Every year, for Fourth of July, Ned and Jimbo take their truck across the border, into Mexico, and load up on fireworks. It's a tradition, smuggling in mortars and snakes, firecrackers and roman candles, one they've upheld ever since Colorado banned consumer fireworks, deeming them too dangerous for recreational use. But this is America, and in a backwater town like South Park, freedom is freedom, at least until the cops show up. But even the boys in blue are real rednecks at heart, with most of the force turning a blind eye to the illicit activities of the night, and let the gun freaks have their fire-powered fun, just for the night.
The keggers came about a little later, as the kids got older, thirsted for the watered down beer and boxed wine forbidden by the law of the land. Soon enough all the growing teens started gathering somewhere nearby, bringing their own bottles of whatever booze they could scrape up, getting wasted and watching the sky light up, listening to the whole world go boom. Of course, not everyone stayed with the group, some straying into the underbrush, inspecting two different types of bushes, hoping no bug bites sprung up the next day in overly uncomfortable places.
Kenny was the one who discovered the old lookout post, started long ago by a group of hunters, then left abandoned and unfinished. It wasn't the safest structure—nothing but a rickety platform attached to a tree, with one sorry ladder nailed into the trunk—but the view of the sky was unrivalled, and the privacy equally welcome. He didn't tell Kyle about it, not until the summer they started, started getting serious. Then they were just seventeen, staring up at the bursts of colour and light, a six pack split between them. Gunpowder smoke rose over the treetops, and the two of them fucked, for the first time of many, listening to the cracks and whistles echo through the forest glades.
Kyle looks up, through the thin branches, up at the fizzling flashes of orange and gold outshining the stars. Breathes escape in heaving gasps, hazy and humid as midsummer air, as Kenny's teeth graze his neck, a nip melting into a kiss, wet and long. His mouth burns like a candle, but he kisses like a sparkler, bright and sharp and white freaking hot. Fingers stroke along the curve of his ass, matches lighting on bare skin, teasing at his crease. Ash sprinkles down on them, through the leaves, as another firework whizzes through the darkness, leaving a slender trail behind, then exploding in blinding red, white, and blue. Patriotic, he thinks before, from deep in his lungs, he lets out a low, rolling moan.
A finger works its way along the edge, dips between his cheeks. Kenny presses his smirk against fiery skin, savouring the sweet, sweet groans as they ring in his ears, more memorable than any store-bought explosive. Kenny feels Kyle's fingers against his head, as they spin golden threads around them, keeping them bound together. A few nails scratch against his skull, one of those negligible injuries he sustains for the greater joy of their screwing. Slowly, Kenny props himself up, further tangling their legs as he shifts his body. Blue eyes peer down into green, both burning like the cinders in the sky.
"C'mon," Kenny laughs, once, breathless. He squeezes his fingers, just enough to make the pressure noticeable, but not enough to pinch, knowing just how to gently coax the right sound from Kyle's throat. Then, voice airy, light, hard to hear with banged out drums, "I know ya can do better."
Kyle exhales, rolls his eyes; fucking typical. Kenny's free hand wanders, over the bed of crimson curls, brushes against the side of his face. The touch leaves a fuzzy trail, then ignites, a wave of red dyeing a pale complexion. His lips curve into a grin, choppy laughter sneaking out, as his eyes flit back to Kenny. Another firework bursts above them, a shower of frizzling white dots, making Kyle's vision go a little spotty, but Kenny is the one thing that stays clear.
"You're a dick." Kyle says, half-laughing, a smile etched on his lips. He tugs on the messy blond hair, playful invitation, to lean down lower. Kenny grants him just an inch, still keeping a good distance between their faces, but offering a consolation elsewhere, giving his ass a good squeeze. Kyle pipes out a quick yelp, inspiring a few chuckles from Kenny. Their legs rub together, kindling another kind of growing flame.
"True," Kenny's laughs temper out, into even humming. His hand glides along Kyle's jaw, tilting his head as his fingers follow the bone. He puts a thumb on Kyle's bottom lip, and watches another explosion reflect in the green, "But ya still love me."
Kyle opens his mouth, about to respond, when Kenny swipes his thumb across, hand moving to cup his face. He swoops in, claiming his lips, while a thunderous crack pierces the night. The whole forest lights up, like a moment of daylight, and the two of them are firecrackers, fuses knotted together, chock-full of powder and ready to blow. They paint the canvas of black with streaks of orange and green, then sprinkle down as ashy rain, but when their dusts settle they're ready to do it all over again: bang, bang, bang.
Kenny draws back, gossamers of saliva forming a bridge between their mouths, fragile and delicate. Kyle holds his head in place, so he doesn't stray too far away, wanting Kenny close, needing his heat, his fire. Kyle blinks, once, twice, then, "God you're gay."
In Kenny's ears, he hears an 'I love you too'.
He steals another kiss of Kyle's lips, then rubs their noses together, one of those dumb little affections Kyle pretends to hate so much. But no one's around for Kyle to fake it for, instead he smiles, breathing out a low, long hum, and pets Kenny's head. They gaze into each other's eyes, and they feel like the sky: alight.
"Now," Kenny's lips curl into a self-satisfied grin, "I know ya can be louder than those dumb things Jimbo's shootin' off."
One, two, three, four fizzling rockets whirl around, leaving popping blinks in their wake. Lights flicker and oscillate, as Kyle eases into a smirk. He inches closer, their lips barely touching, taking in the Kenny's menthol breath. Then, speaking into his mouth, in a tempting whisper, "So fuck me like a firework, smokey."
They kiss, until the firecracker fades, Kenny tonguing the roof of Kyle's mouth. But partway through, Kenny laughs, adding a little twitching to his Frenching, until he breaks away, "And you think my lines are cheesy?"
"Fuck off," Kyle groans, before he feels a finger, a finger toy with his rim. Another firework rises in the sky, as Kenny reaches for the lube. Red streams fall and, after that, Kyle stops watching the fireworks, and starts rivalling them all on his own.