.”
He extended a hand, and Kyle returned it. He leaned closer, his gaze lowered. Stan could almost count all the eyelashes and every dot that decorated his nose. He could almost see the skin on his neck peeking ruefully through the sweater.
"Sorry." He looked up, perfect timing. "I just worry, okay?"
There was a gleam of sincerity in those eyes. Both copper brows were raised in concern. He didn't want to have this conversation. Not right now.
He missed him so much. God, how he missed him.
He leaned closer to him, closing the space between them with each step, testing the waters. Kyle didn't move away. That was a good sign.
"There's nothing to worry about, okay?" he whispered in the most understanding tone he could, stroking not only Broflovski's hands, but his arms. His shoulders. Almost his neck.
"It's... Stan..." He closed his eyes with a sigh, leaning toward him. Letting himself go.
Stan closed the distance with a kiss. A short, shallow, slow kiss. Two puzzle pieces getting used to the feeling of being whole once more.
He thought of all the times they'd been like this, whole, complete, full. Drawing closer, heart to heart, mouth to mouth. With much more urgency and much more precocity. Clumsy touches that sought closeness and pleasure as their end. Pubescent play between classes, from place to place, or in the confines of their rooms. As if they were capable of adapting to the adult world they were so recently learning about in each other's arms. With silly giggles, private murmurs, clumsy kisses and caresses. As if that were enough.
He couldn't have been more wrong.
They were both afraid to move. Not just their lips, but their hands, their faces, their legs, any part of their bodies. As if doing so would break the spell they were under at that moment. As if they were bursting their own bubble.
It was Kyle who made room for the movement, letting go of the tension in his entire body and practically melting into Stan's arms, falling on top of him with a pleased moan. Stan held him by the waist as he found a comfortable position on the armrest of the sofa, adjusting to a position that was good for both of them.
Kyle took off his jacket without moving away from Stan's mouth. Stan didn't want to move away from his mouth either. He opened slowly beneath him, exploring with his tongue, rubbing their lips together, but keeping their distance to a minimum. It was like a silent agreement that if they separated far enough, they would never be able to join lips again. They would never be able to allow themselves that pleasure again.
"I had a small feeling you approached me for this," Kyle whispered, millimeters from her mouth as he struggled with his sweater.
Stan moved away, just a little, again. "Oh yeah? What gave me away?"
"So it is true?" he questioned, now moving much further away from his body. Partly with the intention of removing his clothes comfortably.
Stan still had his hands on his hips, playing with the hem of his jeans. It was partly a lie, only because no matter how and with what intentions he tried to get close to Kyle, they would eventually end up like that, tearing each other's clothes off. Because neither of them could resist the other enough, and they knew it.
Kyle knew it, even if he pretended not to. So he said nothing and silently took off his sweater.
There was a trail of curly red hair that ran from his chest and disappeared at the hem of his pants. Entire solar systems were marked by his freckles on his skin; his arms, his shoulders, even on the soft area of his abdomen. He had gained some weight over the years. Nothing obscene, it just made him look more muscular.
How could he ask such an unfair question? There was no world in which Stan could find peace with Kyle Broflovski walking around freely. Looking like that, the way he looked at that moment. With a slack smile, half-naked and straddling his lap, illuminated by the pitiful light of his secondhand lamp in his crummy apartment.
He contrasted so notoriously, and Stanley found that somewhere between embarrassing and fascinating. He was like an angel in the middle of a dead end. That ethereal beauty you only hear about in fairy tales, surrounded by the mundane paraphernalia that made up the place he called home. And there he was, just for Stan. Opening up for him and no one else.
He couldn't let him go. Not again.
Having broken the magic of the previous kiss, Stan moved his lips elsewhere. He kissed Kyle's chest, every hair and spot that covered it, even the scars that outlined his pectorals. He kissed his abdomen, feeling it twitch beneath his lips; how it contracted and expanded as Kyle's breathing became more labored. He kissed his Adonis belt, running his tongue over it without breaking the gaze with those green eyes that stared at him through a cloud of ill-contained impatience and desire.
"You look at me so weird, dude," Kyle muttered through a breathy laugh. His fingers unconsciously buried themselves in Stan's black hair.
"Like what?" He asked quietly.
"Like an apparition. Like you're seeing a ghost, or some shit."
They both laughed at that comment. Stan began to unbutton Kyle's fly, which was now face to face with his face as he moved down the path of kisses toward Kyle's crotch. Broflovski sucked in a breath and a whimper.
"You don't know what having you like this means to me."
"Mhm? I have some idea." He stammered as he stroked Stan's hair with his eyes closed and submitted to the feel of his fingers against his crotch as Stan removed his pants.
"No. I doubt it. You can't.”
Kyle couldn't respond to that except with a ragged gasp as he felt the other's hand grope his cunt, oozing already from the previous action. Stan groaned, partly in disbelief and partly from the growing need that was getting stronger and stronger inside him. The skin against his fingers was soft; slimy, yet soft. He traced the moist lips and nearly came in his pants as he felt that wet warmth envelop his two fingers, especially with the sound of pure bliss it pushed from Broflovski's throat.
"Stan..." He stammered quietly.
His abdomen tightened at Marsh's actions. Index and middle fingers thrusting in and out, in and out, in and out; again and again into his spongy hole. Stan could spend the whole night like this, probing his insides, pushing deeper and deeper, watching in amazement at Kyle’s reactions. The way his eyes squeezed shut and his lips parted to make room for those sounds that were like music to Stan's ears. Kyle held onto the back of the couch for stability, pushing his hips deeper and deeper into Stan’s palm. Causing him to pound deeper, deeper…
Stan moaned hungrily at his desperation. Wanting more and more. He couldn't believe he still had that same effect on Kyle. That he could get the same reactions out of him. He wondered if…
"Let me eat you out," he pleaded hoarsely. Stan hoped Kyle would accept his proposal, eager to see him melt against his mouth.
Kyle saw him through a slit of half-closed eyelids and furrowed brows. Unsure if his mouth could possibly utter anything more than a moan or a gasp, he nodded.
Stan had a firm grip on Kyle's thighs to keep him from falling, and began touching his pussy gently. Kitten licks and wet kisses that made his lover flinch and gasp. Kyle was so sensitive, so expressive, and Stan couldn't last long before he was able to attack his cunt with a ravenous hunger. With an almost animalistic need he didn't know he had inside. He licked, kissed, and sucked, and Kyle just trembled and trembled and writhed against his mouth.
"Stan..." He stammered in a high-pitched voice. "S-Stan!"
A few minutes passed like that. Stanley didn't know how many, didn't want to know. His world revolved solely around those two thighs, the taste in his mouth, and that bundle of increasingly loud and desperate moans he could hear from that perfect position, his nose buried in Kyle's bush of vermillion hair. If Stan could, he'd probe deeper. He'd shove his tongue in until he could draw joyful cries from Kyle. He'd devour his pussy until he cried and tore the fabric of the couch with his nails.
But good things didn't last forever, and from his small spasms, he could tell he didn't have much longer. Kyle buried his fingers in his hair, babbling endless Yes, yes, yes and right there! as his hips moved urgently. Stan could only watch him, his eyes clouded with fascination and desire for this man. He couldn't believe he had him back in his arms, just like that. It was a miracle.
Kyle came with a loud cry and a series of staccato spasms, and still Stan didn't remove his mouth. He continued licking and licking as much as he could until Broflovski could no longer hide his face in an arm against the backrest while babbling intelligible things in a croaky voice. Marsh decided to stop torturing him and pulled away, planting one last kiss on his thighs. They also had freckles, and Stan was pleased to remember that as he stroked them soothingly.
Kyle recovered from the rush soon, glancing at Stan through a pair of half-closed green eyes. His breathing still needed to even out, but that didn't stop him from talking.
“Fucking Stan Marsh.” He sighed, straightening up and combing his fingers through his hair. “You still have it, huh?”
“What do you mean?” Stan asked with false innocence, caressing his hips now that Kyle was straddling him again, pelvis to pelvis. He obviously knew what he meant, but he preferred to hear it from his own lips.
“Gay men are so clumsy. They never know how to touch. They don’t know how to eat.” Kyle confessed, bringing both hands to Stan’s crotch, probing his bulge and his fly with his fingers. “You’re the only one who seems to get it right.”
Stan followed his movements with his bitten lips. “J-Just me?”
Kyle rolled his eyes. “Yeah, dude, what? Is that what you wanted to hear? Do I give you a trophy as winner of the pussy-eating contest?”
“Well, you started it,” he said, desperate for Kyle to touch him there again. “It's probably because none of those sissies want you as much as I do.”
Kyle snorted in amusement as he unzipped Stan's fly. Finally .
"So flattering. How should I thank you?"
Stan bit his lip.
"K-Kyle, please..." he begged.
"Mhm?"
"Let me... let me, please, dude—come here."
Broflovski grinned cheekily.
Stan would have the expression on Kyle's face when he finally entered him etched in his mind for the rest of his days. The way she looked at him with those lustful eyes, the way she wrinkled her brow and parted her lips to release the most delicious sigh. Marsh whimpered with need and muttered softly, I missed this. Because it was true. He missed it. Every single day.
He missed that feeling. That scorching warmth. Those mouthwatering sounds. That sight. That smell. Everything. Everything. Kyle moved his hips in a rhythmic sway as he sought his own pleasure. Back and forth. Back and forth. And Stan felt like he would die soon.
"And me? Do I still have it?" Kyle asked humorously. There was a certain difficulty in his voice. Out of breath.
Stan groaned, gripping his hips with both hands. "Like not a day has passed."
The man above him smiled. A silly, graceful smile. Stan reciprocated it with a lovelorn one.
Of course he missed him, damn it, who was he kidding? The loneliness was slowly suffocating him. From the apartment to work. From work to the store. From the store to home. Over and over again, the same routine, endlessly. Sometimes he would get calls, sometimes his coworkers would seek him out, but it just wasn't the same. It would never be the same as having a group of people who cared as much about him as the friends he had in another life. Nothing would compare to the arms that wrapped around him when it seemed like all was lost.
And Stan knew it. He knew it quite well. He remembered it in the way Kyle leaned over him as he rode him. How he tucked his hands under his shirt. How he surrendered and slumped into his arms, burying his face in the crook of his neck. Stan gripped his fingers against Kyle's back and gathered momentum, starting to ram his cock into that warmth he oh-so craved, pushing muffled moans from Kyle's throat.
He wouldn't last long, God knew he wouldn't. It was too much. Too many sensations, too much warmth, too much bliss. Kyle clung to him with superhuman strength, mumbling who-knows-what as he fisted the fabric of his shirt. Stan held his hips and slammed into him. Faster, harder, deeper, losing himself in the sensation and the enveloping scent of his reddish curls.
Kyle turned his head away and looked at him through glossy eyes, messy hair, and spit-damp cheeks. He was a mess; a waste. And yet Stan was sure he'd never before longed to kiss a mouth with the same hunger that was gnawing at him at that moment.
"Kiss me," he begged breathlessly, "let me kiss you. Please.”
That request implied more intimacy than any other. That affair of theirs shouldn't mean anything. Just two friends, barely lovers, seeking warmth in each other's arms. Yet the touch of their lips was more personal. More romantic. As if between mouths, things began to take on meaning.
And yet, with that silent agreement in mind, Kyle gave him that pleasure, opening his mouth on Stan's slowly and passionately. Stan closed his eyes and kissed him hungrily as he sought his orrgasm with need. He clutched his fingers in his lover's red hair. Pushing him closer. Obscenely pressing Kyle's mouth against his own. Seeking more, and more, and more ...
With spasms and a moan muffled by the other's mouth, Marsh's orgasm came, devastating him like an earthquake. Stan separated his mouth from Kyle’s, holding it open to bluff out incoherencies. Kyle kissed his neck and shoulders as his own second climax came, much less intense than the previous one.
He couldn't let things stay like that again. He couldn't.
They slept on the couch, with all the inelegance that implied. One on top of the other, half-dressed, skin to skin. Stanley woke up with one of Kyle's cheeks pressed against his chest, his hair tickling his skin. He felt the urge to stroke it, to brush it away from his face, but he was petrified.
Stan didn't believe he would spend the night after the Super Bowl like that. He believed he would go home, alone, and sleep alone in his room. That he would get up alone, dress for work alone, and eat breakfast alone. But it had snowed the night before, which meant he wouldn't be working that day. And he wasn't alone.
What a blessing. What a blessing. He wasn't alone.
Kyle woke up suddenly, with a gasp of surprise, but not fear. He simply studied his surroundings carefully through long, sluggish blinks and sighed.
“Dude, I feel like I just took a nap at school,” Kyle mumbled as he straightened up and fixed his hair.
Stan tilted his head, a confused smile spreading across his face. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
“It’s something. I don’t know, I didn't sleep that much in school. Or in general. Dude!” He clicked his tongue. “I forgot my bonnet! Shit! I probably have tangles the size of a house.”
“What?”
“My bonnet! To sleep!”
“Dude, it’s probably fine. You didn’t wear it to sleepovers when we were kids,” he said. “You can take a shower. Wash your hair. I have lotions and… stuff.”
Kyle raised an eyebrow. “Lotions and stuff?”
“Yeah, shampoo and… and conditioner.”
“Dude.” He shook his head with a laugh. “Oh, Stan.”
They dressed diligently and prepared breakfast. Scrambled eggs and pancakes made with instant mix. There were no more kisses or caresses of any kind. Just pleasant conversation and a leisurely breakfast accompanied by two cups of coffee.
Kyle talked about his family. About how Ike was expecting his second child and his mother was still waiting for Kyle's first. About how he thought his father would never retire. About how his cousin in Jersey was a grandmother at thirty-two.
He also talked about work. How difficult it was. About all kinds of people who came to him with problems and complaints. Sometimes he talked to people with such dire circumstances that he envied their lives. Other times, people with living nightmares came to his office, but it was nothing compared to working in a hospital. Or the year he worked in a school. He much preferred having his own schedule and control over his work methods. If he didn't feel like seeing anyone in person, he could set up appointments over the phone, and counsel people in nothing but boxer shorts and a silk robe. He was grateful, without a doubt, to be able to do something that ensured sustainability and peace of mind.
Stan listened to him talk. He listened, listened, and listened.
“Why psychology?” he asked. Not as an offense, but out of genuine curiosity.
Kyle started talking about his future as a lawyer when they entered middle school. He seemed really determined to have a business as successful as his father, to follow in his legacy. Stan was incredibly surprised that he changed his mind.
“I was always good at listening to you cry about who-knows-what. At least now I can get paid for it.”
Stan chuckled and punched him in the arm in a friendly way. Kyle shared the sentiment and took a long sip of coffee.
He sighed. “I don’t know, I guess… I guess we had a pretty messed-up childhood, huh?”
“You can say that.”
“Yeah, yeah. That’s why. We grew up around such… such fucked up people, and I… I don’t know. You know I always had delusions of saving the world. Part of why I wanted to go to law school, actually. But I realized that to save the world, it wasn't necessary to present bills and proposals in the Senate or the House.” He explained. "It's about working on individuals, you know? Improving the world one person at a time."
"Oh, yeah. Yeah. I understand. Yeah, that sounds like you," Stan replied.
Kyle plastered a timid smile on his face. "I know it sounds kind of silly."
"You're such a hippie now, dude."
It was Kyle's turn to hit him. The smile on his face had gone from sad to humorous.
There was a pause for a moment. Kyle's gaze was focused on his coffee cup, shaking it and stirring its contents. He seemed to be thinking quite delicately about what he wanted to say. Stan wondered what had him like that so suddenly.
He opened his mouth at first, a little, then seemed to resign himself. Stan looked at him cautiously, letting him know he was anticipating his words. Then he sighed.
“You have to quit AMH.”
Stan expected him to say that at some point, so he wasn't surprised. Not really. He just hoped Kyle'd forget about it and they could continue living cloud nine for a few more minutes.
"I can't," he said, shaking his head. "I'm not going to.”
"Please, Stan, are you telling me there are no more job opportunities for you, a young man with experience?"
"It's hard, Kyle, really. I've known people who've quit and then crawled back because they couldn't get a job elsewhere, or because the other places were worse. Everything is complicated with how things are right now, and I can't just let go of my assured comfort."
"Of course you can!" he bellowed. "You can! God, Stan. Do you really want to spend the rest of your days like that?"
"Well, if I have to..."
"No!" He shook his head. "No, no, no..."
Stan frowned. "You're only so pushy because you want me to go back to South Park."
Kyle pressed his lips together and his eyes widened in surprise. He didn't deny it.
Marsh snorted unamusedly. "See?"
"I just think..." He sighed. "Look what this city has done to you. Look where you are. Is this what you want?"
"That's none of your business! Okay?! What I do with my life stopped being any of your business years ago!"
"I'm just worried that you're isolating yourself in your own misery! Your mom's in South Park. Your sister's in South Park. You're not even close to the people who love you..."
"Oh, yeah. Invite Santa too if you want. Call Jesus, while you're at it. Do you hear yourself?”
Kyle shook his head. His coffee cup was all but forgotten.
"I had to know you'd be like this. It's always the same with you."
“I don’t know what you want me to do, man. I’ve spent years of my life doing the same thing and paying my bills with the same money. Have you seen how many people there are on the streets? I can’t just leave. It’s crazy.”
“I could help you, Stan! That’s what I want you to get through your head. Of course you’re going to end up badly if you quit that mediocre office job alone here in the capital, man. But if you come back with us, you wouldn’t have to be alone,” he explained. “I’m offering you my house, and…”
“So when it doesn’t work out you can go and accuse me of being lazy and a freeloader to kick me out again? What a plan, huh?”
Kyle looked at him with a mixture of surprise and anger that Stan had only ever seen before in those same eyes. He was stupefied by the audacity of his words, and half-hurt and half-angry by the weight of them. He shook his head several times and abruptly stood up.
“You know what, asshole? Fuck you," he yelled as he put on his jacket.
"Yes, I will. Thank you."
"I just wanted to help you. I don't understand... I don't understand why you're like this."
Kyle strode around the living room, grabbing his things to get out of there as quickly as possible. That was the last thing Stanley wanted; the last thing he expected, considering everything that happened last night. But maybe it was for the best.
"When you come down from your mountain fairy tale into the real world, maybe you'll understand."
From the doorway of his apartment, he shot him one last look, filled with anger and words he'd been keeping inside. And that was the last time Stan saw those green eyes before he walked out the door.
He promised himself he wouldn't let Kyle go. He promised himself everything would be different. But fate plays cruel tricks, and maybe theirs was to stay away from each other.
I really am an idiot.
Thirteen years later.
Kyle closed the bathroom door behind him. The people outside were still mingling pleasantly, celebrating the New Year and Stan's return. Denny's & Applebee's had welcomed every South Park family willing to visit with free food and music for the holiday season. Even Kenny was there, talking about some scientific invention no one understood. Ike had flown in from Toronto to visit, bearing multiple gifts for his nephews. His nephews. Kyle's children.
"So?" Stan asked, in front of him. He was still wearing the uniform from the military service he'd served in space. And Kyle hated the fact that he found him, in fact, quite attractive.
Kyle heard a few years ago that Sharon had gotten back in touch with her son. She spoke to his mother all the time, who then told everything to Kyle. Stan had never visited South Park, but Sharon had gone to see him in Denver multiple times. Sometimes with Shelley, even. Kyle didn't know anything about Randy. They had divorced years ago, but he liked to believe they were on good terms and that Stanley kept in touch with him.
It was through Sheila, his mother, that he learned Stan would be serving in the interspace military. Kyle had found it shocking when he heard the news five years ago. Did he finally quit that mediocre job at AMH? Did he listen to Kyle's advice? Did he get it all figured out? Kyle hoped so. It seemed like it. And that pleased him with both relief and selfish satisfaction. I told you so trapped at the back of his mind for years. It made him happy Stan was willing to change the course of his life in some way or another, even if they had cut off contact.
And despite that, he was also…
“Stan.” He stammered, even though he didn’t want to. How can one break news like that? He was too nervous. “Adriel is… he’s your son.”
Stan looked a little shocked, but not as shocked as you might expect from a man who had just been told he had a son he knew nothing about. He had suspected it from the moment he saw him. They had the same eyes and the same smile. And when he told him he was thirteen, his suspicions grew even more.
Kyle had imagined that moment hundreds of times. From the moment he decided to have him, he thought about calling him. Giving him a good reason to come back. But that would have been too selfish and immature of him, so he decided to keep it a secret. Only his parents knew, and he and his father had to make his mother swear that she wouldn't say a single word to Stan's mother.
They were disappointed in him, at first, for having a son before they were married. But as soon as Adriel was born, all signs of anger vanished from his parts. He was a little angel with burgundy curls and big, curious blue eyes. He hardly cried, slept easily, and got along with everyone. He truly was a blessing.
When he turned four, Kyle considered getting sterilized. And he had a second baby before cutting his tubes. A girl. Anabel.
Stan nodded slowly.
“And you named him Adriel?”
Kyle tilted his head. What kind of question was that?
"Yeah, his name is Adriel, why?"
"Couldn't name him something better?"
"So what would you’ve named him?"
"I don't know, John?"
"John?"
"Yeah. Like John Elway."
Kyle snorted.
" John ."
"Hey, dude, you named him Adriel."
"It's an Hebrew name! It's fitting!"
"Oh, yeah? And what part of Judea is fucking Kyle from? Damascus? Samaria?"
"My mom picked it!" Kyle couldn't stop laughing. He honestly found the whole conversation pretty absurd, and that it was Stan's first reaction.
Stan was laughing too, making the initial tension seem even more absurd. Why was he so nervous? What was worrying him so much?
What made him happiest was knowing they were okay. That the problems of the past weren't still haunting them. That they could laugh.
Catching his breath, Stan looked him in the eye and spoke calmly.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
Kyle wiped the smile from his face. But he wasn't sad, much less afraid. He was calm. He knew that however this conversation ended, it wouldn't have to feel like the end of the world.
He shrugged.
Stan repeated the action. "And just that?"
"Yeah? I didn't know how to tell you. And you weren't having the best time of your life. I didn't want to burden you with more than you already had on your shoulders."
His response was a heavy sigh. "Well, thanks. I don't trust my thirty-five-old self to have taken these news with the maturity it deserved."
"You're welcome."
"But," he began again, "maybe, just maybe, it would have been enough to bring me back and get me out of the voluntary isolation I was in."
Kyle didn't know what to say. Yes, he thought the same thing, but it was more shocking to hear it from the man himself.
For a moment, he felt selfish for hiding it for so long, now that he knew his son could have saved Stan.
"It's not too late," he muttered softly. "You can always come back."
Those were the words Stan wanted to hear. The ones he needed to hear. He wasn't alone. He had his mother, Shelley, and Kenny, and if they all left for some reason, he would always have Kyle. Always, no matter what. As long as he would allow it.
He had wanted to make him understand that years ago. But Stanley, as stubborn as ever, didn't want to understand.
He had hoped they were on the same page right then. He hoped he could understand.
Stan approached him with slow, calculated steps. His cologne was beginning to drown out the smell of disinfectant in the public restroom.
A laugh caught him off guard. "We're fucking stupid, aren't we?"
"In my defense, I'd read that testosterone made you infertile. Now I know it doesn't. Or not in the same way for everyone."
Stan smiled graciously. Kyle was so happy to see him like this, after all these years.
"I'm sorry about... well, you know. I was stupid."
"Yeah, you were."
"Well, thanks, dude. Damn."
"Why? I agree with you. You were stupid. I offered to help, and you turned it down."
"I just didn't want help," he admitted. "I wanted to pretend everything was... you know. Like I had it all under control. Especially after I dropped out of college and you called me a freeloader."
"I never called you that."
"No, I know, but that's what I was! What do you call someone who doesn't have a job and lives off someone else's money?"
Kyle shrugged. "Family."
The answer surprised Stan, who laughed.
"You know what I mean."
"What? In your case, that's what you were, family. When I was a student, learning to survive without help from my parents, I may have said things I shouldn't have. Expressed emotions unfairly."
"You blamed me for the expenses. The electricity, the rent..."
Kyle shrank back, self-conscious. "I was angry."
"So you didn't mean it?"
"Of course not, man! I love you! I always have! If I had to spend millions of dollars to make sure you had a roof over your head and food in your stomach, I would have done it without hesitation. All I wanted was for you to find a purpose. Something to do with your life. I was worried you were isolating yourself."
"And I was."
"And you were."
"But not anymore."
"Not anymore."
"And now..."
Kyle inhaled deeply. He was starting to feel a tingling under his skin. He felt a little drunk despite not having had anything to drink.
"Now we're here, both of us. You have a son. We have a son. He has your eyes, and your smile, and your foolishness."
Stanley raised an eyebrow in interest. "Oh really?"
"Yeah. Like God's punishing me. It's a pain." Kyle sighed with mock exasperation.
He heard a laugh escape the throat of the man in front of him. They were both in a curiously good mood. As if nothing was really happening.
He supposed with their history of disasters, that was the least of it. Yeah, they had a son now. Who cares?
Stan moved closer until he was inches away. He was a little shorter than Kyle, yet his presence imposed so many emotions on him, as if he were a giant hundreds of miles tall. He rested his hand on the sink and sighed.
"I'd like to meet that boy."
"I won't stop you."
"I'd like to make up for lost years."
Kyle inhaled sharply. A flock of wild butterflies raged in his stomach.
"Go ahead."
"But that means..." he paused. "From now on, we have to take this seriously."
Kyle tilted his head. " This? "
"The kisses," I explained. "The touches. The sleeping together. All that, you know..."
I broke off. Kyle knew where this was going, and his skin tingled with anticipation.
"Kyle. Let's get married."
Well, he hadn't expected Stan to be so direct or so sudden, but he was glad they were on the same page. That they felt the same things. Kyle couldn't imagine another life with anyone else, ever. It has always been and always would be Stan. No one else.
They'd been through ups and downs. Through thick and thin. Both too proud to put aside their differences. Too immature to see the complications of the same issue. But it was easy to get used to it all. It was easy, because it was them. And it had always been them. From elementary school, until death do them part.
Kyle nodded, perhaps too quickly, and he almost felt the tears welling up in his eyes when he leaned down to kiss Stan and he kissed him back. It was quick. It was unorthodox. They still had a lot to learn from each other. They still had years to recover by each other's side. But they were willing to make every one of their secret encounters, those little kisses and hugs and clandestine touches, worth it. To make the things that don't mean anything, gain meaning.
Date: July 24th 2025
