I was wondering today, why do so many people write older!Kyle with 'tamed hair'? I'm not the only one who thinks his Jewfro is the greatest thing ever, am I? (I laughed so God damn hard during "How to Eat with Your Butt"...) You could always just shave it off, too. It looks nice on Matt. Anyway, I'm rambling, and no one cares.

ALTERNATE CHAPTER TITLE: Another One of Those Stan/Kyle Chapters

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As Wendy walked from the bus stop to her home Friday afternoon, after finally dismissing the journalism class, she contemplated her weekend. Clyde was throwing an open party for the upperclassman. Token would be going, she knew - of course Token was going, Clyde was his best friend. Token would probably expect her to go, too.

But she didn't like parties, really. And anyway, she thought, her fingers dipping into her pocket and brushing the folded edge of the binder paper she'd stuffed in there, why should she go out of her way for Token? When was the last time he'd gone out of his way for her?

--

Stan went to Clyde's party because he didn't have work, and because Kenny told him he had to.

"You've got to stop moping about Wendy," he told him, and Stan frowned and said, "I have." Which was true. Ever since Kyle had came out (or rather, come on) to him, he hadn't even thought about Wendy or Cartman. Or Wendy and Cartman.

But he'd completely spaced that Kyle would be there, too. That he wouldn't be able to avoid him, and they'd have to be in the same vicinity, and Kyle would give him that look that said I wouldn't be at all opposed to getting inside your pants while he squirmed.

They had talked, that day in the J-mart stockroom, and Kyle had convinced him that he wasn't pissed at him. ("Why would I be?" Kyle had asked, completely bemused.) However, he had also made what sort of relationship he wanted with him explicitly clear. And... Stan really, really didn't want to have to deal with this.

He sputtered out the story to Kenny as he dragged him by the wrist into Clyde's house, hoping Kenny would understand and let him turn around and flee before Kyle spotted him. But by the time he'd finished explaining, Kenny was nodding.

"Yeah, so he finally told you; look, this is old news."

"What!" Stan wailed. "You already knew?"

"Of course I know. You may not have noticed, Stan, but Kyle and I talk. And we hang out while you're at football or J-mart. Mostly because he knows he can always steal a beer if he hangs around my house long enough."

"You're the one that said it was UST," Stan fumed, suddenly remembering the conversation he'd had with Kyle, back when their relationship was a platonic, heterosexual one.

"Dude, it is. There's more sexual tension between you and Kyle than there is between me and the entire female gender."

"I like girls, Kenny," Stan said, annunciating every word.

Kenny rolled his eyes. "You can like girls all you want. But you want Kyle."

"No, I don't!"

"Yes, you do, Stan. Kyle has got you completely sexually frustrated. Let me guess - all the little things Kyle does pisses you off, don't they? They make you want to tackle him and just do something to him, right? Stop me if I'm wrong."

Stan glared. Stan opened his mouth, ready to retort, but they he heard a cheerful "Hey, dudes," behind him and cringed inwardly.

Kyle.

"Hey, man," Kenny said brightly, abandoning him like the traitor he was and slapping Kyle on the back. "How's the party?"

"Pretty good," Kyle said, taking a generous gulp of the beer in his hand. "Oh - they threw Porsche in the pool, and she'd walking around with a wet t-shirt."

"Oh hell yeah," Kenny said enthusiastically, twisting his head around to try to see her. Kyle snickered.

"Thought you'd like that," he said, amused, and then he glanced over at Stan. "... Hey, Stan."

"Hey," Stan said, inspecting the ceiling for cracks. Kyle frowned briefly.

"They've got a cooler in the living room."

Clyde threw the best parties. He didn't have Token's big house, but his parents were chronically out of town because his father was a geologist. And until Randy Marsh, who sat behind a desk all day and monitored the South Park volcano, Mr. Donovan studied earthquakes, which meant he was constantly globe-trotting. Clyde was also one of the very few people in town with a swimming pool, and though it had been somewhat dented from housing an orca, it was still in good condition.

They made their way into the living room and sat down on the couch; Kenny immediately excused himself and went searching through the house. Stan assumed he was trying to catch an eyeful of Porsche. Kyle hooked his foot around the cooler and dragged it over, grabbing Stan a beer, which he took from him, making sure he didn't brush Kyle's fingers in the process. Kyle frowned at his hand, and then he flopped back in the couch and finished off his beer.

Stan and Kyle commenced Not Talking. After a while, Kyle reached into the cooler and opened another can.

Stan let out an audible sigh of relief when Kenny reappeared. His relief was somewhat dampened, however, by the expression on Kenny's face. He collapsed on the couch on the other side of Stan and glared at the carpet. After a few moments of confused silence on Stan and Kyle's part, and resentful silence on Kenny's part, Clyde and Lexus stumbled into the room, giggling. They tripped over the recliner, which folded under their combined weight. They started laughing, harder, and then began messily making out.

"Hey," Kyle said, "isn't she the girl you were planning on...?"

"Yes," Kenny bit out. "And I don't want to talk about it. There any soda in that cooler?"

He laughed and fished a coke out for him, chucking it across the couch. Kenny opened in promptly, and it burst out all over his hand. He lifted it up and sucked some off, and Kyle laughed again. They spent the next twenty minutes or so complaining about school, homework, and teachers. Kenny had something unprintable to say on each subject.

Kyle was sort of a lush. It was sort of funny, because everybody had always assumed Kenny would fill that niche in their foursome. Kenny, however, never drank. He said he hated the smell of it, which was understandable, because his house always stank like it. So Kenny whored around and shoplifted and cut class and smoked, but he didn't drink. Stan supposed everyone had to have some virtue.

So, though Stan was a tad buzzed himself, he could tell Kyle was much drunker. Mainly because he was laughing at Kenny's off-color jokes. That was always a telltale sign.

"This party sucks," Stan finally decided. Kenny and Kyle broke off their imitation of the math teacher masturbating to complex differential equations to look at him.

"No party with a confused, shirtless lesbian is a bad party, Stan," Kenny said very solemnly, as if he'd just been informed he wasn't coming back anymore and had to impart his last words of wisdom.

"I mean, what is there to do?"

Kyle leaned forward, sliding his arm up around the back of the couch. "Well, we could..."

"We're not doing that."

Kyle made a disappointed noise and dropped back down into his seat. Stan frowned at him.

"I thought... man, I thought you were dating Red."

Kyle snorted. "We broke up."

"What? When?"

"Right after the party at Butters' house, I guess. I mean, we never sent official notification to each other's homes, but that was the last time we spoke to each other."

Stan stared at him. "I didn't know."

"That's because you were too busy angsting over Wendy to notice."

Stan decided to ignore that dig. "Why'd you break up?"

"She gave Craig a blow job at the party."

He gaped at him. "What?"

Kyle shrugged.

"You don't care? Aren't you pissed?"

"'S not her fault her boyfriend's queer," Kyle said matter-of-factly. "Anyway, if I haven't made in explicitly clear already, Red really isn't the one I want to be with."

Stan's neck turned a little red when Kyle punctured his sentence with that look again. He glanced sideways at Kenny, who was sitting back and sipping calmly at his soda, making no move to rescue him. Stan shifted away from Kyle a little and cast around for a different topic of conversation.

"Um," he said. "At work, yesterday. I got a raise."

"Bet I could give you a raise."

"Kyle, God dammit! I really hate it when you do that!"

"Then why haven't you told me to stop?"

"... Will you just fuck off! I just want you to leave me alone!" Stan cried, looking away from him.

"Fine," Kyle snarled, standing up and storming off. Stan blinked and stared at his retreating back, his eyes widening.

He hadn't actually meant it.

For a while he sat there, a little stunned, and then Kenny said, "Man. That was really harsh." Stan turned around to face him.

"Well... well, Christ, what was I supposed to do?"

"Not be a complete asshole?" Kenny suggested sarcastically, though he kept his voice innocent. Stan glared.

"He was...!" Stan said, gesturing helplessly. Kenny rolled his eyes.

"A little innuendo won't kill a guy."

"This sucks," Stan grumbled. "I mean, it's like he woke up one morning and decided he had a boner for me."

"No, he's always had a boner for you. He just woke up and realized it. And now he's accepted it, while you're still struggling with your petty denial."

"I'm not in denial!"

Kenny rolled his eyes. "Okay. Let's say for the sake of argument that you aren't. Let's say - entirely hypothetically - that you don't want to screw Kyle senseless. Well, you know what? It doesn't change the fact that Kyle does. And you're gonna have to deal with it, man."

"How do you even know?"

"Because, God damn it, I know sexual tension when I see it. You and Kyle have it. Cartman and Wendy have it. You all need to screw each other and get it over with." Kenny cast one more glare at Clyde and Lexus, then turned away, grumbling about how everyone was getting laid but him.

Stan was torn between horror at the thought of Wendy and Cartman, and utter embarrassment at the thought of himself and Kyle. He settled with picking at his fingernails, then he sighed and said, "I know I'm going to have to deal with this thing with Kyle somehow - that I haven't been dealing with it well so far - but, fuck, what am I supposed to do? This could all go so very, very wrong and completely fuck up our friendship-"

"Stop right there," Kenny said, holding up a hand. "The moment you do something as chickish as worry about ruining a friendship is the moment you condemn yourself to a life of pillow biting."

Stan colored. "I HAVE NOT!"

"Whatever, you and Kyle can flip a coin to decide who bites the pillow for all I care; I don't really want the specifics."

"Damn, Kenny, I liked you so much better when you had that hood, and I could never understand what you were saying," Stan grumbled, glaring at him.

"Yeah," Kenny said. "I get that a lot."

Stan scowled, stood up, and walked away from him. He was hardly gone a moment before a bubbly voice said "Hey!" and Bebe plopped down in the seat Stan had just vacated. "How are you?"

"Just great," Kenny grumbled. "Stan went to go bone Kyle, and Cartman's off trying to figure out how to bone Wendy, and the girl I'm supposed to be boning is being boned by someone else," he said, glaring over Bebe's shoulder at Clyde and Lexus. Bebe turned around to see who he was looking at, then turned back to face him, shaking her head.

"Forget her, Kenny. She charges way too much for what she's selling." She paused, looking at the morose expression on his face. "Anyway, I've heard she and the rest of the former Raisins crowd cut PE and have a lesbian orgy in the handicapped bathroom stall."

Kenny's eyes glazed over. "Oh, God, I hope so." Then he sighed. "You know I haven't scored since before school let out last year?"

"Here," Bebe said, putting down her drink and clasping his wrists, "I know what'll cheer you up." She placed his hands over her breasts and then let her hands fall away. Kenny's eyebrows rose several notches. "Feel better?"

"... Pretty damn great, actually," he said, flexing his hands experimentally. "Want to go upstairs and have sex?"

"Sorry," she said, patting him fondly on the arm. "I like my men terrified and backed into a corner. But I'll tell you what," she said, sliding her hand up his arm, gripping his neck, and pulling him down. "You rest your head on my womanly bosom and let it all out," she said, rubbing his back.

"God," he said into her chest, his voice muffled for the first time since fifth grade, "you are like my best friend ever."

--

Cartman had chosen to stay in the backyard, away from all those drunk assholes. He'd more or less succeeded in avoiding them; about an hour ago some dicks had lugged that stupid dyke Porsche out and thrown her in the pool, but then they'd all went back inside and left him alone. He'd only come to this dumb party because he'd thought Wendy might show up, but he hadn't seen her yet, and he very much doubted he was going to.

To be fair, it would be incorrect to say Eric Cartman hated everything. He liked Cheesy Poofs, Jackovasaurs, and making Kyle's life as crappy as possible. And, more recently, he liked Wendy.

And it was really starting to piss him off.

He didn't know how she did it. Somehow she'd managed to worm her way into his head and completely screw with his emotions, again. You'd think he'd have learned his lesson, he berated himself, completely disgusted with this new development.

He wasn't like Stan, who clung to some pathetic crush from elementary school. He'd liked Wendy in third grade - he could admit that, sure. But he'd gotten over it, and a week later he'd been back to normal, mocking her and trying to kick her out of his boy band. He'd considered it a temporary loss of sanity and moved on to bigger things.

And now that bitch was dragging him down again.

He hated liking Wendy because it made him want to do things for her, and he was the sort of person that really only liked doing things for himself. And even after he did all this shit - drugging Middle Park, stealing his mom's boyfriend's car, making sure every single journalism student had a reason to keep their ass in their chair - she was still with that black asshole Token. He had nothing to show for all his work, no payoff.

Cartman was used to getting the things he wanted. The problem was, he didn't know how to get Wendy. Deception? Manipulation? Blackmail? He doubted it would work; she was a bitch, but she was a smart bitch. Getting his PSP from Kenny would be child's play compared to getting Wendy to like him.

Cartman was also used to having plans, but he couldn't think of a single one. Should he just keep doing what he'd been doing? Somehow, he felt that approach was just too passive. He needed something more direct. He needed something daring.

The whole situation was incredibly aggravating. He only knew of one thing that could cheer him up: arguing with Kyle.

As chance would have it, Kyle happened to stumble out into the backyard at that exact moment. He leaned against the back of the house and breathed in deeply, his eyes closed. Cartman lifted an eyebrow. Apparently, he had detached himself from Stan's hip. He hadn't thought such a thing was possible.

"What're you doing here, Jew-boy?" he asked rudely, picking up his untouched cup of beer and strolling over loudly. Kyle jumped, then glared at him a little.

"Getting some fresh air."

"Or trying to sober up," Cartman said snidely. Kyle's mild glare turned to a scowl.

"I am not drunk!"

Which was, Cartman thought, complete bullshit. He said as much, and added, "The liquor even covers up the Jew-stench that usually clings to you."

"God damn it, Cartman!" Kyle shouted, thinking of the look Stan had given him when he'd told him to get lost while he grabbed a fistful of Cartman's shirt. "This is all your fault!"

"It's not my fault you're a drunk!" Cartman shouted back, and then, because he doubted Kyle would let him go, he threw his drink into his face.

Kyle stared there a moment, dripping, shocked, and then he shrieked "SONOVABITCH!", pushed Cartman into the snow, and disappeared back into the house, slamming the door behind him.

Cartman got up, brushing himself off and feeling elated. It only lasted for a second or two, however. Then he was back to dwelling on Wendy.

--

Kyle cursed out loud while he stood in Clyde's basement, pulling his beer-soaked shirt up over his head and dropped it in the washing machine. He measured out some soap, dumped it in, then closed the lid and hit the start button.

Great. Now he was stuck in this house for an hour, or however long it took to wash and dry his shirt. He supposed his only option was to go find Porsche and stick to her side. He figured that, next to her, his shirtless state wouldn't attract as much attention. That was, if she'd have anything to do with him. She was Red's best friend, after all, and he wouldn't have had anything to do with Wendy.

Kyle was halfway up the stairs when the basement door opened, and none other than Stan appeared in the door frame. He'd wandered the entire house after leaving Kenny and, after getting rather violently hit on by Heidi, he'd decided to seek refuge in the basement.

They both froze and stared at each other, Kyle leaning a little heavily on the banister and looking up, Stan looking down with one hand still on the doorknob. Stan opened his mouth to say something, anything, but Kyle's startled look abruptly changed to one of animosity.

"I was just going up," he said nastily. "I'll get out of your way." He marched up the stairs and went to push past Stan, but he was weaving a little and missed a step. He would have fallen backwards down the stairs if Stan's hands hadn't shot out and grabbed him by the arms, pulling him forward, towards him. Kyle fisted his sweatshirt instinctively, and when he got his footing back, he scowled and tried to shove Stan away, which nearly sent him tumbling backwards again.

"Let go of me," Kyle snapped.

"Damn, dude, you're going to get yourself killed," Stan said, stubbornly hanging on.

"I'm not that drunk," Kyle said defensively. "Let the fuck go of me!"

"No," Stan snapped back. "You're going to break your neck!"

"I am not!" Kyle had to crane his neck to yell at him, because he was still standing two steps lower than him. "I can take care of myself, all right? So fuck off and leave me alone!"

Stan winced. He'd just told Kyle the exact same thing less than twenty minutes ago. He hadn't figured it would hurt that much to hear it. "Look, I'm sure you can take care of yourself. But let me do it anyway, all right?"

"Quit patronizing me, jackass!"

Stan ground his teeth. Kyle was doing it again - pissing him off by really doing nothing at all. And so because Kyle'd broken up with his girlfriend, and because Kyle wasn't wearing a shirt, and because they were both a little drunk, Stan leaned down and kissed him.

Kyle stiffened immediately and tightened his grip on Stan's sweatshirt, but then he made a throaty, contented noise and melted into him, untangling his fingers from the fabric and letting them slide down Stan's side.

And then a dump truck worth's of reality fell on Stan, and the dump truck ran over him, backed up, and ran over him again to drive the point home. Stan yelped and jumped backwards, tripped, and cracked the back of his skull against the door. Kyle, who was still clinging to him, fell across him with an "uff!" He propped himself up, his elbows on either side of Stan's hips, and gave him a bemused look.

"I- guh-" Stan dropped behind himself for the doorknob, found it, nearly broke his wrist twisting it open and shoving it open, and then he scrambled out from underneath Kyle, climbed to his feet, and took two speedy steps backwards.

Kyle got two his feet as well and followed after Stan, that somewhat confused look still on his face. "Stan-"

"I- guh-" Stan repeated and took four more steps backwards, hit the wall with enough force to knock the paintings off center, and then started sliding along the wall, away from Kyle.

Kyle frowned at his behavior and continued following after him. "Stan, hold on-"

"I-! Guh-!" Stan's voice was unusually high. "I didn't mean to do that!" Stan's high-pitched voice cracked.

Kyle stopped walking. His eyes narrowed, and then his hands clenched into fists. "Fine. Stan, you know what? Fine. I've had enough of this bullshit." He marched past him, down the hall.

"Wuh, what? Wait," Stan called, unsticking himself from the wall and hurrying after him. He found Kyle by the front door, rooting through the fishbowl everyone had dropped their keys into when they'd entered the residence. "What are you doing?"

"I'm leaving," Kyle said shortly.

"Where?"

"Home, obviously." Kyle found his father's keys and untangled them from Porsche's bright pink, fluffy nightmare of a key chain.

"But... your parents took away your keys," Stan said, trying to process the situation.

"So I stole my dad's keys, so what?" Kyle snapped.

Stan stared at him. "Kyle, you can't drive."

"I can do whatever the hell I want," Kyle said, reaching for the door. Stan grabbed the keys right out of his hands, and Kyle whirled back around to face him, fuming.

"Give them back, Stan!"

"You can't drive!" Stan argued. Kyle reached for them and Stan held them up over his head, which really wasn't going to deter him much. Kyle and Stan were practically identical in height, if you didn't factor Kyle's Jewfro into the equation.

"I'm fucking serious, Stan!"

"So am I!"

And because Stan really couldn't let Kyle leave, and he knew Kyle would be able to yank them out of his grasp, and because he had no pockets, Stan did the only thing he could think of, and stuffed them down his pants.

Kyle stared at him in utter bemusement for a while. Or, to be more specific, he stared at his crotch. Then he met his eyes and said, "If you're trying to distract me, I'll have you know it's working."

"Er," Stan said, as the full weight of the situation finally hit him, and he flushed. "I didn't mean it like that - it's just - you can't leave-" he said brokenly.

"God damn it," Kyle snarled, and then he was pissed again. "Stan, what the fuck is your problem? If you actually like it then stop dicking around and kiss me, and if you really hate it then stop being a pussy and punch me! Just quit jerking me around!"

And then he stormed out of the house and marched all the way home in the snow, shirtless, with the sort of anger you can only achieve through a combination of alcohol and teenager stupidity.

--

TBC