Here we go again. Thanks to everyone who reviewed, especially SekritOMG. Hope everyone enjoys this
On Saturdays Kyle always woke up after Stan. He looked like a corpse, lying face down, one arm dangling over the edge of the bed, so his fingertips barley brushed the floor, his legs spread out in an inverted V. The smell of bacon grease and frying eggs usually dredged him up around half past eleven. If that didn't coax him from the sheets, Kyle could count on Stan walking in, shirtless and smiling, brushing a hand against his cheek and telling him in a serious tone that he'd almost scalded his chest making them breakfast. And Kyle, still in danger of asphyxiation by the pillow, would call him a liar. Because Stan refused to cook bacon in a skillet; too fattening and greasy. He microwaved each slice to desiccation, so they nearly crumbled in his fingers.
Today, there was no smell or sound of cooking from the kitchen, not when Stan walked in and shook Kyle.
"Hey. Kyle." He spoke softly.
"Why are you whispering?"
Stan paused. "I thought I'd try to be considerate."
Kyle thought he dozed off for a few minutes at that. Stan's hand was still on his shoulder, so he must have been wrong.
"What time is it?"
"10:30."
"Stan. You wanna be considerate? Get out and come back in an hour."
Stan's hand and warmth left him. He walked to the opposite side of the bed. His form must have blocked some of the light coming in through the windows. Maybe he cast an elongated shadow. Stick figure Stan. Kyle gave him eye holes and a mouth. The eye holes had their top edges clipped off. Worried looking eye holes.
"Appointment's at one," Stan muttered.
"And it's 10:30."
"Yeah, but..." Dull footfalls and Stan's next to Kyle's side of the bed.
"Dude, you cleaned the whole house yesterday, you washed the floors, the windows. You weeded our nonexistent garden."
"Trimmed the hedge."
"Two bushes flanking the entrance."
"Maybe I should have lowered the blade on the lawnmower."
"Any lower and you would have been churning the soil."
Click. Click.
Kyle's face scrunched up and he raised it from the pillow.
Stan's thumbnail slipped between his top and bottom teeth, the short, frayed nub probably dangerously close to its bed.
Kyle smiled. "You look nice this morning." Stan had on a soft grey sweater Kyle got him for Christmas. Pure cashmere, spun in Italy, nearly budget breaking, even at half price.
Grey and black, Kyle nearly grimaced.
Stan stills his mouth and returns the gesture; his lips are stretched tight by the nervous energy humming in his body.
"Really?"
"Oh yeah. You'll be the prettiest girl at the dance, no question."
Stan's lips relax, a wound closing by magic.
"Kyle, come on. We're supposed to show how...put together we are."
"OK." Kyle turned away, towards the window. It was a sunny day. Clouds peeled away. Naked blue sky. Dust flickering in the light. His head felt heavy, as though he'd been knocked down and was picking himself up from amongst broken remains.
Click. Click.
"Stan, come here." Kyle held out his hand.
Stan frowned but joined their hands.
"On the bed. Meet me half way."
Stan knelt on the mattress, his thighs mimicking the same V of Kyle's legs minutes ago. The light splayed against Stan's face; he would have been a perfect subject, even for a novice photographer.
Kyle ignored the urge to touch a sun splashed cheek. He unbuckled Stan's belt and hooked his fingers in the loops on his jeans, his thumbs digging beneath the hem of his boxers.
"Kyle..."
Kyle doesn't say anything; he exposes Stan in one smooth motion. Stan is soft as Kyle takes him in his mouth. He's half hard when Kyle runs his tongue along his head. He swells to full size when Kyle envelopes him to his base, then rapidly withdrawals, just a wet pop and Stan's long, shuddering breath as residue.
Kyle works slowly, edging Stan towards climax in tincture motions, using the tip of his tongue, moving forward and back in careful drags. He keeps Stan on the cusp as long as possible, his gauge of reference Stan's low, labored breaths, Stan's fingers pulling his hair, pressing into his scalp. He grips Stan's hips, takes in fully and releases him once, twice, and then Stan is spent, and Kyle is wiping his mouth. Stan's taste and scent. Simple. Unabashed.
"Better?" Kyle looks up and sees red cheeks and lidded eyes.
"You didn't have to." But he's smiling, grinning. He leans in and kisses Kyle, his hands first on his shoulders, then on his chest, his back, his stomach.
Kyle pushes him, lightly.
"One hour."
Stan stares at him, all trace of post coital euphoria drained from his face.
"Wait, Kyle, you just..."
"And now I want my one hour." He speaks matter of factly. No, I'm sorry. We won't have the test results for another two hours. Should have played it safe.
Kyle takes Stan's hand, runs his thumb across his knuckles. July through January. Simple again.
"You don't even want me to return the favor?"
"Nope. Just one hour. Wake me at 11:55." He's not aroused, not even tired anymore, but that doesn't matter. Stan would be fine now, and then they'd have their home session.
Stan gives him a last kiss and leaves, closing the door behind him.
Kyle turned on his side and stared out the window. He can see the mountains rising against the sky, capped with white. Horsetooth. Stan's favorite weekend retreat. If only they'd let Sparky II run around freely, Stan would probably take up residence. And Kyle would get more exercise than just a trail a week. If they adopted a child, those trips would become a thing of the past, for years at least. They'd only be able to take a toddler to the welcome center, take in the large photographs pinned behind glass, the samples of rock formations and trees that Stan never got tired of reading about. But he loved touching the rock face before he climbed it to get a better view of the lake, smelling the fresh aroma of pine trees, crushing the needles in his hands and then moving those hands through Kyle's hair and along his face, across his lips.
He swallowed. He could still taste Stan, vaguely, like something blurred behind frosted glass. Dull tastes. Stan liked the taste of pine against his lips.
The sound of sizzling and popping made Kyle sit up. After a moment he could make out smells. Eggs and peppers and cheese. He looked at the nightstand. Twenty five minutes left. Stan would have timed things down with a stopwatch. The smell made Kyle's mouth water and stomach loosen.
"Bastard. Trying to drive me out with food." He spoke without any conviction.
Kyle stepped into the bathroom after the smells and sounds of the kitchen started to gnaw at the pit of his stomach. He had extra time, and stood motionless in the hot stream of water for so long he was sure he'd used up a bath tub's worth of water by the time he'd finished washing.
Kyle entered the kitchen with his hair hanging in damp ringlets around his eyes and forehead.
"Hey. You're early." Stan's smile would have been shy, if Kyle hadn't seen it so many times before, when Stan wanted an early start on some project involving table saws and electric sanders, or when he wanted to get to the park just as the sun rose.
"You didn't have to," Kyle says, even as he cuts into the omelet. Peppers and cheddar and mushroom, wrapped in a delicate shell that Kyle told himself he could never reproduce.
"I wanted to. What else were you going to eat? Cereal?"
Kyle doesn't mention that he always eats cereal on weekdays. He finishes the omelet and places the dish in the washing machine. His cup is still half full with dark tea, still steaming as he takes a large gulp. Tea is one of the few things Kyle is particular enough about to buy at a specialty store. It's run by people dressed in green aprons and white shirts, smiling, enthusiastic people whom Cartman would have a field day mocking. Hippies, tree huggers, Democratic pussies. Kyle agrees with him, at least on the first two counts. But they know their tea.
"Sherri sounded pretty optimistic on the phone yesterday." Stan speaks softly and assuredly.
Kyle doesn't say anything until the cup is on the table.
"Of course she does. That's half her job." The cup is back to his lips before Stan can speak. From across the body of the cup, like a soldier staring out along the barrel of his gun, Kyle can see Stan's face absorb the impact of his words, his brow drawing down, his lips thinning.
"The house looks great, we're ready, we've had weeks of prep, and we'll do fine." It's rattled off like a list of symptoms and their possible treatments, with his best professional tone.
Stan sighs. "Yeah, I know. But it's just like back in school, when I took finals. I studied, went to class, took notes, but that didn't mean I wasn't freaking out on exam day."
Kyle nodded. His cup is empty. "How's Wendy?"
"She's better. A lot better." Stan tensed again, and Kyle prepared to switch the topic to Clyde and Craig visiting.
"Look, Kyle...the miscarriage took a lot out of Wendy."
"Right. I understand."
Stan shifted, bringing his thumb nail up, lowering it quickly.
"I was thinking, not now. But, if in the future." He paused. "If in the future she still has trouble, and if she wants to, and if you say it's okay."
"Stan, what..."
"I could, you now, donate my...material."
"Sperm donation? You wanna give Wendy your sperm, so she can have a kid?" Black hair. Kyle almost laughed. It would be perfect. Stan could even see the kid every week. He'd be an uncle. Uncle Stan.
Stan lept to a defense. "It was a fly of the moment thought. We both know that. It probably won't come to it." He winced. "But, I'm someone she's known, for a long time, and..."
"Stan, she had a miscarriage. That has nothing to do with sperm. She lost the fetus in the tenth week, it was probably environmental, even hormonal." And straight teeth, and full lips. And...
"But it's not just the miscarriage. She told me, Kyle. I know that it should take a few months of active...trying, but it's been over a year and a half. And...that's why I said what I said. I'm not going to jizz in a cup and drive over to her place."
That might save us all some grief.
"I understand. Wendy's your friend. Our friend. It's fine. And if worst comes to worst." He didn't finish his thought. His hand was trembling. He put it under the table.
"Kyle, just forget I mentioned it."
"All right. I understand, though. I do." His hand was wrapped around his knee cap. Fingers digging into the tendon.
Silence.
"Twenty minutes." Stan announced, his trepidation and excitement blending seamlessly. Cold ink in warm water.
Kyle rested his cheek on his fist. "Want me to give you a hand job?"
Stan tried to laugh. "That'd be a little underwhelming right now, wouldn't it?"
Kyle shrugged. "Maybe. Wanna find out?"
"We have less than twenty minutes, dude."
"More than enough time."
"Are you seriously thinking about this right now?" Almost a reprimand.
"It's a joke, Stan. She won't kick in the door if we don't answer it on the first knock." Freeze, baby pusher squad! You're attempting to engage in adult activities in the vicinity of an agent! Release your partner's dick.
His laughter morphed Stan's incredulity to concern.
"It's fine, Stan. Just thinking of a real joke." He stood and walked to the bedroom. The bed was still unmade, and Kyle thought of leaving it like that, but Stan would never leave the bed, like a dead animal with its innards strewn across the floor. Kyle remedied the carnage then went to the bathroom, brushed his teeth and returned to the kitchen. By the time the clock had cleared the remaining ten minutes, Kyle considered trying to manhandle Stan out of his pants and give him a second climax, if only to stop the tedium.
The doorbell rang and Stan nearly flipped the chair and sent the table skidding as he bounded to the front of the house.
"Hey, wait up. Togetherness, remember?" Kyle called, loudly enough to be heard past the entrance.
Stan didn't say anything until Sherri was standing beneath the frame, dressed in a freshly pressed suit. She could have passed for an auditor. Kyle would have been happier to air any financial indiscretions to the government.
"Stan." She shook his hand. Her nails were smooth and glossed in the sunlight. She looked over Stan's shoulder.
"Kyle."
Oh. No Mr. Broflovski?
"Hi, Sherri. It's good to see you." He addressed her as one of his patients. In and out.
"And you, Kyle. You and Stan have a beautiful home. I can see what you were talking about, when you said Stan was a wonderful craftsman." She looked at the ceiling and walls. Kyle couldn't recall much woodworking having gone into either.
"We can start with the kitchen." Stan interceded. Beautiful, high strung Stan.
"Lead the way." She scribbled something on a clipboard. Probably had a checklist.
Sherri continued her stream of pleasant, stale compliments in the kitchen. The body length bay window was something she'd always wanted in her own home. The floor was 'rustic yet new', and the counter tops, edge grain, because Stan said he wasn't good enough to make end grain, were of 'professional quality.'
Marry her, Kyle thought, rolling his eyes, taking in the softness of Stan's eyes.
"It's good you put a lock on the sink cabinet. There are quite a few things that could poison a child."
She clicked the lock into its original place and looked to the ceiling, as though she expected to find knives hanging from the sheet rock. She opened the drawers, tested the faucet, and turned the stove on and off.
Kyle moved next to Stan, arms crossed, and laid his head lightly on his shoulder, only to be shrugged off. He stared at Stan, mouth open and eyes narrowed, and Stan just shook his head, his own expression a botched imitation, confusion and apprehension effacing any indignation.
Stan grabbed Kyle's hand.
Oh, so now it's all right? Well, fuck you then. But Kyle returned the grip, steadfast and silent, wishing he could muster the strength of Stan's now limp fingers, the arms that could hoist bags of garden gravel like they were pillows. Kyle curled his fingers, ineffectually; Stan just squeezed his hand as though to give him comfort.
Sherri turned back to them. Kyle smiled.
"How about we go to the bedroom now?"
He tugged Stan forward, finally earning something more than oblivious sympathy. Three steps forward. Four fingers. Three fingers. By the time they entered the bedroom, Kyle's hold consisted of his hand wrapped around Stan's middle finger. He released it and Stan massaged the joint, frowning.
"Well, here we are." The light against the white paint work and sheets was so bright Kyle had to squint. He could see the blue-black burl of Stan's barely existent stubble against his jaw and cheeks. The sight started to arouse him.
"We're planning on putting the crib here, in this corner." He gestured to where a dresser used to stand.
Kyle walkd to his side of the bed, whispered, "And this is where I sucked Stan's dick about two hours ago. He tasted good."
Mercifully, neither Stan nor Sherri heard the comment, but Stan's eye still widened, watering against the glare of the light. He was against Kyle's side, his breath hot against his ear, hand on the small of his back.
"Dude, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Can we please just get through this and then..."
"Sure." Kyle spoke curtly. Sherri's a patient now. He has to assure her, make her feel comfortable, convince her that he's infinitely more knowledgeable and level headed than she could ever be.
"Stan's working on the crib already. Rosewood. It'll look even nicer than what's in the kitchen, and we'll know what we're getting is top quality."
Before Sherri could say anything, Kyle touched the wall.
"And we upped the rating on the insulation, so, warm in the winter, cool in the summer."
"Oh, of course." She spoke like someone being told the details of her illness in purely scientific terms.
Kyle lead them out of the bedroom after a few minutes; the bathroom passed, if only because Stan decided to store his straight edge razor in his desk drawer. Next Kyle suggested the lawn. They hadn't quite given into the stereotype of a white, picket fence, but Stan made a remark that, depending on how active the child is, they'll take a barrier under consideration.
Put up a chain fence with barbed wire on top. Then we'll have a constant reminder of what we're in for.
Kyle let Stan take over in the description of the lawn. He went on about how much he liked to garden in the spring and summer, how Clyde would walk across the frost crusted lawn and give them tulips, complete with neatly written instructions slipped into white envelopes, detailing their proper care.
It's during that explanation that Sparky II runs across the lawn towards them. A beautiful dog. The words roll into the air, and Stan was explaining the breeds that give the dog his grey fur, pointed ears and mismatched eyes.
Sparky II ran to Kyle, expectantly. He licked his fingers, muzzle quivering in a friendly admixture of bark and growl. Kyle's fingers traced patterns on the top of his head. He always thought animals were too simple for proper company, but now, he'd rather it were just him and the dog, in the kitchen, while the morning plodded forward without them.
Minutes later they're on the front lawn. Kyle distracts himself from Sparky II long enough to point out Stan's work with the bushes. The brickwork is latticed by the sun.
"Now the garage..."
Kyle doesn't follow them. Stan will have to show that all his saws and drill bits and sanders are safely stowed away from small, prying hands.
He looked at Sparky II.
"What about you? You gonna grab a circular saw and kill us all at night?"
He received another lick.
Sherri emerged from the garage before Stan. She looked cautious, and Kyle wanted to say 'I'm sorry. But there's nothing more I can do for you. You have to see a specialist. The growth is probably malignant." He would have made his voice dull and flat at the last syllable, like a pastor pronouncing damnation upon his congregation.
She glanced towards the garage before speaking.
"Kyle, may I speak with you for a moment?"
"Sure." He shrugged and didn't move. "Right here is fine."
Sherri's face relaxed. She was a normal person now, her lips a neutral line.
"Kyle, do you want a child?"
The question didn't surprise him. It was a dense, painful inquiry. He saw a glint from the garage, probably Stan adjusting a circular saw. Come on, Stan. Tap your inner psychopath. We can dump the body in the pond.
"I do. I'm just not comfortable with this whole process of intrusion."
"Kyle, I know it can seem..."
"Please. Don't condescend to me. I've heard the pleasantries, and the reassurances, and they're good for Stan, but not for me." Kyle didn't wait for her response.
"One of my friends came from a shitty household. His dad was a drunk, and his mom stopped caring. They fought constantly. Once, when he was in middle school, I almost had my forehead split open by a flying bottle of Coors. My friend is the middle child of three. From your standpoint, he never should have been born."
"I never said that." Her voice was strained. She tried to be cold, but she defeated herself. Kyle might as well have struck her.
"You don't have to say anything. I've met social workers. You can say he never should have been born into that family, never raised by those parents, his parents. But that's how I knew him. That's how he grew up. And he survived. We were with him. He's better than me. So much better. If I were selfless and he were gay, I'd say he deserved Stan. But. That's not the way the world works." If I were selfless.
Kyle swallowed as Stan came into view. He lowered his voice. "If this doesn't work out, then there'll be another way." Black hair and grey eyes.
"Stan will be disappointed, he might be crushed for a while, but I'll make sure he gets through it. And if you make that decision, all right. But don't smile, don't be sympathetic, don't tell us how nice our house is, while you say we're not good enough."
He left her side abruptly. Stan substitutes for her seconds later. He might be offering comfort, might be acting by reflex. Kyle gave him no indication that he might have just jeopardized the entire process. Shredded two months of hard work and thumb nail mangling anxiety. Stan's work. Kyle's hands tremble again, but now he has to shove them in his pockets, press them against his thighs.
"The basement next?" Sherri is cordial again. Kyle would feel bad for her if she hadn't recovered so quickly.
"Sure." Kyle walked ahead of them both. He held his head high, as though he'd somehow taken the corresponding road.
"Ten minutes, dude." Stan reminded him as he carried a bag of charcoal outside.
"Shouldn't you have started cooking like, half an hour ago?" But Kyle spoke to an open door. He returned to the paper. Stan got free copies, his reviews and op eds appearing at least once a month. Kyle checked the obituaries occasionally to see if anyone on the editorial board had died.
"OK, so I've got the grill set up. Beer's out on the table."
"Craig won't drink it." Kyle doesn't look up.
"Well, he can have orange juice then. I'm not serving liquor at a barbecue."
"Does it matter?"
"Yeah, of course. It kills the taste. I'm not gonna use home made barbecue sauce, just so Craig can guzzle Jameson after every bite."
"You make him sound like a dipso." Kyle turned the page. Something about tanking profits at ski resorts.
"I'm just going by observation. Is that today's paper?"
"Yeah. You wanna read something?" He looked up.
Stan grimaced. "There's an article in there about a rapist. He was caught last night, in Denver. In the act." Stan turned away, shaking his head.
Kyle flipped the paper to the front page. His mouth went dry.
Jason Cooper. Caught in a mall parking lot. He stared out from the grainy photo. A shock of red, tangled hair. His face splotched with purple. His eyes were blurred into a static of pixels.
Kyle closed the paper. Red mixing with brown or blonde or black.
"That's fucked up," he muttered. Stan was outside again. He stood and walked down the hall, opened the front door and stood on the lawn. Another cloudless day. Bare. Glittering. Painful, eventually. Kyle thought his hair must look like a comic prop from a distance.
Must be how Craig and Clyde found the place.
He waved as their car entered the drive, wasn't sure if Craig returned the gesture or just flipped him off. Old habits died hard, he supposed.
"Are you the welcoming party, or is Stan trying to put out a house fire?" Craig's voice was the same as always, deadpan and deep. His face was drawn up into an expression which seemed to mutely convey that his thoughts were too good to be shared with or interrupted by others. Then he brought out a brown paper bag, reached inside, and Kyle saw blue, shimmering in the clear air.
"I brought booze."
"And I brought my appetite." Clyde walked up next to Craig and pulled them together. Kyle always expected Craig to frown and distance himself, but there they stood, as openly affectionate as teenagers, as casually confident as old lovers. Kyle smiled, a small helpless expression.
"Stan will be glad to hear that, Clyde. I don't know how happy he'll be about the liquor."
"It's gin." Craig reached the door before Kyle, and let himself in, Clyde still close to his side.
Stan wasn't in the kitchen. He'd placed rows of quartered tomatoes, thick mozzarella slices, and prosciutto on a long a dish and left it on the table.
"Hm. Fancy." Craig peeled a piece of translucent meat off the edge of the plate and swallowed it whole.
"Medical business seems to be treating you pretty well." He tore into a chunk of cheese. Clyde set into the tomatoes.
"Enthralling us with the critiques of the cultural integrity of the country puts booze on the table too, it seems. How is the cultural integrity of the country, by the way?"
"Probably like the prosciutto." He picked up another piece and waved it like a mangled flag. "Flimsy and overrated." He swallowed the slice anyway. "But the aftertaste is good."
"I'll quote you on that."
Craig nodded. "Do. I'm gonna write an article, comparing our failing sense of morality to a piece of Italian deli meat. I'll put you giving Stan a blowjob as part of a photo column. The caption will be 'Is this who we're trusting kids to now a days?"
"Mhmm. And what? The meat will figure into that somehow?"
"Exactly. You should be work for a newspaper."
Then Stan and I could both be unemployed.
"And here's our host. Stan Marsh."
Stan smiled. "Hey Craig." They shook hands, both their grips tighter than necessary. Clyde gave Stan a one armed hug; pressed into one mass, Kyle figured they would have weighed at least two of him, plus one of Craig.
Craig raised the gin in front of Stan's face.
"I'm drinking this, instead of whatever shitty beer you have. You're welcome to join in."
Stan's expression was caught between a rebuttal and temptation. His eyes narrowed and he ran the tip of his tongue across his lips. He exhaled.
"You're an ass, Craig."
"Fine, but more for me."
"Hey, I said you're an ass. Not ungenerous. Half that bottle is mine."
"Half? I paid for this with my hard earned money. You've got a sugar daddy."
Stan spoke tightly. "Hear that Kyle? You're a sugar daddy."
Kyle didn't smile. "Please stop. This is starting to sound like a bad porno."
"No, Stan would need a mustache for that, and Clyde would need crotchless, leather pants and nipple piercings."
Clyde chuckled. "You're the one who tried the piercings, Craig."
"And for a month you got a boner every time I took my shirt off."
"OK, now that's too much, even for me. I've got..." He rolled his eyes. "I've got the meat on the grill."
Craig looked at Clyde. "You think there's anything suggestive in meat, Clyde?"
"Nope. Stan's got a dirty mind."
"Yeah, yeah. Diner'll be ready in about half an hour." He walked towards the lawn.
"Hey, where do you think you're going with that gin?"
"I'll save you half. You'll thank me when you're stuffing your face full of ribs."
"Ribs," Craig muttered.
"Too low brow?"
"I come from the same red neck, white trash town you do, Broflovski. I can handle some ribs."
"I think that speaks volumes about the cultural integrity of the country."
Clyde snorted as he took a swig of beer. Stan made no attempt to regulate their guests' access to the refrigerator.
Craig crossed his arms. "So I hear you and Stan are trying to sentence yourself to 25 to life, with a little bundle of debt and a large pile of shit."
Clyde winced, and Kyle felt his sympathy stir.
"We had a home visit last week. We're still waiting to hear back." Sherri was out of town on unexpected business. Kyle suspected part of that business entailed demanding that his reference reassure her that Kyle wasn't suffering from a personality disorder.
"How'd that go?" Clyde moved to Kyle's side of the kitchen to get a cheese slice. He pulled the chair out and sat down.
"She liked the house. She liked the yard. Hell, she liked the dog." But maybe not the Jew.
"That's great." Clyde smiled, distantly, as though recalling a long past memory. "You thinking about a boy or a girl?"
Craig interrupted. "God, do we really have to talk about this now? I came here to eat and get drunk, not talk about hypothetical kids."
"He's not hypothetical. There's a woman out there who's pregnant with him right now." Clyde was staring at the plate, rotating his bottle against the now damp table. He should have had a coaster, Kyle thought dully.
"Him?" Craig stared at him, eyes wide. "Clyde, you're either clairvoyant, in which case why the hell am I still working, or you've given this way too much thought. " He scratched the back of his head. His hair was glossy and shaggy, not as thick as Stan's. It lent his face an almost oriental fineness. If he'd had the gin bottle, he probably would have been a quarter of the way down the glass.
Kyle cleared his throat, made eye contact with Clyde, who shook his head slowly, his face set.
"That's all on the adoption front. Let's go see if Stan needs help.
Clyde was out the door already. Kyle caught Craig's arm before he could step under the frame.
"Can I talk to you later, when Stan and Clyde are tossing a ball between them and the dog?"
Craig smiled at the certainty of his tone.
"Sure. What else do you think I'd be doing?"
Kyle nodded and released his arm. Stan was brushing something onto the ribs. He'd already set the table and placed out a bowl of roasted potatoes and a plate of grilled, portobello mushroom.
"I thought you said he mushrooms went better with steaks." He stood about a foot from Stan, hands in his pockets, awkwardly swaying back and forth like a reed. Streaked with red, he thought, morbidly. He looked at the gin, cap loosely placed, contents oscillating as Stan did his work.
Stan smiled. "Yeah, they do. But I had 'em, and wasn't going to waste them." He flipped the final rib and regarded the flames.
"Craig doesn't know that Clyde wants a kid, does he?"
Kyle's eyes narrowed against the stream of hot air from the grill.
"No. I'm going to talk to him about it."
"Dude, don't. It's not our business." Stan reached for the bottle and took a gulp. "Could use tonic."
"What are friends for, if not to stick their noses in each others' business?"
"I'm serious, Kyle. Craig isn't going to take it well."
"He didn't take it well when Clyde brought up our adoption process. I know how to talk to him." But not to you, apparently.
Stan turned his head. Kyle wanted to touch his face. He smiled at the instantaneous realization that he could, and he did. He traced Stan's cheek bone with his thumb.
"I'm sorry."
"For what?"
Kyle shrugged.
"PDA. Enough." Craig took the bottle, tilted it against his lips.
"I'm not done with that yet." Stan made a half assed attempt at grabbing the bottle, but Craig took a step back.
"Yeah you are." He walked to the table. Clyde was seated next to him, but his back was straight, his hands on the table, palms down.
Kyle withdrew his hand. "I'm getting a beer."
Thirty minutes later, Kyle had a lazy buzz, his motions fluid but languid. His limbs felt like they'd been filled with warm, dense liquid.
Stan, fingers sticky and sweet, leaned forward, blocking access to the last remaining ribs and one lonely mushroom. Kyle felt the urge to eat it and put it out of its misery.
"No, fuck Tim Teebow. I almost stopped being a Broncos fan because of all the hokey religious shit he pulled. Separation of church and football."
Clyde laughed. "Come on. It was funny as hell, and he was a decent quarterback."
"Fuck you, Clyde. You did not just say that." He turned his head. "Craig? Did he just say that?"
"Fuck football."
"Fine. You and Kyle can go get hitched." He waved his hand. "I know someone who loves me." He tore a bone off the rib and held it in the air. "Come on Spark. Come get it." He raised the prize just out of the dog's reach. Once, twice. Then he sent it spinning through the air.
"Yes!" Stan jumped out of his seat, fists pumping as Sparky II caught the bone out of the air. "Now that's a dog."
"Wonderful, Marsh." Craig had decided even he couldn't forgo a glass at the table. He drained it and stood.
"Kyle, why don't you show me where..." He made a vague gesture. "Fuck it, just come in with me."
Clyde laughed. "That's what Craig said after our first date, when were at the door. Subtle and sweet."
"Go, go," Stan said. "You take Craig, I'll take Clyde. He at least likes football.
"Fine, but Clyde likes it rough, and he's not really in a position to bottom."
Craig slammed the door on Clyde's rebuttal. The sun was low in the sky, orange bleeding into red, the light soft. If they were on a date, Kyle would have complimented Craig on his timing and choice of location.
"I'm gonna go out on a limb and say there's more gin somewhere around here." Craig took a seat in front of the kitchen counter.
Kyle nodded slowly. "Yeah. You sure you want more?"
"Clyde will drive. He doesn't get drunk that often. And this isn't one of those nights."
"How do you know?" Kyle asked as he got a fresh bottle of gin. He twisted the cap off and set the bottle in front of Craig.
"Clyde only gets drunk at parties when he's bored. And he can get a lot out of life." He filled a quarter of the glass. "That's Clyde." Another gulp. "Got any tonic?"
"I'll get it later." Kyle decided his blood sugar could handle a few sips. "You've been working out, haven't you?" He leaned closer to Craig's forearm.
"Broflovski, I know Stan said I could have you, but you're not my type. It's the Jew thing. You bastards are really ruining this country."
"Yeah, probably. But, you have been, right?"
"Working out? Sure. Good stress relief. I'm not as beefy as Captain America out there, but I'm not a stick figure."
Kyle spit his gin laughing. "Stan actually dressed like Captain America last Halloween. That spandex left nothing to the imagination."
"Who were you? Wonder Woman?"
"Fuck you, Craig. I was the Green Lantern."
"Wonderful."
Kyle could hear the sounds of Stan and Clyde and the dog, shouting, running and barking. It sounded like the all American cliché, all dick version. All that was missing was the kid, trying to catch the dog, asking daddy to pick him up. And maybe there'd be another red head out there now. A bastard.
"Why are you such a dick to Clyde about kids?"
Craig exhaled. It was more a hiss, like he'd been burned.
"Christ, my sister asked me the same thing."
"And what'd you say?"
"I told her to fuck off and mind her own business."
So Stan might have been right. "You could tell me."
"And then we could paint our nails and talk about boys."
"That too."
Craig gave him a dirty look, then obscured it with his glass. He'd lost his expression of arrogant detachment, replaced it with one of sullen delirium, like he was in the grip of a mounting fever.
"I'm selfish." He said it with finality, as though that closed the topic.
Kyle waited for more. Craig titled his head and looked at the ceiling.
"That's it?"
"What else is there to say? I said it in English, right? I feel like I'm in the fucking principal's office again, having to explain why I punched some idiot in the face. I gave you a simple answer."
Kyle didn't say anything. Stan would have poured everything out. He wouldn't even be having this conversation with Stan. It would have come naturally.
"I love Clyde."
Craig could have said he was the Messiah reincarnated, whole in the flesh and blood and bone, and Kyle would have been able to restrain the spasm of his face.
The fever in Craig's face and eyes flared. "Don't you dare look surprised. I'm an ass to him sometimes, I know. But I love him. That's all there is to it."
Kyle couldn't make eye contact now. Of course, Craig...of course. Kyle didn't have a monopoly on love in its entirety. Just Stan's.
"One job. My dad worked. My mom didn't. They had me and my sister, and we barely made it by. Fucking foodstamps." He poured more gin on the melting ice cubes. They clinked against the glass.
"I like booze. I like restaurants. And I like going on vacation at least once a year."
"And having Clyde happy." Simple, of course. Axiomatic.
Craig nodded. "You catch on fast. Jew genes." He joined his hands, lacing his fingers together. "Craig and Clyde. I'd kick everyone else to the curb, let them drop off into a canyon, you and Stan included, just for him, you know that. Of course."
Kyle would do the same for Stan. Stan for him. Fuck Craig and Clyde and Wendey and...No. Not all of Stan's love. He didn't have it all. Stan would stubbornly say he'd save everyone, even if it killed him. So would Kenny. Kenny and Stan. God. Together. Together they would...
Kyle's hands started to shake.
"And what about what Clyde wants?" It sounded hideous, old, dead, coming out of his mouth.
"It's not about compromise." Craig almost shouts. "He didn't even tell me. Not directly. I had to hear him talk about your possible kid, and add it up with everything else he said before, and then it clicked. At a party. A party." He muttered into the glass.
"Talk to him. There. There's my simple answer."
"Yeah, just like we're talking now. Bottom line: I don't want kids. The fucking time sink, Kyle. Time. Money, OK. You make it, you lose it, you make it again. But god, youth. We're only young once, and I'm not sacrificing youth in exchange for a mantra of 'daddy, daddy, daddy,' and someone to push me off a cliff when I'm too old to wipe my own ass."
It was as impassioned a speech as Kyle had ever heard Craig give, and he was helpless before it, except to utter the same withered words.
"Talk to him, Craig. At least acknowledge what he wants. Otherwise, yeah. You're selfish. And that's all you are."
Craig's expression turned dangerous. The same face he still had into high school, when he carried a knife with him everywhere he went, and knew how to use it. When Christope the exchange student had made a remark about 'pussy, God fearing Americans' and Craig, in an unbridled fit of patriotism, had added a scar to the Frenchman's already impressive array.
Kyle drank from his glass, but didn't avoid Craig's eyes, not this time. The moment of fury passed, and Craig relinquished his grip on the glass.
"I just put it all together today," Craig said. He would have sounded guilty and bashful, if only Kyle's mind would accept that combination of emotions.
"Fair enough." He saw Stan and Clyde approaching from the window. Stan was shirtless and covered in grass and dirt.
"And Stan wants to artificially inseminate Wendy with his spooge."
Craig choked on his drink.
Kyle had been told by an obnoxious party to take a page out of his own book and talk to Wendy, face to face, eye to eye. For all his recalcitrance and proclaimed indifference, he waited almost two weeks, took off work early and drove to Denver. The drive would have taken all of forty five minutes in perfect conditions. As it stood, he'd spent over an hour stuck in traffic, because everyone in front of him slowed to stare at the crumpled remains of two overturned cars. The cars were entwined, crushed together as a couple, the sides folded like aluminum sheets. As he passed, perpendicular to the wreckage, the shattered panes of glass caught the light. Kyle recoiled as though he'd been punched; his left eye watered, purple splotches occluding his vision.
Kyle rubbed his eye and changed lanes. The traffic had loosened, and he didn't want to keep to the left. Stan didn't know he'd gone to see Wendy. So he'd only taken part of his own advice. So that made him a partial hypocrite. It wouldn't be the first or last time. Craig got along just fine, with the mass of grudges and resentments he'd horded over the years. But he and Christophe were on speaking terms. They went to the shooting range and pretended the paper targets were coworkers. Or God. Or Jesus. Or the apostles. Another of Craig's drunken confessions.
He turned onto 270, heading to merge onto 70. Fifteen minutes later, he parked in front of a two story, colonial style house, paneled with white clapboard siding, the windows flanked by dark blue shutters. The lawn was just a few feet of green strips, truncating abruptly at the sidewalk. Those few lines of green had gone unattended for at least a few days. Kyle moved along the drive and walkway to reach the door. It was painted the same color as the shutters.
Wendy answered the door after one press of the bell.
"Kyle?" All shock. Her face froze with it, and didn't release, even in the wake of Kyle's greeting.
She only nodded when he asked if he could come in. All the curtains were thrown open. The walls were white, the floors carpeted. Kyle curled his toes against the fibers, his socks too thin to offer much protection. Even he wanted to start ripping the carpet, replace it with floorboards. Solid, reliable.
"What's this visit about, Kyle?" Wendy crossed her arms over her chest, as though cold. Her eyes were sunken.
Get it over with, Craig had said.
"Stan."
Kyle walked around the living room. Two chairs on either side of a couch. Blue cloth draped over wood frames. A long, rectangular table in the center. Probably plywood, Kyle thought as he ran his fingertips across the surface. Stan wouldn't have approved.
"What about Stan? Is he all right?" She didn't approach him, but Kyle could hear the strain in her voice. Another patient.
"He's fine. Fine." Kyle looked out the window. He never would have been able to live in a regular house with such a small lawn. Might as well have an apartment.
"You and Stan talked. A few weeks ago." He went through the motions. 'We talked a few weeks ago. Your test results indicate...'
"Stan and I talk a lot." She pressed her arms more tightly around herself. She wasn't looking at him. She took a step back.
Kyle frowned. She's wearing a long sleeved shirt.
"Wendy, is..."
"Kyle, just please tell me what you want to say." Her head whipped up, and this time Kyle took a step back.
"Stan told me about the problem you've been having with conception. He also said he suggested that he might donate some of his sperm to help." There fine. Technical enough to be innocuous, but not opaque.
Wendy laughed.
"That won't be a problem anymore."
Kyle opened his mouth in silent incomprehension for a few moments.
"You're a doctor, Kyle. You should know what conception is."
He stepped forward. His skin prickled. "You mean..."
"Yes. A baby," she said, her voice wavering.
"Oh. Well. Congratulations." He spoke from memory.
Wendy gasped, then slowly shook her head. Kyle's heart started pounding. He started to sweat. The realization clawed at the periphery of his awareness as the lock clicked.
"Wendy?" The voice was breathless, deep and tinged with fear. Kyle heard the thundering footsteps but didn't move.
"What the hell is he doing here?"
"Eric..."
And then he was roaring.
"Get out. Get out. Get the fuck out you filthy ginger kike!" His face twisted, sweating and red and swelling.
Kyle didn't move. He never broke his line of sight with Wendy. She never looked at him.
The room trembled and Kyle's face exploded in a burst of pain and white. He hit the table and it buckled against his weight and he could do nothing except lie prone against the broken pieces.
"Eric, stop!"
Kyle could hear the ragged breathing above him, knew the danger. His face stung and burned. It would swell, the flesh would bruise and expand, fill with blood. Purple splotches. He sat up, not caring where his hand fell.
Wendy. She was trembling. Wendy. Fuck, she was trembling. Kyle's hand started to shake. He'd told her, he'd congratulated her.
Kyle's hand slapped against his mouth, vice like, as thought he could transcend time and space with hindsight."
"I'm sorry. I'm so..." His words stuck. He still had his hand over his mouth.
"Get out." Cartman said, barely comprehensible.
Kyle turned his head, saw a large, powerful beast.
Slowly, he rose from the ruins of the living room. Dust swirled in the air, caught in the sun. His face throbbed. He saw purple in his left eye.
Cartman turned from him, started walking.
Maybe to get a bat. A bat to smash his head in with, to paint the walls red. Red. Mixed with white and Black. No black hair and grey eyes. A shock red hair and blurred out eyes. Caught in the act.
Kyle couldn't look. Not up or around. He stumbled outside, into the light. His eyes watered, his hands trembled. He touched the car and his stomach clenched. He bowed his head and heaved, scorched his throat. He couldn't...
Stan. Stan. Stan. What do I say, what do I...You won't have a beautiful, black haired baby. His vision blurred again.
He couldn't have said anything to either of them even if he'd tried.