I love Stan/Kyle. Don't judge me.
Kyle lit the cigarette as he rolled his eyes, pulling on his hat, "What do you want?" He blew smoke out his nose, sitting down on the wooden bench. It was approximately 4AM, the sky scattered with stars.
I coughed from the smell of tobacco. "Well," I trailed into silence as he took another drag, "I," more smoke, more smoke, "Goddamn it, will you stop that?"
"Why should I?" He spat.
I didn't respond; he turned his head away from me, looking at trees instead.
"Because you're going to get cancer, or something like that," I took the cigarette away from him, crushing it beneath my feet before he had time to react. "And I don't want that to happen,"
"Seriously, Stan, that was my fucking last one." He said, his voice oozing acidity.
"Good. Now, what I was saying…" I trailed off.
"Look, it's not the time," Kyle whispered, beginning to walk to the 24/7 liquor store, and I trailed behind.
The streets were dark, the only illumination were the stars. I heard someone cough loudly, and I suddenly knew it wasn't only Kyle and I on the streets. I jogged up to Kyle.
"Dude, seriously. Let's get home, you can stay at my place."
"Later." He said, walking into the store, fake ID in hand, stating he was 21, and not really just 15. He walked quickly into the back of the store, where the alcohol was kept. He opened a cooler, pulling out a six-pack of Blue Moon, and trudging to the front of the store.
As I watched Kyle pick out the Marlboro Reds and pay for the beer, and I watched as he slid the card to the cashier so effortlessly, like he wasn't nervous at all. He also picked out a brightly colored lighter from the table, with a naked woman printed on it.
I leaned over and whispered to him, "You're not making yourself straighter doing that."
He turned to me, glaring, as the cashier handing him the bag, "Fuck off. Leave me alone!" He jogged out of the store, "Get lost! I'm fine on my own."
"Really." I whispered, walking behind him.
"Yes! I'm old enough to be myself now."
"Then why don't you?"
He stops. I stop. "Well? Why don't you be yourself, fag?"
He winced. "Do you know how fucking hard it is to be gay in this goddamn town?" He spat, "Everyone is so judgmental! And you, you're supposed to be my best friend. You said it yourself. Do you remember that night? Or were you too drunk off your ass? You told me that you'd be there for me whenever and now you're spitting words at me like I don't mean a fucking thing!" Smoke from his cigarette fumed out his mouth.
"Kyle, but the cigarette out."
He stumbled. "No," He put the cigarette to his mouth, taking a long drag. "Answer me."
"I'm sorry, okay? I know how hard it is to be gay! You know in South Park, two out of four people are usually gay, falling for the other? Did you know? Put the cigarette out, Kyle,"
He rubbed the tip on his shoe, leaving a mark, and stomped on it. "Two out of four? Eric, Kyle, you and me. Who are the queers, Stan? Tell me," He commanded.
"You. Um, and…"
"Spit it out,"
"I-I'm… um, it's me."
I stopped.
I didn't even come to terms with my sexuality until two days before, when I realized I liked the way Kyle looked. I liked little things he did, like scrunch up his nose when he laughed or how he subtly blew his red hair out of his eyes and got annoyed when it didn't work. How he licks his lips before he takes a sip of beer, or when he's blowing smoke out of his mouth he closed his eyes and after the exhale, he'd breathe in through his nose, taking in the full stench of tobacco.
And I do remember when I whispered to him I'd be there for him whenever. Sure, I was drunk off my ass but I meant every word.
"Kyle. Ky-Kyle… I love you, dude. Dude, dude, dude, I don't care if you're qu-queer or um, whatever. I'm here for you bro, when, whenever you need me, bro." I said, holding him in my arms, twirling his hair. He was drunk too, sure.
But when I kissed him lightly…
Ah, forget it. He doesn't remember.
"You?" Kyle said, finally.
"Don't make me fucking say it again."
He shook his head. "Stan the queer."
"Kyle, stop it." But I wasn't pissed. I loved the way he flashed his teeth in an I-knew-it way, how his curly locks shook slightly. It was hot.
I blinked and suddenly he was there, right in front of me.
"What where you saying about the other one usually falls for the other?" He whispered. His breath was moist against mine.
"Um…that's what happens, sometimes." I stuttered. His head was now cocked to the side, his hot breath now hitting my neck.
"Sometimes?" I didn't respond. "Am I making you nervous?"
I backed away, "No." I said, firmly. "You're not. I was just saying that sometimes a gay guy likes another gay guy. If the group is four to six people… if they don't hate each other…"
"Oh, well then that doesn't apply to us, because we hate each other, right?"
"You're so fucking drunk, Kyle…"
"No, Stan, I'm not."
I knew he wasn't. But there was no other reason why he'd come onto me.
I'm me. Stan: the awkward kid who self-harms because he hates himself. Stan likes to hide his emotions behind raven hair and shit-colored eyes. I wear skinny jeans and baggy sweatshirts. I also like boys. If they're not Kyle. But God I loved it when he said my name all hot and bothered and stuff. It was pitch black and his eyes were all cat-like and harsh. "Stop it,"
And just like that, I tasted the alcohol in his mouth in mine. I pulled back. "Kyle, no. You don't mean that. Stop."
He smiled against my mouth. "I don't know what I'm doing, but let me do it, okay?" He bit his lip and kissed me again, and I tasted a surprisingly pleasant mixture of toothpaste, cigarettes, and beer.
I ran my tongue against his upper lip and tasted the minty combination of beer and mouthwash against his teeth. He bit down on my lower lip.
So we're standing there, making out, and I'm now all hot and I feel gross, but I stay there kissing him because I love the taste in his mouth and, I don't know, maybe I love him too, but I'm too young to know for sure. I cup my hand against the small of his neck and play with the baby hairs, and he grabs my hand.
"Is that offer to sleep over at your place still available?" He whispers, against my jawbone.
"For you? Always."
We get into my car and drive.