The Other Table

by SekritOMG

So many boys in 11th grade at South Park High School are gay that an academic comes to town, looking for answers. Kyle agrees to help him. Slash. COMPLETE.

10. Chapter 10

This is pretty much for the people who asked me to finish this. (Believe it or not, there were some.) I've been writing this chapter since 2008, and I'm glad to be able to post it. I hope you enjoy! Thanks for reading.

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Getting through a school day on the false pretense that everything in life was normal was not easy for Kyle. Wendy smiled at him in chemistry, and he could only return it after reminding himself that his grasp on things was too tentative to let it dictate his demeanor. At lunch, he didn't know where to sit, again having to decide if he'd rather face the uncertainty he felt about interacting with Stan and Kenny, or the painful reminder of lunch with Craig. He emerged carting a tray filled up with wan iceberg lettuce leaves drizzled with amber-colored salad dressing and a plastic cup of lumpy tapioca — Kyle didn't even like these things, but he'd been so distracted in the lunch line that by the time a sophomore boy was barking at him to speed the hell up, he could only grasp for the nearest sustenance and move on. He still didn't know where to sit. Kenny didn't seem to be at lunch, but the thought of sitting with Stan still bothered him — he had no idea how to pretend they hadn't kissed the night before.

Then again, at his usual table, Craig was still holding court, talking to Thomas and seductively licking a popsicle, gesturing obscenely at anyone who contradicted him. Only then did Kyle remember that he'd kissed Craig yesterday, too.

Kyle dumped the salad and pudding off of his lunch tray, and went to sit by himself in the library again. For someone who'd kissed a lot of boys, he sure felt lonely. As it happened, his parents had been grocery shopping when he'd come home the night before, and didn't hear his key twisting in the knob. Ike was home, but swore he wouldn't tell. "I'll blackmail you later," was the best Kyle got. How he was going to get out again tonight was anyone's guess. Maybe if he just walked out no one would notice. Maybe if his mother caught him, he'd leave anyhow. After all, what could she possibly do — physically stop him from going out?

In Latin, Cartman smirked at him, making kissy-lips and batting his eyelashes shamelessly.

"Grow up," Kyle hissed after the bell rang. Their classmates where throwing things into backpacks, trying to get to the next period.

"I know some-thing you did last night that you weren't supposed to," Cartman sang.

Kyle was no longer shocked by what Cartman could fit into a tuneful taunt. "I'm honestly not in the mood to do this," he said.

"So who cares if you're in the mood?" Cartman asked. "It's no fun giving a hard time to someone who wants to be hassled."

"But isn't it supposed to be more fun if I respond to your bullshit?"

Cartman shook his head. "Absolutely not," he replied. From his pocket, he produced a fussy, compactly folded sheet of yellow notebook paper; unfurling it revealed a scribbled set of calculations running along a marked-up bell curve. "You see, Jew, over here" — he pointed to the start of the curve — "is you disinterested in arguing with me. As you can see, this results in you ignoring me and walking away. Over here" — he shifted to the opposite side of the diagram — "is when you want to argue. That's when you can get the better of me. Granted, that rarely happens, but I find it's much more enjoyable to win against a worthy opponent. And in the middle, the high point of arguing." Cartman tapped on the apex of the curve, labeled with a crooked star and an exclamation point. "And here we have the climax — I know you have a hard time achieving those, but even you can understand the high point of any good rivalry. I like it when you're not so invested in the duel that you can win, but at least interested enough so that I piss you thoroughly off. It's all about calculations, Kyle — the best generals, like Napoleon and Hitler, knew when to strike."

"I'm so glad you waste your time making up elaborate charts about how to get to me. I shouldn't even remind you that both Hitler and Napoleon were defeated eventually."

"Yes, but greatness can always be improved upon." Cartman re-folded his piece of paper, and stuffed it back into his pocket. "Auf wiedersehen, Kyle. Enjoy your date tonight."

"Hey!" Kyle called after Cartman. "How the fuck do you—"

But Cartman was gone and wasn't turning back.

XXX

After school, Kyle visited the main office with the intention of making an appointment with South Park High School's college counselor — a middle-aged lady who wore very short pinstripe skirts, and had a girlish, grating titter that Kyle could sometimes hear as he walked by her office. Maybe it was her off-putting personality that had kept him from doing this earlier, and maybe it wasn't. He got an appointment — next Friday after school; he was supposed to bring his transcript. "Where do I get a copy of my transcript?" he asked Miss Johansen, the school receptionist.

"I'll print one out for you," she said warmly, scribbling his appointment down on an adhesive note. "Best of luck, Kyle."

He shrugged and said, "Okay. Thanks." He wasn't really sure why he wanted to do this. He knew he had a 3.74, ranked fifth out of however many, and Kyle didn't care. He had help from some of his honors courses, but he had little patience for gym class, or art classes. He wondered if this was going to hurt him if he wanted to go to a nice college and get the hell away from Colorado.

XXX

When Kyle's mother picked him up from school, Ike was already ensconced in the front seat. It had been so long since Kyle had been driven around by one of his parents that it didn't even occur to him that perhaps someone else might be riding shotgun. So without noticing his brother, Kyle had opened the door, and thrown his backpack onto Ike's lap.

"Hey!" Ike squealed, tossing it right back at Kyle. "I'm here already!"

Kyle blinked. "Well, get out. I'm in front."

Ike rolled his eyes. "Not going anywhere," he protested.

"I'm older! You get in back."

"I was here first!"

"But I'm older—"

A loud blaring noise disturbed this argument, as Sheila leaned on her horn. "Kyle, don't be difficult!" she snapped. "Get in the backseat."

"I'd rather walk home."

"You are not walking home because I don't trust you, and who knows where you'll go?"

"Well, since I have no friends and this pathetic excuse for a town is missing anything of any value, I don't really have anywhere to go, do I?"

"Kyle!" Sheila unbuckled her seatbelt. "If you don't get into the car right this second I will God help me throw you in. Is that understood?"

As Kyle slipped into the backseat, cheeks red, feeling impressively impotent, Ike turned around to smirk at him.

"Don't push it," Kyle growled.

"Ike, sit back down like normal and put your seatbelt on. Kyle! You too. Seatbelt!"

"Yes, mein fuhrer." Kyle tugged at the seatbelt. "Whatever you say."

"That is so inappropriate!"

"Eh."

The drive home was not long, but first his mother wanted to stop at the post office, leaving left her sons to wait in the car across the street. Briefly Kyle figured that this was his chance to escape, and he could deal with the consequences later. But when he tried to get the door open, he realized his mother had used child-safety locks. This enraged him, but he decided to quell that anger and appeal to his brother.

"Ike," he said sweetly, scooting more toward the middle of the car so they could talk. "Can you do me a favor and turn off the child locks?"

Again, Ike got up on his knees and looked Kyle in the eyes. "I really think I shouldn't. I think that what will probably happen is you'll want to run out of the car. And if that happened, um, Mom would be kind of angry."

"Well, we don't have to tell her you undid the safety locks," Kyle said, trying to rationalize disobedience. "Just say you were trying to open her window, and you hit it by mistake, or you were trying to get the heat on—"

"I'm not stupid, Kyle." Ike rolled his eyes. "The heating controls are in the middle, not on the door."

"Oh, aren't you smart? Seriously, though, Ike, it would really mean—"

"No! Stop pressuring me!" At which point Ike turned back around and put the radio on at full volume. Unfortunately, Ike listened to this generic alleged "classic rock" station that usually played endless hours of hair metal and cheesy grunge imitators. Kyle groaned, and lay down across the backseat.

It wasn't long until Sheila returned. "That line, it's ridiculous," she explained. "Sorry, boys."

"It doesn't matter," Kyle muttered, sitting back up. "I'm a prisoner anyway. I can't go anywhere."

"I can give you somewhere to go," his mother suggested. She was driving down Main Street now, away from the post office, at a speed of about 12 miles an hour. This really pissed Kyle off, but he felt it was best to hold his tongue. (The speed limit was twice that, though, and it was nerve-racking.) "Your brother has krav maga at 6 p.m. You can do me a favor and drive him."

"Oh, super," Kyle said, sarcastic. "That sounds fun."

"But you have to come right home," she added.

"Oh, goody."

"Okay, that's great. I can have more time to make dinner now. I was thinking lamb chops. I have some in the fridge."

"Wow, super," Kyle lied. He knew he wouldn't be eating lamb chops that night, regardless of whether or not his mother was cooking it.

XXX

For homework, Kyle had a translation of 15 Latin sentences, all using the ablative absolute. The first was easy: "While Caesar lay dying, the senators were at home." Gradually they became harder and harder until the final, the most difficult, proved impossible to translate. Kyle got as far as, "Although it was said that as the slave was at the forum," something something, and then the end of the sentence was, "fornicated with." This made Kyle chuckle, and he gave up, and felt lucky he didn't have to read any of the fucking Aeneid that night. Maybe the slave wasn't fornicating. Maybe Kyle had mistranslated. He couldn't even tell who was the subject of the sentence. It could have been the slave, because 'the slave' was in the nominative and 'the forum' was locative, it could also have been any of the other nouns in the middle clause. Or maybe those were adjectives. Kyle was tired and impatient and he didn't care. He could leave one sentence untranslated, and if his teacher didn't like it, fuck that guy. Kyle still had not forgiven him for siding with Cartman about Dido and Aeneas.

At 5:45, Ike banged on Kyle's door, screaming, "It's time for krav maga! Hello!"

Kyle slammed his science textbook and stood up, pulling his shirt down. "How do I look?" he asked.

Ike scrunched up his mouth. "Um." He shrugged. "Why does it matter?"

"Oh, no reason, just want to look okay in case I … run into anyone I know."

"Accidentally?" Ike asked. "Or on purpose?"

"Accidentally on purpose."

"Well, that's not going to happen. You don't know anyone at the JCC. It's all old women who like self-defense classes. I mean super-old, like 35. One woman, she thinks I'm adorable and brings me a bag of potato chips every class. But don't tell mom because she'd say it's not gracious to accept a food-gift and besides, it would ruin my dinner. But I get hungry during krav maga! It's hard."

Kyle sighed, grabbing his bag. Then he dropped it on the floor. In a manic fit of anticipation, he'd packed an entire overnight bag, cramming the front pockets with condoms and little packets of lube. But at the last minute, he felt it wasn't such a good idea. "Okay," he said. "Let's go."

"What's that bag for?" Ike asked. "Why aren't you bringing it?"

"I'll tell you in the car."

On the way out the door, Kyle's father stopped him. "We just want you to know that we appreciate you driving your brother to his lesson," he said.

"Well, I don't see why Mom can't do it," Kyle said.

"Well, she has to cook dinner. Lamp chops."

"Yeah, I know. I know about the lamp chops."

"Come on!" Ike squealed. "I'm going to be late!"

"You do know that your mother and I, we — we only do the things we do because we care about you."

Rolling his eyes, Kyle replied, "I think that's what wife-batterers say, too."

"I'm going to be late!" Ike repeated, stamping his feet. "Kyle, if I'm late I have to stay late!"

"All right, fine, we're going." Kyle turned to head outside with Ike, grabbing the key to his Volkswagen from a hook by the door, to which it was tethered by a lanyard.

"I'll lock the door for you," his father called after them.

After getting in the car and buckling his seatbelt, Ike turned to Kyle, who was shifting to reverse and checking the rearview mirror. "So, what's your big plan?" he asked.

"What?" Kyle turned around to look for traffic. "No plan. Do I look like I have a plan?"

"Yes. You look like you're up to something. Are you up to something? What are you up to? Sneaking out? Sneaking out to where? Do you know someone at the JCC? I told you, it's only old women there, old women and me. You could sign up for a class if you want. They have crochet classes and also calisthenics. I think that one's during the day. Once when Mom was late to get me from a lesson I read the brochure. They have all these pamphlets on the wall by the door. I seriously hope you're not late to get me because I hate sitting in the building alone. Maybe you can just stay through the class, but don't make fun of me. It's a serious thing, krav maga. They do it in the IDF, you know."

"Ugh, Ike. Do you ever just shut the fuck up?"

"Sometimes." Ike blushed. "But, Kyle, I'm not an idiot. Maybe I'm shorter than you but I'm not stupid. You're going somewhere. I don't know a lot but I know when you're trying to look fancy."

"How is this fancy?" Kyle pointed to the black button-down shirt he was wearing. They were stopped at a red light at Main and Bonanza; Kyle had to make a left to get on the highway. The JCC was about three exits away, or 14 minutes of driving. Once, when he was bored, Stan had timed it — the exact time between exits on 285 heading toward Denver if one is driving exactly 63 miles an hour. And Kyle always, always drove exactly 63 miles an hour.

"That's what you wore to go out with Craig that one time," Ike pointed out. "I remember. To that dance."

"Oh, you remember, good job, that was like a week ago."

"I'm like the raptors in Jurassic Park. Have you ever seen that?"

Kyle groaned. He missed Ike being severely afraid of him. It made the kid a lot less easy to deal with. But Kyle knew that Ike knew that Kyle wouldn't dare risk his parents' wrath on something so trivial as sticking his fist in Ike's mouth. "Yes," Kyle gritted out. "I've seen Jurassic fucking Park."

"You're definitely going somewhere," Ike repeated. "And you are so not supposed to."

Kyle just grunted, and they drove in silence until pulling up in front of the JCC. It was an ugly old 1970s building in turquoise-painted brick, the sight of which made Kyle shudder a little.

Ike was unbuckling his belt, and about to say goodbye, when Kyle stopped him by saying, "So, what are you going to do, are you going to tell on me?"

"I think Mom and Dad would be pretty angry to know that you're grounded and I helped you get out of it," he said quietly. "You're such a dick, Kyle. Why do you have to be such a dick?"

"I really need to do this, Ike. Really. I don't think you can understand how much."

"So, tell me."

"Have you ever liked someone so much you just wanted to be with them every moment of your life? That whenever they were with anyone else, it actually hurt to breathe?"

Ike cocked his head. "I'm 10. Besides, I think if you can't breathe you should see a doctor. It might be making you stupid because oxygen can't get to your brain."

"Ike—"

"Sheesh, relax. I'm not going to rat you out. I hope you remember what a mensch I am the next time you get pissed and want to hit me or something. Then again, if you do…" Ike hopped into a defensive position and shouted, "Krav maga!" He lifted his hands into two supine fists. "I'll kick your ass!"

"Oh, Jesus." Kyle rubbed his eyes. "Okay, thank you. I'll remember. I promise."

Ike nodded. "Very good," he said. He toddled into the building.

Kyle sped off.

XXX

Leaving his car parked behind the library, his cell phone off and stashed in the glove compartment, Kyle dodged through the backyards. In some there were children, in others there were dogs. Generally there was no one, everyone seated at their dining tables having dinner with their families. Kyle thought about his own mother, preparing a dinner no one was going to eat. While he vaunted over a chain-link fence, he felt bad about it — but then his feet hit the ground, and he realized he didn't. Fuck her.

Stan's backyard was fertile, but unkempt. Weeds and crab grass ruled back here, and had since Randy Marsh decided abruptly one day not to mow any longer. Stan had never been so dutiful as to contribute to household chores, and the whole place was a mess, so unlike Kyle's own yard. But he didn't really care. He didn't like Stan for his dandelions, he liked him for his heart or whatever. Maybe his triceps. Maybe. Kyle liked to think he wasn't that shallow.

He was weak, though, his lungs burning from all the running and jumping and fighting and climbing he'd been up to, and at a loss for how to get Stan's attention without a phone. Could he climb up the side of Stan's house, knock on the window? Kyle searched for a foothold, but found only an even façade of green-painted brick. He didn't want to ring the bell, or even knock on the back door — Randy might not care, but he knew Sharon Marsh would turn him in immediately to his mother. They were in communication about this sort of thing, problems with their children. Kyle decided not to risk it.

He remembered when Craig had come to his window on a Saturday morning, trying to get his attention. What had Craig thrown? Gumballs. In retrospect it seemed retarded to Kyle, juvenile and sloppy. But it had worked, hadn't it? Hadn't be been charmed by it? Kyle searched through the grass for a stone, then flung them at Stan's window with an exaggerated windmill gesture.

Tongue between his teeth, Kyle tossed rocks at Stan's window. Some hit and some missed, but with every stone that fell back to the grass, the urge to cry built in him. Kyle knew he was not a romantic hero, was not made for this shit. He was going to be caught by his mother throwing rocks at his best friend's window, having abandoned his car by the town hall and his brother at a JCC up some mountain highway, shirking his responsibilities to homework and his punishment for — for what, for wanting to be a human being, to have a boyfriend, to live a normal life in this oppressive, awful town. The injustice of it all burned at him, make him want to fling himself on the ground.

Then Stan stuck his head out of the back door. "What are you doing?" he asked, impossibly calm.

"I—" Kyle began. "The window — I wanted…"

Stan laughed. Not derisively — with amusement. "I was sitting in the kitchen," he said. "You should have called."

"Your mother—"

Stan walked over to Kyle, grabbed him by his shoulder, dragged him into the house.

"Is at the store. You have to stop overthinking everything. Look at you."

Kyle sniffed. "What am I looking at?"

"Nothing." Stan picked up a tangle of keys from the kitchen table. "You look good."

"I do?"

"Yes." Stan's voice was very heavy. It made Kyle want to die right there, to fling himself on the ground and bury his head in Stan's lap, to just suffocate like that. It completely aroused him and he wondered if maybe dinner was unnecessary, maybe they could just go upstairs and talk. "Well, um." Stan was shuffling his feet, clearly more awkward than aroused. "If you're ready to go, we can—"

"Yes," Kyle breathed.

"Um, I'm borrowing my dad's car…"

"Okay." Kyle clasped his hands, pulled at the sleeves of his jacket. His feet were crossed and he felt unsteady.

Stan shook his head. "Okay, well, let's go." Kyle dutifully followed him out to the car.

They went, unpredictably, to an Olive Garden. It was not exactly nearby, but not so far away — suburban Denver, pretty much, a short, stilted drive down from the mountains, during which Stan kept the radio tuned to local chat about the traffic. Kyle said nothing, just looked out the window, thinking about how these were all the things he was looking at on his date with Stan, guard rails on the overpasses and malls stretching from laundromat to pharmacy, with taquerias in between.

As they pulled into the parking lot, Kyle had to keep himself from exploding with indignation. "What?" he gasped. "Why here?" It was so big, so … public. Not what he'd been thinking at all.

"I dunno," said Stan, as he turned off the engine. "I'm not, um. I'm not very good at … you know, dating."

Kyle could not keep himself from saying, "No shit."

This seemed to make Stan at least slightly insecure, or at least he got defensive about it. "I guess I thought it would be nice," he said. "I was trying to think of a nice place. Plus, you know, I've come here with football. For after the games, you know. After we clean up. They've always been nice to us. And I've come here with a couple of girls, too, who suggested it. One girl from Middle Park—"

Kyle felt his stomach drop into his pelvis. He must have made a face to this extent, because Stan sputtered, "It's not like it means anything!"

"Oh, so you're taking me to where you take girls you're trying to hook up with when it doesn't mean anything!"

"No, I mean—" Stan seemed utterly confused, trying to talk his way out of this. "They have suggested it, and they obviously liked me, so I figured this was a place people liked to come when it meant something? When they wanted it to mean something? I, um — I mean, I wasn't thinking about it that much, I just want to go somewhere … someplace nice, you know? And out-of-town."

"Oh." The last part, at least, made Kyle feel better. "That makes sense."

"Plus I've been here enough that I know my fake ID works." He unbuckled his seatbelt, smirking.

An incredibly bubbly waitress sat them. Then another one came with some water. Kyle did not like the way these girls, this one in particular, looked at Stan. They seemed to know him, or something. He began trying to silently talk himself out of it, about to let it go, when their waitress set her water pitcher down and put a hand on Stan's shoulder, asking if she could start them on drinks. Stan ordered two beers, Blue Moon on draft. Kyle was not sure if he was interested in drinking beer with Italian food, but he figured he could get a little tipsy and this insecurity and awkwardness he was feeling would dissipate.

But then the waitress asked to see Stan's ID, and when he handed it over, she gasped, "Hey, I know you," she said. "You're Stan Marsh!"

"That's right, I am."

"You're the quarterback of the football team."

Stan shrugged, but she kept looking at him intently, so he finally answered, "Yes."

"Oh my god! What are you doing eating here?"

"Um." Stan looked around. "I'm having dinner with my friend Kyle."

"Oh, yeah, your friend Kyle," Kyle muttered.

"Oh my gosh, I go to school with you! I'm friends with — hey." The waitress furrowed her brows at Kyle. "I know you. Aren't you that gay Jew who got beat up by Eric Cartman? Craig Tucker's ex-boyfriend?"

"That was some other gay Jew." Kyle picked up his rolled napkin.

"Oh, sorry." She narrowed her eyes. "You look a lot like that guy."

"Yeah, people are always saying that," Stan remarked. "Anyway, um, you've seen my ID. Would you mind please bringing us the drinks I ordered?" His lips broadened into a smile. "I would so appreciate it."

"Right away, Stan! I mean, sir!" She bounced off in a hurry.

"Dude." Stan grasped the cold, sweaty glass of water in front of him. "What the fuck was that? You're most definitely the gay Jew Cartman beat up, and you're totally Craig Tucker's ex-boyfriend. What gives?"

"I don't fucking know." Kyle gave a quick jolt to his rolled-up napkin, and it unfurled, silverware tumbling out onto his plate. "I don't owe some chick working in an Olive Garden an explanation. Frankly, it's creepy. Speaking of creepy, what are you doing ordering drinks? I never said I wanted a beer!"

"Trust me, you do." Stan took a sip of water. "I'm going to get you—"

"What, destroyed? Drunk?"

"No, not — not destroyed. Just — you know, it'll be easier to do this if you're a little ... in the mood. I need to get you in the right frame of mind."

"The right frame of mind for what, Stanley, pasta?"

"You don't have to order pasta, order whatever you want. My dad gave me his credit card. Order the whole menu for all I care."

"Stanley, if you are insinuating what I think you are insinuating, which is that you're intending to … to — to have your way with me after dinner, or something, you're out of your fucking mind." Kyle's voice had dropped down to a whisper, but Stan heard him clearly.

"Well, what do you think I brought you here for?"

"You said to talk!"

"And you said if I bought you a nice dinner you'd put out!" Stan shot back.

"I was kidding! I just didn't want to eat pizza for the thousandth fucking time this year. I'm sick of it. I'm over pizza."

"Kyle, you were not kidding!"

"Yes, I was! I was joking!"

"How is enticing me into buying you a nice meal by implying you'd sleep with me afterward a joke?"

"Because it's not true and I wasn't being serious!"

"It's not a joke because it's not funny," Stan said. "What you said wasn't funny."

"Jokes don't have to be funny," Kyle argued.

"Dude, that's what makes something a joke!"

"Ugh!" Kyle slammed his fist on the table, making the silverware on his plate jump and the water in his condensation-slick glass slosh gently back and forth for a moment. The specials card in the middle of the table flopped over pathetically. "I'm not here to have sex with you! You said you wanted to talk to me, and I thought maybe—"

"Yeah, we should talk. We're talking, aren't we?"

"Fine, yeah, let's talk and eat some pasta. Then after dinner, what? We'll do it? That's great. Then you'll really respect me, I'm sure, I bet that'll make me an enticing prospect. Then what?"

"What do you mean, then what?"

"Well, then what happens? When do I get what I want?"

Stan frowned. "Well, maybe I had this wrong," he said, "but I was pretty sure what you wanted was to have sex with me."

The words sounded so hard to Kyle. He felt as if someone had socked him in the gut.

"Are you okay?" Stan asked.

Kyle nodded. He realized that, well, yeah, that was what he'd wanted all along — to have sex with Stan. He thought about it so much, sometimes in such ripe detail, that the entire concept seemed to have been stripped of any meaning.

"Yeah," he gasped, seizing the pint of beer that their waitress was setting in front of him before it had ever reached the table. "I do want that." He took an enormous gulp, watched Stan carefully, set his glass down, wiped his mouth. Suddenly he regretted doing something so inelegant, but Stan was just peering at Kyle from over his glass.

"Okay, good," Stan said, before taking a sip. "Whatever."

"No, not whatever!" Kyle now felt very thirsty. "If we do it, what happens?"

"I don't know what you mean, what happens?"

"Do we just roll over and get up and go back to being best friends?" Kyle took another gulp of his beer, for courage. "That's not what I want. Stanley, fuck, you're my best friend. Clearly I want you. So afterward, do we date? That's what I want, Stanley. I want a boyfriend."

"Why don't we just try it? And see what happens?"

"Because we're best friends! What if — what if it ruins everything?"

"We have to be honest with each other," Stan said. "We don't feel about each other how best friends should."

"Yes we do!" Kyle cried. "Stanley, listen. That's insane. You mean more to me than anyone alive, anyone I know, and that includes my immediate family. You mean everything to me."

"I'm not debating that, and I'm sure you know that I feel the same way."

"Actually, I don't know that. I — well, I haven't been sure for the longest time that you even like me."

"Well, it's true, there's a lot about you I don't like so much right now. But there's no way to get around the fact that I care about you so much more than I want to."

Kyle gasped. "I don't even know what to say."

"Don't say anything."

"I feel like I have to!"

Stan laughed. "Just, let's be honest here, dude. You want me, I want you. We love each other. Thoroughly. It's retarded to deny that. But the things I want from you, they're not things I'd ever want from my best friend. In fact, I'm not certain I even want a best friend. Because I'm not, you know, 12 years old."

Kyle felt his sinuses beginning to hurt. He had to bite his lip to stop tears from starting—not so much from sadness, but from utter confusion. He reached for his beer and realized that it was empty. "But I thought—"

"I care about you. Deeply. But I'm a guy, dude, and — I don't know, I think the sexual tension between us has reached its boiling point. Are you going to let me boil over, or not? There's only so many girls I can fuck and pretend it's you."

Whimpering, Kyle grabbed his water goblet and chugged about half of it in 10 seconds. Then he swallowed some down the wrong pipe, and started choking. Not choking, really — hacking. It was, of course, at this point that their bread sticks arrived.

"Here you go," their waitress said amiably. "You just let me know if you need some more of those. Is he — is he okay?" She nudged an elbow in Kyle's general direction.

"He'll be fine," Stan replied. "I think he's just excited. I think he needs another drink, though. Maybe a glass of white wine or something?"

Kyle tried to protest this in between coughs: "Don't … talk about me … like I'm not … here!"

"Yeah, he's great," Stan told their waitress. She shrugged and walked away; Stan began slapping Kyle on the back.

"Not helping!" Kyle got up, tossing his napkin in his chair, and ran to the bathroom, shoving aside an old woman and several different waiters. Once there, he bent over and coughed until he felt his tonsils were going to fall out. Then he splashed cold water on his face, washed his hands, and went back to the table, where a glass of wine was waiting for him next to Stan's beer.

"Cheers," Stan said, raising his glass.

"Sure," Kyle agreed, meeting Stan's drink with his own in a half-hearted clink. He sipped it — it was bitter, almost acidic. Kyle didn't know a thing about wine, let alone enough to call himself an expert, but he could tell that this wasn't exactly good. Still, booze was booze, and he figured whether or not he was going to bed with Stan, he might as well get as shitfaced as possible, so long as Randy Marsh was going to pay for it. This couldn't be any less horrible than it already was, he figured.

"Is she even going to take our order?" Kyle asked, thoroughly disgusted.

"I ordered for you," Stan said.

"You what? Jesus Christ, what are you even doing?"

"Oh, you never eat anything anyway. I got you some pasta."

"What kind?"

"Just capellini," said Stan. "With, like, tomatoes."

"Tomato sauce?"

"No." Stan shrugged. "Not really. Just tomatoes."

Kyle reached for his wine. He had no problems with capellini. He had barely read the menu, though, so it was just as well that Stan had ordered him the blandest-sounding thing. After guzzling some wine Kyle reached for a bread stick, and nibbled it slowly while he watched Stan eat salad. "Is that good?" he finally asked.

"Yeah, pretty good. You want some?" Stan pointed to the clear plastic salad bowl, shreds of carrot and iceberg clinging to the sides.

"No, I'm cool," said Kyle, thinking of the salad he hadn't eaten at lunch. "Or maybe just a little."

Stan served him a neat pile of salad with one wedge of tomato via plastic tongs. Kyle looked at his food, unable to help grinning. Stan had served him! It was so … Kyle wasn't sure, so he grasped at his wine glass, only to learn that he'd drunk the whole thing.

"That was disgusting," he announced. "Can we get a bottle?"

Stan smiled at him. "Sure. Anything you want." He reached across the table, taking Kyle's hand. Kyle looked up at him, and smiled back. "Kyle," Stan breathed. "I'm not good at this."

"Good at what?"

"I've never had a girlfriend."

"I've never had a girlfriend," Kyle repeated.

"Or a boyfriend."

"Well," said Kyle, "you're not gay and you get a lot of girls, so, so — I guess that makes sense, maybe I wouldn't want a girlfriend either. But I don't know. All I know is that you're straight, and you want to have sex with me, but if we do it I don't know what happens next."

"Well, fine," Stan replied. "Look, I don't know that we have to know, or even should know, what happens when it's over. I'm scared too, okay?"

"Scared of what?"

"Well, you keep saying, 'You're straight, you're straight' to me, like—"

"Like what?" Kyle asked. "You are."

"I've never said that. You're the one who's always saying that."

"Because you are!"

Stan rolled his eyes. "I'm getting you drunk at an Olive Garden while I proposition you. Clearly I'm not."

Kyle didn't think he was drunk, but the thought was enough to make him grab his wine glass again. Sadly, it was still empty. "But you sleep with girls! A lot!"

"Well, sure, but—"

"But what?"

Stan sighed. He leaned back in his chair. "Kyle, one by one, every guy in our grade has turned gay."

"Clyde's not gay," Kyle snapped. "Or Tweek, or Cartman, or—"

"Or me?" Stan smiled. "Look, okay, you're clearly trying to protect yourself, because if I'm totally straight I can't reject you. I can't tell you if I'm gay. I don't know if I am. I don't really think about it a lot. But I do like you. Can't we please just—"

Stan was interrupted by their waitress delivering their meals, Kyle's capellini and Stan's entrée as well. He ordered a bottle of the white house wine Kyle had been drinking, and the waitress ran off to fetch it for him.

She was too enthusiastic for Kyle's liking, and he was glad to see her go.

"What is that?" Kyle asked, pointing at Stan's dish.

"This is called 'Tour of Italy,' " Stan said. "It's a sampler."

"Are you ever afraid your heart is going to explode from eating so much?"

Stan rolled his eyes. "I can't build muscle if I don't eat a lot," he said. "And then I can't be good at football. And then I can't protect you from assholes like Cartman. Of course, you never let me. But I could. You know, if you wanted that."

Kyle's cheeks flushed.

"Do you want a bite?"

Kyle took his fork and stabbed a piece of chicken parmesan that Stan had cut. He chewed it slowly.

"Like that?" Stan asked.

"Not really," Kyle said, his mouth full. He was too drunk to notice. "But, kinda."

XXX

By the time they were done eating, Kyle was too inebriated to remember all of his reservations about hooking up. Stan had to guide him back to the car, not because Kyle couldn't walk, but because Kyle was in that drunken place where random things and tangents kept catching his attention, distracting him from where he was going. Stan was chivalrous about it, opening the door and helping Kyle buckle his seat belt.

They did not talk on the car ride home so much as Kyle babbled about what was on his mind, namely the Olive Garden ("They're so fucking nice to you to give you all that cheap wine," he marveled) and Frank Granger: "That guy is such a douche. Me and Wendy are gonna give it to him, I swear to god. He's got like a day to get out of town and then he's gonna be sorry he ever met me. It's bad enough that because of him Cartman's waddling around town in fucking skinny jeans—"

"Who's Frank Granger?" Stan asked.

Kyle groaned. "That homophobic douchebag from Duke."

"Oh, that guy." Stan shrugged as he zoomed down the highway. "I think sometimes you carry this shit too far. Besides, it's pretty fucked up to have an entire class of gay dudes. Maybe it would be interesting to figure out why. Wouldn't you say?"

"You don't get it. You're strai — well, you don't get it."

"Fine. Maybe I don't." Stan didn't seem bothered by this.

It wasn't a long drive home, but at the off-ramp Kyle asked Stan not to take him back to his house. "I can't go home," he said. "I left my car somewhere else and I wanna go home with you." He tried to reach over and get Stan to kiss him, but Stan was driving, focusing extra hard on the road so as not to get them killed while he was still tipsy from dinner.

"You should probably go home," Stan said.

"But I left my phone in the car and I didn't pick up Ike. Like I disappeared! I'm gonna be in so much trouble. If you want me, you'd better take me back to your place."

So Stan pulled up in front of his own house, sliding the car into park. It was not very late, but the streets of South Park were empty, quiet and placid. Crickets chirped in the distance, signaling spring. Kyle recalled that it would be his birthday soon. He'd be 17, and for the first time ever, there was a possibility he could look forward to having a boyfriend on his birthday, to things like birthday sex and maybe intimate presents, maybe another mix tape, maybe flowers on his desk in the morning. Kyle thought of Craig's calla lilies, and how he'd smashed them to little bits. Kyle didn't think he'd ever want flowers again, unless they came from Stan. But Stan had said he was bad at this, that he'd never had a girlfriend.

Kyle wondered: "Have you ever given a girl flowers?" he asked.

"No." Stan shut off the engine, and turned off the lights. Now it was dark in the car, the only lights nearby were dim, coming from the insides of Stan's house, of neighbors' houses. "Never. Why?"

"No reason." Kyle could barely make out the line of Stan's lips and nose, his profile in the dark. South Park had no streetlamps.

"If you come inside my mom's gonna catch you," Stan said. "They talk, you know, our parents. All our parents, I mean, but especially my parents and your parents. I almost never bring girls home, I never talk to my parents, not ever, but — if I bring you in there, they're gonna know."

"Like I give a fuck who knows. My mother told the entire town I was gay when I was 12 years old. Do you care if they know?"

"You mean, if I care if they know I'm bringing someone home? You're my best friend, but they can make assumptions, like my dad gave me his car and his credit card because I said I was going on a date. So, yeah, I do think if we go in there they'll know. And what I mean is, my mom will totally tattle on you. To your mom, I mean." Stan unbuckled his restraint and slid down in his seat. "God, I'm kinda drunker than I thought I was."

"That's good, that's super good," said Kyle, doing the same. He turned and said to Stan in a whisper that became increasingly louder, "I don't care if my mom knows. So what, so she'll ground me, fuck her. I'm going to be 17, I can do whatever the fuck I want. At least she'll know I disappeared for a good reason, that I got what I want."

Stan reached over, brushing his fingers against Kyle's lips. "What do you want?" he asked.

Kyle felt his cock thicken from half-hard to fully erect. He wondered if Stan's was hard, too, if he was going to get to see it, or if he should play very coy. He was no good at this. He almost choked. "I want you to tell me what I want," he breathed.

Stan's fingers moved down Kyle's chin, his neck, to the collar of his peacoat, to his clavicle. "You want me to fuck you in the back seat of this car," he said, grabbing Kyle's hand and planting it on the inside of his thigh, watching Kyle's eyes widen as Stan pressed his palm against a generous erection. "You want this in you, Kyle, yes you do."

"Yeah, I do. Do you want to be in me?"

"Fuck, yes, can't you feel how much?"

Kyle nodded.

"You want to let me in. You want me to press you against the back of the driver's seat and fuck your little brains out."

"Oh, god, Stanley." Kyle was trembling, trying hard not to grin. He didn't think it was very seductive to grin, but he could barely help it. He'd never felt happier, more optimistic in his life. "Do you think I'm cute?" he asked, then immediately regretted it.

"I think you're so fucking hot," Stan said, reaching over to unbutton Kyle's shirt. "Your ass is so beautiful, Kyle, I can't fucking help myself. When I'm with a girl and I'm pushing into her I have my eyes closed and I think about how fucking wrong it is to want my best friend so hard, but I'm pretending she's you, I'm pretending I'm sinking into that completely perfect ass. I'm so happy you didn't give that ass to Craig, dude. I deserve it, I know I do. I know you want to give it to me."

Kyle knew his heart was beating faster than it ever had before. He was so drunk on a combination of shitty wine and lust and flattery that he had no idea what to say. "Do you think it's like a pin cushion?" he managed to ask.

"I think it's the sweetest thing I've ever seen in my life," Stan said, "and if you don't give it to me I'm going to have to take it."

The words were so incredibly territorial that Kyle found them arousing. He felt like his dick was harder than it had ever been. Stan was kissing him on the mouth, sloppily, not at all like the one behind the liquor store, with half of Park Country's intramural football team watching. This one was slow, and deep, and Kyle kept trying to gasp or moan around Stan's tongue. Stan wasn't a suave kisser like Craig, and his mouth tasted like marinara sauce and beer, but Kyle really didn't mind — he found it wonderful. He wondered if he'd ever eat chicken parmesan again without coming in his pants.

Stan kissed down the column of Kyle's neck, shoving the peacoat off his shoulders, sucking so hard Kyle could feel teeth on his neck, thought he could imagine the blood vessels bursting. Kyle tried to reach for Stan's fly, groping for the zipper. He realized it was a button fly, and he blushed, but the heat in his cheeks and the heat on his neck were indistinguishable. Kyle gave up trying to get Stan's fly open after one button, after Stan had broken open his shirt from the collar down and began to suck at one of Kyle's nipples, the left one, which hardened into a tight knot. He was panting so hard, trying to shift his hips against Stan's flank or the car seat, whichever was nearer, gasping, "Stanley, Stanley." Then Stan bit down, catching Kyle's nipple between his incisors, at the same moment he finally managed to snake a hand into Kyle's jeans and below his underwear, brushing against the hair at the base of Kyle's cock.

"Stan!" Kyle shocked himself, hands flying to his mouth.

Stan raised his head, wiping spit from his lips. "Was that okay?" he asked.

"What? Fuck, it was more than okay! Why'd you stop?"

"I don't know." Stan reached out with the sleeve of his shirt to wipe the saliva off of Kyle's chest, sending chills up Kyle's spine. "You haven't called me that in years."

"Did I kill the mood?"

"No, no." Stan sat back in the driver's seat. "Let's get in the back. I want to fuck you."

"Stanley—"

"You want it, dude, don't get scared. I just had my hand down your pants. You're probably fucking dripping for me."

Shifting, Kyle sighed. He was dripping. He could feel how incredibly aroused he was, and every time he shifted he felt the tip of his cock smear against the fabric of his briefs.

"I'm not scared."

"Then let's—"

"But I can't have sex with you." Kyle leaned his head against the window, staring across the dark at Stan, rubbing his erection through his jeans, slowly, with a light touch — stoking the fire, almost. He could almost make out Stan's lips tensing.

Stan sighed. He crossed his arms, and put one foot, his left, up on his seat. It was too dark to make out, but Kyle wanted this to be Stan's way of showing off, his cock hard and obvious through his pants at this angle. "Is this just what you do? You tease guys like this all the time?"

"No," Kyle wanted to say, "I'm not like that." Instead, he said, "Right, because fucking sluts drunkenly, fucking your friends, that's way better. Wendy said you gave her Chlamydia."

"Maybe I did," said Stan. "I don't have it anymore."

"Right, who knows what you have now."

"Well, the last person I was with was Bebe, and she's not on the pill and she didn't have her diaphragm because she'd left it in her gym locker. So we used a condom. Is that good enough?"

Kyle wasn't sure. "I don't want you to fuck me until you have a clean bill of health," he said.

"Christ, I do! Why are you doing this? Why are you making this into a problem when it isn't?"

"It is!" Kyle shouted. Then, in a quiet voice, he added, "Because I don't want you to take advantage of me. Because I'm scared."

"You said you weren't scared to do this with me!"

"I'm not scared to do it with you." Kyle realized he had stopped rubbing his dick altogether, and he crossed his arms. He wondered if his cock would shrink back to normal, or if he would go to bed hard and end up coming in his sheets while he slept. Probably not, he figured, because that would mean he'd gone home, and going home would mean getting in serious trouble with his parents — and he wouldn't even have anything to show for it. He found these ideas completely un-erotic. "I'm scared of what happens after we do it."

"That's the same thing."

"No, it's not! Do you ever think about the people you bone? I mean, honestly?"

"Yeah, sometimes," said Stan. "But it depends on who they are. You know who you are, Kyle, don't you?"

Kyle shook his head.

"You're the most important person in my life." The sentiment in Stan's voice made Kyle's dick throb. "Why do you think I'm just going to, like, throw you out when we're done?"

"Because even if things go fine and I get what I want — I mean, if we start dating," Kyle clarified, "even if all that happens, well — relationships don't last forever. I learned that recently. So, so if, I mean, when things do fall apart between us…" Kyle sighed. "I can't bear the idea of losing you. It's worse than losing a boyfriend. If we do this, we start that process. It might last until we come in this car tonight or maybe we'll stay together for years and one of us dies, but you have to know that it ends at some point."

Stan leaned forward, so that some of the thin light from the windows of his house barely illuminated his features, and Kyle saw that he was smiling, and it was sweet, not lecherous or devious or self-satisfied or gullible, not like Craig or Cartman or Kenny or even Butters, or anyone else Kyle knew. It was just sweet, and incredibly Stan-like. "But we already started it," he said. "I feel like we're at the edge of a cliff, okay? Maybe we'll fall off if we stand here long enough, but we're so busy looking behind ourselves that if we walk away now, we won't even get to enjoy the view."

"That's a shitty metaphor." Kyle knew it was a simile, but he also knew Stan wouldn't care about the distinction.

"Kyle, this is life. Can't we please, please just have this? What else are you going to do, go home?"

At least Kyle knew he didn't want that. "I'm a virgin," he said, not sure if that was relevant, but he felt like he should mention it.

"Well, I'm a gay virgin."

"That's not the same, you've still had sex."

"I've heard your blow jobs are legendary," Stan said.

It made Kyle blush. "People tell me. But when we were breaking up, Craig said I was only okay."

Stan leaned back, and Kyle could no longer make out the look on his face. He wished he could. "How the fuck would Craig know?"

"Craig is legendary."

"If we're gonna do this, I don't want to hear anything else about Craig. I hate that guy."

Kyle didn't quite know what to say. "He was my friend," he murmured, rubbing his hands together. "Maybe I shouldn't have been with him, maybe that was a bad idea, but I've been so lonely, Stan, I felt so disconnected from you, sitting at that other table with Cartman, and I was stuck with Craig."

"You could have come and sit next to me at any time."

"He kept telling me I was too good for you, that you were a dick for leading me on when I clearly liked you. He doesn't like you much, either. I guess I'm glad for that. I'd rather be the axis of affection than stuck in a love triangle."

For a moment, there was silence. Kyle could hear Stan breathing, his inhales a little deeper than normal, his lungs a bit less effective. Then he said, "Well, let's go inside, if we're going," and Kyle happily obliged, following him.

Stan's parents were in bed, or at least not in the living room when they came in, creeping up the stairs. In Stan's bedroom, Kyle climbed into his sheets, shedding his jacket, throwing it on the floor.

Stan sat next to him, putting a hand on Kyle's hip, rubbing circles with his thumb. "I'm happy we did this, you know, whatever goes down."

Kyle was no longer drunk, but he didn't really feel sober, either. His stomach churned, forcing him up on his knees. Stan's fingers never left his side as they closed together, resuming their last kiss from the front seat of the car as if it hadn't even ended, like they'd never stopped to talk or even walk in the house. The lights were on (though Stan's bedroom light was a weak incandescent floor lamp) and though they were now just begging to be found out by Stan's inquisitive parents, Kyle felt more comfortable on the bed, more comfortable having said the things he'd said.

While Stan gnawed at Kyle's bottom lip, his teeth dragging against the wound that Cartman had given him some time ago, now mostly healed, he had managed to open Kyle's shirt, pawing at his chest. His nipples were hard again; he was hard again, and he now felt how hard Stan was, too. This time, a bit less drunk and at a better angle, he was able to tear open Stan's fly, feel the weight of Stan's dick in his hands. Kyle had a lot of dicks in his head he might have compared it to, but that didn't matter, because it was Stan's. Kyle pushed him away, gently.

"Have you ever seen a cock?" he asked.

Stan shook his head. "Not other than mine or my dad's," he said. "Or my uncle's." He laughed when Kyle made a shocked face at this. "Not, like — not like I was molested or something. I mean, you know, at baseball games when I was a kid. At the urinals or whatever. But, no, I guess that's the answer you're looking for."

Kyle was satisfied with this, and he opened up his pants, sliding his jeans and briefs to his knees. "Here," he said, taking one of Stan's hands and bringing it to his dick. "You made me hard like this."

"I did this?"

"Yeah." Kyle groaned when Stan touched him, cupping Kyle's balls; then, with Kyle's dick in hand, he reached back for the curve of Kyle's ass, spreading out his fingers, clutching, sighing.

"Oh my god," Stan breathed. "It's so fucking perfect."

"It's not perfect," Kyle said, although his cock was leaking at Stan's words, straining more at Stan's reaction than his actions — although it was difficult to tell. "It's too big. I know it's too big."

"It's just big enough," Stan said. "It's like a chick's."

"I find that vaguely insulting," Kyle said, although he was practically choking at how hot he found the idea, how wrong it was.

"How do I bring you off?" Stan asked. "You're so fucking hot, Kyle. I need to get you off. I don't even care if you let me fuck you, I just need to see you come, I need to make you come."

"Okay." Kyle pulled at Stan's dick, stroking it, rubbing it between his hands. "If you rub me off I'll blow you. I'll take you in my mouth, you can have one of my legendary blow jobs. They're fucking amazing. Craig's a fucking moron, and Kenny can dis me all he fucking wants, but I've made him come twice, like my mouth was already sticky with his come the second time I did it." Kyle blushed, feeling like this was too much, like he was crossing some line, either with TMI, or because while this story was true, it had been kind of a struggle — and it had much more to do with Kenny's stamina than Kyle's abilities, anyway. But Stan wasn't going to think critically enough about the details, and this knowledge was obviously turning him on more.

Stan reached over for something on the floor; it turned out to be a small pot of Vaseline.

"What's that for?" Kyle asked.

"What do you think?" Stan took a glob in his hands, spreading it together like he was scrubbing under the faucet. He was clearly a beginner at this, fumbling a bit while he stroked Kyle, dropping it a couple of times, reaching for Kyle's balls too often, squeezing them like he thought they were some kind of air pump, like maybe Kyle would over-inflate and then just explode. He didn't reach for Kyle's ass at all, which was disappointing; Kyle wanted a finger, maybe even two, even if it was just to rub his hole a little, hinting at things to come later. He thought about reaching back himself, fingering himself through Stan's clumsy handjob. It was Stan's talking that brought Kyle off in the end, telling him how hot he was, how much Stan was looking forward to fucking him in the future. "I'll pound you so fucking hard you won't be able to walk, I'll have to fucking carry you to school, and everyone will fucking know that I broke your fat ass when I popped your fucking cherry," he said. "You'll be all broken in on my dick, Kyle, you'll be useless to anyone else." That was what did it, not even so much what Stan was saying, just the way he was saying it, growling it, like he fucking meant it. Kyle came languidly, the first bit getting on Stan's stomach, dripping down to his cock, but the rest dropped onto Stan's sheets, as Kyle began to feel sorrowful, content, and relived, all at the same time.

"Thanks," he said when it was over, kissing Stan's cheek. "That was really nice. Sorry I, um, came on your dick."

"That's okay," Stan said heavily, breathing deep. He was still aroused, his cock bent up enticingly. "You're just going to have to lick it up, I guess."

Kyle was happy to oblige. That night, he went to sleep with Stan's arms around his waist, in Stan's bed, reliving the strained gasps that Stan had made while Kyle nipped gently at his erection. All the doubt and fear he'd had at dinner, or in the car, or in Kenny's bedroom, or in Craig's, or when his mother had lectured him at the kitchen table, or about Frank or even the future — it all evaporated. He knew he'd remember it later, but for the moment, he fell into a deep slumber knowing that Stan was exhausted and spent, and that Kyle was the one who had the proof of it crusting in the corners of his mouth, and inside of him.

XXX

Kyle spent his birthday that year with Sgt. Harrison Yates, in the interrogation room of the Park County police headquarters, drinking endless cups of coffee. At first Kyle didn't really know what he was doing there, just that Stan had come to leave him a birthday present, and ask if he could drive Kyle to school. Kyle wanted Stan to drive him to school, very badly, but he was grounded and his mother insisted that she was going to drive Kyle, and she didn't care if it was his birthday. But she wasn't cruel enough to deny Stan and Kyle the chance to talk for a few minutes on the stoop, Kyle leaning on the doorframe, blushing. It happened to be the first day of the year for good T-shirt weather, and Kyle stood there bitching about his mom, or his upcoming Latin final, or his reluctance about prom — anything, really, so long as he could keep staring at Stan's forearms, lean and hairy. Kyle had half a mind to ask Stan if he could swoon into his arms, if Stan would catch him, if he'd carry him inside and lay him on the couch.

But then two cops appeared, and asked if Kyle wouldn't mind coming down to the station for some questions. Sheila Broflovski could hardly argue with that. And Kyle was pleased to be anywhere other than school, really.

And so Yates was grilling him about Frank Granger, who was last seen four days previous, washing his hands in a the men's bathroom at Harbucks. "They say he spent a lot of time with you," Yates said, tapping the eraser of his pencil against a notepad.

"Who's they?" Kyle asked. He wondered why this was a one-on-one session. Did that mean they were only asking him these questions for the sake of thoroughness, or—

"We've talked to some people. Your high school principal recalls setting you guys up specifically to chat. Harbucks staff recall you coming in to talk to him on several occasions. A kid named Eric Cartman swears you guys were close."

"Oh, definitely take his word for it," Kyle said sarcastically. "He's a violent psychopath who beat me up earlier in the year, did you know? My lip is still not fully healed, actually. See?" Kyle stretched his mouth as far as it would go, pointing at the wound.

Yates rolled his eyes. "Well, is he wrong?"

Kyle sat back in his seat. "Well, no, I mean, I did spend some time with Frank—"

"So, relax, kid. Geez, we're just trying to get some information on a missing person."

"I don't know where he went," said Kyle. "But I told him his study was bullshit. I think he was starting to figure it out. He probably, you, know, just left town."

"Don't think so. His car's still parked outside of Harbucks. And we're got no Frank Grangers on any flights from Denver to Raleigh-Durham."

"Academics are poor. I bet he took the bus."

"Trust me," said Yates. "He's gone."

"That's pretty weird."

"Well, not that weird. People disappear all the time from Park Country, and especially from South Park. They usually turn up a few days later, claiming to have had weird dreams. And sometimes they just turn up again, and no one remembers they were gone at all."

Kyle thought about Kenny and his deaths, and how a long, long time ago, his brother had been taken by alien visitors. Kyle was hardly on speaking terms with either of them; he doubted Kenny would ever talk to him again, and Ike was grounded for having let Kyle drive off from the JCC, for not calling their parents immediately. Kyle knew that would pass, that Ike was young and forgiving and always had been. Ike might blame Kyle for being punished now, but he was only grounded through next week. Kyle knew that if either of them ever disappeared, he'd miss them forever. His life would never be the same.

He doubted anyone would be missing Frank Granger.

"So you think Frank was abducted by aliens?" Kyle asked, half-hoping Yates said that yes, he totally did.

"We're got word that some of his colleagues in the academic world aren't going to mind his disappearance much. We talked to a woman who basically wanted him dead. The organization that issued the grant that brought him here contacted us. Apparently he missed a big check-in deadline, or something? And his department at Duke's not happy. Apparently if he doesn't show up, they have to find someone else to teach Sociology 101 over a summer session." Yates shrugged. "But the last thing I need is Duke University breathing down my neck from 2,000 miles away. So if you know anything, kid, you'd better get talking. I mean, tell me everything. Anything. If we don't find this guy, I'm gonna have to do a shitload of paperwork."

"I guess maybe I'd talk to some gay advocacy groups?" Kyle suggested. "The nature of his research was — well, he was trying to isolate the cause of homosexuality. And I think some people might be touchy about that."

"So why'd be come here?"

"Because almost every boy in my class is," Kyle said. "Gay, I mean."

"How'd he find out about you guys?"

"I don't know."

"Did he figure anything out?"

"Well, I don't think so," said Kyle. "I thought what he was doing was pretty despicable."

"So that's why you stopped collaborating with him," said Yates, not really asking a question. "You were touchy about what he was doing."

"Yes." Kyle fingers clenched against his thighs. He reached for his paper cup of police station coffee.

"Why, do you disagree with his findings?"

"As far as I know, he didn't have any findings." Kyle was trembling. "Why do you know something? Did you find something?"

"Not yet. We need a warrant to get into his place, get his notebooks. We're still questioning, as you can see. He was trying to find out the cause of homosexuality, huh? That's fucked up. What do you think?"

"Me? What do I think? You mean, about what causes homosexuality?"

Yates nodded.

"Ugh, I don't know. Hormonal fluctuations in the womb? Watching too many cartoons? Having an overbearing mother? Having another dude's ass sewn to your face? All that shit together? Who knows? I don't even want to know. Like I said."

"Well, so why South Park?"

"Dude, it's South Park!" Kyle was surprised at how quickly he answered. He blushed, and said in quieter voice, "Looking for answers here is pointless."

"Yeah," said Yates, scribbling it all on a notepad. "Sometimes I know what you mean."

Kyle glanced at the tape recorder, and wished he hadn't said some of those things. Especially that thing about Cartman.

When Kyle was done it was almost 2 p.m. He'd still be in school if he'd gone that day, and he wondered if his mother would pick him up and make him go to his last class, gym. Kyle hated gym. He hated the whole enterprise of getting undressed and running around pointlessly for 30 minutes, playing kickball or, actually, it occurred to Kyle that they'd been doing a unit on pull-ups. Kyle couldn't do a pull-up.

But if he went to school, Stan would be there; it would be his only chance to see Stan for the rest of the day, or talk to him at all. Kyle was grounded, so grounded, that his mother had taken away his computer, took away his cell phone when he got into the house, couldn't watch TV, couldn't even sit in his room by himself with the door closed. His window was now bolted shut, and his father had the key. "We're only doing this to get you to focus," his father had said. "Finish the school year without incident and we'll give you back some of these privileges." Kyle had responded to them about as maturely as possible — he'd screamed, "I fucking hate you!" and run upstairs, buried his head under his pillow and cried. After about 10 minutes he was just crying out of embarrassment, at what a fucking loser he was.

He just wanted to see Stan. Stan had asked him to prom, the morning after their date at the Olive Garden. Kyle had immediately said, "God, yes," and then instantly regretted it; he wanted nothing to do with dances, with being seen by other people. He didn't want people talking about him, or to him: "Aren't you dating Stan Marsh?" all the time, in the halls of SPHS. Couldn't they just think it to themselves? Then Kyle's mother had said, "You're not going to prom. Are you crazy?" and, "If Stanley loves you, he'll wait until you're no longer punished to have a relationship. He's a good boy. I'm sure he can wait until summer at least." Kyle suddenly wanted to go to prom so badly, he could hardly stand it. He had all weekend long to brood about it.

At least at lunches Kyle got to sit with Stan, who would come sit with him at his table, shooting death stares at Craig. Kyle hoped Craig thought they were fucking. They didn't, they hadn't, there was no time or place — but Craig didn't have to know that. Kyle even realized that Craig had been nice to him, had never been anything but decent. But somehow he just wanted Craig to see how Stan squeezed Kyle's thigh under the table, how Stan let Kyle eat his fries without even asking. Craig didn't seem to be paying attention. Kyle hoped he was looking away in disgust.

Outside of the police station, Kyle took out his phone. He had to call his mother, to tell her to come pick him up. He wished he could walk home, but it was a bit too far, more centrally located for the entire country. Instead of dialing the house, though, he found himself texting Wendy: why'd you let cartman talk to the police?

He waited. He sat down on a bench. She was in school. Why'd he waste his time texting her? But a moment later, he got a response.

Because he wanted to. He was talking to Frank so it makes sense? Don't worry, Eric won't incriminate you. You didn't do anything wrong.

He wrote back: I always feel I've done something wrong. Maybe for the first time it's not paranoia.

She replied, Frank's gone, he can't bother you. And Eric won't either. I've made sure of it. Relax. I'm in ceramics, critique time. Gtg.

Kyle snapped his phone shut. He sat there for a moment, watching the buds on the trees across the street shake in the breeze. Then his phone signaled another new message.

And make sure to delete these messages!

He was glad she'd reminded him.

XXX

On the last day of school, Butters sat outside by himself. It was a half day, a mere formality, an awards ceremony in the morning followed by yearbook signing. Butters had won two awards, actually, for general academic distinction and his performance in Painting and Drawing, for a small canvas that his teacher had hung up in her classroom. It was a portrait of Eric, sort of abstract, the bulbous form of his figure mostly obscured by the technique, deconstructed into a riot of neons. Butters thought it was hideous, actually, and couldn't bear to look at it anymore, so representative it was of Eric to him. So he sat on a bench outside of the school, his certificates shoved haphazardly into his yearbook, which remained blank on the inside folds, uninscribed. He couldn't even bear to put his name in it, didn't care if he lost it. He'd forgotten he'd even painted that thing until they'd announced it in the assembly. But the whole thing just sent him over the edge. He couldn't be in there anymore, watching Eric canoodle with her. He couldn't deal with it.

Some kids had come and gone, getting into their cars or on their bikes and flying off for the summer. Butters felt immobilized; he couldn't move. He could go home, but to what? For what? To his parents? The thought would make him laugh if he weren't so miserable. He just sat there staring at the ground. He was wearing fuchsia patent Doc Martens and a pair of very short cut-offs, but he hoped he would catch no one's attention.

But, of course not: "Butters, dude."

Butters looked to see who it was. It was Craig Tucker and Kenny McCormick, obviously coming out to smoke. Kenny had a pack in one hand and another at his lips. Craig was holding a lighter — and a flask.

"You look like shit," Craig said, handing Butters the flask. Butters took it, and put it in his lap. Craig rolled his eyes at him, but Butters wasn't really sure why Craig was giving it to him. "That's Jack," he said, pointing at Butters crotch. "Take a swig."

"What's wrong?" Kenny asked, cigarette between his lips.

"Everything's horrible," Butters said. He was not drinking from the flask. Yet.

"Aw, no, dude, school's over." Kenny paused while Craig reached over to light his cigarette, then they swapped. Butters looked up Kenny, how beautiful he was, how gracefully he smoked, his fingers long and controlled, not like Eric's.

Butters moaned, and put his head in his hands.

"Butters, no, dude." Kenny sat next to him. He already smelled like bourbon, mingling with smoke. "I know, the last day, it's rough. I saw your painting, though, dude. It's good. I really liked it. Neon's pretty sick."

"Yeah," Craig agreed. "It's like, almost ironic. Kind of awesome. This school's such a shithole. It's so much better than all those fruity still lifes in the art department. I've got a photo class next year, so maybe it'll inspire me or something."

"Looking for inspiration?" Kenny asked.

"I think I could go off of this train wreck of a semester for a while, actually," Craig confessed. "I feel like I've been wandering in the desert by myself for 39 years."

"Nope," said Kenny. "Only three. Seems like a common feeling, though. I feel the same. You okay, Butters? Junior year's hard. But it's done."

Butters looked up. "It's a portrait of Eric," he said.

"Oh, okay." Craig shrugged. Smoke curled at his nostrils artfully. Butters was not sure if he'd ever seen Craig without a hat, but of course, it was no longer the right kind of weather. His hair looked artful, messy in a calculated way, like Craig had gotten up at 4 a.m. and sculpted it. "Well, dude, it's awesome. I really like it. I'd rather have that than, like, a math award." He paused to take another inhale. "I didn't win any awards, though," he said, by way of clarification.

Kenny had, though. He'd picked up honors for his performance in Spanish and, to everyone's surprise, was now second in their class rank, trailing Wendy Testaburger. Butters was not surprised. Kenny had always worked hard.

"Butters, seriously, you're freaking me out," Kenny said.

"Eric, um." Butters curled up tighter. The flask dropped down to the ground with a thud. "He left me." His yearbook slipped from his hands as he balled up on the bench, but Butters didn't care. He hoped his awards fell out and blew away.

"Aw, come on. C'mere." Kenny wrapped around Butters with one arm, holding his half-burned cigarette aloft in his other hand.

Craig bent down to pick up the flask, unscrewing the top. "It's gonna be okay, Butters. He's really a fucking dickhead. I wouldn't worry about it."

"How could I be so fucking stupid?" Butters asked. He was crying now, his words hoarse. "Everyone told me, everyone told me but I didn't care, I just liked him so much. How could I not know? I'm so fucking stupid!"

Craig sat down next to Butters, handing him the flask. "Drink this," he said softly, holding it under Butters' nose. Butters took the thing, tentatively, but put it to his lips.

"Okay, okay." Kenny was rubbing his back. "It's all right. Us girls gotta stick together. Shhh, we got you. We got you. He's the worst fucking thing in this town, Butters. He always has been."

"Then why did I like him?" Butters cried.

"Something about people's shittiness is attractive sometimes," Craig said. "Trust me, I know. That can be a thing. Don't take it so hard."

"But I love him!"

"I know," said Craig. "I know, I know."

"It's gonna hurt for a while," Kenny said. "People we care about can hurt us a lot, okay? But sometimes that's good enough. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, right?"

"Yeah," said Craig. "Sure, I guess."

"And if does kill you, good. You can't kill something that's dead." Kenny took one last drag on his cigarette, and tossed it on the ground. He didn't stomp it out, just let it smolder.

"I don't even know what that means," Butters wailed.

"He means Eric can't hurt you anymore," Craig said. "You're free or whatever. That guy is such a fucking dipshit, okay? You're a beautiful person. … Ugh, fuck, listen to me, I'm saying the most retardedly sentimental, asinine shit. Fuck your big soft heart, McCormick. God, Butters, he's right, you don't want Eric anymore. You're bigger than his crap."

"No one's bigger than Eric."

"Maybe," Kenny mused.

"Wait, you mean—?" Craig flicked his cigarette to the ground.

Butters shook his head. "No, I don't know about that, I never saw it."

"We gotta get you laid," said Craig. "You'll feel better. This is, like, withdrawal."

"You could come spend the night with Chris and me," Kenny offered.

"I thought I was your third!"

"Well, fuck, form a goddamn line," said Kenny.

"Thanks, guys." Butters sniffed. "This is — this is real upstanding of you both. I don't know if I can — I think I need some time before I get back in bed. It's so touching. It really hurts."

"I know," said Kenny.

"Everyone knows," said Craig. "Life fucking sucks."

"You just let me know when you're good to go, Butters, okay? We're always here for you."

"Who, you and Craig?"

"Well, I meant me and Chris, but — yeah, why not?"

Butters rubbed at his eyes. "I think I need a cigarette," he said.

"All right," said Kenny. "That's what I like to hear."

Craig stood up and reached into his back pocket for his lighter. Kenny wriggled out his pack of Gauloises, withdrawing three and handing one each to Craig and Butters. "Welp," he said, leaning over for a light. "Seniordom awaits."

"Or something," said Craig.

"Can't wait to get outta this fucking town."

"I'll miss my parents," said Butters.

"Yeah, kinda," Kenny agreed. "But not enough to let it keep me here or something. I'm going to college."

"College seems like a bad investment," said Craig.

"What're you gonna do, then, cut hair?"

"Maybe."

For a while they just sat there smoking. Streams of people began to leave the school, heading out into the June day, the mountain air, the months of potential ahead. Soon the crowd had slowed to a steady trickle, Kenny providing cigarettes past the end of the bourbon, the three of them just sitting there, watching their classmates leave. Some paused to say goodbye; most just fled without sparing a glance.

Then Butters heard it, cringing: the sound of Eric's laughter, deep and cruel and unaware. It made him burst back into tears.

"Oh fuck," said Kenny.

Eric strutted over, and he wasn't alone. Wendy was with him, clutching the meat of his upper arm, and Stan and Kyle were trailing them. "Hey, Butters, what the fuck?" Eric asked, looking down on him. "We went over this. We're through, okay? There's no use sitting here having a little faggot pissy party about it."

"Fuck off, fat ass," said Kenny.

"Wow, Kenny, that's really useful, thanks," Cartman said. "I totally will."

"Fuck, Cartman, leave him alone." Stan was saying this. "Leave them all alone, dude. Go fuck Wendy in the back of your car or eat a burger or something."

"Fuck, I'm totally going to. But no, this is really pathetic. Butters, you gotta get over yourself. Besides, Stan, you're a fag now, so I don't see how your bias should convince me of anything."

"Eric, this is stupid, he's right," said Wendy. She was glaring at Butters, a satisfied smirk on her lips. "Let's just go. He'll get over it."

"I won't get over it!" Butters squealed. "You hurt me, Eric, you, you — you idiot!"

From behind Cartman's bulk, Kyle snorted.

"What?" Craig asked. "Butters sticking up for himself is funny to you?"

"I'm sorry, no." Kyle tried to cover his mouth, concealing his amusement. "It's not funny. I don't think it's funny."

"Yeah, you do," said Craig.

"Fine, maybe I do," said Kyle. "But come on, Craig, it's fucking pathetic. Cartman doesn't like you, Butters. He's straight. Let it fucking go. Stop being a pathetic little sad sack and, like, go live your life."

"I find those words highly ironic," said Kenny standing up. "And Butters is a good guy, okay? And your BFF here—" he pointed to Cartman "—really treated him like shit."

"I am not BFFs with a Jew!"

"Who cares if he did?" said Kyle. "He needs to get over it."

"Yeah, you're fucking super at getting over shit, Broflovski."

"Butters is fucking pathetic. Sitting here fucking crying because Cartman doesn't like him? Who does that? I'd be so fucking ashamed. It's fucking sad."

"Kyle, please," Stan was saying. "They don't deserve this. Let it go."

"You should be ashamed!" Kenny screamed. "You fucking turncoat backstabbing heartless little breeder whore!"

Kyle opened his mouth to say something, when Stan stepped forward. "Kenny, I swear," he said, almost growling. "You take that fucking back."

"What? No! I'm not gonna let him treat Butters, or anyone, like this!"

"Kenny, I love you," Stan said. "But apologize."

"Fuck, no. You guys need to get out of here. Leave us alone."

"Apologize," said Stan.

"Fuck, no. Sorry I can't play out your third-grade best buddies fantasy, but he's a fucking soulless cunt and I'm sick of everyone just letting it happen."

"Kyle's a good guy," said Wendy.

"Ah, fuck, no he's not."

"Shut up, Craig," Stan spat. "Kenny, I'm giving you a chance—"

"Fuck your chances!" Craig cried, leaping up. "You're not the arbiter of fucking justice here, Marsh, you're a fucking tool and you're shoved so fucking deep up Kyle's ass that oxygen can't even get to your brain. He's a fucking slut and he'll fucking ruin you and everything you love, but sure, let him pick on Butters and Kenny, they deserve it, for what? For not fucking kissing Kyle's ass hard enough, not fixing his stupid problems for him? He's sucked both of their cocks, by the way, just so you know, he's sucked everyone's fucking cock—"

("Not mine," Cartman objected.)

"—but he's especially sucked mine, a lot, so I hope when you're fucking kissing him you can goddamn taste me."

"We need to walk away," Wendy said. "This is ridiculous."

"Yeah, it's ridiculous that anyone gives the time of day to Kyle's insanity. He's fucking heartless."

Craig did not think that Stan was actually going to hit him, but he did, and Craig stumbled backward, a look of shock on his face.

"If you — either of you! — ever calls him a cunt or a slut or heartless ever again," Stan seethed.

"You'll what, you'll hit me?" Craig asked, clutching his jaw. "Again? I forgot that was how breeders solved their problems."

"Don't call me a fucking breeder!" Stan shouted.

This time, Craig deflected his punch. "Okay, fine, I can take it. I've had it up the ass, so you bet I can take it." He clenched his fists, going after Stan's left side. "And I can give it," Craig gritted.

Stan backed up, wiping his lips, and the sweat from his brow. "All right, Tucker. Let's do this."

"I'm dying to! Winner take fucking all."

"I don't want you fighting over me!" Kyle shouted. "Stan, please, I love you, you don't have to fight Craig. I want you. Please take me home, I can't wait for my mom to pick me up, I want to go home."

"Kyle, it's fine," Stan said. "I have to do this."

"Stan!" Kyle's hands flew to his mouth as he watched Stan attack Craig with a right hook. Craig hopped away. Stan was strong, but Craig was spry.

"Jew, they're not fighting over you," said Cartman yanking him out of the way. "They're just fighting."

"This is agonizing," Kyle moaned. Eric studied him — the unhappy downward bow of his lips; the way the dusty color drained from his cheeks. His eyes widened and his nose wrinkled. His stupid ears sort of twitched, and Eric licked his lips. He might be entirely clueless when it came to reading his girlfriend, but since childhood, he knew how to recognize the involuntary, miniscule muscular shifts that preceded the great, rewarding unhappiness in Kyle Broflovski. "Why won't they stop?" he whined, pretending to cover his eyes as Craig threw another punch.

"You're a fucking conformist asshole!" Craig shouted.

"You fight like a goddamned girl!" Stan shot back, trying to duck a shot that clipped his ear. "Ow!" he cried out. "My ear!" It was fairly comical, and Kyle heard as Cartman began to laugh next to him. He glanced past Stan and Craig, and saw that Kenny was giggling at this too.

Kyle wanted to scream at him, 'Hey, bitch! Don't fucking laugh at my boyfriend!' But before he got the chance, Butters grabbed Kenny's arm and cried, "It's not funny! You gotta stop this, they're fighting!"

Kenny rolled his eyes and, still somewhat chuckling, laid a hand on Butters' shoulder. "It's funny, dude," he said merrily. "Believe me, this is hilarious."

"But they're gonna hurt each other," Butters moaned.

"That's love, dude," Kenny sighed. "Love hurts. The better you think it is, the more it hurts. I know you know what I mean."

Butters didn't answer. Or rather, he answered with a strangled sob, and covered his eyes, only to peek out between the cracks in his fingers.

"I will fuck you up!" Craig seethed, deflecting Stan's fists as he taunted.

Stan actually laughed. "How?" he asked. "You have decent enough moves, but no ability to seal the deal."

Craig's face reddened, making his forming bruises more visible, and he gritted his teeth. "I got there first!" he spat out, before actually spitting at Stan. Unfortunately, his attempt just sort of plopped down on the ground. "Just remember that, everywhere you go, I've been before."

This really made Stan angry, so he grunted, and swung harder.

Next to Cartman, Kyle choked out a sob. "Butters is right!" he cried, tugging on the larger boy's jacket sleeve. "Dear god, why don't you do something?"

With a small laugh, Cartman ripped his eyes away from the scuffle, and looked down at Kyle. "Whatever, dude," he said dismissively. "If you can't take it, go sit inside and wait it out for your mom to get here. This is what men do. They fight. If you were a man, you'd understand that. Get over it."

"Hey! I've fought you!"

"Yes," Cartman agreed. "And you resoundingly got your ass kicked."

"Well, how does that not make me a man?" Kyle asked.

"I dunno. I guess maybe it just makes you a crappy man."

Deep inside, Kyle knew Cartman was right. With every punch either of them threw, his heart broke a little more. No one had even touched him, and he felt bruised, raw, defeated. The worst part was that he would not even be able to repay Stan's kindness, or Craig's. When Cartman had beaten him up, they had both been at the nurse's office, caring about him. But Kyle knew that they would both go home alone, bloody and hurting. Or perhaps Craig might have Kenny to soothe him, help him bandage something if it was too deep to leave open and vulnerable to infections, or even drive Craig to Hell's Pass if he needed something sewn up or set. But then Kenny would go to Christophe, and Craig would be alone.

Kyle's heart ached for Stan. Kyle was grounded, so grounded. He knew his mother would never let him go with Stan, stroke the soft discolored flesh of his wounds and tell him how strong and brave he was. They'd be apart all summer, or at least most of the summer. Maybe they could write letters. Did guys do that? Kyle never had. He didn't know. He watched Stan nervously teeter backward, too woozy to dodge Craig's punches. Kyle shut his eyes. He already missed Stan's arms around him, Stan's breath on his neck. It was going to be a long summer.

But when it was over, Kyle would go to Stan, and cling to him, and never let him go.

Kyle had waited so long. He knew he could wait a bit longer. He looked forward to the late-August evening when he could finally have Stan inside of him. It gave him something to focus on, to continue to yearn toward.

As Craig fell to the ground, scowling on his knees, Kyle hoped that during their final year of high school, maybe they would all sit at the same table.

---

Again, really, if you've read this from the beginning or are just seeing it come up on the site right now for the first time, thank you so much for reading. I'm sorry it took so long to complete, but I hope you guys do know that I always intended to finish it. I plan to complete everything.

Thanks again. It really means a lot.