The sun began to dip below the horizon; the room dimmed as light faded. In silence- heavy, suffocating silence- every minute that ticked by was agony.

As Kyle sat on the floor, he was vaguely aware of the dying sunlight play across neck; he looked without really seeing the color red slowly bleed over the book cradled in his lap. The words stared back at him, danced before his eyes, but he wasn't reading. Hasn't been reading for some time. Somewhere between the third and fourth page, he stopped paying attention...No, that was wrong-couldn't pay attention as his mind wandered like it always did whenever Stan was near.

Desperately from where he sat, back pressed against the bed, he tried to block out the noises the other boy made behind him: the creaking of the mattress, the rustling of clothes, and the light exhales of his breaths and sighs.

The more Kyle tried to ignore it, the more it consumed him. It was just the innocent sound of his best friend tossing and turning on the bed restlessly. He knew this, but his depraved mind twisted the truth until what he heard made his skin flush hot. It spoke of how far gone, how hopeless he was that he could easily imagine the bed sink beneath his weight as he climbed on top of Stan. In vivid detail, he could picture the soft breaths silenced by a hungry mouth; the whisper of clothes peeled off to reveal sun kissed skin. He wanted to sink his teeth into the beautiful, sinewy torso and leave red trails until it-

"Kyle?"

The redhead jerked back, startled by his own name. Realizing where his thoughts led him, an immediate sense of shame and guilt washed through him. Quickly, he masked his embarrassment behind angry indignation. Without turning around, he snapped, "What? Can't you see I'm busy? Go back to sleep."

"Dude, chill," Stan replied soothingly, unfazed by his short-fuse of a temperament. "I was just going to ask if you were done yet."

Kyle's grip tightened. His nails dug into the pages of the book. "Pretty obvious I'm not."

He wasn't angry at Stan. Far from it, actually. Was there exasperation? Maybe. Frustration? Oh, that most definitely. It was easy to use those emotions to hide what he really felt, because the truth of it was, he was afraid. He was afraid of himself, of Stan, and what would become of them if Stan ever found out he looked at him differently.

He had to remind himself again they were friends- best friends since before either of them could speak. It was a betrayal of their friendship to think of Stan this way. It broke on so many levels the unconditional trust placed upon him, but it got more and more difficult to remember Stan was just a friend when he jerked off to the thought of him every night.

Suddenly, Kyle felt the bed dip against his back. He heard the old bed groan in protest as Stan sat up and scooted closer to him. He pretended not to notice or care, but Stan was like a furnace. Heat practically radiated off him. Every time he took a breath and exhaled, warm air brushed along Kyle's neck, turning the redhead's blood molten beneath his skin.

"You're such a liar, Kyle," Stan murmured, his voice husky and heavy from sleep.

The lethargic rasp of the noirette's words, hoarse and coaxing, scraped down Kyle's back and straight to his groin. He resisted the urge to close his eyes and savor the feeling. "I have no idea what you're talking about, dude."

"Bullshit," the taller, black-haired boy said. "I've been watching you for the last 30 minutes and you haven't turned the page once."

Kyle turned his head to face Stan with a look of incredulity. "You were silently watching me for half an hour? What the fuck for?"

There was a moment of pause as Stan said nothing, just stared at him with fathomless eyes. Kyle wondered if the hammering of his heart was obvious in the sudden silence, but then the corner of Stan's eyes crinkled as he offered him a sheepish smile.

"I was looking at your hands."

Kyle blinked at the unexpected answer. "My hands? What about my hands? Is something wrong with them?"

Stan's eyes fluttered. It should be a sin for a man to have such long eyelashes, Kyle thought. Maybe it already was. "You..." Stan licked his lips and Kyle couldn't help the quickening of his pulse at the sight of the pink tongue peeking out. "You have very beautiful hands, Kyle."

Kyle let what Stan said sink in before a burst of laughter erupted from him. "Stan, what have you been smoking? My hands aren't beautiful." He stuck a hand out, turning it left and right in front of the other boy's face. "Look. There are calluses. My knuckles are knobby from all the times I sprained them playing basketball. My fingers are fat. I have-"

Stan grabbed the hand that was waving in front of him and slowly lowered it until it laid between them on the mattress. Instead of letting go, his grip tightened. His thumb stroked the back of Kyle's hand, caressing it in with almost loving tenderness. "See? Your hands are super soft. Softer than any girl I know."

"I..." At the unexpected and somewhat intimate touch, Kyle swallowed, trying to find his voice. "I use lotion because my hands will crack from the weather if I don't."

Stan nodded as if he understood, but he wasn't listening. He was looking down at their connected hands pressed flat against each other. "Look," he said. "Your hand is so much smaller than mine. You don't have fat fingers. They're slender." He gave a small laugh. "Pretty."

"Thanks, I guess..." Kyle smiled and wondered if Stan could tell it was strained. If Stan didn't stop touching him now, he was going to do something he'll regret. He moved to take his hand back, but Stan took the opportunity to lace their fingers together and held on tight.

"Dude, what's wrong? You look sad."

Eyes the color of calm ocean water softened with concern. Not for the first time Kyle thought he could drown in those eyes. In fact, he almost wished he could. It'd be a blessed relief to the burning desire he felt. He rather silently drown and suffocate than be burned alive by wild emotions.

It was so easy for Stan to see through his broken smile. How is it that he couldn't see what Kyle truly felt? It was so disgustingly obvious, Kyle wanted to sob and laugh at the same time at how pathetic he was, lusting after his own best friend.

Did Stan really not know or was he only pretending not to for the sake of their friendship? The hand he's holding right now, the hand he called beautiful, can he not guess what Kyle did with it when he was alone?

Every night. Every fucking night, Kyle came with Stan's name on his lips. He's lost count of how many times the Stan in his dreams been violated, degraded, reduced to a sobbing mess that lived only pleasure. What he couldn't have in reality, he obtained it in his imaginations. It was sick, perverted. Kyle knew it was wrong, but he enjoyed it, absolutely craved it like air. The hands Stan admired were stained daily to dirty, disgusting thoughts of him sweaty and moaning for release. What would Stan think if he knew the truth? Would he still call his hands "pretty"?

When Kyle didn't immediately answer, Stan waited. Patiently, he looked at him, eyes bright with trust and platonic love. The feeling of his stomach dropping, the bottomless pit of remorse and self-contempt swallowing him whole, was familiar to Kyle as he returned the other boy's gaze.

Slowly, he extracted his hand away from his friend. "Nothing's wrong. Just thought that holding another guy's hand is a little gay is all."

Chuckling, Stan ruffled the freckled boy's bright red 'fro in response. "Maybe, but we're super best friends. There are exceptions for us."

Kyle laughed and congratulated himself internally. He doubted Stan could hear it if even he was unable to detect how hollow he sounded.

A/n: Part 1 of 2. Kyle's POV is accompanied by Stan's POV.