Higher Education

by the corrupted quiet one

Summer is over, and it's time for the boys to head back to school. Luckily serendipity gifted them a rather spacious dorm...with high ceilings. Kyle and Kenny end up learning a lot about acoustics and after-the-fact residence hall etiquette. Contains fingering and anal.

The clock reads nine forty-three AM, on a dull Wednesday morning, somewhere in the end of a grey August, way up high at some Rocky Mountain state school. Some college that's a part of the system, somewhere in the range of Colorado, and overall not all that important.

Not an acclaimed near-Ivy League, but not a joke of an institution with a pitiful retention rate. Just some generic university, with the usual core curriculum for the common degrees, hosting an array of sports team surely somebody cares about, serving as a stepping stone for students as they either climb and claw their way to the top of the capitalist latter or walk right out of graduation and promptly roll their degrees into blunts. The setting isn't all that important here.

What is important, however, is the crew of returning students, their summers of unpaid interning or working part-time for peanuts or getting fucked up brought to an end with a letter calling them back to academia. But the excitement for most lies in the friends, the parties, the hallmarks of college life, from underage beer pong to messy hook ups to unsanctioned unprotected orgies. Okay, maybe not the last one, but a lot of rumours of the like sift in and out of popular gossip.

Among those back, lugging boxes of decorations, shouldering cheap kitchen appliances, swinging newly received room keys on their fingers, is a set of three boys, small town born and bred, best friends since childhood, a blond and a redhead and black-haired, two pairs of blue eyes—one light, one deep—and a pair of green.

Not that much of a big deal, outside them lucking out and managing to get into one of the nicest and newest dormitories on campus, a trio of sophomores who serendipitously wound up on the ground floor of an apartment set up. Which, on move-in day, when some upper years are still biding their time in the mildew and mould of the more ancient structures, built in the style of the USSR, earns them more than a few dirty looks. Especially when walking in to hostile territory, where friends whose best buddies face another year condemned to one of the first three buildings erected on this campus in nineteen-ninety-whatever see no reason to show mercy towards the lucky, plucky not-even-twenty-somethings.

"So how exactly did you manage this?" Stan asks, already knowing the answer, but wondering what bullshit gets shot back in response. He trails in the back with a microwave, coffee maker, and toaster piled precariously on a dolly; and, like the true casual sports player—star in the small town arena, another face in the crowd at the large university—he keeps a small box containing their kitchen utensils tucked under his arm. The wheels of the dolly squeak whenever rolling over even the slightest bump, attracting more and more unwanted attention with each violent, obnoxious screech.

"I told you, there was a glitch in the system," Kyle says, nonchalant, holding a cardboard box of plates and bowls to his chest. He could mention that the glitch was in the firewall, not the random number generator, and that he very easily exploited that to give them the best room and certain people—well, certain person—a horrendous spot in one of the most infamously gross and condemnable dormitories in the entire school, possibly state. The details that a Pre-Law/Calculus major—with a minor in Religion—selectively reveals. Plus programming is only a hobby.

"The fuck if I care," Kenny looks over his shoulder at the two behind him. He carries the lightest load—a plastic trash bag stuffed with crumpled dish rags and still sealed coffee filters and rolls of store brand paper towels—because why spend all the energy on moving in when there's that whole 'undecided major' and 'need-based aid' shit to deal with? Because college was never a real option until he realised there was no good in staying home and no offers for anyone without a piece of paper boasting about four more years spent banged around in academia. It's the good old college try, right?

While Stan and Kyle stashed their keys in their pockets, Kenny holds his proudly, having freed it from its manila envelope, put it on a key ring, and now spins it around his forefinger. A smirk comes to his face as he goes on, "That said, pretty fucking funny how we have the campus Ritz Carlton and Cartman's got a room in the Shit Shack."

The Shit Shack. The small dank excuse for a dormitory snuggled into the most obscure region of the university. Where no academic buildings are in reasonable walking distance and all that's nearby are seedy strip malls that may or may not be fronting for illicit operations of the more criminally adept.

"Some people get fucked by the system," Kyle shrugs, holding back a smile. The contents of the box lightly chatter and clatter, cacophony of corning ware and dollar store glass, "That's not my fault."

"Of course not, bae," Kenny winks, using his new favourite pet name. Thanks Tumblr.

Kyle's eyes narrow as Kenny's grin widens, the beginning of another bout of bickering. The perks of being best friends and boyfriends: knowing just how to get under the other's skin without completely pissing them off. Most of the time.

He groans, "Stop calling me bae, asswipe."

"But you're the bae," Kenny whines, and quickly flips his smile to a pout. He tries his hardest to keep the corners of his mouth from teasing back upwards. He stops spinning the key, focusing more on maintaining his childish expression.

Kyle sticks out his tongue, defiant. If the goods he carried weren't fragile, he'd kick his ankles; instead he just steps on the back of his heels. He elicits a slight twitch from Kenny, blue eyes returning to the path in front of him with slurred grumbling. Something about how Kyle is unreasonably mean and cruelly unresponsive to his affections. Or along those lines.

"Can you two, like, stop being gay for five minutes?" Stan suffers that special affliction, known as having two best friends in a relationship with one another, and spontaneous moments of utter couple-ness erupting. Normally, he doesn't mind—complaining about best friends making each other happy is a pretty douchebag thing to do, anyway—but after spending a cramped car ride listening to however many hours of on-and-off married couple arguments?

There's a reason they were voted worst couple in high school. Because they could be goddamn insufferable for those around them.

"You just need to get on our level, dude," Kenny teases. He pivots on the balls of his feet, spinning around and walking backwards, which might be more impressive if his sneakers didn't shriek and his knees didn't almost buckle, "Get gayer."

"Your level is worse than Satan," Stan mutters, with the shake of his head. He hears Kenny laugh; laugh too hard, because he knows for a fact that Stan isn't all too far off.

"We're not that bad," Kyle rolls his eyes. It tastes like a lie, but figures their upbringing—namely hometown—fostered a different standards for most everything in them. It's still a little weird not seeing snow outside every day of the year or thwarting apocalyptic level catastrophes in the comfort of the backyard.

"Right," Stan says in a black coffee tone, bitingly bitter, full pot of sarcasm with no sugar or cream to dilute.

Another complication of his special predicament: being all too knowledgeable of the stranger, quirkier, kinkier facets of the relationship, whether he willingly hears about it in conversation or, say, hears it through the wall or, even better, walks in on it. Alright, that only happened a couple of times last year—because the first weeks of college always result in some sort of neediness—but still. There are a few sounds that cannot be erased from the mind's mixtape.

"So remind me," Stan adjusts the silverware box, with a nice rattle, "How many condoms do you go through in a week?"

Kyle's teeth grind, jaw clenched. Plead the fifth, reserve the right not to answer. But there is a reason condoms on college campuses are available literally everywhere.

"You gonna count 'em when we're done?" Kenny snickers, because despite the date on his birth certificate he takes pride in being immature. Do people really outgrow semen jokes? Really?

Of course, he cuts himself short when he collides with the front door of the residence hall. One with a clear bolded black label reading pull, not push. Back into it to guarantee looking like an asshole. Which should be the last thing on his check list today, all things considered.

"God you're stupid," Kyle says, catching a clique of upper years cackling at them from the corner of his eye. The sneers on their faces tell him it isn't the good kind. One way to make an impression.

Kenny tries to save it, to lean against the door frame, elbow over his head, the bad boy loom from eighties films and shoujo manga. Something cute, to make those dumb fake lust looks that make Kyle punch his gut then hold his hand.

Might have gone smoother if he paid attention to where the hinges were. Kyle nearly slams the door in his face, more focused on getting in and getting away. The one setback of his master plan for more pleasant college living: the stigma burdened on lower years.

They enter, first Kyle battling the annoyance of obnoxious onlookers, then Stan wanting nothing a nap after unpacking the car, then Kenny shuffling in behind the stacked appliances. A single file line snaking between the clusters of students catching up, exchanging tales of their summer journeys, recounting everything already documented on their Facebook feeds, taking up space in the precious common area and overall creating unnecessary congestion.

Lucky them, they're on the first floor, liberated from the trails of dodging interlopers on the stairwells or fighting for an elevator lift. Not long before they find room 420. Well, 1420, close enough to the marijuana pun, too close to pass up.

Kyle balances the box on his knee, putting a hand in his pocket. He bites the inside of his lip, rummaging between loose change and crumpled movie tickets to find the key. Finally, he fishes it out, puts it in the lock the wrong way, flips it one-eighty, slides it in and turns the to the right. A semicircle turn and accompanying click announces their correct assignment, the door opening with a simple shove of the feet.

A normal room, apartment style, a kitchen in the front, a slender hallway with four doors, one for bathing, others for living. Three suites, on paper one for each of them, in practice a little more nebulous. The outdated stove and subpar eating area stand better than the growing micro-organisms and funky water dealt with last year. A definite improvement.

Stan parks the dolly in front of the refrigerator, then sets the utensils on the breath of empty counter space adjacent to the sink. He looks at his distorted reflection in the faucet head, still weary from the ride over, bound to worsen with each trip to and fro. One load down, another too many to go.

Kyle keeps to the 'dining' area, sitting in one of the plastic chairs arranged around the table, still sporting stains from residents past. But it's a space of their own, with the option—no, leisure of privacy.

Kenny wanders farther, tossing the bag by the counter and walking to one of the suite doors, open a crack. A placard with the letter A sits next to it, a designated slot for a specific student identification number. This one matches his.

He pokes his head through, gropes the wall for a light switch, and then, "Holy shit."

Stan and Kyle look over, torn away not by the remark but the echo. The loud, amphitheatre echo, Kenny's voice bouncing off the walls, projecting despite his completely normal volume. Drawing enough attention for them both to set aside their things and investigate.

"These ceilings are fucking insane," Kenny walks into the room, looking up, gawking at the cathedral above. He whistles as he takes slow steps, spinning with each movement, to see every angle. Even a soft utterance of awe sounds like a shrill orchestra solo.

They peak their heads in, eyes already aimed to the skies. Unlike the main room, with a ceiling a couple inches above the door frame, the walls climb, able to fit the door's length twice over before reaching the corner. The floorplan deviates from a regular square, creating more angles, more nooks for sounds to bounce off of. Acoustic ping pong.

Kenny hasn't taken his eyes off the corners, darting along the outline of the room. His hand finds the mattress, rock hard but better than home, and he plops down on the bed. The spring frame underneath him groans, treating him to a brief trampoline sensation before settling down.

"Could you imagine fucking in here?" Kenny thinks aloud, only realising he's speaking when the sound of his voice rings back in his ears, "The whole goddamn building would hear it."

"Dude," Stan says it all in his tone, that I don't wanna deal with this, that for Christ's sake are you serious, that why do I even talk to you type voice. He walks away, shaking his head, deciding it best leave and explore the rest of the room. And hope his room is on an end, and not in between, where neither wall is safe.

Kyle snaps his head, giving Kenny a sharp glower. The dumb grin on his face tells Kyle everything he needs to know, "We are not fucking on the first day back."

"Wha'?" His gaze switches from the ceiling to the doorway. A dizzy glimmer twinkles in his eyes, the remnants of a too juicy daydream, a plan for a reality. A near future reality, involving the composing of a wonderful symphony in the perfect theatre, and with the perfect partner to serve as his solo instrument. Kyle's stern look turns his dreamy smile into a disappointed frown, as he whines, "Why not?"

"You wanna start off the year as those people?" The sick fucks who get an email thread and Facebook post about them, who already make the RA shit list by racking up the noise complaints, and set a standard for the rest of the semester in regards to obnoxious, stupid, disruptive sexual antics. Those people.

"I wanna start off the year satisfied," Kenny leans back, and tilts his head, "Don't you?"

"I wanna start off not being universally hated," He narrows his eyes, readying to move away and resume the unloading process, "That's pretty satisfying."

"Boo," Kenny swings his leg lazily off the edge of the bed. His eyes follow Kyle, watching as he turns, starts disappearing down the hallway, to reunite with Stan and talk serious room stuff rather than super fun sexy stuff. He raises his voice, to louden the projection, "You're no fun, bae."

The only response he gets is a middle finger.

.

The clock reads eleven fifty-six PM, at the end of an arduous move-in day, somewhere near the start of the school year, at the ground floor of the suite style dorms. Built by some architect who thought first floor bedrooms needed the ceilings so tall they could fit another storey, inputting all aspects of spaciousness into the overhead, and overall concocting the prerequisite for disaster.

Kyle brushes his teeth, mouth foaming with Colgate, standing on a shit tile floor in a pair of dark green boxers and a traffic cone orange tank top. Staring himself down in the mirror, wishing he was better prepared for dorm life. Wishing he didn't get so used to falling asleep every night with that lanky moron drooling on his hair and holding his waist, listening to uneven snoring and drifting off wondering if he'd wake up with a hard-on pressing to his thigh. Wishing he didn't sense some vague inkling inside daring him to set notions of community manners aside, forget what people might hear, and listen to that little voice dwelling somewhere in the chambers of his mind begging to have a good night back.

A good night, before classes start, before the reintroduction of reading stress and paper cramming and extracurricular juggling, before worrying about bullshit and losing that summer nights sensation of warmth, of togetherness, of all the garbage that keeps people's fires lit and burning, burning, burning. No, it's not a fairy-tale, but there are nights when it feels better than the romance funnelled through the over-priced over-saturated cinema and Disney Channel original movies. When lazy slow fucking feels like the extent of eternity, and even the shittiest day feels phenomenal afterwards.

When he got so needy, he doesn't know. He hates it, because he knows it's Kenny's fault. Somehow. Obviously. A cocky idiot with a backwater bad-beer charm he could down all day. How fucking stupid.

Circular motions, over the enamel, bristles scraping plaque. Making his mouth taste like cool mint with extra whiteness when it could taste like crap cigarettes without filters. Walking into the bathroom with all intention of curling up on his freshly made bed and trying to use a winter comforter as a replacement, and likely to walk out opening a door without a mezuzah on it.

He stares at his reflection, and he's not sure what he wants. Or he's telling himself that. He's not all that convinced. He's not all that convincing.

Swish, swish, spit. Chunks of unbroken paste and collections of bubbly saliva slide down the eggshell bowl, to the brown-grey drain. Turn on the faucet—still no hot water—rinse, and spit again. There's something dirty about how clean his mouth feels. An urge to wash the asepsis out with gutter-mouth kisses and human gasoline.

He wipes the excess dribbles from his lips, puts the toothbrush down, and puts his hands under the stream of tap water. His eyes wander away from the mirror, from the tired truth that he doesn't mind being those people, whether people hate him for it or admire his balls.

No one brought soap. Three people walk into a fresh new dorm and no one thinks to pack the hand soap. Lucky them, Stan discovered a bottle of Bed Bath and Body Works stowed under the sink, an unintended gift from last year's crop. The liquid looks like cream soda, froths like an ice-cream float, and smells like an expensive pastry. Rich white girl soap. Spending more on one bottle than on a six pack from a supermarket.

He squirts a clump of bubbles in the palm of his hand, rubs them together, and washes. Smell like a cotton candy dream, a showy bubble-gum bitch, with every intention of running fingers through oily dirty blond, soaking in the sweat and dead skin. To elevate and defile, and elevate in the defilement.

Turn off the water, pat hands dry, sniff. A cloying aroma, too sweet to be natural, so plainly artificial, fake and fucking awful. And he has to get it off somehow. When he meets his eyes again, he knows how this day of laborious unpacking is ending. As the prophecy predicts.

He shuts the light as he exits the bathroom, door still open to signal vacancy. He walks into pitch blackness, no reason for electricity. Not when Stan took sleeping pills to stave off the too tempting evening drink, that threshold of alcohol that welcomes peaceful dreams but grows more demanding with each week of practice. And not when Kenny went to lie down after his third pot of coffee, like a glut of caffeine transforms into antioxidants or antitoxins or anti-something-or-other.

Kyle's room is across from the bathroom, Stan's room to his immediate right, and Kenny's just a short ways down the hall. His bare feet move soundlessly across sleek linoleum, guessing his way, no longer guessing himself. Pass the Shema Yisrael, avoid the lopsided stacks of cardboard boxes and plastic bins, hugging the wall until he finds a door handle.

The door takes more strength to open than anticipated, reminding him how his shoulders and back ache from lifting, legs still a tinge cramped from all the walking. Low energy, high need. Somehow the scales will fall into balance despite this.

He only opens it wide enough for him to sneak in. He finds the handle on the other side, keeping it turned so he can close the door without the locks clinking. There's still a soft metallic noise, a hushed chatter, but nothing to cause any issue.

Next is finding the bed, something made a little harder now that they're essentially moved in, or better moved out of the car. What piles and containers and posters are strewn across the floor, he doesn't know. He knows it's spread out, because that's how Kenny would unpack, in a sea of chaos and confusion, but cannot figure the rhyme or reason. Partly because it's too dark to determine what is even where, and partly because he just doesn't want to think about that right now. He's already going to need to think a lot, for the semester, why squander it now when he already knows what he needs to?

He kicks a rolled up poster—or so he concludes from the papery sound it makes as it flees into the uncharted lands—then puts a hand on the bedpost. The lower end, where his feet push against the thick rungs, with one sock on and one sock off. How many petty fights have they had over how it needs to be both on or both off, not one of each?

A knee on the mattress, looming over, and then climbing on with only minimal creaking. Discovering the sprawled out form, where his legs go, where his arms lie, where his head rests and how. On his back, Kyle determines, that makes it easier. He sets his hands by either shoulder, his legs pressing to his sides, imitating the position he's watched Kenny do countless times, overtop him, the cage of bone and flesh.

Kyle squints, eyes acclimating more to the darkness, not pitch black, but not too much better. Shadows and silhouettes, with muted colours and rudimentary detailing. Kenny lays cheek to the pillow, head tilted to the side. Shirtless, in a pair of Batman shorts, the ones Kyle's pretty sure used to be his, because they don't even come close to the middle of his thighs. With a busted button, not entirely an accident. No blanket, not even bothering, to fill the hole. Is it because he expected something like this; maybe.

But he's not asleep, Kyle can tell, he's just drifting, somewhere between conscious and otherwise. That otherwise is what keeps him from stirring, because this could be his vivid imagination acting up again, like those stories he has of the Canadian-American War of 1999 and some alternate history of 2002. He lays there waiting for that otherwise to be proven wrong, for reality to prove itself right, waiting for proof of one or the other.

A soft kiss on the cheek, something light, because they're both tired, they're both a little sleepy, a little lazy. Something tender to chew on, to invite out of the murkier shallows. First awaken the heat in his cheeks, then wait for a more tangible response: a groan, a roll, an opening of the eyes. Rouse him from his night time wanderings; return him to the real world. Or whatever the space they're in now is called, since it too is that intermediary, that transition of seasons, the overlap of a beginning and an end. Maybe in the morning he'll have the word for it.

Kyle means for it to be short but his lips just stay on so long, too comfortable to draw back. The lack of hot water stopped all three of them from showering after their series of labours, shedding the gross film of salty oils and films of grossness. And, yeah, he has his own reservations, regarding hygiene practice, mostly details and small things, nothing that crucial, nothing that he cares about tonight. Though most days the layers of grime nurture discomfort, today it sounds welcoming. More like a mud bath at a spa, hot springs and volcanic ash, cleansing sweat from HaYam HaMelah.

Kenny hums, languidly, harbinger of awareness. Warmth lures him from the mental grey to the literal, eyes peeling open to look at the stretch of shadows. His head feels fuzzy, like lint and dust and whatever else makes up the clumps under the bed, but he knows he's not alone. And that's nice.

Kyle only then pulls away, allowing Kenny to turn his head. He watches him slowly blink, like a cat after a nap, eyes adjusting bit by bit to the surroundings. Turn on, then focus, too far in, too far out, and finally just right. He knows Kenny can see him when he smiles, only halfway, languorous.

"If you're my alarm for class," Kenny speaks in a mumble, a tad slurred, and then yawns, "You're a lil' early."

"It's tomorrow," Kyle says. Even if the clock isn't plugged in yet and his phone is still locked, by now they've pushed past midnight, into the next day. Or more, into that time that's today and tomorrow, at once, essentially one and technically the other, both.

"Yeah?" Feeling stars returning, muscles tingling as they awaken from their inactive slumber. His shoulders roll, his hips shift, his toes curl, remembering how his body works.

"I said not on the first day," He explains it carefully, talking simply, so even a waking brain can understand, "But it's tomorrow."

Kenny blinks, once, twice, then gets it. He laughs, soft and careless. This could be a dream, but even if it is, he'll go along with it, "What 'bout being those people?"

Kyle closes his eyes, shaking his head. Shaking out the logic so he can think straight, "Fuck it."

"'Fuck it'?" He has that tone, saying please revise, because there's something not quite right to him. Not quite right because he wants to hear him say what he wants. Kyle needs to lay everything out for him, not because he's only just regaining clarity, but because he loves listening to him ask for it. Say the words aloud, give the thought life, and maybe even those will echo in this room.

A groan, from Kyle, because he knows Kenny won't do anything until he says it. Even in a more drowsy state, Kenny demands that small toll. He gets off on permission and could spend hours just asking him to ask. Make Kyle admit it, give the wants a body of airs and sounds, before answering any of those desires, even when he holds them too, "Fuck me."

And a purr, at the sound of the correct answer. Kenny raises his arms—heavy as they are—hands clasping Kyle's hips, fingers around the contours of the bone. He lets out another laugh, lazily stroking, "So damn needy, Ky'."

He frowns, tightening the corners of his mouth, and mutters, "You're one to talk."

"Did you come here to argue?" Kenny lowers Kyle down, closer to him, on him. No sheet between them, just like over the summer months, surviving on the heat of each other, something he just got so damn used to, "'Cause I'd rather have sex."

Kyle doesn't speak, just presses his lips to Kenny's, the fastest way to make him stop talking, the easiest way to tell him he's not up for the banter. Skip that, save it for the morning after, claim roll over from the hassling this morning. Because Kenny could run his mouth on and on, for three hundred eternities, to the ends of the looping space-time continuum, just to piss him off. Teasing him about how the frequency of their repartees and forcing him to wait, testing his patience. But tonight Kyle isn't in the mood—and he doubts Kenny will mind that at all—and just wants him to shut up.

His lips are rough, chapped, with a cut from dryness on the lower left. But they're so undeniably soothing, because he may taste like home-grown Mary-Jane rolled up in overdue electric bills and stale Eight O'clock Coffee bought at a gas station convenience store, but that's exactly what he wants, needs. The home he grew accustomed to, the home that he took with, the home that he never has to leave.

Kenny missed this. No, it hasn't been long, not long at all. But in the moment, he realises how genuinely nice it is, the pleasant luxury of being tender and warm, licking cool mint off his lips and holding the curves of his torso. He runs one hand up Kyle's back, tips of his fingers gliding over the spine, feeling the bumps of his vertebrae through the thin cotton, up his neck and to his hair. Curls catch on his fingers, and it feels like they belong. And it reminds him of their mornings, for some reason, after sleeping together, in whatever sense of the phrase.

He'd lost count of how many mornings he woke up, at six or seven when the sun just rose, not ready to wake up and face the day but conscious nonetheless. Waking up in Kyle's house, in the bed that somehow became theirs instead of his, the weak rays of sunshine cascading through the glass. With Kyle lightly snoozing with his back leaning up to Kenny's chest, so he can feel every inhale and exhale. Snuggled safely in the sleepy embrace, with his hand sometimes holding Kenny's thumb, or maybe just slammed into his palm. His body over Kenny's elbow so even when his mind is stirring his muscles are asleep, tingling beneath the warmth. Absently toying with a few curls, hearing him snore—sometimes nicely, sometimes loudly—until he fell back asleep.

That's what the kiss reminds him of, that feeling, from that moment. The true manifestation of calm.

Kenny laughs into his lips, and only then does Kyle stop, only drawing back a little, far enough so their lips remain apart, but the heat remains trapped between them. He stares straight into his eyes, right there, only seeing that light colour blue in the poor lighting, dimmed to cerulean. The way the light reflects, it looks like he has stars trapped in them.

"You're direct," He tells him, hand moving from the hip to the small of the back. His thumb rubs the dip in the spine, fingers straddling cotton and polyester. Kyle's good at being straightforward when it means making a point, even if he hands over control just after initiation, because he always wants things done to him. He makes candid requests for Kenny to meet him halfway, then a little more than that, then a little more still, along the thread of that please fuck me attitude he mastered somewhere after eighth grade.

"I can go back to my room," Kyle shrugs, the threat rolling casually off his tongue. So careless in his hollow bluff, clearly a lie but still words Kenny doesn't like hearing. He bites the inside of his cheek as Kenny raises his eyebrows, displeased, because he hates the idea of Kyle getting off without him, especially when they literally live right next to one another. Kyle's hand gently brushes the side of his neck, more towards the back, hot skin where the nape rests on the pillow, then with a sigh, "If you don't wanna—"

"You piece of shit," He scoffs, at the suggestion, still somewhat offended at the trick. Not that Kyle hasn't played the tease; more times than Kenny can count, leaving him frustrated in too many ways, whether it was intentional or not. This is deliberate, textbook psychological warfare, and he's only doing it to egg him on, because who needs foreplay when they could literally aggravate each other into sex? Angry sex, move over, it's all about mildly annoyed fucking.

"That a yes?" His fingers comb through the thin blond hairs, on his lower neck, behind his ear. The oil at the roots coat his fingertips, a little too slick, but negligible. He spins it as a new level of Kenny's unkempt look, that oddly attractive shabby and poverty-stricken charm. He still doesn't know how he got caught up in that appeal.

Kenny groans, the hand on his back sliding lower down his body, out from the depression, up the dip of his spine, crossing over the elastic trim, to softer territory. His hand rests higher up, not quite at the peak, palm on one cheek and fingertips on the other, making the smallest massaging motions. Yeah, he's pretty sure Kyle was the one who convinced him he was more of an ass guy. He should really send Shelia and Gerald a thank you card one of these days.

He tilts his head to the side, looking at Kyle crookedly. He puckers his lips, and he's not even sure what kind of look he's giving him. A come on, are you serious? Or what do you think? Maybe I have half the mind to put you over my knee and spank you because you make Stupid Spoiled Whores look like devout and prudish Catholic girls. Kyle can interpret how he will.

"So long as you scream," He sounds insincere, joking even, but his eyes are determined, intense and sharp. Keen on double checking some building parameters, like the thinness of the walls and the extent of the acoustics. Maybe furniture stability, too, just to be safe.

A laugh forms in Kyle's throat, but when he opens his mouth nothing comes out, his voice stalled. Kenny's hand drifts a little lower, starting to favour one side, and Kyle feels his cupping palm. The elastic band pulls down on his waist as Kenny clumps some of the fabric. One finger starts sliding shallowly between. But Kyle's the tease.

A toe twitches, and he moves his hips, light thrust, a reflex. His knees press against Kenny's sides, warmth bleeding through his holey tee and thick leg hairs. A finger traces his hairline, disturbing a few flakes of dandruff—damn genetics. His other hand balls up the excess of the coversheet, a full placed on a twin. He forces the words out, in one hard breath, "Only if you make me."

A leisurely smile, and Kenny's eyes soften, glow. Because they fight like nine-year-olds playing a pretend game, double-dog-daring one another and trying to be smart with each other. They retain familiar immaturity, resulting in an odd cross of friendly teasing and suggestive banter. And they do this every time even though they both know how it ends. Call it ritual, call it routine.

He twirls a curl around his forefinger, twist, twist, and pull. He watches the momentary wince, nerve endings at the roots sending their signals in a flash, his lips switching to a frown, jaw locked. Then, in a sweet and creamy voice, not that innocent tone, "When don't I, bae?"

Kyle's eyes narrow to slits, Kenny can see their glassy glint even in the poor lighting. He doesn't need to say anything, it all in his expression. He knows the exact face he's making, that face that asks why out of all the people in the goddamn universe he cares so much about this piece of shit.

The gentle fingertips running along his forehead disappear. In the next instant, a loose slap, open-handed and light, more focus on covering area than applying force. One finger taps a nerve, under the brow, but nothing truly harmful. A casualty of play.

"Dude, you smell like you fisted a Starbucks," All he smells is that soap, that syrupy aroma. It's just so out of place, he can't help but laugh, a little. Yet that sickly sweet scent is somehow fitting. Or maybe that's his sweet tooth intersecting with his sex drive—which happens just a little too often.

The joke rolls off his tongue and, immediately, the backs of Kyle's fingers slap the side of his face, flat keratin tapping his arching cheekbone. The tips of his nails, uneven from occasional biting and sharpened from sexualised scratching, graze the skin of his cheek, running over the miniscule and minor imperfections both imperceptible and inconsequential.

Kyle rolls his eyes, blowing a razz before saying, "You need to admit you have a fucking food fetish."

"I told you," The fingers in his hair lightly twirl the curls, while the fingers on his ass slowly pet along the rim, "I only got that whipped cream dispenser so we could do whippets."

Thankfully those with food fetishes exist, or one of those wouldn't be for sale at the local adult store. Though Kenny would be lying if he said he didn't once consider using it for the purpose it was sold for rather than their alternate recreation. One day he'll realise that potential. One day.

"Whatever," It comes out in one breath, harsh. Because of a distraction, of wandering fingers exploring curiously, dragging the cotton-polyester blend down in between, heat bleeding through the material.

Kyle has more to say—he knows it, is sure of it—but his mouth hangs open, soundless, as the fingers slide into narrowing spaces, hugging the walls in search of ground. Or another passage. Start at the backdoor and work around to the front. Knock, knock, knock until an answer calls out for him to come in. All the air stays trapped in his throat, palpable and cemented. Infuriating.

Kenny's expression remains exactly the same, utterly calm, collected. His eyes reflect a placid lake, tranquil oasis nestled within the thick of a mountain forest, clear as the sky and cool as the snow. A mild look, implying his pleasure, deliberate in revealing only hints of his delight.

If Kyle gets the idea in his head too soon, he might get too overeager, want to set the pace himself, when he's too likely to burn himself out on the feelings he can't corner in checkmate; no, for all the things in his life Kyle has figured out, here is where he needs a strong hand to guide him, or a poking finger in this case.

"So…" He drawls, lazy and leaden. He doesn't blink when he presses a finger flat against the flesh, stressing his presence, proximity, potential. He scans Kyle's face, the desires flaring in his eyes, one after the other, in short, quick succession, analysing the need. His tongue flicks as he presses his fingertip down, touching the bottom, the nerves. He raises his brows as Kyle's breath hitches, "What exactly did ya want again?"

A dirty play by a dirty redneck. Fucking figures Kenny would go about it like that, drowsy or not.

"Ken," Kyle's jaw quivers, voice sharp, unable to croak out the other syllable. The elastic band slides down the small of his back, gradually, the fabric unable to stretch any farther, needing to compensate for the cloth pulled away and between. Then again, if Kenny had it his way, he'd be wearing ass-less chaps.

"Hmm?" Kenny blinks, eyes opening half-lidded. He holds his smile, feigning innocence and ignorance, and moves a hand to the crown of Kyle's head. All very sweet gestures, from the tender glint to the blue to the gentle head petting; not that they act as suitable distractions for the fingers running down, roughly, moving and probing.

Sure, he knows anatomy—Kyle's especially—but the prodding game is too much fun. Watching Kyle's lips twist into a disgruntled frown, teeth grinding together, resisting the slightest yelp; that gives him reason to conveniently forget exact location, an excuse to remap the coordinates.

All that comes out, grudgingly, is a grunt, the one sound he can't keep locked up. A redness comes to his face, appearing like drops of watercolour paint spreading apart in a pool of water, light and translucent but growing darker with each added point. And there's little he can do when Kenny wields the brush, artistically compelled to embellish his canvas, make the easel rock, create a wholly physical masterpiece.

"Wha-du-ya want?" Kenny speaks lower, in a voice like sandpaper. The tip of his tongue rests on his palette, and his grin gets wider, toothier. He reveals his lightly yellowed, coffee-stained teeth, just the top row. It's the kind of look that could get a guy socked, front tooth punched out if used too carelessly, too often. The face that advertises cocky bastardy, insufferably obnoxious.

But Kyle can't do anything—absolutely anything—about it. Not with a thumb stroking the top of his head, and a forefinger pressing just at the edge of the hole. He plants his hands on either side of the pillow, collecting the excess bedsheet in his palms. His shoulders roll back, and he just stares, every feature hard.

"I want," Kyle holds back the ounces of personal aggravation, brought on by the mischievous and smug glimmer in his eyes, "Your stupid white trash dick."

"Not the rest of me?" It's exacerbating how fluidly Kenny responds, without a flinch, as though they're in the middle of casual conversation. Stalling him out, heightening the tension, if only for personal amusement. A true sadist, "I'm hurt, bae."

His eyes narrow: Yeah, and I'm horny.

"Make it up to me?" Kenny approaches a fine, fine line, known as the limitations of Kyle's patience. He can push him far—real far—but even his dorky charm and attraction-based luck runs out. Kyle still has a temper. Which isn't a bad thing when Kenny redirects his fire from rage to carnal passion; just when he actually gets mad.

"I swear to God…" He mumbles, soft words through barred teeth. Who even has time for this? Hell, if he wasn't addicted to this—their petty fights and their pretty fucking—and just went in his room, he could've been done by now. Less satisfying, likely lacklustre, but unhampered by this bullshit.

"What?" He gives the mess of curls one last smooth, approving stroke before putting his hand behind his head, "You'll fight me?"

Not a bad idea, really. Kenny knows he's talked too much when a smirk teases at the corner of Kyle's lips. Expedite the process through another breed of physicality, and have intimacy work its way in from there. Cut and dry strategy, a full frontal assault.

He bends his elbows, going in for a kiss, the first attack. A token of persuasion, a bona fide weapon in their brand of battling. Besides, it's a trick Kenny's used countless times on him, why not even the score? Or make it more dignified, anyway.

But Kenny's quick, well versed in the tactics Kyle employs. And when he gets impatient, Kenny can read it on his face, plainly as the title on a book jacket. He loses all subtlety, desperation making him painfully obvious, predictable even.

His hand leaves the crease, gliding over the cheek, positioning the base of his palm under the hip bone. Then a hard push, full force, right arm already gifted with extra strength from years of diligent masturbation regimen. It's nothing fancy, really, some elementary judo move or the latent muscle memories from a homoerotic P.E. class. For the lack in brute strength he makes up for in surprise: sneak attack. A cheap one at that.

On a larger bed, a basic flip would work without issue. One on top becomes the one on bottom seamlessly. However, with a bed that can fit one person snugly, in a room where furniture is packed compactly to the perimeters of the floorplan, complications arise. Like the full swing intersecting with a wall and Kyle, unable to avoid such a concrete barrier with the little time and space allowed, banging his shoulder and his side. Even his lean build crashing produces a thunderous noise, the contact between plaster and bone profoundly audible.

"FUCK!"

Kyle tumbles, rolling onto the mattress, partly angled against the wall. The top-sheets ends curl up around the corners of the bed, one bunching up by Kenny's pillow, uprooted by the petty struggle. No real damage, just superficial pain, the possibility of a handsome bruise, another injury obtained through bedroom stupidity that Kenny will invent a wild, improbable cover up story about later.

"Shit," Kenny climbs on top of him, pulling him so he can lay flat on the mattress. The bed shakes as they shuffle, the chattering of metal hooks and wood blocks scraping the floor. He moves the pillow under Kyle's head, a sack of worn fibres that barely cushions the hardness. His hand runs down the injured side, barely touching, careful about disturbing the injury, "You okay?"

"Don't fucking flip me, asshole!"

That echoes. Through the chamber, the cavernous ceilings. But for some reason Kenny doesn't hear it, the reverberations, too focused on the green eyes enflamed with anger. No, not exactly the fight either of them wanted.

"I forgot how small the beds were!" Kenny says, and even though it's the truth it's still an excuse. The kind of excuse so bad it tastes like the vomit from a hangover in the mouth, gross and embarrassing.

"And I forgot how much of a shithead you are!" He raises his voice, another octave. Born in Colorado, but conceived in New Jersey. There's the bit of Garden State implanted in him.

"C'mon! When have you not liked getting slammed into walls?" He tries to bat it off as a joke, on the off chance Kyle will take it at face value and laugh it off; but he teased him a little too much for things to slide so easily. His relentless torture spelt downfall for the McCormick smooth recovery.

Kyle's eye pierce, a glare that can cut steel. No, he decides, Kenny won't escape on mere comedy alone. Not with this much sexual frustration. He yanks the pillow—Kenny's weak peace offering—from under his head and, haphazardly, swings it at Kenny's face. Dead centre, no mercy. Not that a lump of worn fabric hurts, more its symbolism: fingered and flipped.

Kenny just shuts his eyes, bracing himself for the feathery slap. No protest, just pursed lips and a few seconds of mental admonishment. He then opens one eye, just to be safe, just in case. Kyle holds the pillow by the corner, the fabric balled up in a fist. Most of the fluff is gathered at the other end, hanging off the side of the bed, ready to bring the whole thing down as soon as his grip relaxes.

"Gonna hit me again," Both eyes open, wide. Caution tinges his words, his apology written already on his face. Here's the sorry, the free shot, the concession. Because he cares too damn much, about Kyle, and what he thinks, because somewhere along the line those arms wrapped around his neck and became a noose he'd gladly hang himself with. Surely there's a better analogy, but for someone faced with death so often, it certainly fits.

His fingers skim over the cloth, enough to announce a presence, but not apply pressure that might elicit any pain. A tender touch, over tendered skin, observations of sites soon blooming with blue and purple hues. His hand eventually rests on Kyle's hip, reluctant to curve around the contours.

The hesitation relaxes him, and that comfort brings Kyle back to the countless times of lazing around, before, during, and after. Flooding his memory, warm as the palm on his waist, nurturing as the glow in the blue. Kyle planned on staying mad, but he forgives him, expression softening, bit by bit, chiselled angles smoothed by soothing tides.

Kenny leans over him, to get closer, prove sincerity. He stops not far from his face, farther away than he desires, because what he wants is to kiss him—so bad, so many times, until his lips are wet and red, and Kyle could almost drown—but won't push it, won't risk fucking up, "Or you good?"

Once, twice, he blinks thrice. Each time, he feels the pain ebb away, dull back to nothingness, initial shock dwindling, diluting in his nervous system, bloodstream, body. Without the pain, he feels his heart, beating faster, at a different but welcoming pace. Beating like the rays of June sun on black asphalt, with the heat of July returning to his veins, to meet the calls of late August.

A good night. Their last and their first.

Kyle lets out a sigh, the kind felt in every muscle, simultaneous relaxation. Reversion to the familiar rhythms, just like that. Almost scripted, like the end of a bad 90s sitcom, where at the end of the day it doesn't matter what antics or mischief went on. Kiss, make-up, and oh here it goes.

"Depends," He says, with a huff, releasing the last traces of air heated by fleeting rage, free up more room for the hotter passions to smoke and smoulder. The corner of the pillow slips from loosening fingers, no longer necessary. If it makes a sound, neither of them hear, "Do I still get your white trash dick?"

That's all it takes, for the mood to swing back, back into the ruts carved out deep over the few months' vacation, their pattern. Fight, fuck-up, fight, make-up, fuck. Horribly clichéd but, for two small town boys who've dealt with a little too much weird over the spans of their lives, a little boring and predictable isn't that bad, "But you lost."

"Compensation," Kyle uses his lawyer voice, or that's what Kenny calls it. That stupid tone he only puts off when he's parroting terms from textbooks about laws concocted before these mountains were even part of the United States, defending imaginary clients in fake cases for class to prove himself capable in a courtroom, or cutting down a defence case on a rerun of Law and Order or Major Crimes, "For second degree foreplay injury."

"Sounds pretty serious," Kenny bites back the laughter, instead putting on a wicked grin. He moves closer, so his nostrils burn with mixture of fluorides and abrasives four out of five doctors recommend. Cool mint flavour he'll lick out and replace with the taste of his own mouth, "Ya know I'm piss-poor."

"We can work out a deal," He offers. He moves his hand, the one dangling off the edge of the mattress, towards Kenny, reaching out for a part of him. What part, he'll figure out; first the touch, "S'long as you do one thing."

"Yeah?" The hand finds the midway of his back, fingers shaping the dip of his spine. Kyle's hand isn't cold, but it sends a slight shudder, chattering nerves talking their way up the vertebrae, whispering to his brain to keep going and he'll get signals from somewhere lower. The thought encourages him, and he inches closer, "'m all ears."

One, elongated exhale blows from Kyle's lips, a burst of breath hitting his face. Only slightly tainted, owning the slightest hint of his taste, from their kissing before. Like the breath before a curse word, some dirty phrase that makes a mother shove soap in her son's mouth, only in this case Kyle's begging for dirt.

"Just fuck me already," He meant for it to come out suavely, with a sense of authority and confidence. But as the words echo, he hears just how desperate he sounds, how his perceived boldness turns to strain, what he thought was assertiveness coming back as pleading.

Imploring, through with asking, straight to begging. Not quite the level of sacrificing dignity and pride. But embarrassing enough to make him accidentally bite the inside of his cheek. One of those little, stupid, involuntary things that, in better light, Kenny would call out as cute, just to annoy him. It always comes back to that, doesn't it?

A goofy grin comes to his face, appearing as another breath blossoms, spreads over his mouth, caresses his face. Knocked in the face, like the parachute seeds of a dandelion, blown in his face with careless affection. And he laughs, like it tickles, because this could go a thousand ways but every time it seems to go the same one; which, to the boy who's died a million deaths, is just too reassuring.

Kenny leans in, and Kyle opens his mouth, automatically, waiting, welcoming. But he stops just as their lips touch, not quite in a kiss. Another exhale escapes his parted lips, hot, like the summer, their summer; Kenny swallows his breath, then whispers, into his mouth, "Always needy, Broflovski."

Kyle lets out a hum, or some sound similar, something from the throat, too premature to form any speech. Is it the wear of the day's work robbing him of words, or the thirst for his lips that bad? It's amazing how dumb he can feel, in these moments, when he can only think in wants, coded in emotion, all other symbols beyond his understanding. Brain going sticky, going stupid.

He presses their lips together, fully, trying to be shy and polite, but overcome by ravenous urgency, overridden by the passions now bursting. His hand bores into his back, pushing down, forcing him closer. Destroy the spaces between them, the gaps of idle air, fill them with each other, feel each other. His other hand reaches for Kenny's neck, curling around the muscle and bone. His forefinger digs into the nape of his neck, out of habit.

So fucking needy, Kenny thinks, happily, with all tenderness intended. For all the attention demanded of him, he loves giving it, every bit, each drop. He's a sinner with a big heart, dripping with golden blood, and he'll slit his wrists and bleed out into those greedy lips without a second thought. Let Kyle suck him dry, and consider his life well lived.

Die young for a boy with an inhuman caffeine tolerance, with a sense of humour laced with sarcasm and cynicism, with a myriad of passions and ambitions that outnumber the stars in the night's sky; the boy who for whatever reason overlooked the lack of epithets—and the glut of epitaphs—tied to his name and waste his youthful years locked in an adolescent love affair together, willing to squander as much time he can offer up, no hesitation, no reluctance. Just a perpetual humid mid-June afternoon with a shining sun and a broken AC and a boner only one guy can please.

That's how it feels, Kyle figures, because the heat of those familiar lips enflames his blood, veins becoming wires for excited electricity, revitalise, reawaken the nerves, so he never misses a feeling, a single sensation. Hyper-conscious, of how his body works, how his body reacts to the slightest touch, a regular sexualised superpower.

The kind of power that makes a guy dizzy, dizzy at how dizzy he can be made. And if there's one thing Kenny's good at—really good at—it's making him so damn dizzy that he turns buoyant, high on opiate kisses and barbiturate fucking. The shit sung about in the indie pop songs that play on all the radio stations, the angel dust of millennials' wet dreams, the stuff of soft summer.

But their lips aren't gentle, not like the pixie crack of their sweltered season, pressing through the haze of weak tired spells, refusing to be thralls of sleep and fatigue, captivated and enlivened by their passions. Rebelling so much that they kiss hard, kiss rough, with Kenny's front teeth pinching Kyle's bottom lip, with the tip of Kyle's tongue tracing over the Kenny's upper lip. One leaves red marks while the other leaves a damp trail, proof of where they've been, only the start of their expeditions.

Kenny drags Kyle's lip, stretches until the skin slips from between his teeth, dull pain and shallow holes. Then, when he kisses him again, he slides his tongue in, down and direct. Force Kyle's tongue back into his throat, add his own. Like the rush of dilute beer from a tail-gate keg, guzzled from the spout; but so much better, raw and straight, no watering down or adulterating with the flat and the aged beyond expiration. Burning like vodka, hot like whiskey, intoxicating his spirit with a new brew of spirits.

Kyle stifles a gasp, nearly choking on the sound, unable to do anything but respond, remain pliant. He could lie to himself, say he's not complacent, not utterly content with being dominated, not revelling in the euphoria. Lie the way he did junior year in high school, when they'd dry hump under the bleachers, let his body get shoved into the concrete wall, give Kenny free reign; he'd try convincing himself that there was something wrong with how much he wanted to be controlled, taken over, have things done on and done to never do.

But he finds a great deal of security in it, comfort in submission. Subdued and kept in check, quelling any anxieties that he might go out of control. Guided out of preference, not inexperience, because there's something relieving about moving his tongue to the side of his cheek, about burying his nails deeper, about being beneath. The minty fresh flavour fades from his mouth.

Another deep kiss, long kiss, hot kiss, and Kenny doesn't know how to call it. Some mixture of what they fell into over the prior three months, and what they hoped for want from the next four. Too early to taste autumn, but only getting the backwash of summer.

And, yeah, he could think about summer some more—the hours of daylight bleeding into each other because there was nowhere to go and nowhere to be, the smoke of the blunts wafting above with the thick smell of marijuana saturating the room, the sloppy make outs upon coming down from the drugs and rising with a different kind of high—but so little about it matters now, preserved in memory but serving no further purpose. Tonight is about closing the elongated cycles of sunshine and unequivocal abundances of free time, giving it an encore along with a bit of something new, for the regimented schedules of study and periods of procrastination.

His thumb hooks around the elastic, goaded by the pressure Kyle puts on the small of his back, the call for abolition of all separations, destruction of absences. He feels the smile on Kyle's lips, teasing at the corners, desperate to act subtle, failing miserably. All this and Kyle's still trying to play it cool; cute. The band gradually moves over the bone, the tip of his thumb pressing the path into the skin paled by under-exposure and Ashkie genetics. The green shorts crumple, roll up, drag down to the midway of his thighs, as Kenny frees a route, one he can utilise, both to excite and to torture, depending on how Kyle reacts, how he feels in the moment.

His other hand, blindly, moves past his head, over the fanned out crimson, between the rungs of the bedframe. His arm reaches out, searching for the end table, of the supplies he retrieved from the free contraceptives bucket in the hall's lounge: the wrapped up condoms and packets of lubricant given out to students like Trick-or-Treaters getting candy on Halloween night. Placed strategically, close by, for when Kyle got in one of his moods, when he wants it in him before he even gets it up.

Getting it up isn't really an issue right now.

The faux wood, panelled plastic, greets his fingertips. His fingers spread, straighten each joint, in search of the ridged edges, the factory-manufactured packs of Big Mamba, pre-lubricated, and Sliquid, water-based. Most of the typical college homecoming basket, just detracting the interior condoms—female, says the packaging, but everyone knows that removing the ring turns it into anal—and pamphlets on HIV and STDs—a general overview of what could be contracted, but no mention of Super AIDS—and much appreciated gifts that contribute to improving their night.

His mouth starts straying from Kyle's, missing his lips as he extends his arm farther, looking. Clumsily kissing his nose, so Kyle can smell just how many shots of shit espresso Kenny added to his coffee (four, roughly) and how much cereal he ate (a bowl and a half of Lucky Charms, mostly the marshmallows). Then a little over, planting a kiss partly on his cheek, and then a little more on his cheek, and then a little lower but still dancing around his mouth, not on purpose.

Just as the tip of Kenny's finger finds the packets, starts inching them towards his palm, Kyle trails his nails across the nape of his neck, buried in his skin. The sharp pain brought on by the carving makes him wince, his fingers twitch, and he hits the packs. The condoms nearly fall off the end table, thankfully bouncing on the base of his palm, stopping there and being saved from an unnecessary fall. The lubricant slides back an inch, still in reach, but he clasps his hand over the condom.

"Motherfucker," Kenny mutters, curt and sharp. More like claws than fingernails, he thinks. Two fingers secure the packet, retracting his arm slowly as he draws back, moving so he can look down at Kyle. He licks his bottom lip, pulling his mouth into a stern glower—or what he hopes is one—brow raised suspiciously.

The green glints with artificial innocence, Kyle playing dumb, like it wasn't his hand, his nails, his love for marking that influenced him. Trying to use that fake-ass synthetic sweetener he coats on his actions, the pretty sprinklings that dupe everybody else. Using it on Kenny, even though he knows Kenny knows him far better and can call him out far easier than the average street sucker.

"What?" Kyle asks, in the tone, the tone pleading his guiltlessness, attesting to his virtue, the goodness within him. Because he's a good person, so long as he wants to be.

"Tryin' to decapitate me or somethin'?" Kenny sneers, the fresh red trails tingling. He thumbs over the ring within the shell of plastic, the wrapper softly crinkling.

"I want you to aim," Kyle retorts, referring to the careless placement of his lips. No, he's not strict about keeping things neat—more often than not, he encourages the opposite, longing for a hot mess, wet and uncoordinated, overwhelming power and next to no control—but a some closer attention paid to his lips would be nice.

He watches Kenny bring the packet to his lips, bite down on the edge, and let it hang from his mouth. He barely sees the outline of the ring, the bulges and craters in the plastic wrapping.

Blue eyes narrow, roll, then look away with a tsch. Only Kyle would pull something like this, only him. Wanting it three different ways, two of them contradicting one another; but by God does he still need all three, done to him right now, if only to make up for his indecisiveness. There's a reason he never tops.

He silently reaches for the lubricant, leaning as he moves so he can get a solid grip, not grope the furniture when there are more important places for his hands to be. Not on cold countertop, but on warm skin, receptive to his touch. Instead gliding over Kyle's cheek, chest, cock, following the rushing blood, pumping in his veins, heating him up so Kenny's hands burn with every lingering pet. A flame no cooling liquid can put out, placate, extinguish; each addition intensifying, like gasoline.

Kyle's tongue flicks over his upper lip, salvaging the taste before it dries on his mouth, and tucks in his bottom lip. His eyes wander, over Kenny's form, quickly. If anyone told him in middle school that his type was scrawny and scrappy, he would've laughed. Now he just laughs right into Kenny's bed.

The wrapper catches a shine of light, from outside, sneaking through the window. The sheen draws Kyle's there, to the plastic dangling from Kenny's teeth, clenched in place. Kyle blinks, twice, then props himself up, regaining the distance lost between them.

Unbeknownst to Kenny, Kenny too focused on collecting a few packets in his hand. He knocks a few packs closer, sliding three into a loose pile, ready to clutch and bring them over when he senses the warmth, characteristically human. The plastic edge starts slipping from his teeth, tugged by something other than gravity; a force far more persistent, driven by desire, one he knows too well.

His eyes flicker down, just as Kyle lays down, flat on his back, a smirk on his lips and the wrapper in his teeth. The ring rests on his chin, and it's one of those moments Kenny wonders where he learned to pose like a porn star. Maybe that's just natural.

"Hmm?" Kyle raises a brow at Kenny's frustrated face, a quick expression, only a flash, but a moment Kyle savours. His thumb wipes over his finger nails, a weak effort to clear the skin—his skin—from underneath, then reaches for the packet.

He bites down harder on the edge, holding it in place as he grabs, holds, and tears it open. A clean break, smoothly separating the seal, leaving one side in his mouth. His fingers, deft and dexterous from practice, pull the latex from the sleeve, before discarding the wrapper. The plastic falls, to the side, off the bed, out of mind. Kyle holds his prize triumphantly, like the coveted cereal box toy, with a boyish smirk. The torn tab in his teeth waves, a quick movement prompted by the subtle shifting of his jaw, plastic sliding between enamel.

An expectant look, that's what he gives him, one of those dewy eyed panders for approval. Because as independent as he acts, appears, Kyle still needs reassurance, even here. After knowing each other how many provincial years, after living through how many evanescent fads and surreal phenomena, after straight-up fucking how many goddamn times?

And, though Kenny hated those looks at first—when he was sixteen and stupider, with the self-esteem of an emo band's debut album, overly conscious of how this was his first time real real relationship and he was for the first time real real concerned about someone else's feelings—he finds them so endearing, now.

Funny, too, because who in their right mind would seek out and care so much about his opinions? From a guy who barely skated through high school and is really only at a subpar state institution because it meant staying closer to the guy he liked while simultaneously avoiding the dismal job market and family business of unemployment and alcoholism? Only an idiot would foolishly trust him like that, he once thought; but Kyle isn't an idiot, least not most of the time. So that has to mean something, right?

Fingers curl around the plastic, mindful of the squishy contents, the gel within shifting from one end of the pack to the other. His arm withdraws, retreating from the gap in the bed frame. He plops the lube down, on the mattress, in ready reach, then plants his hand.

His lips curve into a grin, crooked, goofy. His eyes warm, like captured solar rays. A soft chuckle escapes his lips. He raises his brows, tenderly saying, to Kyle's amusement, "Cute trick."

Kyle turns his head, spits out the plastic, rolls his eyes. Not the answer he was looking for…

Grinning lips press to his cheek, igniting a fire underneath. The fire crawls through his bloodstream, flaring under his skin, a contained explosion. Kenny knows how to kiss rough, how to kiss hot, but also how to kiss soft, how to kiss kind. Sweet, is what this is, what Kyle calls it, one of those times when Kenny kisses him gingerly and tenderly. Reminding him of those other facets, dimensions of Kenny McCormick no one likes to talk about, like how he can turn into the biggest damn sweetheart when nobody's looking.

A small smile sneaks on Kyle's face. Maybe not his intent …but he'll take it.

The lips stall, delay in withdrawal. Even when he lifts them, from his skin, he hovers, right above, his breath just as poignant. It extends the feeling, making it so the kiss never ended, mouth ever present. But slowly, the trail of breath meanders up, to the side, until Kenny breathes right into his ear. Hot and deafening.

"So tell me," He drawls out, each word spun out, thread unravelling off the spool, frayed and fresh. All the syllables collide together, but it isn't slurred, Kyle hearing every letter, "What other lil' tricks d'ya know?"

Kyle closes his eyes, just as Kenny kisses his ear, lips moving to the contours of structure cartilage, saliva flooding the canals making up the outer, before moving to the fleshy lobe. He inhales, sharp, just as the teeth bite down, nibble, tug.

Just another one of those little things, Kyle thinks, those little things that Kenny does to make him crazy, make his body crazy. Because all of him goes limp and languid, except one part. All of him feels slack and melted, except one part. All of him floats like the smoke rising from the end of a cigarette, except one part. No, one part rushes, throbs, hardens, consuming all the pressure the rest of him loses, truly rising to the occasion. And, god, he could laugh if he wasn't feeling so much.

A hand pulls up on the hem of his top, folding the bottom over his stomach. Then splays across exposed torso, palm and pads pressing, stroking, charting the regions of his body. Sparks dwell in his fingertips, leaving his cells charged, him charged. Water abandoned after electricity's pet, wires spitting their fires into growing pools. Growing, yeah, that's a little distracting.

Kyle mouths a few words, an attempted reply, but the spectres of speech remain on his lips, and all that leaves him are pants, heaves of torrid breath. His toes go loose, his dick goes hard, his mind wavers. Not numb, not inactive, just too overwhelmed; and Kenny leaving kisses down his jugular, following the blood flow, don't help at all.

Teeth graze his neck, and Kenny wonders if he's pushing Kyle too far, dizzying him too much, all at once. It's all about controlling the burn, with Kyle, keeping him from tempering out or popping a fuse. Like taming the sun, harnessing a storm, keeping him from getting so high on his own eagerness, from setting his frame on fire and sitting inside inhaling the fumes. Controlling the burn, pacing it, how much is engulfed and consumed and when the flame swallows; that's Kenny's job.

His hips rock against his, involuntary reaction, and Kenny nearly burrows his teeth into his neck. His fire's spreading, possibly faster than Kyle's. And that just won't do.

He swipes down Kyle's hip, stopping at the base. Then Kenny's fingers start wrapping around, first just above the balls, working higher and higher. Slowly, gradually, waiting for—

"Shit."

—Kyle's coaxed reaction. The subtle writhe, the clenching fingers, the moment when every fibre turns oh so sensitive, those green eyes flash open, and he realises his status as a victim of his own desires. His jaw hangs open, and he can't tell if he's parched or drowning.

Kenny seizes the moment, the crack in his shell, and kisses his jaw. Then, mouth to the bone, fingers around the boner, he whispers, "Show me another trick, will ya, Kyle?"

Air in, then out, his whole body moves with his lungs. Weakly, he reaches for the blond hair, so he can weave his fingers in the greasy locks and anchors himself, keep him from melting or floating, from turning into a doll of paralysed putty. No, give him a ground, and somewhere to fight. Already, he pulls on the hairs.

With his other hand, he fiddles with the latex, conscious that his nails could pierce and render the protection useless, but finding it hard to control with his wandering mind. The lubricant coating the interior starts coating his fingertips.

He lolls his head, to look up. Kenny accommodates, backing away enough for Kyle to move with ease, but still right in his face. Kyle's fingers tighten on the hair, and all he can see is light blue. His tongue pushes against the backs of his bottom teeth, and he frantically pieces together a few words to cough out, "You gonna stretch me out at least?"

Kenny claims his lips before he can even compliment himself on the quick wit; full force, open mouth, Kenny tonguing at the roof. Kyle thinks less and less in sentences. He yanks on a patch of blond, a few strands uprooted and stuck looped around the joints.

Fingers slide up the shaft, grip, tug. Because the only way for Kenny to break free, free from Kyle's lips, is for Kyle to jolt, shudder, for his breath to hitch and force him to stop. Kenny listens to a scarcely stifled mewl, to Kyle's unexpected pleasure, as he vibrates sensation.

He swallows, a mixture of his spit and Kyle's rolling down his throat, then says, with a voice like gravel, "Ring me up and I'll ring you out."

Kyle blinks, to the rhythm of his heart, eyes aflutter. Only now does he notice the beads of sweat on his hairline, the film of perspiration thickening on his skin. The stench of sex burns in his nose, and he knows the smell is his—no, theirs. They reek of sex and summer nights and God forbid they shake it from their flesh and bones and become something less than who they are.

But he knows what he means, what he has to do. He pinches the latex ring, squeezing it between the pads of his fingers, careful not to start unfurling prematurely. He toys with the blond in his hand, ruffling and matting. He stares up into his eyes and, flatly, pressed, between quavering breaths, "Gonna gimme room, asshole?"

A snort, laugh through the nose, and a smile, flashing teeth and a flickering tongue; some trademark McCormick reaction, all rights reserved. He's careful when he shifts his weight, letting Kyle prop himself up, angle against the bed frame. Kenny keeps his head close—not that Kyle's grip leaves any other choice—forehead constantly brushing with the frazzled curls, controlled breaths caressing his chin.

Kyle rolls his bottom lip in, bites, twirls the condom in his fingers. Then moves, to where the Bat-Signal fabric parts—right, that's why the button's torn off—where his dick peaks out, hard, ready to be in him. And Kyle chews the inside of his cheek, tugs on the hair, because he wants it in him. Shoulders shudder, just at the thought, the lovely longings of a horny teenage boy so anally inclined.

The latex shuffles between fingers, slicked and gooey, so he can hold the edge with two fingers and tug out the head with a thumb and forefinger. Trying to be cautious, but still too conscious of the hold on his shaft, the duress that warns to work timely or his fingers will leave and any further pleasures will be Kyle's prerogative.

What a threat: abandonment of erection and ill attendance of ass.

Kenny gulps, exhales, blowing on Kyle's face, lips. Increasing the difficulty, because Kyle performs well under pressure. And if there's one thing he loves in these interludes, the answering to the necessary, it's the little teasing games that consume the interims, the sport he utterly excels at.

Maybe this is why he consecutively wins Mini Game Champ in Mario Party, much to everyone's frustration. Kyle's certainly frustrated, by him; he can see it when his cheeks darken, lashes bat, eyes squint. Hesitate, evaluate, refocus. Try to ignore how Kenny keeps making him lose concentration, turning a task as simple as unrolling a rubber into a damn near insurmountable obstacle.

Kyle's teeth pinch the tip of his tongue when he clenches his jaw, concentration etched on his features, whole face pensive, through the flush. Pinch out the end, granting enough room for ample deposit, then settle the ring over the head. Observe, the light shudder through Kenny's body, the miniscule tremors in the fibres of his muscles, the near silent grunt drawn from the recesses of his throat, and judge how influential he is, his touching is, his presence. Then, as the gust of breath exits his lips, and lovingly caresses his cheeks, as steam exudes from the spout of a slowly boiling kettle, he pushes down on the ring, rolling it down.

Though Kenny tries—he really tries—restraining himself, repressing his reaction, the quiet chokes work against him, and his grip on Kyle fluctuates between slight degrees of firmness and ease. Small variations in grade, as the sensation goes through him, like an injection, shooting up on something so raw, so pure he dilates, sears, energises, a natural amphetamine. Lubricated latex overtakes his flesh, the whole length soon covered, encapsulated. Because it's safer that way, and spares him the kvetching from Kyle about having an ass full of come, like he doesn't get livid at the notion of Kenny pulling out too soon and catching it in his palm. Keeps things a little cleaner, at least on his end.

Kyle's hand settles at the base, his mind exhausts. A temporary stall, as he blinks, thrice, thinking in sensation instead of speech. Communicating the coordinates, the latitudes and longitudes his hands lie on, with meticulous precision. Calculating just where he is, and measuring the magnitude of his being, the effects of he has on him, the havoc he unleashes in the bed of intertwining nerves and blood vessels.

His chest rises, filling with a glut of air. They could puncture on his ribs, deflating within the cage, withering and dying, and he'd have no idea. All he feels is the flow, the circulation, rushing like the rapids; he swears they froth beneath his lips, furious and dangerous. He tilts his head up, his jaw drops down, and his mouth feels like foam. Like that stupid white girl soap, sitting on their bathroom counter, salivating sweetness.

Kenny meets his lips, stealing some of the high. Just like how around sunset, when he'd smoke by the window, Kyle would come over and take the cigarette from his lips, never lighting his own, always borrowing the dwindling stub, sharing the ash that falls from the end. The kiss is just like taking a drag, only the char Kenny feels isn't from all the manufactured substances infused in the tobacco, and the addiction isn't from the nicotine and other unnamed chemicals. All he knows is it's better like this, unfiltered and harsh, mollifying in its raw exposure.

His mouth isn't Kyle's only reward; he judiciously pumps, palm sliding against the shaft with each jerking motion, up and down. The side of his forefinger brushes the head, but he's careful to do no more. Avoid any risk of Kyle peaking before Kenny determines is time. Not denial, just pacing.

And with pacing in mind, his other hand inches towards the collection of lubricant. The sharp edges of mechanically cut plastic graze his fingers, cutting into the crevices of his prints. He counts how many he has on the bed—three, four, five—doing the math on where to allocate: how much for the fingers, how much for the ass, how much for the dick. Better to distribute graciously than cause needless pain, the bad type of pain, which only necessitates capsule suppositories and postpones further play. He tears each open at the perforated slit, so all he needs to do is pick one up and push the contents out.

Kyle's ears perk, at the soft crinkles of the packets. He smiles, at least on the inside; he can't really tell what his mouth does, whether it complies with his cognizant thoughts or operates solely on passionate impulse. It's hard to sort through all the information, all the sensations, but he wouldn't have it any other way. He'd much rather feel everything at once than nothing at all, wildly invigorated than dismally numb. And, with Kenny controlling it, that everything never ends.

His breath hitches, right as Kenny's kisses move from his lips to his neck. He has a favourite spot, at the hollow, just a section of a finely spun tapestry of vein and muscle, found in the gaps of his collar. Kenny always goes for at crucial moments, because it never fails in coaxing a little cry from Kyle's lips, drawing it out from the back of his throat. A part of the shift, transitioning of seasons, so they can change colours like the autumn leaves and the snowy skyscape, moving Kyle from the August haze closer to the September crisp. To fuck less like lazy summer and more like brisk fall.

Kyle rolls his head against the flat wood rung. He releases the patch of blond, moves his hand closer to the crown, then grabs again, the longer messier strands. The oil between his fingers makes the hair slicker, harder to hold. But the hand on Kenny's lower half moves down, dragged by the weight of his arm, as he harps on the necking. His fingers brush over the base, the thigh, leaning along the guidelines set by Kenny's body, until his hand lays on the mattress, palm up, empty.

His breaths start spilling out as moans. He can't make words, but he can't keep silent. Holding back requires too much attention he doesn't have, diverted in so many different directions, between so many different things. Tender lips, cautious jerking, warm contact and then the sudden addition of cool gel, emptying two slim packs in to his open hand. Kenny's doing, he knows, because this is around the time he gives him a task, something he can try to direct his thoughts towards. And lessen Kenny's workload, since there's only so much he can attend to with the ample diligence Kyle requires.

Sure enough, a tongue licks up the curve of his neck, and Kenny practically spits in his ear, "Get to me 'n I'll get t'you."

Kyle nods, head bobbing. His mouth shapes words but the noises come out unintelligible, sounds colliding so no vowels or consonants can be distinguished, stealing parts and parcels from a catalogue of archaic languages to spell out his delight. His lips tug into a grin when Kenny kisses his temple, a gentle show of encouragement.

He brings his hand back to his cock, the stuff dripping from his fingers, smearing the lubricant over the length. Some of it rolls in globs down the latex, needing Kyle's hand to smooth and spread. He strokes more than grips, doing his duty and providing light stimulation.

Kenny's lips press into a hard line, nearly choking on a groan. The sound turns solid, a chunk of concrete hardening to the walls of his throat. Kyle's touch thins his airway, like the embrace of a hemp noose; but it feels so good to asphyxiate, the erotica in smoothing so real, literally breath-taking.

He empties the remaining packets on his hands, glazing his fingers with the soothing gel. Each drop chills his skin, only so cool because of how hot he is. Not like ice, nothing that extreme, more like a huff of menthol for the skin, more satiating than Camel of Marlboro could ever condense into one concoction.

Most of it stays on the tips of his fingers, layer thickest over the flat pads. Some streams run down, in strains and globs, the way raindrops streak across a car window in the middle of a mild shower. The lube wets his fingers, preparing for the next step, the penetrating portion. For the real fun part, as Kenny frames it, when it all comes together, all innuendos intended.

He takes his hand from Kyle, darting to a spot on the small of his back. His ears catch Kyle's torn exhale, unsure whether to feel relief or upset at the shift in attention, but he doesn't voice any question, not that he could. Kenny pushes on the bone, silent instruction on how to move his body, how to position himself so they can both quickly get what they want.

Kyle rocks his hips upwards, weight transferred from the curve of his ass to the base of his spine. He rolls his shoulders, impacting the synthetic wood with a soft hollow thud, as he spreads his legs apart. The boxers stretch, stressing the fibres, but don't move either way; Kenny pulls them farther down Kyle's legs, past his knees, where they could stay out of the way. A dark spot seeps into the material, a stain that can easily come out in the wash, but will likely need to be explained away later.

Kenny's moist touch makes him shudder, for the shortest moment startled by the slick fingers moving in, in between while a palm cups a cheek. No garment separates them now, prevents the progression, now unhampered by the trivialities of clothing. Kyle inhales, curls his toes, reflexively arches to the touch. Both his hands, respectively, give a tug. Kenny bites the inside of his cheek.

His finger trails, leisurely, if only to intensify his presence, add a hint of drama to his actions. Even if it is fairly minor, he knows Kyle enough to know how much he savours the details, remembers them vividly with the rest of the emotion, rest of the sensation. The flashes of clarity amongst the tumultuous storm of feelings, what Kyle looks back on most in the afterglow, the day after, and so on.

He finds the hole, easily, tracing over the outer rim. His thumb rubs Kyle's back, balancing his inquisitive prodding with comforting strokes, so he stirs within him a mixture of exciting and pacifying, nurturing the contradictions. He steals a glance at Kyle, peaking from under his lashes, scanning up his body, judging just how effective he is.

Kyle always was on the paler side, owed to the Eastern European complexion and lack of tanning opportunities in the snowy Rocky Mountains, any overindulgence in solar radiation resulting in immediate burn. But, compared to that traffic cone top—glued to his chest by darkened patches of sweat, clinging to him like it's a size too small—his skin rivals in colour, reddened and enlivened. His whole hue enriched, body attempting to manifest all the feelings trapped inside, swimming in his head, sparking and snapping and dazzling and dazing.

Kenny keeps his gaze on him as he slips the first finger in, quickly.

"Fuck," An actual word comes out of his mouth, spat in one swift choke, nearly lost under the guise of a hoarse gasp. It doesn't feel like it all came out, a crawling low in his throat telling him there was more to blurt out. A train of swears, likely, ceased to conserve his voice. He squeezes his eyes shut, and gulps down the curses.

Just one finger, but the first is always this way; there's always some level of shock at a new addition. Probably a good thing, Kyle thinks, since he figures the whole evolution thing discouraged people having things shoved up their rectums. Then again, the prostate is the male G-Spot, so who knows what the truly advantageous adaptation is. This could be what nature intended all along.

His hands shake, not much, nearly negligible, as the finger works in deeper. The faintest wiggle sends through him a new wave of trembles, something he can feel under his skin, in each vessel. He drags on Kenny's hair, force weakening the blond roots' hold on his head, making his nerves mumble in dull pain.

Kenny pauses, cradles his back, massages the tensing muscles as a whistling shhh exits through gritted teeth. He wets his lips, listening to Kyle regulate his breath, regain a tempo of heaves that he can stick to. He absently chews the inside of his mouth, distracting himself from the fingers and palm still on the latex. True, protection impairs elements of sensation, but certainly not all of it; the trembling hand is ever present.

He presses a kiss to the side of Kyle's mouth, catching the corner of his lips. Something smooth, palatable, so he stays grounded, not too hyper. He burns under Kenny's lips, on the cusp of feverish. His lips form an "O", and he sifts his sound through.

"Still good?" Kenny asks, speaking between parted lips. He hates the minor strain in his voice, the infinitesimal indicator of his own internal state. True, a portion of his pleasure derives from Kyle's—the joy of a dominant, adoring the pleasures instilled by him—but he still has a body, and it still aches just the same. He stills his hand, keeping his fingers stiff, so no movement disturbs Kyle's thoughts.

A moan, flat and deep, reverberates, in the cavities of his chest, in the walls of this room. That's right, Kyle remembers how high up the ceiling is. How much of his groaning already echoed, bounced from one side of the chamber to the next, without his notice? But his volume is far from his concern, and he could care less for how loud he is, or will be.

Green eyes open, in a minute flutter, and flit to meet Kenny's eyes. Intense blue awaits his reply, staring in patiently, or at least with the façade of patience. He'll go no further without a response.

"Go'n," Kyle's words mash together, crashing and colliding in his throat, forced out through his lips. His eyes glisten, reflect everything inside him, make up for the spaces in his verbalisations.

He stares, a moment, with Kenny just looking back. Two ravenous boys, lusting after each other, and for a split second they're so dumbfounded by each other they do absolutely nothing. Yeah, this reminds them of summertime, and all those other times, in the countless other seasons and years. Everything built up, on top of one another, piling and piling until they got to this moment. And soon, in the future, another will be placed on top of this, bury it in the foundation of their ladder to infinity, but remember each brick they placed.

Without thinking about it, his hand tightens around Kenny's shaft, one solid pull and—a sharp, cracked "Fuck, Ky."—a little reaction that brings a smile to his lips. Kyle chimes out a few laughs—simple, breathy "Ha, ha."—before Kenny's resumed fingering cuts him short. And brings an equally smug, satisfied grin to Kenny's face.

He tries to kiss Kyle's mouth, but Kyle bites his lip, struggling to suppress a whimper. He settles for his cheek, instead.

A second finger slides in, gingerly stretching. He smears the lube on his fingers to the walls, a trick to facilitate. Make him wide, make him wet. He hears Kyle moan, then, with another long drawn peck to the cheek, adds finger number three.

Kyle's yelp, borderline hiccup, cuts the room. Both his hands are slick, one with oils and one with solubles. He bucks his hips, grips Kenny tighter, brings him closer. His hard breaths deafen Kenny, Kyle panting in his ears. They become more erratic with each heave, and he doesn't know if it's his lungs competing with his heart or his heart with his lungs. And where's his brain in all this?

"Shhhh," Kenny lulls, unsure who it's directed at: Kyle or himself. His fingers stay in a triangular formation, turning his wrist to rotate the pyramid. Occasionally, they deviate from their alignment, spreading out, making him wider.

The whines drawn from Kyle's lips in response are far more melodious than any known symphony, and the rebounded tune he hears assures him of the room's acoustic value. Hell, Kyle's only mild by his standards, and it's echoing. The screams, think of the screams; maybe he'll declare himself a music major.

He tongues the backs of his front teeth, and now Kyle's hands are too much. He squeezes his back, bunching some of the top's material between his fingers, and leans to his ear, "Ge't'yourself."

A wince, as he feels Kenny tease him again, and Kyle nods in compliance. His hand reluctantly leaves, fingers lingering, moving from Kenny's cock to his. No latex, just flesh, and the edging drip of clear beginning at his head. His heart throbs, but he tries not to think about that.

Fingers retreat, inching out. Kyle feels the muscles relax, now only crowded by two, one, no fingers. The moment of relief, intermission, the transition from fingers to dick, like summer into fall. He tilts his hips, as Kenny's now free hand positions him. Kyle clutches his hair even tighter, because he feels him right there, just waiting for permission.

"Ready?"

The word rings, but not like a bell; like the microwave beeping that his frozen pizza is at least a somewhat thawed out and edible, the smoke detector blaring after some Easy Mac or Maruchan somehow winds up simmering, like the tone Kenny set on Kyle's phone that chimes every weekday morning reminding him to wake up for classes fifteen minutes early in case their early affections run overtime.

Kyle leans his head to Kenny's, blinking slowly. Hot breath pushes out like a smoke from a chimney:

"Please."

Kenny holds Kyle to him, so their chests rise and fall against one another. His free hand falls over Kyle's, laying fingers atop on another, a helpful guiding presence. His lips find a place on Kyle's neck, to drown with repeated kisses, suckle on until the bruise flourishes, and thrusts. Head in, more coming, filling him up. Join them together, two bodies connected, and moving in sync.

The sound pierces the room, and Kyle thinks it's a scream, fairly sure that's what it is. Something of that nature—high and loud, charged with passions too numerous for words—the sort of thing that empties all the air from his lungs, leaves him starved for oxygen, but his chest is too heavy to inhale. All he can do is cling, melt to the embrace, cement himself to him. In the flurry of feeling, all he can pick out distinctly is the parts where Kenny touches him: a hand to his back, a set of fingers over his, and a cock in his ass.

Euphoric.

Kenny's teeth pinch his skin, keeping his mouth to Kyle's neck. The circular motions, the pets Kyle gives as he matts up his hair, signal approval. That and the mutterings, the odd noises he makes as he tries mouthing words, none coming out quite as anything. At this point, when Kyle loses all hope of verbal communication, of spouting anything more than nonsensical syllables, he relies on the little things, the actions still under his control: tugging at his hair, brushing his fingers, nuzzling his head.

It's the system they developed, a language only they can understand with fluency, speaking in dialects unknown and unheard of by those outside their bounds. Because only Kenny knows that the particular way Kyle twirls his hair around his fingers means he wants him to go deeper, faster. Because only Kyle knows that the precise way Kenny directs his hand along his shaft means he needs him to pay attention to himself, not get lost in the seas of cognition.

The time, the place, none of that matters. They exist somewhere in the blurred regions outside temporal and spatial jurisdiction. If only for a moment, as they indulge in each other, and feel summer and fall and winter and spring, work and play and leisure and labour; it all blends together in an intense mellow high.

The bed moves, as they move, Kyle notices. Shitty dorm furniture, barely weighed down properly, rickety IKEA knock offs that can't even handle a restless sleeper, let alone decent sex. The mattress bounces under them, on poorly made wires that rebound more than absorb. The posts shudder, frame pressured by the boy leaned against it, the feet quaking and grunting on the linoleum. But he can't hear the sounds they're making over the sounds he's making, spilling hopelessly from his lips, only to come back to his ears. But he can't say he hates it.

The clear dribbles on their fingers, pumping in unison, Kyle getting closer as Kenny fills him deeper. His fingers tense, but Kenny's are there, to keep him from freezing, from pausing to hover and linger in the evanescent, when this relies on the rise. Kenny tightens his grip on Kyle, the bones of their hands overlapping and aligning. Sure, Kenny's fingers are a bit longer, Kyle's a tad thinner, but it's close enough, one of the ideals of imperfection.

He's tight, tight around Kenny. There's only so much elasticity in those muscles, whose function is to push out. But Kyle goads him on, with his chirps and his strokes, telling him he likes it this way, he loves it this way. Working up, in him, making his mouth run gibberish as he eases in, then cry out when he hits the—

"Shit," It comes out as a high note, Kyle holding his pitched tone for the sounds that slip out afterwards. He burrows Kenny's head into the hollow of his neck, sinking his teeth into his skin, a plea for more, and his hands tighten under his head. The sensation reverberates through his body like the scream echoes through the room, both unfiltered, uncensored.

—when he hits the prostate.

Kyle closes his eyes, and savours. Savours everything, from the wet lips sucking between the bone to the hard cock pounding against him. It takes his mind off everything, the things that might concern him, the things like tuition and shit professors, off hostile campus rivalries and myriads of students toting various acronyms of authority, how early he should email for time off on the high holy days and how often he should phone his mother to keep her anxieties at bay. All the stupid shit he can worry about tomorrow, when he wakes up in the morning, still aching from tonight.

Kenny moans into his skin, just as high as Kyle is. Those moans are intoxicating, dancing in his head, almost enough to get him over the edge. And if he's thinking like this, with climax in sight, every buck of his hips another inch closer, Kyle must be thinking the same.

He jerks him faster, holding on tighter. As he does, his tongue traces over the shallow indentations left by his bite. His hand follows up his spine, lithe lumbar ever responsive to his touch. Judging by the cracks, in his consistent voice, Kyle is almost there. Almost.

Kyle gulps, hard, when he feels it coming, knows he's close to coming. He thinks like illegal firecrackers blasting on the Fourth of July, like the propane grill blowing a tank in the middle of a June barbeque, like a basketball popping on a rusty nail left in the middle of the driveway during an early August game. And he thinks so loud he can barely hear himself, or maybe it's the other way around.

A thumb strays from over Kyle's, Kenny going for the head. The pads of his finger glide over the tip, a fluid swipe that collects a film of clear. Something in his wrist shifts, and the way he pulls is different, a change. All that, combined with a good, hard, deep thrust; that's what Kyle needed, all he needed.

He releases a long, loud sound, just as the clear switches to white. All the noise departs from his throat, while both of their fingers get splashed with come. A few drops get on his shirt, some drizzles to the sheets, but nothing they care about now. Kyle's mind lingers in the climax, sitting there and enjoying the high, the feeling hanging in his head like that smoked herb.

Kenny listens to Kyle's shouting die down, into an even, guttural hum. His voice slopes, with his body coming down. All those chemicals released by his brain, endorphins or serotonin or whatever gets pumped out when he comes, seep into his blood, his muscles, his cells. Kyle's head rolls against his, to lean entirely on him. His fingers, albeit limply, stroke the back of his head.

And he goes in, in, in until he hits his limit. Until the murmur in his ear and the sweet petting guides him to the end, to his peak. The empty head in the latex fills, dyeing the translucent white, setting him free in the same haze Kyle lolls in.

He kisses up Kyle's neck, as he pulls out, tilting him so his cheek presses to his shoulder. He takes Kyle's hand, manipulating his wrist so he can clasp palm to palm, slicked by the come and dripping on the bed. First laundry day of the year will come a little on the early side. His trailing lips don't stop until he gets to Kyle's ear, and, between husky breaths, whispering, "Satisfied, bae?"

Kyle blinks, pushes a fingertip on one of Kenny's knuckles. His fingers loosen from the blond, streaking down the curve of his neck. His nails can't even latch to the skin, muscles too limp. He takes a deep breath, only on the inhale realising how hoarse his throat is. But he smiles, through it.

"Yeah," He says, in a soft laugh. He massages the nape of his neck, the tender red marks now attended to with compassionate sweetness, "Good night."

.

The clock reads ten thirty-eight AM, towards the start of a glum Thursday, somewhere after a night of great fucking, in the little apartment slot allocated to Kenny McCormick. Inhabited not only by the student assigned to it, also housing a napping Kyle Broflovski, sprawled out on the bed with an arm hanging over the side and a face slammed to the mattress. Kenny sleeps spooning him, the foot with a sock on rubbing against his ankle. The back of Kyle's neck stays constantly warmed by Kenny's slumbering breaths.

But a smell wafts into the room, faintly sneaking in, a draft blown in under the door. The aroma of hazelnut and dark roast, the wonderful fragrance of freshly brewed coffee. As soon as his nose picks up the scent, Kyle opens his eyes.

The room blurs into focus, eyes adjusting to the morning light. His body feels heavy, dense, saturated, but his mind feels light, feathery, free. He blinks, slowly, until the world comes to clarity, then curls his fingers. He wiped them off—on his shirt—but he still feels where it was, what parts of his skin were drizzled with come. He still feels the afterglow that lulled him to sleep, the affections cooed in his ear between kisses, after they tossed the excess garbage in the waste bin and made slipshod efforts at cleaning up. He doesn't feel clean, and that thought brings him such happiness.

Kyle creeps out of bed, careful not to disturb Kenny in his deep snoozing. His legs disentangle from Kenny's, he tugs up on his boxers—yeah, walking out without those might be embarrassing—and the balls of his feet meet the cold ground. He peels their bodies apart, and his back feels bare without Kenny there.

With his hand—other hand—he rubs an eye, letting out a soft mumble as he makes his way to the door. Light bleeds from the cracks, so he figures Stan either left the light on when he left or is out there waiting to see how the day develops. He grasps the handle, yawns, and pushes the door open.

The common room is a lot brighter, almost blinding to Kyle, as he stumbles out. A groan grumbles in his throat, he rubs his eye a little more, then scans the room.

Stan sits, at the table, casually sipping a full cup of black coffee from his Terrance and Phillip mug. His eyes are fixed on the iPad in front of him, scan scrolling through his Twitter feed like the morning newspaper. He doesn't look up at Kyle when he tiptoes to the cupboard, taking out an oversized mug with an ugly pug he found at Goodwill for ninety-nine cents, and grabbing the coffee pot.

Kyle bites his lip as he pours, filling the cup halfway, before putting it back and going to the fridge for some cream. He pops open the half-and-half, tops off his cup, then brings it to his lips. He stops, the ceramic on his mouth, and draws in a long breath, the sweet smell of a bitter brew. Just a little thing he does, a compulsion that keeps him at bay, completes his mornings. He starts to tilt the cup, for his first taste, when Stan whistles.

He turns around, paused, and Stan has his eyes set on him. The iPad is locked, screen black, pushed up next to the collection of all their medications—Kyle's twenty grams of Escitalopram for anxiety, Stan's thirty grams of Fluoxetine for depression, Kenny's twenty grams of Adderall for 'ADHD'—out of the way so Stan can place all his attention on Kyle. He wears a smirk on his lips, overly smug, like he just won a bet.

"Morning," He says, too casually, watching Kyle, annoyed, take his first sip of morning coffee.

Kyle lets his tongue bathe in hazelnut, the coffee swishing in his mouth, and then swallows. He forces a simper, "Morning."

"Sleep well?" Stan speaks too coolly for Kyle's liking, but all Kyle can do is drink more coffee. In those moments, when Kyle takes another sip, his eyes are worse than his words could be, the dark blue scanning over his attire. Stan can see all the stains, the hickeys, sexy battle scars. He doesn't have to say anything.

He gulps, hard, then leans against the counter. He hopes Stan doesn't notice his light shudder, just a little sensitive the morning after, "Fine. You?"

"Those sleeping pills work great," He takes his cup by the handle, and takes a drink. His eyes examine Kyle's cup, knowing that how Kyle prepares his morning coffee is indicative of his mood. That much milky cream, Stan knows, means he's feeling very good this morning.

Kyle rolls his eyes, and takes another long, slurping sip. They sip in silence, the levels of their mugs lowering, systems gradually caffeinating. Then, in a tone as acrid as his drink, "What? Nothing else?"

"Dude, I don't care," Stan sets his cup down, ceramic chattering. He leans back in his plastic chair, the front legs lifting in the air, "But if you're gonna bunk up every night, can we turn your room into a game fortress?"

"Fuck off," Kyle laughs, but it's all out of love. This is what real best friendship looks like, Kyle figures, when two guys can stand and crack jokes no matter who's friends with who and who's fucking who. It never mattered with Stan, so long as they were still some kind of platonic life partner. They used to say heterosexual life partners, but that stopped working after seventh grade.

Just as Kyle brings the mug to his lips for another sip, someone knocks on the door. They both look at each other, and in their stare figure a plan. Kyle moves to the table, taking a seat on the other side of the table, and hunches over to obscure any stains. Stan, meanwhile, gets up, taking the two steps it takes to the door. He glances over his shoulder, waits for Kyle to nod, then opens the door.

A short girl, with shorter blond hair, stands in the doorway. Rounded glasses sit on the tip of her nose, there to dwarf the presence of dark raccoon circles under her eyes. Despite this, she lets out, in a chipper tone, "Hi! I'm Hannah, your RA!"

"Yeah…" Stan says, looking down at her sceptically. No, Resident Advisors don't go door to door, unless there's a problem. Stan waits for her to speak, but realises after a moment of standstill that she wants him to elaborate, under the impression that someone can hold a conversation before eleven in the morning, "There a problem…?"

"Well," She scratches her head, "This is just to let you know that after midnight, the dorm is on its quiet hours, since everyone's trying to get their sleep."

Stan knows where this is going, and purses his lips, "'kay…"

"I mean, you guys are lowerclassmen, so maybe you just didn't have anyone really file a noise complaint before," When she blinks, she grimaces, like it hurts to open and close her eyes. The way she starts rubbing her temples, Stan figures she has a headache, "But I kind of live in the room above you."

"Really?" He tries keeping his eyes on Hannah, but the blue keeps wanting to wander to Kyle. Stan might have slept through it, but he knows who this lecture is really for.

"Yeah, and the ceilings…" She shakes her head, "Well, you can hear more between floors than on the same one."

"Alright," Stan nods, slowly, so she knows he understands. Hannah likes that, Stan figures, since she attempts to smile.

Kyle, hidden behind the door, inhales his coffee. He tunes out the conversation, centring on the bitterness, the beans, the flavours blended in. Back to the laziness of the morning, to picking up his mental trappings after filling up on caffeine. No espresso, even if he could do lines of it without a problem, just a normal something to start things off. Nothing crazy, just the smoothness and his own serenity—

"Right, Kyle?"

He nearly chokes, coughing as the coffee runs down his throat wrong. Kyle's eyes dart to the door, now open enough for the RA to see in. He looks to Stan, standing against the doorframe, biting his lip. For a second, he's not sure who's worse: Kenny or Stan. Softly, partly so Hannah won't hear him, partly because his voice is on the verge of giving out, "What?"

He isn't loud, but from the corner of his eye he sees her demeanour change, at his voice. Some snap moment of recognition, followed by a strong tinge of anger. And it only takes one good look at Kyle's neck for her to figure it out. He doesn't look at her, instead taking another drink.

"I was just saying," She says, louder, sterner, her eyes narrowing to slits, "I live in the dorm above you. So if you guys are loud, I'll know."

Kyle slurps his coffee, the sound of liquid passing through his lips staving off an awkward silence. He ponders, as he drinks, what he'll do. In all honesty, he feels too good about last night to feel any hint of shame, especially if someone is going to ruin his day because of it. It takes little, at this hour, for Kyle to switch from apologetic and considerate to unrepentant and shameless. Especially when it has to do with things he and his boyfriend do.

Stan's eyes switch between Kyle and the RA, uneasily. Maybe jokes thought up on only half a cup of coffee aren't jokes that should see fruition. When Kyle slams down his mug and stares Hannah in the eyes, he knows exactly what way this is going. He regrets it, for her sake.

A sardonic smirk curls on Kyle's lips, wicked mischief in his eyes as the words roll off his tongue, "I suggest you get earplugs, then. 'Cause I'm not so good at shutting up and Ken's not one to stop me."

He stares her, dead in the eyes, feeling nothing but pride. She scoffs, scandalised, at how her seemingly omnipotent authority over the dormitory failed at intimidating. She pushes her glasses up, furrows her brow, "Get bent."

She hurries off, her footsteps bellowing. Perhaps pissing off the RA on day one is more of a ballsy move than a smart on, but Kyle doesn't care. He can regret it later, when he downs a whole pot.

Stan shuts the door, with a slam, and sighs. He watches Kyle take another sip to finish off his mug, "Dude."

Kyle just smiles, and gets another cup of coffee.

---

Authors Note: I hope you enjoyed! I'm not actually keen on college type things for these boys, for a lot of reasons, but I sort of just got a lot of feelings when I moved in about Kyle screaming in a room with super high ceilings like my room and here we are. Almost 19k later. I promise I'll write actual stories again soon. Thanks for reading and please leave a review! :)