CHAPTER ONE

turn off the lights

authors note: its CALIFORNIA GURLS one year anniversary so to celebrate I'm starting a fucking new fic
(this was originally posted in october)

aliens genetically altered humans rock creatures whatever fuck you

Kyle Broflovski clenches his tight little Jew fists around the fork he's using to eat as he feeds himself some lunch, which is a usual human routine. Now, Kyle here had rebelled against his mother and his doctors recently, instead of eating not bacon and kosher jew food and things that don't have sugar because of his diabetes, he ate whatever the fuck he wanted because he was an adult, he was seventeen and that is fucking hella old.

And this routine started around September, which is when school fucking starts so he did this shit right away, where he'd get to school and throw away whatever jew feed that his mother had made delicately and wrapped in foil with a little note covered in hearts and the star of David- and he'd go to the fucking on-campus Dairy Queen (an addition petitioned by Cartman) and get himself a chili cheese dog with some vanilla soft serve.

The only one to really fucking notice was Stan, because he was always on Kyle's bony back about how that's too much sugar for today I don't want you to pass out I wish you'd care about yourself like I do, but of course that only lasted until about October, when he got back with that bitch Wendy. Though their constant there and back again relationship was something that everyone was so fucking used to that no one really gave a shit anymore, this was the biggest shock in the world to Kyle that it was like falling asleep on an electric fence to keep the cattle back. Because Kyle had almost completely, totally convinced himself that he was getting Stan to come onto him.

Maybe it was stupid, to think that your totally straight quarterback of the South Park Cows best friend was smitten for you, the nerdy, scrawny little curly ginger fuck—but Kyle swore, he swore he saw it in his fucking eyes. When they'd blatantly lean against each other in the middle of a round of Thirst For Blood V, or when Stan would wrap his scarf around both of their necks to keep Kyle warm and toasty, or when they'd share the same bed and Stan would drag Kyle against him by the waist and Kyle would lull himself to sleep by tracing the little indents in Stan's collarbone. But maybe he'd just been reading too much into it.

That was Kyle's deep, dark secret- other than his daily trade-out from jewstar rations to a greasefest of sugar and fat- he was a little tiny bit maybe completely in love with his dreamy drop-to-your-knees-handsome super best friend, and nobody fucking knew or was ever going to know. Except Stan, but he was going to have to figure that out on his own.

Anyway, Kyle had been so fucking positive that he'd got himself a round-trip ticket to Stan Marsh that when he got to school on October 2nd (he remembers the exact fucking date, of course he does), striding with a recently positive vibe of Jewish ambition to the locker of Stan himself, to find Stan's hands riding up Wendy's ugly fucking lavender jacket as their lips moved like running tap water, he thought who even wears that shade of lavender and then bolted as far away as he fucking could, thinking he'd never have to see a sight like that for the rest of his life, because it would be him slammed against Stan's locker, getting to feel his guitar-callused fingers work his way up his bare exposed flesh, except Kyle wouldn't be wearing that fucking shade of purple.

And since all of Stan's fucking Kyle attention was now property of Wendy, Kyle was left walking home and tripping over his untied shoelaces without Stan's dreamy athletic arms to keep him from skidding against the sidewalk. Because he had never really learned to tie his shoes, because Stan would always be there to do that. So he'd just trip and skid against the god damn sidewalk every single day after school, because he was alone. Here he was, lying facefirst in a puddle of yesterday's rain with his cheeks all scratched from whatever fucking rocks were on the ground, while Wendy and Stan made out in a candlelit bedroom. Kyle's life was really, really, really hard.

So even though Kyle started noticeably getting lightheaded and weak and would scurry to the bathroom in the middle of a super critical Physics lecture to vomit out a concoction of Dairy Queen, he continued to pig out on junk food every lunch break, just to get Stan to give him even one second of his attention, or concern, or even love. But that was too much to ask, Kyle figured, because in Stan's eyes his girl needed to be fondled and fed and loved much more than his super best friend did. But no, that was the opposite case, because every night Kyle would go home cheek-scarred and sick and dizzy and press his face against the t-shirt that Stan had left whatever last century ago their most recent sleepover had been, and inhale the deep scent of love and dependency and taco meat and aftershave that made up Stan Marsh.

And even though he'd do this if it meant he'd collapse to his death as he began to choke out the words "I'll take the usual" to the smiling Dairy Queen cashier, Kyle was quite frankly getting sick of it.

That was why his fist was clenched especially tight around his plastic fork today, so tight that even his bitten-down nails pricked at his palm. Because he was fucking sick of having to watch Wendy whore around on Stan's perfect, legendary thighs and watch that ugly blotch of lavender move in a steady rhythm in his peripheral vision as he attempted to swallow down the sickeningly old mixture that melted soft serve and chili-cheese had created. It had been three agonizing weeks, and that was where Kyle had to cross the line that he had so furiously drawn. He was going to speak up.

Speaking up was hard for Kyle, because he hated the way his almost endearing boy voice had manifested into this shrill, desperate whine with every word that left his chapped lips. And he especially hated speaking up to Stan, especially because he heard his voice at approximately zero times a day. But Kyle convinced himself that today was the day that he'd stop increasing his chances for an early death with the pounds of Dairy Queen lurching through his bloodstream, and he'd pull Stan aside and tell him what was fucking what. Because he wasn't a fucking girl, even though he'd acted like one for about all of senior year thus far. But it was just October, so maybe Kyle could dumb down on the effeminate dicketry.

And so Kyle shoveled what was left of the soft serve and chili cheese dog into the paper Dairy Queen bag (the smell wafting from it was something that Kyle was fucking positive he and all of his clothes reeked of, no matter how much Gain brand Apple Mango Tango laundry detergent he'd soak them or himself in), and he got to his ungainly bird feet and threw that shit away, right on top of the kosher lunch bag with his mother's Sharpie smiley face looking up at him from the dark pit of high school food remnants. Kyle for once felt a little bit proud of himself, for one second he knew that he had mustered every fiber of self-dignity he had left into throwing away this dripping paper bag of artery cloggers, that he'd proved to himself that he wasn't going to be pushed around by his foolish, adolescent heart. But that didn't last very long.

Because now Kyle didn't have anything to cry for attention with other than actual cries for attention left, and he was left standing dazed and woozy by the trash can staring at Stan Marsh's crooked smile that was all for Wendy. All for her. What did she do, other than wear that disgusting color, to earn or deserve even one ounce of Stan's reverent attention?

But then again, what did Kyle do?

He stopped fucking thinking that far, because that always ended with some episode of inflicting some kind of physical pain on himself, but Kyle figured that the Dairy Queen gradually digesting in the chili-cheese and vanilla acids of his stomach were taking care of that. He stopped thinking about the unwelcome contents of his stomach, too.

Kyle gathered himself, right there beside the trash can as he got shoved away a little bit by people throwing food away, right there he decided that he was going to storm over and demand that Stan look him in his green vomit chunk colored eyes and tell him that he'll give him his undivided attention and ditch this lavender slutbag. That was exactly what he was going to fucking do.

But, alas. Kyle had managed to muster what looked like an angry stomp for about two steps until his body told him stop that's too much effort and he resorted to a slow, idle little stroll while trying to not trip over the tattered, dirtied shoelaces that trailed behind him. And once he'd rounded the corner of the table and come to a halt about five feet from Stan's perfect back, instead of pulling back his shoulders and lifting him to his feet to demand that he look his way maybe even fucking once, his pale, shaky finger went out to prod the little spot where Stan's shoulder met his neck, which was way too fucking exhilarating to Kyle. But he did it, he touched Stan, with his desperate, shaky fingertip, that little gesture serving as the words that he would never have the Dairy Queen-infused guts to say, "Can you look at me?"

And with an almost invisible little jolt, Kyle's silent question was finally fucking answered, all of his dreams and hopes and wonders boiling down into the one momentous second when Stan's head would tilt behind him and his big gorgeous baby-blue eyes would do the fucking favor of even sparing a glance at him. And he did. He actually did it, Kyle's world going in slow-motion. His gaze on his lavender mistress finally, finally broken, just so he could see who was standing behind him and poking his shoulder.

"Oh, dude," Stan's voice like fucking audible chocolate rings in Kyle's ears, his lips curving into an adorable fucking smirk that made Kyle resist want to lift him up and squeeze the living daylight out of him.

"H-hey," Kyle choked out, too fucking distracted by Stan's big sapphire orbs fixated right on him, making him feel chills course through hisspine. "Dude."

And, well, Kyle had gotten Stan to look into his gross green barf eyes, but now came demanding that he let go the wench pressed against the side of his thigh. And she too had turned around to see what was fucking interrupting her 24/7 love session, and as if Kyle's face wasn't bright fucking red enough, it got even rosier but for her it was just out of pure rage.

"Hello," Wendy sounded clearly fucking annoyed and that tone was something that Kyle couldn't take right now. But he made it this far, so.

"S-stan, can I, uh, talk to you? Like. P-privately?" Kyle hoped he'd stop being an awkward little fuck when he got Stan pulled to the side and wouldn't just stand there red and sweating and bothered.

"Sure? Yeah," Stan nodded slowly, looking back at Wendy apologetically. Oh, fucking suck it up, Kyle grumbled internally.

But Kyle wasn't really sure this was happening, as Wendy slid off him so he could get to his perfect, stable feet, then rising up a few inches above Kyle's level and so fucking close to him that it was almost too much to take in. But when he shot him that god damn smile again, he was pretty much beyond hard.

And he realized he'd been standing there with saucer eyes just basking in Stan's aura, almost everyone at Stan's table concernedly looking at the interruption. So he laughed it off because that was always the best thing to fucking do, right, and then he shook his red face and tried to dumb down his stupid fucking victory grin as he backed up a little bit.

"Uh, right, come on," Kyle's voice first came out in a whisper, forced out louder with each torturous syllable.

And Kyle turned around and started walking, he didn't even know where to take Stan, the fact that he was taking Stan somewhere made him shiver, and he kept walking through the cafeteria until he hit the door to the halls, turning his head every second to make sure that Stan was really, really following him.

So Kyle continued to lead Stan through the sudden labyrinth that South Park High School had become, and he scurried up the second floor stairs with hopes that there would be a lot less teenage passerby around. But when it was just about the same fucking amount of people, he gave in and led Stan into the empty men's restroom, awkwardly treading to the handicap stall in the back and holding the door open for Stan. And he actually went in with him, and he actually fucking locked the door behind them.

And of course he'd just stood there and fucking stared at him for a good minute or two again.

"Uhm," Stan cleared his throat because he clearly fucking noticed the slow descent of love drool oozing from the corner of Kyle's mouth, lost in the fucking trance of the figure before him. "So."

"R-right! Right," Kyle fucking jumped and hit his elbow on the toilet paper dispenser, which in turn made him hiss in pain and kneel over and clench at the bone. "Fuck."

"Listen, I think I have a little idea of what you wanted to talk about," Stan says, his voice ringing through Kyle's ears and the confined tile walls like he was speaking in a fucking megaphone.

"P-probably. A little idea, ow…" Kyle was still leaning over and biting his bottom lip and massaging his poor little elbow.

"It's not that I don't want to spend time with you, dude," Stan already starts like he's mid fucking conversation because he knows Kyle did kind of come here for a fight, although he really didn't have it in him to blow up at Stan right now. "It's—"

"It's just that you'd rather spend time with her, yeah, got it," Kyle croaked out, still keeled over and facing the disgusting tile that he'd thrown up at a number beyond measure. Or he just never kept track.

"No, fuck," Stan sighed and ran his hand through his sleek raven locks, slamming his back against the grimy tile walls. That attractive sigh made Kyle tilt his head up a little to get a good view of Stan poised like this. "She's just, she needs a lot of fucking attention, okay, and she wants this to be a long-term thing for once, and if I'm always ditching her then we're never going to work it out."

Then Kyle really needs to fucking sit down, because he feels the Dairy Queen creeping its way back up his digestive track and the corners of his vision start to sparkle white before he slams his ass against the floor. "Uh-huh, well," Kyle rubs at his temples at a slow, steady pace to calm every inch of him down. "It's not like. If you're always ditching me, maybe one day I'm just going to get sick of it."

"I'm not… always ditching you… I mean, you never ask—" Stan starts to fumble and Kyle can already hear the busted tone in his voice.

"I don't even bother asking anymore, Stan. Because she's first fucking priority, because you already had plans to fuck on her couch that afternoon. A-and why would you want to spend time with me anymore, why would you want to even say a word to me, or look at me, o-or touch me, when you don't really fucking need me?" Kyle's voice started to crack now and he let it happen, and he couldn't tell if it was vomit or tears that he was holding back.

"I-I do need you," Stan says feebly like a kid getting yelled at for eating the last of the cookies.

"What for?" And that's when Kyle starts to cry, all broken and vulnerable at Stan's feet, silent tears speeding down his cheeks.

"I don't know, I just," Stan laughed without feeling because that was such a stupid question in his head, and he tilted his head back toward the ceiling. "Need you."

"You don't really," Kyle chokes out, torn apart. "There's nothing I have to offer that she doesn't do better."

"Are—are you jealous? Fuck, are you crying?" Stan finally looks down at Kyle's pathetic quaking form, and his my-super-best-friend-is-crying-and-it's-my-fault instinct kicks in so he drops to his knees and meets Kyle's level.

"I've had Dairy Queen every day, Stan," Kyle squeaked through his tears, and Stan's face that was creased with worry then uncreased with holy shit.

"No," was all Stan said, inching closer to the trembling Jew before him, and then realizing that was why he could smell chili cheese dog with a weird vanilla twinge. "Dude, why?"

"I th-thought you would notice," Kyle started quaking and sniffing and rubbing furiously at his stupid tears and stupid snot and wanting to stop looking so pathetic in front of the love of his life. "I thought one day you'd pull away from her and be like, 'Kyle, stop, you'll pass out,' and even that would have been enough, just to know that you were still looking out for me, you know? It was me trying to prove to myself that she wasn't really your world, but…"

"Kyle—" his name left Stan's lips, loving and perfect, and as soon as it did the entire room began to violently quake, just as Kyle had been, the light fixtures shorting out and the mirrors cracking and shattering into hundreds of little shards. They leapt at each other, falling to the tile and squeezing with every ounce of devotion they had, Stan's strong, reassuring arms protecting him like he was in a fucking fortress, like there wasn't the biggest earthquake in Colorado history happening right at their feet.