Heidi Turner throws the best parties. She always has, ever since she cracked the combination lock on her parents' liquor cabinet at age thirteen, christened queen of the weekend late-night scene and dutifully reigning to this day. Every month or so, when her parents leave house in another effort to rekindle the flames of their marriage, Heidi breaks out her arsenal of prescription medicines and hard alcohols, mixing drinks in accordance to the recipes found on amateur bartending websites and labelling bottles to indicate which are 'uppers' and which are 'downers'. She lays out the bad snack food loaded with salt and empty calories, clears the living room furniture to make a better dance floor, and phones anyone who matters, telling them to come, bring their friends, and indulge in the cream of juvenile rebellion.

And everyone comes; anyone who's anyone has to be there. Because, whether Heidi Turner is or isn't a two-faced bitch doesn't matter. What matters is being there, claiming that coveted shred of status that enhances the high school reputation, lets everyone know who's cool and hip and dope, and who's a fucking loser. Besides, who the hell says no to free booze and a basement of reserved for illicit recreation?

Why people want stinging hangovers, hickeys of unknown origin, and the hopeless stench of last Friday night infused with their skin… Kyle doesn't know. He doesn't like parties, not really. As much as navigating someone's dimly lit house, shoving aside partygoers dancing along the spectrum of intoxication, as the Billboard Top 100 blares loudly from speakers unseen. The excitement others find in red Solo cups and the thrills sought from burning Jamaican grass sound like shit excuses for people get shitfaced: get high, get plastered, get fucked, but it's not their fault, because it was just a party.

That nostalgia everyone has for teen house parties, the sentiment found only on the television specials of '90s mid-afternoon sitcoms and in the cheesy plots of John Hughes films, makes no sense. For God's sake, the oldest of them were born in 1999, on the cusp of the new century, all of them a bunch of millennials everyone looks down on, hearing from their parents that they've got a lot to live up to in this changing and progressive American society and being told by the older kids hanging around town that the last good crop of kids were the real '90s kids who can name every team on Legends of the Hidden Temple and knows who loves orange soda. He lives in the generation of Instagram and Facebook, hashtags and dot-coms, with cameras and videos in every device and, with the press of a touchscreen, the ability to upload online for posterity. What a time to be alive.

He breathes in the taste of boxed wine and stale beer, through his mouth, alcohol in the air weighing on his tongue. Over the speakers, a song plays but a girl with a cotton candy voice, and while she can't enunciate she sounds pretty nonetheless. The chilled blows of the air conditioner cut through the sticky heat, produced by gyrating bodies riding out the effects of drugs they snorted in the basement, maybe prime-choice molly or maybe ground-up Smarties. Even from the top of the stairs, in the 'chill zone', he feels the warmth, like the mob down below morphed together into a strange organism, biological abomination of gross hormones and experimental chemicals.

He tries to understand, as his squinting green eyes scan over the crowds, tries to understand why people like this shit so much. Probably because they took too much of something and don't even know their names. At least Kyle likes that answer, feels like it conveys more faith in his peers, than just saying they're naturally moronic and gullible. It's not like he's never done a few stupid things, gotten a little tipsy and screwed up a bit.

Hell, just a few months ago, at the party Clyde threw for Craig's guinea pig's birthday, he fucked up because of that, when he and Stan smuggled a bottle of iced cake Smirnoff from the back of the Donovan freezer and snuck out on the back porch to split it. They pressed their handprints into the fog on the glass as they went back and forth, the taste of buttercream mellowing the burn in the backs of their throats. Kyle lost some inhibition, as the sweetness coated his gums, made him feel smooth like batter, light like flour, and the alcohol took him right out of the oven. And Stan lost all his inhibition, drunk off his ass before they got midway down the label. So when watched the last drops of vodka run from the slender bottleneck into Kyle's open mouth, Stan supplemented his lost turn drinking with the lingering flavour on his best friend's lips. He ended the night with his first set of hickeys and one of those epiphany moments seen on TV. At least he figured out why Bebe's boobs lost their appeal after sixth grade, among a few other things.

The Blue Moon in his palm sweats, dribbles of perspiration rolling down the tinted glass, onto his fingers. They froze to the bottle, numbed by the coolness of a beer fished fresh from the fridge. He absently scratches at the label, damp and thinning. A nail tears apart the fibres, making holes in his boredom, blue ink to white paper to brown glass. He keeps thinking that he should take another sip, telling himself it'll help him relax, but he can't bring the rim to his lips, fearing a violent tip would create a thick froth that'd gush down into his lungs and choke him with yeast. Then he debates just how bad that would be.

Because really, his problem isn't the party. He tells himself it is, attributes as much blame as possible to the hectic scene, the stenches and sounds, the mass of morons he's known since preschool and sees five days a week acting even worse than usual; it's one of the other things he's tried not to think about. And even though he likes to think that playing Fallout 4 or binge watching How to Get Away with Murder would leave him in better disposition, distracting him from his real issue, he'd end up with the same dilemma that's kept his mind tormented and hand tired for the past too long.

Heidi's party can change all of that, because here he's confronted. He has that golden carpe diem moment, and in theory he can seize the day. And that's the scary part, because with seizing the day, in his case, is the prime possibility of the day seizing him. Then he'd be the juicy story of the week's gossip—month's if it goes horribly enough—topping all the newsfeeds and dashboards with sniggering comments over how comical his failure was, how hilarious his hopes sounded, how goddamn priceless the look on his face was when he got shot-the-fuck-down.

If only there was a manual for this kind of shit.

A hand pats his shoulder, one of those hard slaps that shakes his bones, although it won't leave a bruise. A palm clasps around the joint, to steady him, comfort him. Warmth bleeds through the cotton sleeve of his shirt, fabric bunching around fingertips as they tightly grip. An antiseptic smell stings his nostrils, a hand just washed in the bathroom sink, abused by harsh soaps put out for guests that burn the germs off their skin. Stan's back from the bathroom, and probably isn't happy that Kyle isn't having a good time. Or isn't trying to have a good time.

"Hey," He uses that concerned best friend voice, genuine tone and a frown in the sound. He shakes Kyle's shoulder, lightly jostling him, an attempt to steal back his attention. But Kyle, senses overruled by his I don't wanna be here attitude, can't find comfort in his actions. Stan's babying him, like he needs someone to hold his hand to keep him from tripping, from skimming his knee on the sidewalk and making him cry, cry, cry for a bandage to make the blood stop. Because clearly the guy who spent three years puking on his crush before getting together knows more about how to navigate the complex hell that is young love.

Kyle's eyes don't look over at Stan, don't stray from the scene. Through the glaze, the green stays glued, to all the people, but for no reason in particular. They all look like puzzles, ones that can remain unsolved, collect dust and never be figured, but he'll stare anyway. If the whites of his eyes were dyed red, veins made more prominent, he bets he could pass for stoned. That's how he wants to describe this disjointed state, even though he dared not venture close to the stairwell leading down into basement, the den cloaked by a hazy cloud, with an herbal scent that leeches onto clothes and lungs.

He lifts the bottle to his mouth, deciding to, finally, take a sip. Whether it's to calm down or annoy Stan, he's not quite sure, only knowing the sensation of cool glass pressing to his bottom lip. He gently tilts the bottle, beer following gravity's guidance, less gingerly with each slight movement of Kyle's hand; it flows from the body, down the neck, and between open lips, filling his mouth with bitterness and orange peel. Tiny bubbles latch to the sides of his tongue, tickling him before rising to the roof of his mouth, painting the palate with hops that pop, pop, pop when they reach the top.

"Kyle," Stan's voice is a hypodermic, a needle loaded with medicine, the kind of tough love that pierces the flesh and pokes at the veins. But his careful injection brings no sedation, only stress. Like his wisdom teeth all over again, with the oral surgeon telling him this'll be fine, and not to worry because he won't feel or remember a thing, but leaving out that he'll forget the whole ride home, too. And Stan, from the office outside Littleton all the way home, gets to hear Kyle rambling about how his mouth tastes like metal but he really wants it to taste like Marlboros and Easy-Mac, how his whole head feels fuzzy just like it does when he looks too long in those light blue eyes, how his gums are throbbing just as badly as his—"Dude, c'mon!"

With his other hand, Stan grabs the bottle from the base, palm pressed to the bottom. He pulls, plucking the rim from Kyle's lips, ending his drink prematurely. The stream ends, beer retreating back into the stained cavity as Stan guides Kyle's arm. His hand moves, sliding up the slick glass, resting against his hand. He doesn't let go until Kyle holds it level with his chest. Kyle grips the bottle tighter as Stan takes his hand from his shoulder, too. He hears the song change to a new hit single, by an artist whose changing notes strung together sound like an orgasm.

He swallows, twice, first to clear out the smooth pale ale, second to wipe the clusters of foam from between his teeth. He tongues over the bottom row, salvaging the drops hiding in the gap between his lips and gums, holding on to the flavour. But the saliva, thick and plain, secreting from the glands hidden in the pink flesh, overpowers, the lingering taste of beer washed in a lacklustre shifting of the tides. When the citrus is only a faint afterthought in his buds' memory, Kyle pulls his lips in a frown, and turns to Stan.

He's tinted by monochrome, fault of the lighting, not him. Kyle knows those expectant eyes are just dark blue, not the same deep ebony as his hair. He knows Stan's shirt—a cat reading a book, something Wendy got him for laughs on their whatever-month anniversary—has beiges and browns, not ashes and charcoals. And he knows Stan's expression, raised brows and pursed lips, is just the same as it'd be in broad daylight, with the sun beating down, no clouds and all radiance.

"Are you alright?" He asks, very slowly, and again, that babied feeling creeps in, "You don't need to, like, tell him tonight."

Kyle lets out a sigh, some of the bitter flavour mixed in. He sniffs the alcohol from his breath, and rolls his eyes, lazily. Because Stan told him this, after he said he was planning to do something at Heidi's party, and again after he checked yes on the event invite, and again and again all the days leading up… "I know."

His voice comes out wry, made harsh by the malt. As much as he appreciates Stan, cares about him, loves him in like a friend and a brother and more, something about his constant reassurances nudges him towards the edge. While said in kind earnest, they plant little spiny seeds in his brain, nestle them between the wrinkles and prick the nerves, germinating doubt rather than calm. And, as much as twenty milligrams helps with the day-to-day and beer helps with the short-term, Kyle isn't the best with anxiety management.

Stan tugs his lips to one side, smoothing out one cheek while crinkling the other. He looks Kyle over, the way he looks over geometry tests asking for the sin, serious and sincere, but a little bit confused, at a loss. Kyle takes another quick sip, and he lets his shoulders sag; not in defeat, but in frustration.

The only reason for it, Kyle thinks, is because of who he likes. Because if he was as smart as people say he is, he wouldn't be crushing on Kenny fucking McCormick; Kenny, with his goofy redneck charm, his relentless sexual innuendos, his toothy smile that lights up the whole goddamn room, his boyish laugh that always brings Kyle back to when they were little kids. He can't remember when his niche knowledge of decorative knot-tying and devout memorisation of Britney Spears' discography started impressing him, or when he started noticing how Kenny's eyes sparkled a little when he got on a tangent about Daenerys Targaryen's character development and the impact of the magical girl genre, or when he realised that his hands were just as warm as the cigarettes he smoked and how toasty his lips must be.

Technically, Kenny was Kyle's first kiss, in third grade when his mom wanted him to get chickenpox young to prevent complications, told the two of them to go in Kenny's room and play a fun new game: Ookie Mouth. Have Kenny spit in his mouth, and try and swallow it while saying ookie mouth. Yeah, it was impossible, and in retrospect bore more semblance to a technique perfecting cum-play, but back then it was all just innocent fun, two boys biding time as their mothers idly chatted. After it didn't work too well with Kenny aiming balls of spit at Kyle's face, he tried lying on the floor and having Kenny drool into his mouth. Kyle stared up at him, with Kenny hunched over him, all his focus on wetting his lips and sticking out his tongue, so a glob could gather on the tip and drip into Kyle's waiting mouth. But after a couple of misses, splashes on his cheek and his chin, Kyle started sitting up to call it off. Kenny wasn't ready, and they ended up slamming into each other, Kyle mid-sentence, Kenny mid-drivel, colliding in a wet, open-mouth interlock. Kyle still remembers how their teeth knocked together, making his whole skull vibrate, and how slobbery Kenny's lips were, like a slavering golden retriever, and how he tasted like Benadryl and Campbell's Chicken Noodle, smelled like Calamine lotion and Quaker oats, felt like a remedy and cured something way deep down. Not quite as idyllic as the pictures on the big screen, and not something he found pleasant in that instant, but a memory Kyle now looks upon with nostalgic fondness.

His eyes flit to the glass, checking on the progress he's made drinking. In this alternate universe of teenage party life, social drinks equate to enjoyment. He has to squint, but he catches the ring of froth, made by the beer's surface, swashing back and forth, about a third lower than when he cracked the cap. Something measurable, at least, especially if he lies and says it's his second of the evening. The night's still young, anyway.

"Kyle," The needle in his voice punctures, now dulled by piecemeal annoyance. A dull needle hurts, bumbling metal sticking through flesh, knocking at the nerves, rearranging the pathways of the circulatory system. Kyle bites down on his lip, weak effort to stave off the pain, of having Stan lecture him without meaning to, listening to him spout out things that are grown-up rules he can't understand, because he's too young, too dumb, inexperienced.

"What happened to you being my wingman?" Kyle feels the jagged glass in his teeth, as the shards come out in a hiss. His tone is a bottle smashed on the wall, slick topaz crystals clinging to the plaster, moist amber rocks embedding in the carpet. He watches Stan straighten up, at the shatter resounding in his words. Shock widens his eyes, but he can't tell if there's surprise in there, too.

Stan opens his mouth, but Kyle knows already what'll come out: Well, yeah, I'm still you're wingman, it's just… and then trail off as he flounders, fumbling with the language and aborting his explanations midway. Even though he manages no words, the struggle plays out on his face, an epic battle of the ages only he'll bear witness to.

But Kyle has no time to watch Stan grapple with himself, watch him try to articulate how, no, this has nothing to do with how he thinks it'll end, and everything to do with how he doesn't know how it'll end. Because, Kyle thinks, Stan believes him utterly blind to the facts of the matter, assumes he's ignoring how Kenny's been bouncing around person to person since he hit puberty first, how all those affairs were strictly casual with little more depth in the matter, how, to date, long-term relationship and Kenny McCormick haven't found themselves in the same sentence with a not separating them.

He's not looking to change that, not banking on being an exception. The mawkish Disney romances and endless Hallmark cards commemorating true love haven't brainwashed, haven't distorted him into one of those hopeless fools wearing their hearts on their sleeves in hopes someone might steal it away, only for the thief to have the courtesy to leave their own in return. All life's guaranteed him is a chance of something, whether it's the satisfaction of being a notch or two in a belt or the relief of remaining close friends playing Halo 5 in the living room with a bowl of pretzels in between them; it's something more than nothing. And the uncertainty of a question never asked hurts more than the worry of the answer. More carpel tunnel, too.

Kyle pushes him aside, time too precious to spend waiting on Stan to figure out what he wants to say, then stammer as he refines it. This isn't a night for drafts and revisions, a paper preened long in advance; this is a crammed mess, procrastination right to the deadline, one shot at some kind of score before it's half credit a day late or a flat out zero in the gradebook. Yeah, he thought about notecards, rehearsing some bullshit speech, but it all sounded too bad, corny and cheesy, a regular cholesterol killer more than gushing confessional; confessions are for Catholics anyway.

The anxiety lingers, though, no amount of alcohol able to flush it out completely. He can repeat pretty Latin to himself the whole walk down the wide hall, but it doesn't make it any easier. Because, in the long-term, this'll all blow over, no matter what direction it goes. But right now? In the moment? Immediately? It's still hard, making Kyle's feet so heavy he has trouble ignoring it as he journeys on past the first set of doors—right side, Heidi's room, off limits; left side, Turner parents' room, accessible to horny couples with Heidi's permission—trying not to think how carpe diem played out in Dead Poets Society.

Up ahead, light leaks from the crack made by a door left ajar. Real light, made by an incandescent bulb screwed in to the fixture on the ceiling fan, none of this stark and strobe blare, ultraviolet and neon. It acts a beacon, lighthouse guiding stray ships to shore, a refuge for those refraining from hard indulgence or coming down from less savoury trips. On normal days, it's the game room, a spare space converted from the third bedroom, bought for Heidi's miscarried little sister when the Turners first moved in. Just some couches, a coffee table, a curved television with a built in VCR, and a bunch of Broadway posters. Kyle barely hears the music playing downstairs, when he gets to the door, but he hears the song change over, some song labelled alternative rock to cover up that it's just a pair of Midwestern white boys rapping to electro. Arguing voices overpower the song's melody:

"What do you mean ya don't wanna play Taboo?"

Kenny, sounding like a kid, frazzled and whining as he's trying to convince others to go along with him. Kyle watched him and some others venture up, bored by the drugged up zombies dancing in place, preferring a clean night of fun after identifying the favours Heidi left out.

"There're five people here and you need an even number to play, dumbass."

Token, in a smooth tone, the kind he uses when he's making a point. Kyle catches traces of annoyance, but he knows it's from being stood up by Michelle more than Kenny's incessant questions on what they'll do to pass the time.

"I wanna play Cards Against Humanity."

Bebe, her words mixed with a yawn, the all-nighters catching up to her as she speaks. Kyle hears her punctuate her sentence with a groan, wanting to sleep more than to party, but all too cognizant of how a missed appearance might impact her social image.

"Not here. How about Scrabble?"

Annie, speaking lowly, her fruitless search for board games the collective can play frustrating her more with each dusty box. Kyle smells her thick perfume from here, put on in excess as she tries playing the rebound.

"Not when Kenny can't fucking spell."

Craig, flat monotone as always, not the social butterfly but still there nonetheless. Kyle remembers him saying something about going and ending up rolling in pussy, but evidently that plan hasn't been going quite as successfully as he boasted.

"Shut it. How about somethin' like that Heads Up! Game?"

Kyle peaks inside, as the group voices mixed feedback, some seconding the suggestion, others complaining that they deleted the app on their phone or didn't feel like spending a whole ninety-nine cents for it. He presses the rim of the bottle to his lips, just for the cooling sensation, not to take a sip, as he looks in. The group doesn't notice.

Token and Craig sit on one couch, both of them morphed into the cushions. Token lolls his head back, eyes fixed blankly above. His finger toys with the tab of his Coke can, strumming out a saddened love song. Craig stares ahead, at a chip on the wall below the Les Misérables poster. One knee bounces, up and down, possessed by such inaction that all the excess dopamine has to go somewhere. Bebe lounges on the opposite sofa, her feet up on the coffee table. The shiny white pumps adorning her feet make a click each time she taps her toes together. Annie wanders over to the arm of the sofa, perching on it next to her friend. She pats some of the dust off her blouse, making the threads of sequins on her breasts jangle.

Kenny's the only one standing, eyes scanning over the others. He lets out a heaving sigh, the silhouette of Yang Xiao Long rising and falling with his chest. Kyle got him that shirt, a year ago, promising him he'd buy it so long as Kenny stopped singing her theme song and getting it stuck in his head. Kenny's kept his promise, although now Kyle misses how well the words rolled off his tongue, holding every note accurately, voice only cracking when he left his vocal range; but he also wears that shirt all the damn time, so maybe that means something. Kenny rests his hands on his hips, thumbs looping around the top of his jeans. He carelessly tugs on the sides, as he thinks, allowing momentary glimpses of his skin, defining the contours of the bones. He's thought too many times of painting them purple, using his mouth to brush violet swatches down his body. Then let Kenny do the same to him, converting his light complexion into a gradient, one of those sampler palettes found in Home Depot, a range from Moonlit Orchard to Blackberry Wine.

His gaze focuses on his face, seeing the light blue overtaken by thought. He knits his brow, eyes narrowing. He tongues at his cheek, swiping up and down, poke, poke, poking. He searches for ideas, and Kyle takes advantage of his pensive distraction, to steal a few extra moments of spectating. He parts his lips, deeply inhaling the smooth flavour, and tilting the bottle to the rim slides against his teeth.

Kyle hears the creak before anything, soon light pouring over him, ushering him inside. His eyes flicker beside him, seeing Stan standing there, assuming Kyle ready to enter the room. Only then does he realise his gazing might constitute stalling. But before he can think further, people start noticing.

"Hey guys," Annie greets them, glancing over first. She waves, short and quick, before her eyes return to Bebe's shiny toes. At her voice, Token and Craig look over. Token raises a hand, barely above his knee, and waves his hand once, before putting it between the cushions. Craig simply nods.

Bebe looks over, chin on her slender shoulder. She puts a hand to her hair, fingers combing through the mass of blonde curls. Her lips pull into a grin, dark red lipstick contrasting with pearl white teeth, "Stan! Kyle! My two favourite sluts!"

At the sound of her voice, Kenny blinks, and his attention turns to the doorway. While Kyle notices Stan's eyes roll from his peripheral vision, Kenny's look captivates him. The muscles in his face stay relaxed, but inside the terror of a deer caught by the lights of a semi rushes through him. All that theory talk leaves his mind, now subjected to practice. Practice, maybe he should've done that after all. Or downed some insecticide, to kill all the butterflies awakening in his stomach.

Blue eyes light up, spark, scintillate. Like Stark's Pond on a bright afternoon, when the rays come it at just the right angle, and the whole pool becomes luminous. He grins, corners of his lip pulling up, with one a little higher than the other, lopsided. He always looks a little goofy when he smiles, accentuating the little awkward things about him, like how his legs are a little longer than they should be or how his chest is a little narrower than most. Little things, details Kyle didn't notice much growing up, only started paying attention to recently. He just started noticing, then got lost in them, and they trapped him inside a maze.

Kenny, rather than yell to them, decides to rush over. He hops across the coffee table, the side of his ankle nearly clipping the sharp corner, and hits the ground running. Excited by something, and Kyle swears he's looking right at him.

He lowers the bottle, about to say hi, when Kenny snatches the bottle from his hands. Their fingers only touch for a second, before the glass slides out of his grasp. One second, holding a beer, a blink of an eye, damp fingertips. He catches his refracted reflection in the brown glass, bands of his face blocked off by long fingers.

"This is what I mean," Kenny says, his latest brilliant idea eclipsing social consciousness. His eyes gleam as he talks, still in the middle of the larger conversation, too distracted to offer Stan and Kyle a proper hello. When he gets an idea, it's hard for him to stop midway, caught up in his thoughts sweeping him away in a river's fierce current.

Without a second thought, he puts the bottle in his mouth, lips around the rim. Kyle thinks about how much of his spit coats the glass as Kenny leans his head back, inviting the beer into his mouth. Gravity leads the liquid down, flowing swiftly through his lips, his throat. The levels in the bottle go down, down as he guzzles the remains of the bottle, taking Kyle's third finished, and robbing him the last two.

When the drop rolls down his throat, leaving only the beads clinging to the side of the glass and the foam encrusting the bottom curve, Kenny stops, raising the bottle high above his head as he lets out a breathy ah. His tongue wipes over his top teeth, with a small trail dribbling from the rising corner. He turns his head, using the cotton on his shoulder to clean the trickle of beer from his chin, then stands up tall, loudly declaring their game:

"Spin the bottle!"

An eruption of oohs fills the air, the room finally excited by some stimulation. Nothing quite like the old time classic to rouse a few hormones, bring a few mischievous grins. Annie and Bebe exchange smirks; Craig and Token each raise their brows. Kenny laughs, smile ever growing; Stan simpers, forcing a chuckle. Kyle's jaw hangs, idea registered, being processed. Spin the bottle, the game all about kissing.

This, this is why Kyle hates parties; everything happens so fast.

Should've just told him tomorrow.

"Who'll go first?" Bebe asks, crossing her legs. Her eyes wander around the room, from person to person. But her meandering stops when she gets to Kyle, honing in on something—emotional vulnerability, maybe—and he swears an ephemeral smirk flashes on her face. She knows, because Bebe always knows. The one to say called it and told you so after Kyle put two and two together.

Kenny's pinkie finger taps the base of the bottle. His nail clicks against the glass, and his features soften. He puckers his lips, thinking for just a moment, before his eyes flit to Kyle. He sees him, this time, not distracted by his flurrying brainstorms. The apology is in his eyes, and after three more clicks, a reassuring smile comes to his face.

"Easy," Kenny drawls, voice smoothed out by the drink. He points at Kyle, with the bottle, rim glossed over with fresh saliva, a mixture of one another's, "'Sidering I stole Kyle's beer, he gets to go first."

Do not pass Go. Do not collect two hundred dollars.

"I do?"

He says the words before he thinks them, listens to them, after they come out, lets them echo in his head, replaying the moments. But they feel like one, prolonged accident, a wreck of memory collided into a fragmented mess. And from the pieces, while he still lives out the current moment, he has to pick away the facts from the past.

He gets to go first. He gets to be the one the bottle decides for, the one whose lips are laced with obligation. The rules dictate that, whoever the bottle points to, is the one he has to kiss, will kiss. The antiquated ritual immortalised in the teen dramas of their childhood, an apparent rite of passage in the histories of youth, circa nineteen-something-or-other. And even if the rules are tweaked a little, localised and tailored, he knows someone's lips will end up pressed to his.

Kenny grabs him, by the forearm, pads of his fingers pushing on the nerves twined with his muscles. With one light tug, a gentle encouragement, inviting Kyle into the room, Kyle's feet move, mechanically. He knows what's happening to him, knows he's participating—actively, as Kenny leaves him by the sofa arm, Kyle voicing no qualms and taking a seat—but he's outside himself, spectating. He blames the alcohol, for the fog, but his problems don't derive from pale ale.

He glances over at the girls, on the other end of the couch. Annie leans over to Bebe, moving aside some of her hair to whisper in her ear—looks like we're sitting out this round—eyes occasionally deviating to Kyle. Then Bebe laughs, a wind chime giggle, and takes her feet off the table. She looks over to Kyle, genuine, and smiles. Her happiness, meant to comfort, looks wicked, through his eyes.

"Ken—"

Stan stands right behind, having followed them in; Kyle didn't notice, with too many details, so much to perceive, overwhelm his brain. He looks over his shoulder, at the disgruntlement etched on his face, Stan trying to issue a warning, slow this whole thing down. But there's hopelessness behind his eyes, knowing how futile his efforts are. Kenny operates like an express train, with no brakes.

"Now I say," Kenny speaks the way he walks, in long and sauntering strides. He looks over the bottle in his hand, like inside dwells a genie about to grant a wish, contained in the emptiness left by twelve fluid ounces. There's magic in the residual lines of froth, owning the power to choose, command, but whether it can truly be a wish or not is unclear, "We get the best of both worlds."

"Oh really, Hannah Montana?" Craig sneers. He shifts, moving from slouching over his knees to reclining on the couch. He looks in Kyle's direction, but doesn't look at him, "Gonna twerk, too?"

"Ha," Kenny lets out a dry laugh, crisp and short. He gestures to the game closet, using the bottle as a pointer, an extension of his hand. The ghost of a laugh appears on his face, when his eyes flit to the abandoned walk-in, with its sad hanging bulb and walls of Hasbro and Milton Bradley, "How's about instead of just a peck, the chosen ones get to spend a whopping seven minutes in heaven, doin' whatever the fuck that want to each other."

Whatever the fuck they want to each other.

"I think we've got ourselves a game," Bebe decrees, shooting Kenny an approving smirk. Kenny puts the bottle to his forehead, and tips it like a hat. Barbie and Ken doll, with their own little schemes, setting up tricks in the dollhouse to keep up the Malibu dream. Bebe then turns her attention to Token, and a thin finger to the empty side of the coffee table, opposite Kenny. The blue lacquer polish on her nail glints, "Token, honey, sit over there. Then we've got a man on each end."

"Aren't you girls playing?" Craig asks, eyeing the girls suspiciously. The ice in his eyes could burn, but the frosty annoyance only brings Bebe glee, shaking her head. Annie merely rolls her eyes, deferring the blame, considering Bebe the mastermind.

"C'mon Craig," Kenny says, with a roll of the eyes, exaggerated for dramatic effect. He always plays the part too well, whatever it is, never an actor because of how far he gets into character. Just like when he played vigilante or pretended princess, he embellishes the role, and right now he plays the enthused game host, announcing and commentating as he orchestrates the next portion of the show, "Don't tell me the town's beloved homosexual is opposed to a testosterone round."

Craig grits his teeth, glaring at Kenny so hard he doesn't flinch when Token gets up, abiding by Bebe's instruction, "For the last goddamn time it was an act!"

"Yeah, yeah," Kenny waves his free hand, dismissively, as he bends his knees. He leans over the table, looking carefully for the exact centre to set the bottle. The collar of his shirt hangs, allowing an oblong window to his collarbone. Kyle sees the outline of a soul gem, from Madoka Magica, tattooed over his heart, the stone coloured orange and a question mark crowning the top, to mark it his own. He got that one on his birthday, last year, when Kevin gave him the present of a foraged consent note so he could start inking a few years early. Yeah, it was pretty dorky, with Kenny then claiming he was a Puella Magi, and Kyle was among the guys making fun of it after the days after as he moaned about the tenderness where the needle dyed him; but there's something charming about it, to put an ear against the gem drawn upon his chest and hear his heart beat, a thought that ducks in and out of his mind whenever he sees it, "But we're all a' least a little bi-curious."

"Some more than others," Token mumbles, lowly, talking more to himself than anyone else. His honey eyes glance over, to Stan and Kyle, then focus on the table top, waiting on Kenny's commencement.

Kenny sets the bottle down, on its side, neck aimed at Token. He bites his tongue, as he keeps two fingers on the body. The bottle teeters, but soon finds a sense of equilibrium, and Kenny raises his hand to hover above. He watches, making sure it won't roll off, but the bottle just starts turning, towards Craig, ominously starting its spin, like an Ouija board's planchette.

Then, his eyes find Kyle's, staring right into his, into him. Kyle can't tell what Kenny sees, whether he remains oblivious and blind to the shorted wires in his head, zap, zap, zapping, filling his skull with thick clouds of smoke, or whether he notices the tensions mounting inside, build, build, building, threatening to detonate. Either way, he lets a smile tease at his lips, and the blue of his eyes reminds Kyle of one of the songs heard earlier in the night, sung by a girl so compelled by her lyrics she always sounds on the verge of tears.

He blinks, but in the time his eyelids cover and unveil his eyes, the scene's changed. The bottle no longer sits stationary, transformed into a circle of motion, blue blur streaked across the middle. The curves of the bottle are invisible, obscured by movement, and Kyle can't track where it'll point. The neck becomes the barrel of a gun, and no matter who it points to, Kyle will get shot. Every cycle marks another domino falling, falling, falling, carrying the weight down the serpentine path, aiming to crush, crush, crush him. And he has no control, over where it'll go, left to haplessly watch the bottle spin. Vaguely, he remembers why he ventured in here, what he meant to do, but right now he just wants to get out. He can't move his feet.

"The real question," Kenny stands up tall, with his arms raised. He looks so cool, so relaxed, but Kyle can't admire his happiness, "Who will have the privilege of joining Kyle Broflovski in venturing back into the closet, for seven whole minutes?"

Kyle tries to pick out minute details, like the moulding of the base or the calorie information, but all he sees are colours. Umber and indigo, ochre and cerulean, reflections of the few hundred watts illuminating the room, absorbed rays of the visible spectrum.

"Will it be Mr Tall, Dark, and Handsome, the one and only Token Black?"

Glimpses of the contours appear, sporadically. He can make out largely printed brand name, with the cross-hatching decorating the insides of the thick letters, if he stares hard enough, but the image is only clear for a second. Every time he focuses, the second becomes a little longer, maybe even turning into two.

"Or how about the mysterious and quiet Craig Tucker?"

He defines the bottle's shape, skimming over clusters of words, in their thin and crammed fonts. The bottle wavers from the centre, veering to the left, but it won't roll off. The initial momentum is all used up, each spin slower than the last.

"Or, possibly, his super best friend Stan Marsh?"

The rim slides past Kyle and, right then, he knows this is the last time. It rode out its speed, and won't make it another go-around. The bottle looks around, snubbing Stan, crossing Token, considering Craig, and…

"Or, just maybe…"

...stopping on Kenny.

Bebe claps her hands, letting out a gleeful laugh. Kenny jumps, at the interruption, her burst of applause breaking him from character. Kyle bites his lip, watching Kenny's eyes flicker to Bebe, his mouth opening, ready to spit out some complaint, a demand to let him finish. But as soon as his eyes fall upon her face, he realises why. His jaw quavers.

Kenny looks down, and stares, with wide, wide eyes. He can't close his mouth, letting it hang. His tongue pushes against the backs of his bottom teeth. He's seen Kenny make a lot of looks in his life, but Kyle doubts he's seen this one. He doesn't know what to call it. Nervous?

"…me." Kenny's voice drops, a piano note. He folds his lower lip under his front teeth, biting down hard, as he takes in the events. The Blue Moon denotes him the winner, but Kyle can't find the same joy and enthusiasm on his face, that he had before. He was so much happier when it was spinning, when it wasn't pointing right at him.

He doesn't want to do this.

The air suffocates, thicker than wool, heavier than steel; but Kyle seems to be the only one burdened by this weight in the atmosphere. The others move unhindered, having won either by losing or not playing, own the freedom to run around with the ends of the sheets and hold them down over his head, to choke him. Because kids are just plain cruel, and it's just a goddamn game.

"Winner, winner, chicken dinner," Annie says, in a sing-song, as she slides off the sofa arm. Her feet hit the ground with a soft thud. It reminds Kyle of a muffled explosion, the kind with a mushroom cloud and a promise of either eminent destruction, or agonising poisoning. As Annie takes her first step, nearing Kenny, Bebe wraps her hand around Kyle's wrist.

"Hold on…" Stan says, putting a hand on the back of the sofa. The hesitation in his voice is audible, stifling the assertion he intends, words coming out weak and wimpy. Kyle hears him grunt, a snort through his nose, then Bebe tugs on his arm.

"Someone set a timer," She speaks, in a projecting theatrical voice, lending her a commanding air. She her gaze switches to Annie, observing her walk to Kenny's side, and grab him by the hand. Her fingers are threads, bundling Kenny's together, constricting his palm.

"Got it," Token gives a thumbs-up, reaching into his pocket. The jingling of his car keys and loose change bang in Kyle's head, Token digging in his jeans for his phone. He'll find the app, set the clock, and put his phone in the middle so they can all stare down the countdown. Maybe stream a song or two from Spotify, so they can fill the gaps of waiting with their own playlist.

"Thanks, babe," Bebe winks at him, and yanks on Kyle's arm, to get him, get him moving. Her rough tug assures him that, no matter what, she's putting him that closet. This here is prime entertainment, and backing out last minute equates to sacrilege, blasphemy in the eyes of teenage traditionalism. It might have been Kenny's idea, Kyle's bottle, but Bebe is seeing this through.

Kyle, reluctantly, rises, and it feels like getting out of the bath. Everything is cold, all of a sudden, and the weightlessness of water vanishes in a heartbeat. He soaks up the water, making his body leaden, but the adhesive droplets biting his skin keep him alert. It's a paradox, of being sedated and being stimulated. The edges of his brain fray and fuzz, grey matter turned cotton candy. But it's not sugary or sweet, just artificial colours that taste like dust.

Bebe leads Kyle around the sofa, dragging him behind her. Annie does the same, with Kenny in tow. Kyle wants to look at his face, see if his expression's changed, softened, looks better, but his eyes just flicker, here and there, distracted by the insignificant: the deep impressions in the carpeting from where the sofa usually sits, the nuances in the wall paint admitting where older posters once hung, the blisters colouring Bebe's ankles with red irritation and white cell death.

Then, he blinks, eyes opening to the interior of the game closet. Warm air, sodden with humidity, reeking with mildew, greets him, like a phlegmy cough. The lightbulb swings, overhead, glowing dimmer than the ones in the room beyond. The thin electric hairs barely complete the circuit, touch unperceivable to the eye, but evident in the light. Tall stacks of board game boxes line the walls, the towers of a city founded on childhood fun, rightly abandoned when the age range inscribed on the side deemed them too old to play. He reads over the names—Monopoly and Clue, Game of Life and 13 Dead End Drive, Operation and Trouble—as Bebe releases his hand.

Her other hand moves to his back, splayed over his spine. She shoves him, one arm, using all the strength gained from summertime tennis camps and relationship sealing hand-jobs. Kyle stumbles, straight in, elbowing one of the stacks precariously arranged along the way. The boxes chatter, dice and pieces moving in conversation, Kyle only seeing their swaying movements from the corner of his eye. They dance, like the drugged up kids downstairs do to the DJ's tunes, with Jumanji and Candy Land proposing they topple on top of the intruder, Risk and Parcheesi voting they remain in their perilous tower. They argue amongst themselves, as the tremors temper out, cooler heads prevailing and the boxes remaining in place, standing tall to shrink the floor space and make their confinements even more claustrophobic.

"Can I pee first?" Kenny asks, in a whine. Not an intentional one, the way kids do trying to finagle their way out of an annual trip to the dentist; the kind that creeps into the voice, appearing in cracks and fractures, prompting jeers from boys attributing such breaks to puberty. None of them are too far off from that stage, but Kenny typically varnishes his voice with a layer of self-confidence, keeping it cool and smooth, bulletproof. Now there's a scratch in his gilt, flakes of gold shedding from his voice, showing something raw. Kyle doesn't know what it means for sure, but he keeps thinking the same thing over and over: He doesn't want to do this.

"The bathroom's not going anywhere," Bebe says, sharply, an implied and neither are you haunting her words, tacked on to the end in the space of silence. Kyle tries turning around, at her voice, but as soon as his eyes meet the frame of the door, Annie pushes Kenny inside, using both her hands, as though Kenny actually had more mass than her.

Kenny's feet falter, tripping inside, one hand out to catch himself on the wall, the rest of him slamming into Kyle, whole body emitting warm, welcoming heat. They brush together, awkwardly, forced to in such little space, and the cigarette smell imbued in the shirt pervades and cuts through the closet's must. Kenny breathes, a gust of his breath caressing one side of Kyle's face, around his eye, behind his ear. They're so close, he thinks, eyes moving over his body, seeing everything in such magnification: black cotton sleeve over his shoulder, neck dotted with scraped and irritated pores, blond hair with a natural oily sheen. He searches for his face, and as his head turns to find his eyes he inhales the tinges of beer on Kenny's breath.

"Seven minutes, go!"

Bebe punctuates her yell by slamming the door, sealing them together, officially beginning their seclusion. Through the wood, he hears a pair of girlish laughs, followed by two more bursts of laughter, but no words. After a few seconds, music starts playing, a song by a girl with an enchanting voice and melancholy lyrics. He only hears the beat, and the rhythm of Kenny's breathing.

Just like that, they're alone together.

Kenny clears his throat, lips drawing in a flat line, muscles in his neck going taut. He blinks, twice, before moving, leaning more against the wall as he cocks his head, to get a better view of Kyle. One foot inches back, heel hitting the wall, and he offers Kyle more room. His head hits the low hanging bulb, knocking against the back of his skull, the beaded chain making metallic clinks in protest. Kenny's eyes look to the floor, measuring the space, then back to Kyle. He flashes a smile, though there's something different about this one, more defensive than anything, a shield.

"So, uh…" His mouth smells like a brewery, like a freshly cracked bottle, wispy and enticing. His mouth has its own alcoholic property, its own intoxicating spell; Kyle wants to get drunk off of it, it and it alone. And with his lips so dangerously close… "Wanna…sit down?"

It wouldn't be that hard—not at all—to just stand on the tips of his toes, lean in the rest of the way, meet his mouth. He can even claim it an accident, just clumsiness, Kyle's two left feet. Trying to move, but his legs twist, and he uses Kenny to break his fall, push him back. Mouth open about to reply, but in his tripping Kyle's lips happen upon his. Sloppy, unexpected, probably just for a second.

It'd be like their first one all over again.

"Kyle?"

Kenny tilts his head, just to the side. An exhausted half-laugh escapes him, almost a cough, crude and coarse, a sandpaper sound. The white noise keeps the silence at bay, prevents full oppression, but Kenny's smile twitches. Something in the air, stifling his mood, gnawing at his attitude, chipping away at the gold in him.

Seven minutes is four hundred twenty seconds. Kyle considers, the options, because really he can say it now, complete the mission he set for himself, justify his entire night with boozing teens at Heidi fucking Turner's stupid ass party. It was a bad plan from the start—at a party with people and cell phones and limelight and static—but this moment, it could turn things around. It could make it worth it.

"Ky'?"

Kenny blinks, a concerned tint appearing. His smile fades, totally, features conquered by a breed of unease Kyle recognises, he thinks. The same kind he sees when he looks in the mirror, sometimes, after the quick encounters when he thinks back and wonders if he said something that was too obvious, or got caught looking a little too long. Not discomfort in the sense that he's uncomfortable, but in the fear that he made someone else uncomfortable.

Of course he might be seeing things. Probably seeing things. Projecting so hard he can find truths where no facts exist. He entertains that possibility, of just doing it, stealing one kiss, a thief whose reward is the crime, and the crime could keep him going, going, going. Besides, how mad could he really be over something so small and insignificant as one moment of their lips pressed together?

"Dude, 're you okay?"

Kenny needs an answer, he knows that. Because Kenny needs communication, requires an exchange. If Kyle stays mute, he'll think he's overwhelming him, with this, and try to get out, for Kyle's sake. But he doesn't want to say anything that'll make Kenny leave, jeopardise their propinquity, cause the heat of Kenny's body and the smell of Kenny's skin to slip out of his grasp when they're this intimate.

Four hundred twenty seconds are in seven minutes. If just one can be spent on this, one allowance of indulgence, he'll be happy. He'll have something real, tangible, not a fluke, a mistake. He can say, honestly, without a doubt, that he locked lips with Kenny McCormick, no matter what title follows his name afterwards. Horace may not have written Odes just for some queer Jewish kid to meditate on a single phrase, but the only words his brain can form are carpe diem.

"We don't have to do anything if you don't wa—"

It might not be the day, but he closes the distance between their faces, seizes Kenny's lips. The bitter beer turns sweet in his mouth, tasting nothing but the citrus tang and tenderness. It's alcoholic, addictive, a cocktail of its own. Hoppy, fizzing in his mouth, bubbling and welcoming. A kiss with the fruit of wine, the burn of whiskey, the flavour of beer. Blood flows fast and muscles go lax, as everything melts together.

Seconds turn gooey, malleable, and Kyle loses track. Because everything feels nice, simple, glowing like childhood. His lips stay there, on Kenny's mouth, inhaling his exhales, about to choke himself on his breath. He contemplates how bad that would be.

But his toes grow tired, Kyle flattening his feet, lowering down. The warmth draws away from his lips, and his tongue licks them, over and over, to savour the taste. The ground him to his happy place, let him loiter there as reason returns, pessimism invades. Seize becomes seized, and he clings to the snapshot, the memory. Four hundred twenty seconds, seven minutes, and he at least spent one high on his adolescent fantasies.

His heels touch the ground, gravity reigning supreme, robbing him of his buoyance. Balloon tethered to the ground, helium unable to trounce the fundamentals of physics. He shapes his lips to form a word—some word, he doesn't know—but no sound comes out. Just the song on the other side of the door, finishing a verse.

Kyle closes his eyes, and berates himself. After the fact, thinking how he should've used his mouth to make words, not make things awkward. Things have to awkward now, right? Because things were getting there as soon as they crossed the threshold, and now he's gone and walked right over some invisible line. As laws of self-loathing dictate, the day arrives to seize him.

A hand cups his face, softly, like the tame rays of a misted autumn sun. A finger sits under his jaw, resting to the bone, tip toying with his earlobe. A thumb strokes over his cheek, the frame of his face, a gentle dust. The dirt stuck, under his nails, just makes his touch earthy, natural, like treehouses and backyards.

His eyes open, and Kenny returns the kiss, claiming those open lips. Not wet, no dripping with drool, and not jamming his tongue in or having their teeth bash together; smooth and even, leaving a warm fizz on his taste-buds, delighting his senses with an artisan craft. It's the black coffee kiss Kenny's been thinking about, thinking about since he realised how much he liked how Kyle smiled when they said hello, how he laughed at his badly cracked jokes, how he honestly and genuinely cared. He craved to burn himself with the fiery passion, let that engulf him like a blaze eats up a bush; but who the fuck would've thought he'd ever go for the dumbass hick?

Time bleeds, and they don't know it. The closet door could be a stone barricade, for all they care, and they can exist separate from the rest of the world. Night can turn to day and day can turn back to night, and it wouldn't make a goddamn difference. Right now, they're in heaven.

Kenny, slowly, draws back. He has to ease Kyle out of it, first folding his bottom lip under his teeth, then tilting his head, then gaining that miniscule distance. Instead of skin, he just feels the warmth, the flush, and a sigh passes through his lips. The breath signs his kiss.

That's when Kyle remembers.

"I like you," The words sound so trivial, light, weightless. He feels dumb just hearing them, even dumber recognising his voice. It's like a bad joke, laughable, "Like, fuckin' really like you."

His laugh mixes with Kenny's, and everything feels okay. It feels right. Kenny moves, so their bodies rest together, and he hears the smile in his voice when Kenny says, "I fuckin' really like you, too."

A grin curls on Kyle's face, humming at the words, strummed together, musical. He lets Kenny thumb over his cheek, relishing the touch, and leans against the back wall. His arms loosely wrap around Kenny's waist, ready to tighten at any minute, keep him captured, "So're you gonna do whatever the fuck you want to me, or was that all a crock of shit?"

"Depends," Kenny says, and pauses. He ducks in, quickly, sneaking in another kiss, a pinch to make sure they're not just dreaming, "We stoppin' when time's up?"

"In here, yeah," Kyle laces his fingers together, behind Kenny's back, pulling them closer together, no gaps, no spaces, no distance. His smile grows, lips drawn back to his. He stops, just as their lips touch, to remind Kenny of one reassuring guarantee, before they lose themselves in each other, "But the bathroom's not going anywhere."

A/N: This is a birthday present, for my wonderful friend Mera. It's late and bad, but we celebrate anyway. Even though I reworked this so many times and changed a lot of things and almost had to finish it so I could stop changing things. Endgame: Kenny and Kyle make out.

Thanks to all who read this, and I sincerely hope you enjoyed. :)