Chapter 11

In the car, on the way home.

I'm going to get fired.

"You're not going to get fired, Stan."

Eating dinner, poking at the food his mom sets in front of him.

I'm going to get fired.

"Dude, you're not going to get fired."

Every single night, staring at the ceiling all wide-eyed and strung tight.

I'm going to get fired.

"Well, you know what's not gonna help?" Kyle mutters, frustrated, into his pillow, "Keeping me awake."

Stan can't help it, though. Parents are fucking scary, especially when they think their kids have been compromised. Hell, his best friend's mom is one of those parents—he's seen the wrath of people like Sheila Broflovski, and as an 'educator' he fears it like nothing else.

"Dude, they don't have anything on you," Kyle says for the thousandth time. "You kissed me in my car, off campus. If they fire you I will personally defend you in court, and don't think for a second I won't."

None of this does anything to quell Stan's anxieties though, so the next morning Kyle drops him off at work all bleary eyed and clinging to his giant cup of coffee like he'll actually cease to exist if he lets it go. Who knows, it could be the last cup of coffee he enjoys while he's gainfully employed.

"So I'm taking my mom to her last radiation appointment this afternoon," Kyle says and grabs Stan's hand halfassedly in one of his.

"Yay," Stan gives him a sleepy little cheer. "Let me know how she's doing."

"Will do," Kyle nods. "And I pick you up at three-thirty?"

"Mm, yeah," Stan yawns this time. "Thanks for lugging me around, dude. We're picking my mom's car up from the shop tonight, I promise."

"Don't worry about it," Kyle shrugs and draws his fingers over the back of Stan's hand. "I'd kiss you goodbye, but I don't want you to get incarcerated."

"That's funny," Stan gives a nod, too sleepy to put too much bite behind his words, sarcastic though they may be, "but if I may offer a rebuttal: go fuck yourself with a cactus."

"I can't believe you didn't want to do debate team with me in high school," Kyle smirks a bit and Stan can't help it. If he's already going to get fired, he might as well kiss Kyle's stupid doofus smile off his face.

"Love you," he smiles when he pulls away, and is made even giddier by the fact that Kyle seems to have been caught off guard by that.

"You too, dude," Kyle replies hazily as Stan gets out of the car, bag slung over his shoulder and piping hot coffee in hand. He waves and enters through the back of the school, where of course Jack is waiting for him, shifting back and forth on his feet like a toddler with a full bladder.

"Happy Monday, Jack," he raises his mug in a toast. He can't let the poor kid know he's worried; he looks worried enough for the both of them anyway.

"Mr. Marsh, I need to talk to you," he says sort of urgently and Stan's stomach drops.

"I figured as much," he heaves a resigned sigh and keeps walking toward the music room. Mrs. Gable doesn't have a homeroom class and she usually has Stan do all of her morning work, so he figures they're probably safe in her room for a little while.

"What's up?" he asks as he sets his bag down on top of the piano and downs a few mouthfuls of coffee. He kind of hates the taste of coffee without Bailey's in it, and that sure as shit would've made the morning a fuck of a lot easier, but Kyle was watching him closely this morning for exactly that reason.

Not that he'd ever drink on the job, though.

"Sam wasn't at church yesterday," Jack frowns and draws his fingers through the dust on his timpani covers. "I asked his mom where he was and she said he'd been really upset the last few days and wouldn't come out of his room. And he got into a fight with his brother or something? I don't know, she asked me to pray for him with her, and it kind of got weird really fast and I said I had to go."

Stan snorts, because he can see Jack getting roped into praying for a kid he doesn't even like, awkwardly squished against Sam's mom and wondering when it'd be over.

"Dude, maybe he'll leave you be," Stan offers, hoping that's true for the both of them. It would be just fucking ducky if this turned into a non-issue.

"I don't know," Jack shifts, and then looks up at Stan with a worried frown. "I don't like it."

"Well," Stan shrugs. "My offer stands, dude. Say the word, and I'll tell someone about it. Who's he have for homeroom?"

Getting the kid in trouble for potentially wanting to hurt Jack before he can get Stan in trouble for being gay in front of him (or whatever) would diminish his problems considerably. Plus, it's not like there's not a chance that this kid could pose a real threat.

"No, don't—" Jack bites down on his lips before continuing with, "I don't want him to get in trouble if he hasn't done anything."

"Don't worry, dude," Stan shakes his head. "I'll just tell his homeroom teacher to keep an eye on him or something."

Jack sighs and runs a hand through his hair, "He's in Leadership with Mrs. Rosenthal."

Stan rolls his eyes, "Of course he is."

His mom's probably breeding him to be a meddling asshole, just like she is. Stan's just enough of a rebellious thirteen-year-old twat himself to actively hate kids in student government. He tells Jack he'll take care of it, and even though Jack looks the slightest bit reticent, he thanks him anyway.

When the bell rings and the morning announcements are finished, Stan makes his way over to the leadership classroom. He doesn't like the fact that he's essentially tattling, but he's a teacher… sort of. And even if he didn't like Jack as much as he does, he's still obligated to report potential threats.

There are kids out and about as he walks, hanging up posters for the 'welcome back winter dance' it looks like, and Stan recognizes Sam as one of them. He feels a pull in his gut when the kid stops and looks at him with hardened confusion on his face, and suddenly Stan gets to wondering if he's not wasting his time. This kid doesn't look dangerous, exactly. In fact he looks…

Jesus, he looks kind of scared.

He stops in front of him, hands in his pockets and head cocked, and asks "Hey, Sam, are you all right?"

Sam looks like this is the question he's been waiting all his life for someone to ask him, and promptly tells his poster-hanging partner he'll see her back in the classroom before he asks Stan if he can talk to him.

"Sure, dude," Stan nods, eyebrows pinched together a bit, but… if he can talk to this kid, maybe reason with it, he might not end up getting fired after all, and maybe he can save Jack a bit of grief too. They go back to the music classroom, and Sam shuts the door behind them before he folds his skinny arms over his chest and looks at Stan with a determined stare.

And then he starts crying and Stan's sort of at a loss from there.

Holy fuck, he's really crying—that open sobbing that really only comes from someone who's all broken up and needing to be fixed. Stan should know; that's usually the only kind of crying he gets around to doing. What's worse is that now Sam's trying to talk through it. Stan's only getting bits and pieces through the sobs, and in fact the only thing he distinctly hears is "I think I'm gay".

Oh.

Oh.

Stan fights not to say it out loud, but that makes a shit-ton of sense. He feels kind of stupid now, but that would explain the hostility and everything. He remembers being a total dick to the openly bisexual Kenny in high school when they'd get drunk together, because somehow his unconscious mind just knew that he liked guys a little more than he should.

And that made the rest of him angry, just like this kid is.

"Uh," he shifts a little and goes over to pat him on the shoulder. "It's, uh… it's okay, dude."

Because he actually can't think of anything else to say. It's not the end of the world? It gets better? Sucking cock is absolutely fantastic wait until you get to take a crack at it? Nothing seems to fit. He settles on, "You're gonna be okay, all right?" and that only makes Sam cry harder. Stan doesn't blame him; if someone had had the foresight to tell him that when he'd been a kid, his life probably would've been a lot different.

Fuck, this poor kid. Stan sits there with his hand on his shoulder until Sam's sobs subside and he's able to breathe again.

"My parents are gonna kill me," he finally rasps out.

"You don't have to tell anyone if you don't want," Stan shakes his head, trying to sound as reassuring as possible. This is a delicate situation, after all. "It's your business, dude, and it's only their business if you want it to be."

"Do your parents know?" Sam tosses out, and it's a little too sassy for how cool Stan thinks he's being, but he lets it slide. The kid's in emotional upheaval, after all.

"My mom does," Stan nods. "And she still loves me, dude. Everyone I've told does. I mean, there're certain people I'll probably never tell, but that's just it, y'know? You get to control it."

He's actually not the foremost authority on being gay, but he thinks he might be all this kid has, so he doesn't say anything other than that.

"I'm scared, though," Sam admits softly, and Stan just replies with a simple, "I know."

Because he does know. And what's more, he knows that the only reason he's not as scared as he feels he should be is because he's got some pretty fucking amazing friends.

"Do you have anyone you could maybe talk to about this?" he asks. "Like, people your own age?"

"Not really," Sam sniffs. "People don't really like me."

"All right, well," Stan folds his arms over his chest, trying not to give away his lack of surprise on that front. "You know Jack, right?"

"Yeah," Sam shrugs.

"Dude, you should talk to him," Stan offers. "He's super cool, and I bet he'll make you feel better about all this."

"No thank you," Sam shakes his head. "He's got a stupid face."

"Oh?" Stan laughs a little. There's nothing about the way Sam says that that makes Stan think he's being sincere, and he laughs even harder when Sam jumps in to explain, "He smiles too much… makes me wanna punch him."

Stan is of the mind that, as soon as you start thinking someone's face is stupid, you're pretty much lost to the world. He tries not to grin, but goddamn it's so fucking obvious he just wants to hit himself over the head.

"Just give him a chance, dude," he says, even though he knows he's doing a shitty job of covering up his smile. "And if you're not gonna talk to him about this, then maybe just tell him you're not gonna kick his ass or anything like that. You've been staring him down like crazy, dude. You gotta knock that shi—stuff off."

"I have not been staring," Sam flushes a little and Stan just nods, like he's sympathetic to the fact that Sam doesn't want to admit he's got a crush.

"Hey, whatever," he holds up his hands. "Worse comes to worse, you come out of this with a friend, okay?" And when Sam rolls his eyes adds, "Oh god I know, I'm the most awful human on the planet. Dude, get back to class before everyone thinks you've been abducted by aliens or some shit."

Sam looks like he's just been slapped in the face, so Stan goes on, "Don't tell anyone I curse. And, dude, if you need anything else… don't hesitate, okay? I'm always here."

Sam smiles at this and nods before he tosses out an awkward "thanks". Then he gives Stan a quick hug, one too quick for Stan to even think about returning, before he hurries out of the room. He's left thunderstruck in the middle of the room until Mrs. Gable walks in a few minutes later and gives him a look like he just dropped in from outer space.

"What's got you grinning like an idiot?" she asks as she unties her scarf with her long, bony fingers.

"I think I just helped someone," Stan finds himself grinning like an idiot. His endeavors to help people don't generally ever turn out. It's too early to tell, he knows, but he thinks this one might be different. Mrs. Gable just nods, pretending to be sympathetic, before she asks if he got around to checking the rat traps she'd left in one of the practice rooms over the break.

When he locks himself in the empty, soundproof room with the empty traps, Stan flips open his phone and, after deciding to ignore the mess of texts he has from Shelly, calls Kyle, thrumming with excitement. He's probably with his mom, so he doesn't answer, so Stan leaves a message.

"Hey, so when I you come get me, I kind of want to talk to you… I think I may want to go back to school and get credentialed to teach for real. Uh, life decisions on a cup of coffee and two hours of sleep, I know, but… I don't know. Anyway, tell your mom I say hi. Love you… and her. Um, okay. Bye."

He scrolls through Shelly's texts after that, most of which, when strung together, lead Stan to believe she's having a musical crisis and can't come up with a song list for the DJ at her reception. He decides to let her sweat it out a little and goes to help Mrs. Gable set up for the day. He feels happy and good, and he really hopes the feeling will stick around, at least for a little bit.

When Jack walks into second period, he makes a beeline for Stan.

"I don't think you have to talk to Mrs. Rosenthal," he says.

Stan just looks up from numbering the measures on his music, trying like hell to keep his smile at bay, and replies with a simple, "Oh?"

"Yeah," Jack beams, like whatever he's talking about is just the damndest thing, "He asked if he could be my partner for our history project last period. I'm not even that good at history."

"Man, see?" Stan actually does smile at that. "I told you didn't need to worry about anything."

The smile stays with him all day, and the happy feelings even make him so bold that he greets Kyle with a big, lip-smacking kiss when he comes to pick him up that afternoon. Kyle looks a little surprised, to say the least, but he covers it up quickly with a dorky smirk as he starts up the car.

"So, I guess you didn't get fired," he says. "Thank god, I can finally sleep again."

"Ass," Stan laughs and shoves him as they leave the parking lot. "How's your mom?"

"Fine," Kyle nods. "I think it might be a bit before we know for sure, but the doctor was really optimistic. Plus, she seems like she's doing a lot better, which is good."

"Dude, awesome!" Stan beams. "What a relief."

"Seriously," Kyle lets out a breath and even chuckles a little bit. "I don't think I've ever seen my dad hug her that much," he drifts off for a moment, and Stan gets the feeling he's just been reassuring himself all day that his mom is okay, that she's going to be fine.

"So," Kyle begins, presumably before Stan can say anything on his own, "you want to go back to school or something?"

"Uh, yeah," Stan laughs slightly and grabs at the back of his neck. He hasn't gotten much further than the 'I want it' stage, and he knows Kyle will help him put it into perspective. He's just not quite sure how, but he supposes the 'how' part of Kyle's job anyway. "You don't think it's stupid, do you?" he just asks.

"No," Kyle shakes his head. "If it's what you want and you think that's what you need to do, I think you should. I mean, look at yourself right now," he reaches over and pulls the visor down in front of Stan's face. Stan catches his reflection and lets his face twist into an open grimace. God, his happy face is more unimaginably dorky than he'd originally thought.

"Oh god," he mutters and pushes the mirror back up.

"Dude, you're fucking happy," Kyle gives a disbelieving laugh. "Like, happy-happy? If there's a thing in the world that makes you smile like that, I say go for it."

No, this isn't right. Kyle's supposed to do things like talk sense into him. Going to school… fuck, he hasn't been in learning mode since he was eighteen, and even if he thought he could buckle down and do this, he doesn't have the money to do that. Kyle's supposed to bring him back off the crazy cliff and guide him back to reality. Reality: that place where he's a college drop-out who can play piano and lives with his mom. Even if he had the stones to actually go for it, he's at a pretty big disadvantage.

"Man, it's just a thought," Stan sighs and slumps in his seat.

"Oh, hell no," Kyle reaches over and pokes Stan in the fattiest part of his gut. "You're not talking yourself out of this one, fucker."

"It's stupid, Kyle, never mind," Stan squirms away from Kyle's fingers, which go to poke him again as he pulls off to the side of the road and stops the car. They're not even a block away from the school, goddamn it.

"What's stupid about it," Kyle says more than asks. "Aside from the fact that you know I'd tell you it was stupid if it really was."

"I can't afford school, Kyle," Stan insists first off, even though he knows it's a feeble excuse. Yeah, he doesn't want to be in debt forever, but financial aid was good to him before, so it may very well be again.

"Okay," Kyle frowns and looks at the steering wheel. "You know you're not going anywhere if you stay here, though, right?"

The words hit Stan hard in the chest.

He knew that. He knows he can't stay here playing piano and being not-quite-a-teacher forever, but he's twenty-three and that seemed good enough for now. He's not good at anything else, though—he's messy and disorganized, he can't type very fast or do anything that's intrinsically useful, and the thought of getting a 'real' job, like his mom or his dad, makes his chest constrict just a little bit.

He likes being at the school and working with the kids, but playing background piano and sometimes taking over for the class when Mrs. Gable's vertigo kicks in is not how he wants to live out the rest of his life.

At the very least, he wants his own class to teach.

"What am I supposed to do then, dude?" Stan runs his hands over his face.

"You're talking about going back to school!" Kyle exclaims through another laugh. "Dude, you have your solution. I mean, you'd have to cut back on your hours here, or… find a new job, probably, but you'd have a shitload of experience under your belt for a credential program, right? They love that kind of shit."

"Gah," Stan groans and twists around in his seat. All this talk of upheaval makes him want to crawl under his seat and never come out, despite the fact that he knows Kyle wouldn't let him pout for more than ten seconds.

"Hey, come on," Kyle rolls his eyes and unbuckles his seatbelt so he can lean over and attempt to pull Stan into a hug as best he can. "Dude, if you're thinking about it, that's something, okay? Like, no rush, you know? For what it's worth, though, I think you'd make a pretty badass fulltime teacher."

Stan sniffs a little and looks over, only now realizing just how close Kyle's squished his face up against his, and asks, "You really think?"

Kyle smiles, softly this time, and replies, "Yeah, I really do." He kisses him then, and Stan kind of melts into it because it's nice to have someone who's retardedly supportive of him, y'know? It makes him feel good.

It doesn't last, of course, because Shelly chooses that exact moment to call Stan and ruin a perfectly nice moment.

"What, Shelly," Stan answers as Kyle climbs off of him and starts the car up again. "What could you possibly want."

"You never got back to me, asshole!" Shelly shoots back.

"I was at work, Shelly," Stan practically yelps. "You know, that thing that people go to that usually involves a lot more than organizing paint swatches?"

Kyle fiddles with his iPod while Shelly starts talking, "Don't be a shithead, you're not at work anymore". Kyle puts on the Talking Heads, and starts singing along, just to be a shit.

"I can't seem to face up to the facts—"

"No, but how do you know I wasn't in the middle of something?"

"I'm tense and nervous and I—"

"You answered, didn't you?"

"Can't relax—"

"Yeah, well, for your information—"

"I can't sleep 'cause my bed is on fire—"

"I was in the middle of something," Stan finishes and reaches over to turn down the stereo as he mouths 'knock it off', even though he knows that's not going to happen.

"Don't touch me I'm a real live wire-" Kyle continues, louder of course as Shelly asks, "Yeah, Stan, you were doing plenty, I'm sure."

"Boner Killer," Kyle leans over and shouts, practically into the receiver, and Stan drops the phone as he tries to get Kyle to shut the fuck up. This doesn't work, of course, so he's serenaded with a beautiful repeat chorus of, "Shelly is a Boner Killer, Qu'est Que c'est, fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-far better—" as he grabs all over the floor for his phone.

"Sorry," Stan mutters and shuts off the radio as Kyle finishes the chorus anyway at the top of his lungs, "I think I'm in love with a retard."

"Is he bigger than me?" Kyle shoots back the completing line and gives Stan a cheeky smile when he gives him a warning look. While he's elated that Kyle would probably sit there and quote through the rest of AFI's Hundred Funniest Movies with him if he gave him the chance, the fact remains that he is on the phone with his bitchy sister who did effectively just kill his boner and, as a result, most of his good mood.

"Stan, stop fucking around, I need your help, okay?" Shelly sighs, very fed up, on the other end of the phone. "The DJ needs a list of songs by tomorrow morning, I have no idea about any of this stuff, and Eric refuses to help me."

"Huh," Stan slumps and kicks his feet up on the dashboard. "What a cock."

"Stan!"

"Ugh, fine," Stan rolls his eyes. "I'll help you when you get home, okay? But I don't want to hear any bitching about what I pick, either. "

"Fine," Shelly shoots back. "I'll be home around six."

"Good," Stan shrugs and subconsciously figures that he and Kyle will have about two hours to themselves. "I'll brainstorm some ideas until then."

There's silence for a moment before Shelly eventually pipes up with, "You're not going to do that, are you."

"I am not," Stan shakes his head. "See you at six."

When they get back to Stan's, Kyle shrugs off his computer bag and sits on the couch while Stan lets Trapper and Hawkeye out to pee. He also feeds them a few treats, because he's back into a good mood, before going over to where Kyle's sitting and running his fingers through the dark red fluff on his head.

"Tired?" he asks.

"Nah," Kyle shakes his head and opens his eyes. They're all glinty and full of mischief, and Kyle takes advantage of Stan being distracted to pull him down on top of him.

They kiss, and it's amazing like always, and it turns into Kyle shifting them so Stan's lying flat on the couch, and then they're making out. They're making out on Stan's mom's couch, dry humping and moaning desperately against each other like they're fifteen or something. Before Stan knows it, Kyle's got not only his work shirt unbuttoned, but his slacks too.

"Eager much?" Stan laughs, and he's answered by Kyle pressing a searing kiss to his lips and ridding him of his pants entirely.

Maybe there's something to that whole 'redheads are hornier' rumor he's always heard. Red was sure never shy about living up to that one.

Stan's just about to push his hands up Kyle's shirt when there's a knock on the door, followed by the very telling voice of Randy Marsh calling, "Stan? Stan, open up, it's dad."

"Are you shitting me?" Kyle rests his forehead on Stan's just as Stan shouts, "Just a second" and pushes Kyle off of him.

"I swear to god, cock-blocking is a fucking genetic defect in this family," he seethes as he goes to put his pants back on.

"Let's hope whatever kids we have aren't biologically yours," Kyle shakes his head, like it's just the kind of comment you brush off willy-nilly like that. It actually gives Stan enough pause to stop mid-fly zip and look at Kyle with mild confusion.

"You want kids?"

"Dude, joke," Kyle raises an eyebrow and stands. "I'll be in the bathroom," he says and disappears upstairs just as Stan goes to answer the door. Randy pushes in past him without saying hello, a stack of CDs and records in one hand and a six pack in the other, both of which he promptly sets down on the coffee table before he turns to Stan with a proud smile.

"So, Shelly says we're gonna help her with her music, huh?" he rubs his hands together. "Man, this is gonna be fun. You and your old man picking out songs for your sister's wedding, knocking back a few beers, watching a little football…" he catches himself upon actually looking at Stan and scratches the back of his head.

"Napping, dad," Stan shakes his head and claps his hand over his neck, where he knows Kyle just bit to life some old hickeys. "I came home to nap before Shelly got home."

All he can hear is Kyle's strained, dorky voice on a loop in his head, singing 'Boner Killer' like there's no tomorrow, and it's making him unsure of whether he's going to laugh or cry. He just wants to fuck Kyle, and he doesn't know why this is so much to ask.

"Well, I borrowed some of the good stuff from your Uncle Jimbo," Randy picks up a few CDs off of the table. "I don't know what you kids listen to, but I do know you can never go wrong playing Free Bird at a wedding."

"Oh, god," Stan runs his hands over his face. "Did she ask you to come help?"

"Yeah, she said you'd be here," Randy nods and grabs a beer off of its plastic ring. "Catch."

Stan does, and cracks the top and chugs a good portion of it back before his dad's even had the chance to open up his own.

"What're you doing sleeping in the middle of the day anyway?" Randy asks as he takes the first sip off the top of his beer.

"Didn't really sleep well last night," Stan shakes his head.

"Uh-huh," Randy nods, an obnoxious look on his face. "That's because you and Kyle still have sleepovers. Y'know, most guys stop doing that in high school, Stan. You boys'd better cool it; girls'll start thinking you're funny."

There it is. It's the perfect opportunity. Stan could just say 'Yeah, maybe we are funny' and that would be that. The lions would lay down with lambs, the mighty would strike fear into the hearts of the wicked, he could be out and over and done with it without anymore grief.

But nothing comes out. Instead, he just shakes his head and gulps back his beer. He doesn't care that he looks like a mess right now, that his hair's all sticking up or that his shirt and slacks are all rumpled and his neck is dotted with fading hickeys. The only thing he remotely cares about is the fact that his balls are about to turn blue and fall the fuck off, and that the only person on the planet who seems to care about this is undoubtedly upstairs in his bathroom, jerking off.

"You know, Stan," Randy says thoughtfully and sits on the couch. "We oughta go out tonight, just the two of us. We could hit up the new Hooters that opened up at the mall."

"I'm not going to Hooters with you, dad," Stan says very frankly.

"Okay, what about that bar—"

"I'm not going to go out picking up women with you, dad!" Stan snaps, which makes Randy's eyes go wide and a door open and shut upstairs. Randy, of course, just shakes it off and stands again, coming over to clap Stan on the shoulder and give him a knowing smile.

"I know what this is," he says. "You don't think your old man's still got it. Fair enough. You'll never know until you give me a chance, though, I'm a pretty good wingman when you—"

"Dad!" Stan snaps again.

"Stan, I'm just worried about you, all right?" Randy frowns now. "You know, you're so emotional about these things, I just want you to remember that dating can be fun!"

"Yeah, well what if I don't want to date girls, dad?" Stan shouts this time, only realizing how loud he was when Randy shuts up altogether. There's a stretch of silence that lasts for Stan doesn't know how long before Randy pipes up again, softer this time, more resigned.

"What're you saying, Stan?"

"I think you know, dad," Stan mutters, looking anywhere but directly at his dad.

"Right," Randy nods and stuffs his hands in his jacket pockets. "Well, you… you enjoy the beer, Stanley. I'm just gonna go and hang with your uncle tonight. Tell your mom and your sister I said hi, and I'll see you guys later."

Stan doesn't move, just stands there with his arms folded across his chest as he hears his dad leave. He doesn't slam the door or anything; it's all very civil and it's kind of unsettling. Sometimes Stan finds himself wishing that his family yelled like Kenny's or Kyle's did. At least you know where you stand with a family like that.

"Hey," he hears Kyle say from beside him. "He'll come around, dude. He loves you."

"Whatever, dude," Stan shakes his head and tucks himself up against Kyle. He needs a hug, and he will get one even if he has to take it by force. "Let's go upstairs, my balls are about to fall off."

"Charming," Kyle smiles into Stan's hair as he wraps his arms around Stan's shoulders. He holds him there for a second, and Stan appreciates it. Then, of course, he tells Kyle to cut the shit and drags him upstairs, where the impatient fuckhead doesn't even let them get to the bed, just shucks his and Stan's pants and boxers, wraps Stan's legs around his waist, and fucks up into him against the door.

Stan's grateful no one's home; he can make whatever noises he likes, as loud as he wants to make them. This is good, because being cockblocked twice makes both makes Kyle pretty aggressive, which in turn makes Stan pretty vocal. At the very, very least, he's glad for the distraction.

On every other level, he's rendered completely incapable of thought as Kyle slams up into him so hard he's pretty sure he can feel the whole wall shake.

When Shelly gets home, Stan and Kyle are spread out, immobile, on Stan's bed, and Kyle has to do a fuckload of convincing to make him change his clothes and go downstairs.

"Come with me," Stan yawns and pulls his messy, spunked-up shirt off of himself. Kyle sits up and pulls him close, wrapping his arms around his middle and pressing a few kisses into his stomach. He's been surprisingly nuzzly these last few days, and Stan has to admit that he's pretty pleased about it.

He loans Kyle a shirt, keeping the old MIT one for himself because he likes it and it makes Kyle grin to see him wear it, and they pull on the rest of their clothes. Kyle looks at Stan as he slips on one of his comfy flannel over-shirts and laughs.

"What?" Stan laughs back a little.

"You're such a dyke, dude," Kyle shakes his head and starts trying to flatten out Stan's hair. Stan sticks out his tongue and ducks out of Kyle's touch.

They go downstairs to see Shelly looking at the stack of CDs and records on the coffee table, shaking her head and tossing most of them aside. She must've heard them come down the stairs because she turns back to shake her head at them.

"I know you said I have to listen to you, but… I'm not okay with any of this," she says in a warning tone.

"Ugh, they're Uncle Jimbo's," Stan rolls his eyes and moves to put the remainder of the six-pack in the fridge. "Dad brought 'em over."

"Oh Jesus," Shelly sighs and flops down onto the couch. "How the hell'd you get rid of him?"

"Oh, that was easy," Stan sits back beside her. "He tried to go out picking up girls with me, and I told him I didn't want to. Like, ever."

"I don't blame you," Shelly snorts. "I wouldn't want to go pick up guys with mom."

"Shel," Stan gives her an imploring look and cocks his head. Shelly looks at him for a moment, studying him closely, before Kyle loses it and shouts, "He came out! Fuck!"

Shelly's eyes go big, and for a minute Stan actually thinks she might actually find a way to turn this into an unpleasant taunting session. Yeah, the only thing he'd ever needed to say was "I'm gay" and he could've been rid of Randy a long time ago—he's already thought all this. It was painfully easy, and he doesn't want to think about it anymore.

"Fuck, I'm sorry," is what Shelly says instead and, in a surprising upset, actually hugs him. Stan looks over at Kyle, who's sitting down at the coffee table, and mouths 'what the fuck?', to which Kyle responds with a simple shrug of his shoulders.

"Uh, Shelly?" he asks. "Shelly, what's happening?"

"I'm hugging you, asshole," Shelly replies. "That's fucked up, what dad did. I'm sorry."

"Shelly, I don't like this," Stan just says, which makes her roll her eyes and shove him away.

"Fine," she mutters before looking over at Kyle. "You tell your family yet?"

Kyle looks up, a little surprised to have been addressed by her without her usual insult tailing it, and shifts a little before he shakes his head. "No," he says. "Too much going on with them right now. I don't want to pile on. I'm actually all tapped out on the dramatics, believe it or not."

Shelly heaves a sigh and kicks her feet up onto the coffee table.

"Well, I was supposed to ask you both if you'd mind being in my wedding," she says, "But if you're both on your periods right now or whatever, I'll talk to you about it later."

Stan frowns, crossing his arms over his chest as he looks over at her. He studies her for a second, and so does Kyle, and when they look at each other to confirm that she's being serious, Stan asks, "Why would you want us in your wedding?"

"Because!" Shelly falters a little. "I need a Maid of Honor and Eric needs a Best Man… for the rings and things. And we don't… have a lot of friends, so I thought I'd ask the two of you."

Stan's actually kind of touched, as stupid as it is. Kyle looks a little closer to teetering over the brink of laughter, which Stan quickly stamps out with a look. He turns back to Shelly and, with a smile, says, "Yeah, dude. I'll be your bridesman or whatever," and then looks at Kyle and shakes his head. "As long as I don't have to walk down the aisle with that faggot."

Kyle's face pinches into a frown as he takes Stan's empty beer can from earlier off of the table and beams it off his head.

"God, no," Shelly shakes her head through a laugh. "Just be up front with us, hand us our rings, that's it. No speech or actual effort is required on either of your parts."

"Excellent," Kyle slaps the table. "Just the way I like it. I accept."

"Good," Shelly smiles, and it's genuine and for once not filled up with malice or anger or selfishness. She then leans forward and scoops up all of their uncle's music in her arms. "Now get this out of my sight before I burn it."

Stan laughs, "So that's a no to Free Bird?"

"That's a fuck no," Shelly nods.

Stan can still count on one hand the number of pleasant evenings he's spent with his sister, but he's not in the right mindset to care too much about that right now. As they go through list after list, CD and genre after CD and genre, Stan's more than willing to take a good night for exactly what it is.

Quick update is quick.

A thank you as always to all readers, all reviewers, and everyone in between.