A/N: Hi! I haven't written fanfiction for a long time, but here I am again because I didn't know you need an invite code for AO3, lol o well. I'm pretty rusty (not that I was ever that good LOL), so forgive me. I also deleted all my old, incomplete fics, sorry. :( If anyone cares, I can send you the one I saved I guess.
This is a one-shot.
When Stan has had a truly terrible day, it not only depresses him, it makes him nervous. These sorts of days don't crop up that often anymore, thankfully only about once every few months, but they're just too much what every single day used to be like. He'll be on edge all day, shackled by the thought he's going to revert and become the jaded asshole he was in high school again. They're bad days that aren't really caused by inconveniences like getting a parking ticket for an expired meter, or a picky client, or even by an argument with Kyle; he just wakes up feeling dull, unsaturated, and incapable of getting out of bed.
The moment his alarm goes off at seven thirty on a cold Friday in March, he knows already it's going to be one of those days. It takes an enormous amount of effort for him to swat his arm to his right side, eyebrows knitting in distress when he realizes Kyle must have left already. Stan secretly hates the mornings Kyle plans these six a.m. before-work software development meetings with Rebecca, because they rob him of clutching Kyle's body to his own and pulling him in closer every time Kyle pretends to get up until either they have sleepy morning sex or Kyle actually does roll out of their king sized bed and heads for the shower. Stan's muscles feel like rocks, like he'll never have the energy to move again, and he entertains the indulgent notion of calling in sick to work, but he remembers he has that fucking appointment to give an estimate to a residential client in the city this afternoon. Of course it's a residential client, everyone else knows you don't start thinking about sprucing up your yard when it's almost April, meaning the actual work will have to begin in the middle of summer. Seeing that it's already seven forty makes him want to cry or throw up, or both at the same time, but he comprises by setting an alarm for seven fifty-five, swapping his pillow with Kyle's, sinking his face into it.
Stan is supposed to be at work at eight, but he can't remember if he was ever on time even when he first started five years ago. At eight thirty, he's pulling into Mountain Springs Landscape Design's understandably well-kept parking lot, at the same time trying to be discrete about sniffing his pits because a shower had just seemed shitty, and he slept too late anyway. The Auraria branch is new, and the building is as beautiful as the tiny parking lot: coral bricks, lots of tall skinny windows, and a small awning over the entrance with two swirly, wrought-iron benches. The daffodils are just peeking out of the wet soil, which pisses Stan off because they really should know better – the thermostat has barely graced forty lately. As he's pulling out his laptop over his cubicle desk, he's thinking about how much coffee he'll have to drink to be distracted enough by the shaky caffeine rush to forget how unreasonably miserable he is. He's taken aback when Darla leans over the carpeted separator, hovering above a thumbtacked photo of him and Kyle from two Christmases ago that his mom took.
"Look who finally decided to join us!" she half-sings, half-says, smiling toothily. Her bony fingers are twirling the stirrer in her own cup of coffee, which is more milk than coffee, something that Kyle would probably comment on if he ever saw it.
"Slept in. Just tired today," he says, hoping it comes out at least neutral-sounding, but Darla's right nostril twitches and she tosses the entirety of her hair back as she sinks out of view. Stan can hear her clearly murmur, "Okay, Mr. Grouchy-pants." Darla is obtuse and sometimes frankly irritating, but Stan does genuinely like her, and not just because she brings in Dunkin Donuts once in a while, but because she's smart and driven in a way that reminds him of Wendy.
He mutters, "Sorry," from his cubicle, and makes his way to the table with the coffee urn in the break room, hoping nobody else wants to strike up a conversation with him. Pouring it into the styrofoam cup reminds him how he used to skip homeroom and most of first period to smoke and drink cheap gas station coffee with Kenny and Craig in high school. Thinking about Kyle's disappointed grimaces he would offer Stan all throughout second period French makes him feel for real sick, disgusted with his old self, and irritated, as if Kyle has ever known what it's like to feel like this. Rationally, he's fairly certain that tomorrow he'll wake up the everyday normal Stan, who's easygoing and content, but right now he wants to punch that Stan in the face.
By lunch time, he's made no significant progress on the 3D version of the CAD drawing for the final phase of the botanical garden in Aurora Highlands, which should worry him more, because the planters are scheduled to start in a little over a week. He has somehow managed to down three and a half cups of coffee, and instead of motivating him, the caffeine has just made him more agitated. Every few minutes he catches himself agonizing about having to go to some douchebag's fancy downtown mansion, which is sad in itself because he considers getting to work outside of the office once a week the best part of his job. It's not that he even minds the rare residential clients, although it's always less tedious to work with local government and other private companies. He decides he's definitely not fucking coming back to work afterwards, since Friday rush hour traffic will be horrible as always, so he packs his laptop back up and grabs his coat, planning to make a trip to the farther-away McDonald's, the one with a drive-thru, so he can eat in the privacy of his own car.
A quarter-pounder with cheese and the heat blasting on his face actually lifts his spirits enough to realistically see himself surviving what shouldn't be more than a two hour estimate appointment. He knows exactly where he's going, that row of Victorian style monster houses on East 10th, still pretty much Capitol Hill territory, and he cruises into downtown Denver shifting his eyes from the street to the car's digital clock and back, thinking he'll be home free to Kyle for the weekend. He just needs to buck up and give these people an idea of how much it'll cost to turn their yard into a "magic garden retreat," as the last residential client, a woman in her fifties, had requested. Number 1046 is an outlandish lavender house which manages to stand out just enough that he doesn't accidentally drive past it. He parks in the driveway and is about to yank his keys out of the ignition when a short man with obviously bleached blond hair comes scurrying down the front steps, shouting something.
"No, no! Please park on the street! My husband will be home soon and he'll want to park in the garage!" Stan lets his eyelids drop and pinches the bridge of his nose with his nails hard enough to leave a mark, then starts up the truck again. The man is standing in the middle of the front yard now, shivering in his short-sleeved polo shirt and tapping his foot like Stan should have known to park on the street for $1.25 worth of quarters. He tries to take a few deep breaths and get into his friendly neighborhood landscaper persona before tossing his laptop bag over his shoulder, which also has the iPad the company has provided for these sorts of estimates, mostly to look modern and "with it," as his boss, Mark, has said, rather than for pure functionality, although it's definitely much better than scribbling in a notepad. Stan walks straight through the grass, which makes the guy wince, and Stan hesitates for a moment, wondering if he should turn around and walk up the path from the driveway, but he determines that would be stupid.
"Stan Marsh, landscape architect for Mountain Springs Landscape Design," he says, forcing a smile and offering his hand. Introducing himself like that always sounds too wordy, ridiculous even. It occurred to him on the way over here that he forgot to write down the name on that post-it note along with the address, so he's praying this guy is gonna offer his first and last name, and hopefully the name of his wife.
"George Sheridan," he sighs, shaking his hand for only about a second, as if he read through Stan's ruse, or maybe he's just exhausted with the whole situation already. They go inside and he and Stan sit opposite each other on possibly hundred-year-old couches in what George says is their "parlor."
"Like I said," George pauses and throws his arm over the embroidered sofa, "my husband should be home from work soon." Had Stan taken a closer look at the email from Mark he received about this estimate, he would have known this client was a gay couple, and saved the deep embarrassment of choking on his own spit. But thankfully, George just smiles at this, and Stan smiles back. They spend the next entire minute smiling back and forth at each other, which is so hellishly uncomfortable it makes Stan want to stick his head in the fire that's blazing to his left.
He's relieved when he hears a car vrooming around the corner of the house, and George says, "Ivan's home." There's some shuffling in a nearby room, and what Stan thought was part of the wall slides open. Ivan, the husband, is the tallest man Stan has ever seen, easily a foot taller than him, which is freakish, because Stan is six foot two. Ivan ducks down to enter the parlor, allocating for his fuzzy Russian-style hat, but Stan thinks he'd probably have to duck down anyway because of his gigantic stature.
"Ah, the gardener is here already?" Ivan says. Stan was hoping the fur coat and hat, which he notices has that Soviet logo thing on it, was some crazy gay fashion trend, but no, this guy is really Russian, his accent still slightly discernible, and Stan feels like this is all too bizarre to be real.
"He's not a gardener, Ivanko, he's a landscape designer," George says, rolling his eyes.
"Well, architect, actually," Stan mumbles, not wanting them to think he's not registered and licensed, although he doubts they know the distinction between a landscape architect and designer. He feels like he's going to pass out.
"Let's go outside," Ivan says trudging past them, his footsteps shaking the entire room.
Stan follows George and Ivan through the kitchen door and into their barren, eyesore of a backyard. Thirty-five degrees has never felt better, and he gulps big breaths of chilly air, trying to stabilize his body temperature.
"We're thinking we want to put a water feature, right about…here," George says, hopping over to the right edge of the fenced lawn.
"Yes," Ivan says with a degree of finality, crossing his arms, as if Stan was going to say that was a bad spot.
"Uh, yeah, that's doable." There's no way for Stan know if it is doable or not until he checks where the sewage lines are.
"Basically we want it to be, well, nature-y, but we want The Wrestlers incorporated into it," George adds excitedly, facing away from both Ivan and Stan and waving his arms around. He obviously has a perfect visual of this.
"Wrestling?" Stan asks, disappointed that this had to get confusing again.
"Greek statue," Ivan grunts, and he and George laugh, like they are charmed by Stan's ignorance. Stan hates both of them, wants to head back to his car and break some speed limits on the way home, but the more complicated this gets, the bigger the commission.
"It's two men wrestling," George says once he stops giggling like an idiot, his eyes glinting. "We have it in storage, so we'll be sure to give you the address so you can bring it over." Mountain Springs Landscape Design doesn't usually transport giant statues, not glaringly homoerotic ones anyway, but Stan does have a truck for the express purpose of bringing supplies to the site when needed.
Mercifully, the rest of the appointment is mostly technical. Stan takes photos and notes using the iPad, which George seems impressed by. In addition to the water feature, they want an artificial stream to meander through the yard, with a little bridge too of course. Stan always has to hold back a groan when they're requested, because those two and a half foot long bridges are just so goddamn tacky. He's glad they don't want a wishing well or some other stupid shit, until they do, and Stan has no clue how he'll ever be able to transform this backyard into quality work. What they really seem to want is a replica of some ninety year-old woman's front yard. Stan never ever wants to come back to see these guys again, but he'll have to at least two more times, once to give them a report of the estimate itself, and again to overlook the construction. Maybe twice to do that, so three times total. He says he'll be in contact with them within a week, which prompts disappointed frowns from both Ivan and George, like they can't wait any longer for their super gay backyard makeover to become a reality.
Even though he's actually closer to home than he would be from the office, the car clogged city streets make Stan's trip home almost forty minutes. For the first time, he feels dumb driving a truck. It really is "extremely straight" as Kyle sometimes jokes, though Stan worries now maybe it was never a joke. Not to mention it's sort of redneck too, even though it has his company's name and logo on the door. Maybe he's too straight-acting and too much of a hick to be gay in the big city. He only ever feels gay when he's around other gay people or whenever his gayness is the topic of discussion, like at painful Broflovski family dinners, and that's not even feeling "gay," just self-conscious. It's bizarre to be reminded you have a fundamental difference that you don't think about much. At the neighborhood block party last summer, their neighbors down the street, another gay couple with adopted twins, had gasped in horror when Stan said he had played football until tenth grade. Walking home, Kyle said, "Whatever, fuck them," which made him feel better, because he had caught Kyle's wince when he said it.
There's construction going on too, of course, and every angry slam of a horn feels like his brain is taking a beating. Even though he and Kyle both work and live in the city limits, he doesn't think he'll ever be able to feel at ease amongst the tall buildings and bustling sidewalks, and once he finally makes it out of the real Denver into its quieter suburbs, he feels a small sense of relief wash over him and he's able to loosen his iron grip on the steering wheel. When he's on his street and their house is in view, he hears a thud, feels his front wheel hitch over something, then a painfully distinguishable crunch. He punches the brakes, feeling the blood drain from his face, and tries to tell himself it must have been a trash can lid or a baseball bat but he's also fearfully certain he just ran over one of the neighborhood kids. Still stopped in the middle of the road, he climbs down from his truck and crouches down by the wheel, pleading to God it's not a kid, anything but that, God, please. A hairy cluster of blood is glued to the front left wheel and the fuzzy decapitated body of what looks like used to be a groundhog or a huge mole is twitching behind it. Stan's never been happier to see a dead animal, but it's still the cherry on top of one of the worst days of his life. Stan Marsh, animal lover, just slaughtered a helpless animal in cold blood.
"Fuck," he murmurs, wanting to openly sob now as he lets the gore burn into his eyes, a scene which he understands would also be hilarious: a nearly thirty year old man weeping over fresh road kill in the middle of his upper middle-class neighborhood street. He can't stand the sight of it anymore. He gets back in his truck and creeps forward at five miles an hour, imagining he's in a slow motion sequence in a dramatic movie, worried any minute now something else will jump out into the road. Their house looks like the best thing Stan has seen all day, not because it's new and beautiful, a cookie cutter model which fits in with all the other houses in this plan, but because Stan knows Kyle is home. He parks in the driveway instead of in the garage since eventually he'll have to try to get the groundhog's remains off his tire. He opens the garage door from the button clipped to his visor, because he thinks of that as his signal to Kyle that he's home, and he lost the key to the front door somewhere in his truck anyway.
The freshly painted white steps from the basement to the ground floor seem steeper, harder to climb than usual, and Stan remembers how during football camp the summer before high school that asshole coach would bark, "Come on boys, push it harder, this is the last lap!" which was a lie, there was always at least one more lap around South Park High School's muddy field. But for the real Stan, today, pushing the door open into the kitchen really is the final lap, because he can hear the television's gleeful, instructive voice babbling about Chicken Piccata, and he's already picturing Kyle lounging on their oversized suede couch, eating unbuttered popcorn from a bowl resting on his chest. In fact, he can even hear the munching. He dumps his bag and coat onto the kitchen table, kicks off his shoes, and trudges haphazardly into the living room.
"Hey," Kyle says, still looking at the screen, then turns his head to look at Stan, his face shifting abruptly into shaken concern. "Dude, what's wrong?"
"Shitty day," Stan replies, closing his eyes tightly and stumbling toward the couch. Kyle moves the bowl of popcorn, which is mostly leftover kernels, to the coffee table, turns off the TV, and holds his arms out. Circling his own arms under Kyle's back and pressing his face into his chest feels like the old dust and grime that made a comeback today are being power washed away.
"What happened?" Kyle asks softly, almost whispering. Stan never knew before they got together that Kyle's voice could sound this gentle and this compassionate at the same time, and he wants to be the only one who ever hears it.
"These two fuckers. I also ran over a groundhog, I think." Stan exhales, groaning in the back of his throat. Kyle doesn't ask for more details – Stan's glad he knows that when he gets down like this he's never in the mood for conversation. Tomorrow he'll be renewed, and he'll tell Kyle everything that happened while he nods, then offers Stan thoughtful, practical advice. Stan sniffles into Kyle's t-shirt a little, somewhat disappointed he no longer feels compelled to bawl like an infant, and Kyle rocks him for a while. The sun starts to droop and color the living room orange.
"Let's order a pizza tonight instead," Kyle offers.
"Okay."
Stan doesn't remember falling asleep, but he wakes up draped in a blanket with Kyle hovering over his face, asking, "Aren't you hungry? I said the pizza's here." It must have only been a forty-five minute nap at best, but it doesn't feel like the same day anymore, and he feels rested now too. While they eat, Kyle raves about the latest idea for his and Rebecca's software company launch.
"Like, I was thinking, wouldn't it be great if for high schools they had those online interfaces where you can edit your classes and look at your grades and everything? You know, like they do in colleges? Yeah, I realize, some specifically catered to high schools do already exist, but they're pretty bad, and if we make the installation as user friendly as possible, we won't have to worry about those high school HTML teachers scratching their heads over how to install a database!" Stan knows he's specifically referencing Mr. Lemar, who taught Basic Computer Language at South Park High School, details which Stan remembers because Kyle would frequently complain about how deceptive the course title was: "It wasn't BASIC! It was just like, here's how to make an image map kids! I bet that douchebag doesn't even know BASIC!" Stan manages a chuckle, thinking of old Mr. Lemar scratching his shiny bald head, stumped over how to install a software package developed by Kyle.
"This could be it, Stan," Kyle says, too revved up now to wait to finish chewing. "As long as I can convince Rebecca there's no way we'll ever be able to code it in Ruby, I mean. I love Ruby as much as the next guy, but what high school servers are configured for it? I'm thinking MySQL for databases and PHP for the interface itself. Or maybe Javascript for the interface. Maybe," Kyle muses, grabbing another slice. Even though Kyle is essentially speaking another language when he goes on about this project, or his job, which is an information systems manager for a national tax agency, Stan is always charmed by how fired up he can get, even though he still has concerns about Kyle's company plan, since he seems to change the software idea every other week. Stan doesn't get why it has to be for high schools, of all awful places.
"So, do you feel a little better?" Kyle asks while Stan's still nibbling on only his second piece of pizza. He wishes he were hungrier.
Stan puts the half-eaten pizza down on his plate and focuses on the tips of the row of pine trees in their backyard to avoid looking at Kyle and instead of answering, he asks, "What if I became the person I was in high school again? What would you do?" He stops himself from adding, "Would you leave me again?" because Kyle has never technically left him, not even as a friend. Kyle has always lived in the real world, and it took Stan a long time to get close enough to the edge of his dark one for Kyle to pull him back.
"Do you want to be that person again?"
"No."
"Then I don't think you will be. I wouldn't let you, either. Become like that again, I mean. Not because, like, I wouldn't want to deal with your negativity, but because I wouldn't want you to suffer so much again," Kyle says diplomatically, holding his head up with the backs of both hands, his elbows on the table. In the way Kyle says the word "suffer," Stan can feel his empathy, even if Kyle doesn't know what it's like to be so tired and disgusted with everything you just want to kill yourself, something Stan will always be grateful for. Stan knows Kyle never intends for the things he says to come out as painfully sweet as they sometimes do, because Kyle is not the gushy type in the least. Stan knows he only says it because it's true – he'll never let him slip into the darkness again – and Stan can feel that truth when he looks at Kyle, whose eyes are smiling, like they're saying, "How could you ever be so silly as to think I haven't got your back too?"
They spend the evening on the couch in front of the TV, Stan's legs draped over Kyle's, serving as a makeshift laptop desk while Kyle whacks the keys, absorbed in tinkering out lines of code. They go to bed at ten, earlier than Stan can ever remember them going to bed on a Friday night, but he's still exhausted even after the nap, and Kyle is too, since he's been up for God knows how long. Stan wakes up to the same ticky-tack sound a full twelve hours later, enjoying the lingering satisfaction of one of those uncommon, perfectly restful sleeps.
"Hi," he says, propping himself up on his right arm.
"Hi," Kyle responds, his face only about two inches away from his laptop screen. He sighs and closes the lid loudly, yanks his dark framed thick lenses off with one hand and rubs his eyeballs with his palms.
"I woke up at six and couldn't fall back asleep. I feel like I'm wired," Kyle moans.
"That's eight hours though. Hey, let me hug you." Stan pulls Kyle into him, pressing his face into his auburn curls.
"You smell good."
"I wish I could say the same about you. Jesus, Stan," Kyle quips, taking a whiff of Stan's arm.
"Oh yeah, I forgot to shower yesterday," Stan says like he thinks this is no big deal, because it will gross Kyle out.
"Hey, tell me something," Stan begins, serious now. "Do you think I'm, uh, gay enough?"
"Well, your boner is basically wedged between my butt cheeks, so I would say that's definitely gay enough. But what the hell does that even mean, 'gay enough'?"
"Well, I drive a truck."
"Is there a gay car?" Kyle asks.
"I don't know. Maybe."
"Do you want to fuck me? Are you gay enough for that?"
"Yes. Definitely gay enough to fuck you."
Stan slides his hand under the waistband of Kyle's flannel pajama pants, pulling them down as much as he can until Kyle lifts himself up enough to tug them off his skinny legs. Stan's only wearing boxers since he's always too hot at night, and he takes the opportunity to shove them off while Kyle leans over the bed to open his nightstand drawer and retrieve the lube. He hands it to Stan over his shoulder, and when Stan grabs the bottle, he can feel Kyle shiver. Stan grips the bottle too hard and dumps a little too much into his hand, but he goes with it, hoisting Kyle's leg up for better access and gliding the side of his slick hand down from the base of Kyle's balls, over his perineum. He traces the rim of his hole and can hear him clenching his jaw. Stan knows any second now Kyle will demand that he quit teasing him, so he pushes the first wet finger in, moving it slowly as Kyle clenches around his knuckle.
"Another?"
"Yeah," Kyle breathes, his hand traveling down to glide the pads of his fingers up and down his cock. He'll save the actual jerking for Stan, once he's finally in him. With the addition of his middle finger, Stan fucks him more deliberately until Kyle growls, "Don't you want to fuck me now?" as if the prep is only a test of Stan's self-control.
"Yeah. I do," Stan confirms, removing his fingers and using them to pump his cock to get it harder. He squirts another dollop of lube onto himself, even though everything around him feels wet enough already, either from lube or sweat or precome. Stan touches his cockhead to Kyle's entrance, scoots forward a bit, then pushes his length in, probably too fast at first, he thinks guiltily, so he pauses before he inches in as far as he can given their position. Once Stan's chest is hard-pressed to Kyle's back, he feels Kyle release a heavy breath, and Stan begins to fuck him in long, slow strokes. Kyle holds his leg up himself, allowing for Stan to loosely grip his dick. He thumbs at Kyle's slit, rubbing the slippery precome up and down the underside of his shaft.
Stan knows Kyle doesn't want to come this way, he wants to be fucked hard and fast, which can't be facilitated in this position, so Stan pulls out, eliciting an angry whine from Kyle, and he pulls Kyle's hips up and thrusts into him again. They sigh simultaneously with how good the change in position feels, how much faster Stan can go now.
Stan finds Kyle's dick again and pumps it for real this time, and he can feel Kyle coming around him, squeezing him impossibly tight, before he even feels Kyle's come is dribbling over his fingers. Stan is one last frantic thrust behind him, still ramming Kyle with tiny thrusts as he rides through his orgasm. He collapses on top of him, panting hard, and presses his ear against his skin, letting the rapid thud-thud of Kyle's heartbeat echo through his head. Stan slides out, because Kyle has straightened out his legs, so he'll fall out soon anyway, but it's less disappointing or something, when it's deliberate at least.
Stan rolls off Kyle, and he can hear him say from his face buried in the pillow, "You really need a shower now, Stan."
"I think you do too," Stan snorts, brushing under Kyle's ass and smearing his own come over Kyle's thigh.
They take a bath instead, and have breakfast at eleven thirty. It's a surprising almost sixty degrees, warm enough to replace their winter coats with jackets. Stan is desperate to spend the first nice day of the year outside, and he's able to sell Kyle on a trip to the zoo, because it's only fifteen minutes away and they haven't been there since they were in elementary school. This is a Saturday that Stan can feel will be amazing, like the ones from his childhood where he would spend all day outside with Kyle, riding bikes, climbing trees, and shooting hoops at the park. He'll tell Kyle yesterday's details eventually, probably tonight, when they come back to a dark house and the world is quiet again, the buzzing of the day having slowed. Kyle examines the groundhog clumps on Stan's truck, and they resolve to head to the car wash later instead of trying to hose it off. They take Kyle's car. On the way there, Stan opens the window a crack and the breeze smells just enough like the very beginning of spring that he can forgive those daffodils from yesterday. He can't blame anything for trying to reach the light.