Notes:
The idea for this story came to me from a song by the 'Studio Killers' - they've proven to be a bottomless well of inspiration, lol. 3
"Dude, have you seen my shirt? I can't find it anywhere!"
Stan stood in the middle of the room, the morning sunshine flush against his dusky skin; wayward forks of light winding their way through his hair and catching in his eyes. Kyle could only watch him with his heart in his mouth, his gaze hopeful and yearning but unwilling to reveal anymore secrets. Feeling cagey, he edged toward the bed and sat, watching him with an assumed, disinterested air.
"I haven't seen it since you took it off last night," he replied, studying Stan's smooth skin in the white sunlight; every freckle and mark open to his hungry eyes. "Where did you set it down? Do you even remember?"
Stan rolled his eyes and huffed, placing his hands on his hips; pajama pants hanging loosely around his long legs.
"If I could remember I wouldn't be asking you where my shirt is," he snapped, clearly annoyed. "I would've already found it."
Kyle gave him a look, one that was half indulgent and half annoyed; eyebrows quirked in calculated disdain.
"If that's going to be your attitude I'm not going to help you find it," he decided, shrugging and looking away, nose in the air.
Before he knew it, Stan had come to his side and knelt at his feet; sweet blue eyes looking up at him and pleading. Wordlessly, Stan brought a hand up and rested it softly on Kyle's naked knee. He'd only slept in boxers and a t-shirt the night before; misty memories of Stan's heat ghosting over his skin making him flush.
"Come on, dude, don't be like that," Stan murmured, muted shadows passing through his eyes and evaporating; oceans of meaning lost before Kyle could fully grasp them. "I didn't mean to get smart with you; I'm just annoyed."
"You're always irritable in the morning," Kyle smiled, begrudgingly; deigning to regard him fully again. Sighing, he wished fervently that Stan would never move his hand from his knee, his entire body collapsing inward from Stan's heat seeping into him; warming and sweetening his blood.
"I suppose it can't be helped," he murmured, coming to a neat conclusion.
"What do you mean?" Stan asked, cocking a brow. He still hadn't moved his hand.
"You can just borrow one of my shirts, can't you?" Kyle asked. "A shirt's a shirt, after all."
Stan's face was questioning as he turned his gaze from Kyle's, his focus settling on his dresser.
"I suppose, but that still doesn't explain what happened to my shirt," he said. Without warning, he grinned; a will-o'-the-wisp occurrence that disappeared like mist. "Besides, all of your shirts would be way too small for me, wouldn't they?"
"Oh, hush," Kyle said, rising from his place; hating that he'd been the one to break contact first. "I'm sure I can find something that will suit you."
He crossed the room and through the sunlight that was beginning to turn orange, the dawn's fires burning off and changing as the hours unfolded. He opened the top drawer and pulled out the first shirt he could find, a battered Raging Pussies affair; black and ragged at the edges. He'd had it for years.
"Here," he said, holding it out. "This should do."
Stan glanced at it a moment, considering, and then accepted it; slender fingers closing around the cloth and bringing it toward his chest.
"I guess so," he murmured, pulling it over his head. It was a little snug but Kyle had been right; it would do. All at once, a grating string of music broke their reverie, and Stan was pulling his phone from his pocket and groaning.
"It's my mom," he announced, rolling his eyes and appearing so boyish that Kyle could've sighed. "I have to go."
"Oh, right. Sure," Kyle said, running a hand through tangled curls and trying to not to show how much he enjoyed seeing Stan in his shirt. He'd lived through so many times in that shirt, every wrinkle and crease containing a memory; birthdays, summer evenings, the moment he'd first realized he loved Stan.
Stan gathered his things and looked back at Kyle, the fleeting shadow appearing in his eyes again and blown away before it truly registered.
"You'll tell me if you find my shirt, right?" He asked, placing his hand on the doorknob.
"Of course I will," Kyle waved him away. "I bet my mom grabbed it thinking it was one of mine. Before too long it'll be washed and returned to you, so don't worry. Okay?"
"If you say so," Stan smirked, he opened the door slowly but he lingered; eyes still resting on Kyle's face. "You'll call me later, right?"
"Sure," Kyle smiled. "You'd better go before your folks go postal."
"Right," Stan said, and then he was gone; leaving only the shift in the atmosphere, the quiet, to suggest that he'd been there in the first place.
Kyle waited for a moment to make sure he wouldn't return before digging under his pillow and drawing out a bright blue garment; the cerulean nearly matching Stan's eyes but not even coming remotely close. Nothing could come close to that color. He brought it to his nose and he smelled deeply, Stan's smell invoking the same delicious memories that the old band t-shirt had. He picked up his pillow and removed the red pillowcase, tossing it aside without a second thought; replacing it with Stan's t-shirt instead.
"Perfect," he murmured, gathering it close to his chest and sighing a little. It would have to do until he had the real thing: flesh and blood Stan, smelling of summer days and memories; promises unfolding and agonizing secrets. Sometimes Kyle wanted to cry from the wanting, the yearning, knowing that he would harbor these feelings inside of his mind but had nowhere to release them. Rather, they would stay with him until he ached with beautiful, devastating despair; convinced that he would just eventually break. For now, all he could do was rest his head against his t-shirt draped pillow until Stan's scent disappeared, his longings passing through his mind and becoming feverish dreams.
Sweet, restless dreams.