A/N: Ohhhh, how I love Style. Hope you guys enjoy this, I worked my butt off on it (: and yes, it's in two parts. I think, anyway.
Disclaimer: I own noooothing.
It's not weird or anything. I'm pretty sure a lot of guys our age don't do this, yeah, sure, whatever. But it's always been like this.
That's why it always bothers me when people around us feel the need to comment on it's presence in the room, the tangibility of it. Like they can't just keep the minor thoughts to themselves, like it makes them uncomfortable, but we both know it doesn't.
We've always just said that they were jealous of how close we are, that I can casually hook my arm around his thin shoulders, and he can rest his head on my own, as well. We'd feel perfectly content, just two teenage guys chilling together, two halves of one whole. However, when it came to holding hands, things got a little more complicated to explain; nonetheless, it wasn't like we were just going to stop.
We just said that they were jealous. That's what we always responded, like it was an essential piece to the conversation, to our defense, while the two blonds curled in the corner of the room together, with a heavy-set brunet lazing around on the couch. Even if some girls were nearby, sometimes one or two resting by Kenny, heck, even Cartman occasionally had a lady with him – desperate for a lay she might be – we just had to act like it didn't bother us. Or, bother me, anyway. I never really knew if it itched at him like it itched at myself, unless it was Cartman doing the teasing.
When it bothered me, a little spike of irritation in the back of my mind, I always assumed it was because I was so damn tired of having to explain it all the time. Sometimes there would be a little crease in my brow while I voiced it, or an underlying tone in my voice that reached for a more condescending side of the spectrum. Kyle never seemed affected, though, and if he was, he never showed it. If anything, he had scooted his body a little closer to mine, like he was confirming their statement. Or, perhaps he just wanted some security from me, because I understood why we were so touchy.
We were "super best friends."
Or, at least, that was one of our more affective defenses against what they said about us.
Over the years of the comments and conversations and our friends dissecting the topic, it was always the worst when Kenny was the one doing it. You'd think it'd be the most unnerving when it was Cartman, because he sometimes crossed a very thick line, which really hackled up Kyle. But when it was the disheveled blond, who sometimes had a female at each side, playing with his hair casually and affectionately, it was pretty intimidating. That was because it was simple to shrug off our fat friend, because he's always been a dick, but if it was Kenny, there needed to be a reasonable response… that of which is hard to give when it's a bi-weekly thing.
At this moment, however, it's different and altogether more dangerous than usual. Kyle is already semi-pissed and closely snuggled in next to me, his thin hands wrapped loosely around my arm, head resting on my shoulder, those little red eyebrows downturned over the grade his chemistry teacher should not have given him. He had worked so hard on that project, getting less than three hours of sleep per night for three or four days; he's completely drained, emerald eyes half-lidded and drooping more and more by the minute.
I don't want anyone to bother him right now – which may or may not sound weirdly protective, but he's so fragile like this. When he's frustrated or exhausted, sometimes I feel like he'll randomly break down and just cry. He's done it before – but I don't ever bring it up. He gets embarrassed and yells at me, yet it's not actual anger in his tone, just a hinted at weakness that he doesn't like to show very often.
I'm beginning to doze off over the lack of sleep I've been getting lately, as well. My parents have a divorce on the horizon, it's easy to see. Everybody in South Park can probably smell it from my house.
I always hear them yelling while laying in bed, my body warm underneath the blankets, but they're downstairs in the kitchen screaming at one another, so everything feels cold and dank in my home; it's so hard to sleep when things are like that.
During those horrid nights, I'd reach over to grab my phone from the nightstand, and hastily dial Kyle's cell phone number. He's always up late, whether it's homework or just his hatred of being unproductive – which apparently sleep happens to be – while I retire around 10pm, so he's always happy to talk me through it. It feels like a sanctuary, those late-night calls, when my parents voices can't drown out the sound of my best friend's hysterical laughter over something stupid.
My blinks are currently lasting three seconds longer than most should. However, I'm still trying to calm Kyle down, if only a little. So, I've taken to running my fingers gently through his hair, his head lulling back and forth with the continuous movement. He's looking just as sleepy as me now, but with minor agitation mixed in, as we both silently listen to Butter's conversation with Kenny on the other side of the room. The smaller blond is making lots of unnecessary hand motions and his lips are moving rapidly, desperately attempting to come up with a response to Cartman.
"B-But that's not what I said, fellas –" his little voice chokes, and Cartman cuts in before he can finish his thoughts.
"Cut the crap, you little cocksucker. Anyone our age who hasn't kissed a girl is a certified fag, therefore you are said fag," his rough words make the boy's eyes widen a bit, nervous and shaky, and I watch as he tries to cling to Kenny for some sort of solid support. Butters currently has my sympathy, although everything seems hazy with the suggestion of sleep right now, so I don't really care to say anything to defend him.
"Not all of us whore ourselves out randomly, Cartman. Butters is just innocent, and there's nothing wrong with that," Kenny tries to defend the quivering teen beside him, but my focus was reawakened over the fact that Kyle didn't freak over Cartman's previous comment. Sure, he's exceptionally tuckered-out, but he hasn't exactly kissed any girl that I know of – except for Bebe, but that wasn't willingly, so it probably doesn't count – yet he's not freaking out. I'm at least expecting a drowsy comment or two, but there's nothing but a relaxed looking Kyle next to me, all irritation currently washed from his pallid complexion. This is a rare phenomenon, because Kyle is always talking or complaining or ranting or anything that isn't calm. And, even if he is, it's usually because he's experiencing some level of unhealthy exhaustion and can't muster the energy to do anything at all. I want to comment on this ideal moment, one where both him and I seem so content, but I'm too scared that I might break the peace that blankets the two of us wordlessly.
"I'm no goddamn whore! I just get around because the ladies love me, without making hippie fucking drug deals every which way," that last comment was a direct jab at Kenny's basic way of life, and I'm barely coherent enough to perceive a heavy argument coming on. Kenny's gaze is sharpening against Cartman's, and I still feel a little bad for Butters, who is sitting next to one of the active participants. He doesn't even have the comfort that Kyle and I have right now, not even paying full attention to the mess in front of us.
This doesn't sound like it's going to be fantastic to listen in on, and I want nothing more than to trudge upstairs and nap in tranquility, and Kyle looks up for that, too. His head is still resting on my leaning shoulder, breath slowing down and eyelids fluttering shut.
"Excuse me?" the words come out sharply, as if he's been wronged at the highest level, while his hands jut forward to rest on his knees, body leaning outwards. "Are you really going to say something like that? Seriously, man?"
"Hell yeah, I mean, isn't it the truth? It wouldn't be that bad if it was just a bunch of hot chicks, but half of them are fucking fags that take it up that ass – or is that you? I revoke those last words, I'm pretty sure that you're the one taking it up the ass, Kenny," he smiles knowingly during the end, taking pleasure in the steam rising from his target's ears. Usually, Kenny is pretty good at ignoring this fatass, but this is a sensitive subject; he recently came out to our entire school. In quite a spectacular manner, if I might add; sticking his tongue down a pip-squeak freshman's throat in the crowded hallways of South Park High.
It wasn't a huge deal – stranger shit happens in South Park – but it had struck an unfamiliar cord with me at the time, and still does now. Especially as I peek over at Kyle, who's well on the verge of falling asleep at this point. I can't resist twirling my fingers around little ginger curls, the ones that are brushing against his face, and the freckles dotting the bridge of his nose. I feel like I can get away with it unseen, with the two of them duking it out on the other side of the room and all, but Kenny is the one who glances over, catching me in the act. He raises his light eyebrows, before continuing on, eyelids sinking down and voice lowering considerably.
"… You know, Cartman, instead of taking your immense homophobia out on me, how about you just shove it up your ass instead," he speaks in a casual manner, his face visually relaxing while he leans back against the couch cushions.
Suddenly, he's pulling the smaller boy down to rest against his chest, a light-colored hoodie adorning it. Cartman looks off-put by Kenny's gesture with Butters, his eyebrows knitting together and lips parting slightly. The frazzled boy seems even more frazzled than before, yet doesn't swat his hands at his captor, just tilts his head upwards toward him, like he's trying to figure out what he's supposed to do in response. But it's Kenny who just keeps glancing at me and Kyle, blue eyes peering at my own, expression softening greatly.
A gentle snore barely wisps from Kyle's lips, and my eyelids give up the tedious battle and finally begin to slip shut. However, apparently Kenny decides he's going to make a majorly douchebag move. He obviously chooses that he doesn't want to wait for when me and Kyle are not currently drained of all fucking energy, and wants to take advantage of our current lack of combined tact.
His wrist flicks, and one pale hand is resting on his captive's skinny arm, pulling him upwards a little. It invokes a small "oomph" from the boy, which moves him even closer to Kenny's body. He tilts his head to the side, and its not intended to appear evil, but the way that he peers at me and my best friend certainly seems malicious. It's like he knows something that we don't, that I don't.
"Hey, you, Kenny! You just proved my point, hell, you're probably sleeping with Butters for whatever pills his parents force-feed him at night!" Cartman looks frustrated, but Kenny looks like he's merely calculating something, and he's silent for a lilliputian moment. He ends up completely disregarding the fat one's previous accusation, and I barely keep my eyes open to watch this all unfold, my curiosity peaking.
"Cartman, are you saying that you now think less of me because I'm a fag?" Butters looks startled for a moment, like he's afraid for some reason, as if what the taller blond speaks suddenly condemns all dogs from going to heaven, and his little pupils are shrinking to a microscopic level.
"I'm just saying that a man that takes it up the ass, doesn't deserve to have been born with a god-given cock," Cartman shifts his weight on the poor couch, it's cushions sinking further and further down, and he crosses his thick arms like he's offended. I'm losing focus again, tugging Kyle closer by instinct, his scent mingling with my own, and that bed upstairs sounds like the gates of heaven right now. It's not uncommon for him and I to share a bed while napping, it's just a part of our childhood that we didn't want to part with. We still snuggle, too, but we don't usually bring that up in a casual conversation.
"K-Kenny, what are you –" I hear Butters try to wiggle his way into the conversation, but Kenny interrupts him carelessly, just tugging the small body closer before speaking again.
"You're a real dick, man. No wonder Wendy doesn't want you," a small smile weaves it's way through the blond's features when he watches the fat one's eyes widen and his face redden. It's not often that the two of them actually fight heatedly, but I feel like this is actually going to get pretty rough, even if no punches are thrown.
I don't want to watch anymore, and I'm so fucking tired, I just want to go upstairs and sleep. But it feels rude to leave my friends down here. I know it shouldn't, because I've known these guys forever and this is basically their home, too. But – I'm still too hesitant to act, so I settle on the idea of napping here on the couch, Kyle leaning on me, drowsiness swallowing the two of us up.
"I swear to god, Kenny, I will end you if you don't fucking take that back!" Cartman shouts suddenly, and I feel Kyle jolt up next to me from surprise, the burst of volume in the room awakening him; my eyes opening to meet his own bright greens now observing the situation. We glance at each other, his expression carrying the slightest suggestion of fear. He hates seeing these two fight... the idea of Kenny being involved in anything that isn't positive – even if it's merely Cartman being an asshole – sincerely worries him.
"Hey, Kyle," I whisper close to his ear, his hands still holding my arm, except they've clasped tightly around it now, his face hiding away behind my shoulder. He looks legitimately unnerved; It felt rude to leave them alone down here – but it feels inexcusable to let Kyle be afraid of the situation in front of him. I know it's overly protective, but it's never halted me from shielding Kyle from things he's hated before. "Wanna go upstairs? I don't wanna watch this, man." He nods his head quickly, red curls bouncing slightly, eyes wide with anticipation of my suggestion. He hates this, so I want him to be as far away from it as the heavens will allow.
"I'm just saying, dude. She thinks you're a total jerk. No self-respecting girl would go for that, which is why she has a thing for Stan." He empathizes my name right as me and Kyle have stood up from the couch, and I want to glare at him ruthlessly. Why would he bring her up at a time like this? Kyle hates talking about her, always has, and I respect that.
It's not like her and I are together – it's more of an on-and-off thing, and it's becoming genuinely difficult to convince myself that I like her in that way. However, Kyle has always had something against her, most likely an academic thing, since she's always just barely beat him in test scores, in classroom projects, in everything, apparently. He could rant about that girl for hours, he has before. And he looks so tired, so damn breakable right now, that I momentarily hate Kenny for throwing the subject out in the air.
"Shut up, Kenny," I mutter tightly in his direction, before turning to head towards the stairs. Cartman starts yelling obscenities again, but that's drowned out by the almost audible gaze that's drilling into my back, courtesy of Kenny. My arm is around Kyle, and I'm gingerly nudging him up the stairs with the left side of my chest, but I can't quite stop myself from glancing back at the blond who won't quit staring. I don't understand why he's being so – I don't know, rude? Where's his common sense?
"Dude, what is it?" My tone is sharp, and it's probably a little too obvious that I'm getting pissed off. My arm tightens around Kyle's shoulders, and I feel oddly protective for some reason, like Kenny's gaze will shoot out huge icicles and impale my best friend.
"I'm just curious as to why you two are still doing this," the appendage that isn't trapping Butters to his chest ends up supporting his chin, and his cold blue eyes are observing me closely, darting to Kyle every so often.
I'm – offended? Like, I understand what he's saying, I know what he's referring to, but I'm wondering why he's doing this. Why is he bringing it up when Kyle is dead-beat exhausted, his face drained of all blood, expression like a zombie. Why he's bringing up this complicated and frequently discussed topic when I just want to sleep. Yes, me and Kyle are fucking touchy with each other, we've always been, it will never change, get used to it, man. All of South Park has witnessed it for the past ten or so years.
"Doing what?" I reply sharply, teeth gritting considerably, my eyebrows downturned in irritation, and the stair steps seem like they're an obstacle I'll never be able to climb. Although I know what he's referring to, I want him to hear himself say it; maybe, just maybe, he'll understand how repetitive this subject is and he'll drop-kick it's discussion to next Tuesday.
Cartman is still shouting mindlessly, probably not even paying attention to his own words anymore, fists flying back and forth in rapid hand-motions. Butters has begun to fret again, stuttering little questions and trying to wiggle his way away from Kenny's grasp, but it's not working, and he'll probably give up soon. Yet somewhere in the midst of the ruckus my friends are creating in the living room, I hear Kenny's reply to my question.
"Pretending like you haven't wanted to fuck each other senseless since you were twelve years old."
… Everyone has brought it up and commented on the matter, made their own little diagnosis and inputted idiotic opinions that we carelessly tossed to the back of our minds; it had always made Kyle and me feel more secure, just disregarding the various statements tossed around. Wendy thought it was because I was the older brother that Kyle never had; my parents figured that we were just extra-childish and immature around each other, meaning we would be more affectionate. But – no one ever worded it quite like Kenny just did. And – I'd never had to react or defend myself against an accusation quite like that, because if Cartman stated something even remotely similar to it, all we had to do was flip him off.
Yet right now, Kyle is staring back at Kenny, as well, his green eyes broadening… he doesn't look nearly as exhausted as he did a moment ago. Those little brown speckles on his face are resting on a reddish hue, no longer pallid and white skin. His body is no longer leaning on me; he's standing up straight, almost rigid.
I feel my mouth go dry. The pause between the three of us is getting too extensive, and every second I go without responding creates more tension; I have to say something.
But what exactly am I expected to say? I'm not an idiot; of course I've thought about it, maybe even a little more than appropriate. But I couldn't – it's not like – an open kind of thing that I could just spill out into the air of the room, like a debatable discussion for everyone to dissect, to watch intently, judging my feelings.
And, what about Kyle? He's just standing there, like I am, but he's not defending the topic like usual, either. He's not mocking Kenny's opinion like he might on any other day, but his face is a white canvas, easily expressing emotions as if red and blue paint were splattered across the paper. It's that one emotion, that one look he displays every time someone comments with malicious intent embedded in the words. Not angry nor embarrassed – it's like he wants to whisper "really, man, why would you say that?" – it's not a scoff or glare. His eyes seem almost sad, almost betrayed by the speaker.
It's not like Kyle is cross with Kenny right now. If he was, he'd be shouting at him, telling him to shut up; treating him like he was a total douche. No, he just appears sad – and that pisses me off with Kenny even more.
"Fuck off, Kenny. We're going to take a nap. Try not to rape Butters while we're gone, because you're not exactly hiding that erection in your pants, you nosy fucker," I respond, referring to the very obvious log outlined in his blue jeans. Pointing it out is such a dick move (literally), but honestly, I couldn't care less right now.
I feel a tugging at my cotton T-shirt and I throw a glance to the source of the pulling. It's Kyle, who's looking down to the floor beneath our feet, fingers gently hooked to the fabric of my clothing. My expression softens greatly, and I'm a little worried that I've freaked him out, because I know he hates seeing Kenny being verbally jabbed at.
"Can we just go sleep, dude?" he murmurs, and I feel like a total jackass, his body suddenly leaning against mine again. Those greens eyes are half-hooded once more, the shock of Kenny's initial statement fading from his system, the desire to sleep washing it's jaded remanence.
"Yeah. Let's go," I reply softly, touching the side of his cheek, still reddened from earlier. I don't know if it's a blush or just his body's natural reaction to something else – maybe he's feeling feverish. I'd probably check later.
Cartman had stopped yelling back when I had snapped at the blond, and Butters has hushed, as well, merely making little squirrelly noises that are low-key. Kenny doesn't look bothered by my remark; he just stares with those icy eyes, not unlike before. Then, as Kyle and I finally proceed to ascend up the stair steps, he speaks once more.
"Kyle," Kenny's mature voice resounds, and I feel my closest friend shrink in size, eyes darting to the ground and body freezing. He looks like he's an elementary schooler again. Him and I would watch scary movies and he'd cling to me with this exact expression, like tendrils of fear were choking up his heart. "Don't forget, okay?"
"I – I know," he murmurs, then hurries his way up the steps, not waiting for me. I look back to the blond; he's smiling in a sweet manner, each tip of his mouth upturned pleasantly. It confuses me greatly, and I want to ask what he had been referring to, but I seriously doubt that he'd actually answer in a straight-forward way. Like, he'd be the teacher that'd say "look it up in the dictionary" when you'd ask how to spell a certain word.
"What did you just mean, man?" my tone is lighter, mainly because I'm too curious to remain consistently irritated with him.
"Go ask Kyle," I sigh in response. I knew he wouldn't just tell me. I nod, before shuffling my feet up the steps, palm instinctively resting on the hand-railing.
"Goddammit, Kenny, are you converting Stan and Kyle to your ways of faggotry? You fucking bastard, you better not be!" I hear a husky voice call in the backdrop, but that's not what I'm focusing on.
It feels routine, following Kyle to my bedroom after a long, hard day. I'm ready to slip into the cool of the cotton sheets, snuggle up next to him, let a coat of slumber fall over my tired body, and simply rest next to his warm presence for hours.
As I walk through the hallway, finally reaching my room, wrapping my hand around the doorknob and opening; it all feels like second-nature. But that's probably because Kyle feels like second-nature. Napping next to each other like we're still eight years old, just two kids who are tuckered out from a day of running around, having adventures and shenanigans with our friends… it feels so natural. We're best friends. That's why it feels so… needed.
Right?
"Kyle?" I coo in a quiet octave, peeking my head in. He's already beneath the blankets, red ringlets resting on the white pillow, his shoulders rising and falling slowly with his continuous breaths. His slim body is faced away from the door, however, so I can't see his face. I can only assume that he's already half-asleep, considering how still his figure appears, and how he doesn't respond to my greeting. I don't want to disturb him, considering his exhausted-state. So, I enter the room as inaudibly as I can, stepping on the floorboards that squeak annoyingly, and I remove my shirt, because it's even more toasty upstairs than it is usually. Being half-naked in bed with my best friend might seem weird, but – yeah, I'm aware it's weird, but even if I happened to mention to someone that we did this particular thing; I'd have absolutely no excuse, other than the pitiful "it was just hot in the room" reason… even though that's the truth. Mainly.
My body maneuvers itself onto the mattress, my fingers carefully curling around the fabric, trying to make my entrance as unnoticeable as possible. I'm sure he can feel the extra weight on the bed, however. My arm bends underneath the pillow, elevating it slightly more than most would find comfortable, because I've always liked it that way.
My eyes soon slip shut, the last image stained into my mind being Kyle's back, and the smallest tremor running through it, his shoulders just barely twitching. It takes me a minor moment to register the very trivial movement, for sleep threatens to overtake my mind. Yet before I become completely incoherent, I manage to question my concern, and my hand crawls upwards to rest on his slim shoulder.
"Kyle, is everything okay?" I murmur close to his ear, my voice plagued with drowsiness, my chin nearly resting on the red curls that sprawl on the pillow. I feel the shake of his shoulders underneath my palm, and that's the moment where the sensation of sleep eludes me once more, my senses becoming sharper with realization.
Jesus Christ – he's crying, isn't he?
"Hey, Kyle, answer me," I continue, my voice gaining strength when he doesn't respond to my previous question. Fuck, shit, maybe the thing with Kenny earlier did mean something, but that dumbass still didn't tell me what was wrong. He told me to ask Kyle;seriously? He couldn't have just told me, avoiding this whole situation, where I can't immediately comfort my best friend?
"Kyle…" I mumble, and his shoulders deliver another jolting shake, the smallest grumble of a sob muffled into his hands. I want to turn his body over to face me, so I can read his expression, wipe the salty tears from his eyes.
"S – Sorry, I'm okay," he whimpers, voice high-pitched and obviously distressed. Another heavy shake vibrates my hand on his shoulder, and I move closer to him, initially cuddling up to his quivering back, moving my palms in comforting circles over his shoulder blades.
"Dude, it's just me. If you're upset, I wanna know why," I whisper against his ear, my eyebrows upturned in worry, and I feel a shiver travel across his skin. He's gotten like this before, when there's a world of stress overtaking him, and Kyle breaks down from it all. What he's going to do when we graduate, how he's going to pay for college if he can't get a scholarship – which, for some reason, he feels like the 4.0 GPA he upkeeps isn't enough reassurance – and the mind-numbing exhaustion that really makes him crumple to a quivering heap of a boy.
Another sob, this one a little louder, and I feel his body tense up when I pull him into a backwards hug, my arms loosely holding his trembling torso. He quickly relaxes, little cries escaping his lips more frequently, and his figure shakes with the emotion flowing from him. He's so tired, so overworked; I hate it when he's like this, it makes me want to kick-punt everything in this world that makes Kyle anything but overjoyed to be alive. "Kyle – don't cry, come on."
"S – Stan," his voice is breaking, cracking with emotion, and he shifts his thin body to face me, my arms still encasing him. I feel warm tears leaking into my T-shirt when he rests his head near my collarbone, hiding his face away in my chest, just crying and crying.
"Hey, man, it's okay," I whisper, rubbing my hand over his upper-back. "Please, tell me what's up. It kills me to see you this upset." But Kyle doesn't comply with my request. He just keeps shaking like a human-earthquake, sobbing into my chest like a mother who's lost her first-born child. I can only hold him in hopes that he'll eventually calm down, maybe then he'll verbally release the many sources of his troubles.
We just stay like that for a while, maybe ten or fifteen minutes straight. I don't like seeing Kyle cry, obviously, but it's strange because I didn't really mind doing that. Just laying with him, absorbing all his prolific tears and feeling the built-up sorrow leak away from his body.
Eventually, when his desperate sobs have faded and the sad whimpers gradually roll in, I manage to pry his hands from my chest, holding them gently. It causes his gaze to meet mine, and that's when my palms move forward to lightly cup his face. I gingerly swipe the remaining droplets with my thumbs, attempting to dry his cheeks completely, but the waterworks are managing to flow steadily, even though the sobs have subsided.
"Dude – dude, come on, stop crying," I mutter, but he just chews at his reddened lips. They always puff up slightly when he cries, their hue deepening to a crimson shade of red. Sometimes I have to wonder how girls don't constantly want to drown him in love and affection, kissing those lips that are obviously so alluring.
Our faces are so close, and the redness accompanying the tears in those eyes intensifies the winter green surrounding his fat pupils. It's quiet; he hadn't responded to my plea, he only continues to stare, and his eyebrows are knitted upwards in a somber expression.
He must've noticed my eyes trailing down to his lips repeatedly, because I hadn't thought to hide my gaze, not even momentarily. Now his stare is darting down to the lower portion of my face, as well, and I'm not sure if I should say something. Maybe because I can't tell if I want to prevent this new-found pool of warmth in my stomach from rising, because it's beginning to overflow, and I feel the rush of endorphins curving through my brain.
Wasn't that what used to happen around Wendy? And Jesus, what does that mean?
"Stan, about what Kenny was saying," he begins, the slightest implication of sorrow still lacing each vowel and warping against it, but I interrupt him.
"No, no, don't worry about it, okay? He's just being a douche, man. You shouldn't have to deal with that shit, especially when you're this stressed out from school," my tone is quiet, the words practically a mumble, but I know he understands what I'm saying. It doesn't look like it's making him feel any better, though.
"But Stan – that's, like. That's not it," he jolts forward a little bit in urgency, like if he doesn't spill out these words now, he'll never be able to say them. Like he's on a time-limit and he has to hurry, or there's a bomb strapped to his chest that will explode and kill the both of us.
"What is it?" I speak in response, holding his gaze intently. He looks afraid, the same expression he had on earlier when Kenny had made that remark about us.
Kyle pauses, and I move one of my hands carelessly, bringing it down to the dip of his waist and nudging him towards me.
I'm not sure what I expected in return from that seemingly minor but very instinctive movement. "Stan," he whimpers weakly, like he's pleading for something unknown to me. But he's swatting my hand away from his waist, as if it had burned his skin.
"Dude, what?" I'm surprised; he's never done that before. Those green eyes just scan my face, the temperature in the room feeling colder than before, the sheets blanketing us seeming much less welcoming.
"Why are we so touchy?" his pitch flies upwards, and Jesus, he looks so upset with me right now. Like I've cursed him, burned him at the stake, as if my very touch isn't something he's grown up with. Like he doesn't need this – because I know that I need this; I've got no idea what I'm going to do if that feeling isn't reciprocated, if he's suddenly deciding to drop this essential little habit of ours. The idea terrifies me.
"Just because. I mean, we've always been like that," I breathe, only a little tense with worry. I feel his body scoot away from mine completely, so that we're no longer touching at all. "Hey, man –"
"Quit it, Stanley!" he cuts my words off sharply.
"Fuck, Kyle, what's up with you?" I reach forward, the covers falling down beside our appendages, because he's literally trying to get out of the bed and touch his toes to the floor. I grip at his arm before his feet can touch the wooden ground, and his knees sink into the mattress. He's pulling hard, however, trying to yank his struggling arm away from my tight grasp. "Seriously, Jesus – "
"I don't know, just – just stop!" I hear the vulnerability choking his voice up, and he's going to start crying again, I know it.
"Why are you being so stubborn?" I fight back, my other hand gripping his wrist, and he's forcibly pulled back beside me for a brief second. He squirms violently and tries to escape, body writhing and twisting beneath me and I literally have to crouch over him, pinning the thin figure to the mattress beneath me. My hands are wrapped around his wrists, knees on mirrored locations beside his lower-body.
"Stan, Stan, stop, please – " he begins to sob, tears forming at the corners of his eyes. I can't tell if their origin is frustration or sadness, if all the combined stress is beginning to breaking him, or if there's truly something that I don't know, something he's not telling me.
"Hey, come on, I'm not attacking you or anything," I hum in notable concern, his saddened face only inches below mine. "Please, just tell me what's going on. It's just me, I just want you to feel better, okay –"
"Why are you doing this, why do you always do this, why –"
"Kyle," I plea, and his wrists were previously struggling and shaking against my firm hold, but now his entire body is limp below me, like he's given up. My face changes and now I'm more serious and less sympathetic, because this is obviously very important. "Just tell me, man."
He stares straight up at me, those red ringlets sprawled on the sheets and those winter green eyes witnessing my soul. Kyle knows me like no one else does, I know that to be a fact. But – really, do I not know him like anyone else does? Have I not been good enough to him, not worried enough, not listened enough?
His lips part, I can see the rising emotion in his eyes, he's about it spill it all out and finally – maybe I can understand what I've been doing wrong, why he's keeping a troubling secret from me.
But there's a knock at my door, a hesitant rapping of knuckles in a rhythmic pattern. I quickly scoot off of Kyle, barely sitting on the side of the bed, beet-red over the compromising position I realize we were just in, my body having been crouched over his, my hands pinning him down.
The door is pushed open gingerly, and it's Butters, his pale blue eyes like giant globes of freshwater. I glance over to Kyle, who's still laying down on the mattress, not having bothered to move, but managing to eye the quivering blond at the door.
"S-Sorry fellas, but, see, Kenny and Cartman got in a little scuffle and your mom had to drive them both h-home, and I just wanted to let you know, be-because Kenny told me to come up here," he seems determined to speak it all in one breath, his words choppy and nervous. Kyle sits up rather quickly, and I can almost feel the anxiety radiating from him, I can imagine his thoughts right now, Kenny got in a fight he's hurt what if he's bleeding oh Jesus lord why does this keep happening shit shit fuck.
"What do you mean? An actual fight with injuries, or what?" I question, standing to my feet. Butters nods his head with haste, his mouth a squiggly line of worry. He jitters quite frequently, picking at his pink fingernails and averting his gaze, like he wants to say something else of relevant terms.
"Uhm, Kenny socked Cartman in the n-nose," Kyle scoffs quietly in the background, and Butters continues. "But Kenny is okay. Your mom came running in when Cartman started yelling really loud, calling Kenny a fag and, u-uh, yeah. Sorry," he adds the last bit subtly, eyes trained on the floor in an ashamed manner. I don't understand why he'd be feeling guilty, but that's not really a priority right now.
"So Kenny is fine?" Kyle exclaims, tenor voice rather strained. Our small friend just nods again, rubbing his shaking knuckles together in nervous habit. He seems… like he kind of wants to leave, his body curved towards the door, and he's backing up towards it slowly.
"Uh, Butters. Are you okay?" I feel obligated to say, and Butters just darts his eyes back and forth rapidly. Kyle and I take a quick glance towards each other, and his eyebrows are raised high in suspicion.
"Y-yeah, so, I-I'll be going, but I'll see you guys later," he finishes, grabbing the door handle and sliding his thin frame through the entrance to the hallway, like a mouse through a hole in the wall. He doesn't even let us say goodbye, which is weird, considering how much he typically craves that kind of reassuring gesture.
"I sincerely doubt that's all that happened," I hear Kyle mutter, sighing quietly. He stands and crosses the room past me, and I know he's heading for the door, but I still don't know what he was going to say before.
"Kyle, hey," I grab his pale wrist before he can get to the door, and he looks back to me, "you gotta tell me what you were gonna say, man. Like, seriously, I have to know."
He seems almost pissed by the suggestion, but there are still evanescent tears floundering around in his eyes. "Dude, seriously, please just fucking tell me –"
"Fuck, Stan, it doesn't even matter. Kenny was just being a douchebag. Forget about it, okay?" he responds sharply, tugging his arm away and opening the door. I follow him out intently, and I'm aware that maybe I'm being annoying persistent, but seriously. What the fuck can he not tell his best friend? It's almost a pride thing at this point, despite my growing worry for his emotional well-being.
I halt, my feet glued to the wooden floor of the upstairs hallway, and he tosses his gaze toward me once more. I'm silent, just staring at him, eyebrows upturned and hands curled into loose firsts at my sides. "If you don't tell me what's bothering you, I swear to fucking Jesus Christ, I'm going to throw up, you fucktard." There's no real malicious in my words, yet he looks affected anyways, and bites his bottom lip instinctively.
"You know what?" he starts, looking almost pissed off again, the tears in his eyes still evident. "I will tell you. Even better, I'll show you, and you'll never want anything to do with me again. But sure, okay, whatever you want, fuck it all," Kyle's voice cracks at the end, a tear sliding down his cheek.
"Wait, Kyle, no, don't cry," I speak, because fucking hell, he's upset but he's angry with me, so I don't know what to do. I move forwards without thinking, approaching him with haste, wiping the rouge droplet from his face with my thumb, and he squints in reaction to my touch.
"How am I not supposed to cry, you asshole? I have to cry, this is happening right now, and it's freaking me out," he snivels, and I hook my hands to his slim shoulders, crouching down slightly to meet his eyelevel directly, a frown on my face.
"What's happening right now? You're not telling me, and I have to know. We're best friends, it's me, it's just me – you can tell me," and his little hiccups begin to cease. He darts his focus to the side, pausing for a brief yet agonizing moment.
"Stan – but isn't it obvious? I mean, I'm pretty sure you're the only person in South Park that doesn't seem to be aware of it," a sigh, and his cheeks are weirdly tinged with blush. My hands are still resting on his shoulders, and he reciprocates the touch gently, wrapping his arms around my neck. I feel goose bumps prick up on my arms – but, wait. What?
My eyes widen, and his grip is strangely warm against my skin. Then again, it's considerably cold upstairs, so maybe Kyle is just warm in compared to the air around us. He tilts his chin to the side, another tear trailing down his cheek silently, and he moves his face nearer to mine, closer – even closer. I can feel his breath against my lips, and I feel like right now would be the moment where some people would shove the other person away, along the lines of their personal space being "invaded". But I don't want to do that. I don't want to push him away, I want him to get even closer.
He stops, though. He stares into my half-lidded eyes, unmoving, waiting for a push away, a shove to the side. Or – for me to move forward.
"Kyle," I hum, and now I'm pressing my lips against his, encasing his waist within my arms and hugging him close. We're kissing, and I never knew how much I could have wanted this before. This is my best friend, but we're smashing our lips together roughly and it's fantastic, my tongue slipping into his mouth and meshing with his wetly.
We part, our breathing irregular and fast-paced. We can only look at each other for a moment, our faces still close together and flushed. "So – uhm, yeah. That," Kyle murmurs, arms still entangled around my neck.
"Oh. Uh, I'm, like. Cool with that, dude," I respond lamely, reaching up to run my fingers through his hair affectionately. Kyle looks rather astonished.
"Wait, what?" he nearly squeaks.
"Kyle, trust me. When I say I'm cool with it, you can consult my boner. And, you know. I'm pretty sure that I kind of, uhm. Like. Love you or something. So, yeah," I say awkwardly, because hey, it's true, and so is the current bulge in my pants.
"Stan, I've been in love with you for like six years now. I'm sure that everyone and their grandmas are aware of it. But anyway, uh, I'm really hard right now, and you're really hard right now – "
"So we should take our hard-on's to my room?"
"More specifically to your bed, but, uh, yeah. That should happen. Like, right now."
"Yeah, agreed," I say, grabbing his hand and proceeding to jog to my bedroom. I'm pulling him, though, and he's resisting a little more than he should be. "Uh, something wrong?" I say, tossing my dark bangs from my eyes and glancing back at him.
"Stan, I want you fucking inside of me. You understand that, right? That's what I'm talking about?" He says uncertainly, and I gawk in response.
"Dude, yes. There's lotion in the drawer by the bed, and I'm assuming neither of us have any STDs, so, yeah."
"Uhm… okay," he mumbles, digging the tip of his foot into the floor nervously, and he's looking a little afraid. My heart suddenly tightens with sympathy for him, but my cock is twitching with anticipation, as well.
"Hey, hey," I muster, engulfing my best friend is a smothering bear hug. I'm smiling, though, because goddammit, I fucking love him.
"Gah, I can't breathe – " he swats at me in response, but he's laughing, too. I back away for a brief second, but my arms end up encasing him once more, and then I press my lips against his softly.
"Kyle, I'm, like. In love with you. You're so fucking cute," I laugh afterwards, our foreheads touching, but I'm pinching at his cheek, and he starts getting mad at me for teasing him.
"Quit it, I'm not cute," he whines, batting my hand away, but then he's grinning, and I can't resist kissing him again.
"But you are! Seriously, man," I don't know where the random urge emerges from, but I reach my hand to his back pocket, squeezing his ass in a teasing manner.
"Stanley, did you just grab my ass?"
"… I've always kind of wanted to, I don't even know. It's so, like, perky. You know that Wendy is seriously jealous of your butt, right?"
"Is she really?" he stares, eyebrows raised.
"Yeah, dude," because she is. She's told me before, and Bebe has, too. I've caught Kenny staring at it. It's weird shit.
My arms are still tightly wrapped around his waist, and we're close, almost in a holding position. I can feel his erection near the general area of mine, and I rub my crotch against his lower regions. He doesn't necessarily moan, but bites his lip roughly, like he's holding one back.
"Let's go, Kyle," I mutter against his ear, and he nods in response, but I know he's afraid. I'd be very gentle, though. I mean – it's Kyle. If I'd take a bullet for him, I'd certainly put in the extra effort to not destroy his ass.
We proceed to hurry to my bedroom, locking the door on our way in. It's a fantastic first time, and it's one of many for us, because I never want to hold anyone else but him. He's the only one who really knows me, and I'm the only one that really knows Kyle. When he's stressed over studying late at night at my house, I'd always be the one to bring him a sandwich and glass of milk. When football season was breaking me and the coach called me out for not trying hard enough, he'd be the one to run his fingers through my hair, coaxing me to sleep in his lap.
But, I mean. Isn't that natural when you're in love with your best friend?
A/N: I hope you guys liked that! If you did, please review (: I'm not sure if I should write another chapter or not. Anyway, have a good day my lovelies!