Present Day
They were the longest three weeks in his life.
No, really. The longest. Fucking. Three weeks. Of his LIFE.
Three weeks—well, really about two and a half weeks... whatever—THREE WEEKS of forcing himself to study for finals and Advanced Placement exams, which seemed to him the least important thing in the world at the time. Three weeks of cramming information in his head which battled constantly with the stream of unorganized thoughts and ideas for getting Kyle to forgive him. Three weeks of trying, trying, trying so hard to make himself resist his overwhelming need to talk to him. Three weeks at the end of which: he had no leads on how to do right by his best friend, he knew even less about the French Revolution than before his cramming sessions, and he might as well never have read The Picture of Dorian Gray—even though he had—because staring at the back of Kyle's head during the test made every bit of plot from the twice-read book fly out the back of his head faster than his inhibitions had on what was now rapidly coming to be remembered by himself as the happiest, most exhilarating, most terrifying night of his life.
It had been a fucking nightmare of a week, three times over.
And now? Now that the three weeks were over, he still had no idea what he was going to say to Kyle when he saw him again. Even worse, the next time he saw him, they would both be in tuxedos, walking into the South Park High gym for that most deplorable and ungodly of nights: the Senior Prom.
He looked at himself in the mirror and let out a soft sigh.
His tie was askew.
He'd tried to corner Kyle after his last final, but the look of absolute exhaustion on the other's face when he came out of the AP Spanish exam was heartbreaking, and he ducked around the corner to let Kyle go home and rest without any more stress on his shoulders. He wasn't sure at all that he'd done the right thing, but ignoring his gut had gotten him nowhere these past two months. He might as well try some different tactics.
Hah, tactics. Like it was some sort of war they were fighting. Guess that's where that 'love and war, all's fair, blah blah whatever it is' quote comes from. To him, both concepts connotated the same level of horror; both just as bloody, painful, and costly.
Fucking war.
No, screw that. Fucking love. Fuck love.
He'd take Iraq over heartbreak any day.
Love makes you such a fucking drama queen, doesn't it?
So, here he was: Stan Marsh, age eighteen, six feet and one-half inches tall, jet black hair hanging loosely just over his strong eyebrows; a five-o-clock shadow of scruff he was refusing to shave off in 'honor' of this preposterously overhyped evening highlighting his brilliant blue eyes as he stared at himself in the mirror of his bathroom. He wore a classic black tuxedo, sans bow, plus newly-adjusted tie, and any girl in South Park would have considered herself oh-so-lucky to have had him waiting downstairs for her tonight.
He had always imagined a small box with a flower waiting to be put on Wendy's wrist later that night to be clutched in his hand, but the thought was such a distant memory of an old expectation that it seemed... beyond just foreign; like a weird dream he'd once had, of which he could only make out the faint mental imprint of a once very strong feeling. Things really do change, he supposed. Fast, too.
He heard his mother call from downstairs—something about 'Kenny and Butters are here!'—and looked at his watch. It was already almost ten. They were going to miss the whole prom, which, according to school regulations, ended at midnight. He suddenly let out a short laugh at how little he cared.
"Coming!"
He went back to his room and stuffed his cellphone, wallet, keys, and a hefty flask full of Jim Beam in individual pockets of his suit before walking downstairs to meet his friends. His mother was waiting on the landing, tears ready and waiting to spring out of her maternal eyes as she watched her baby come down for the most important dance of his young life. And they did—proud, melodramatic beads of mom-ness wetting the wrinkles around her eyes as she hugged her boy, who prayed, in turn, that she wouldn't feel the hard metal of the concealed alcohol in his breast pocket.
"Oh, my baby! You look so handsome!" she weeped, squeezing him tighter. Stan would have laughed had he had breath to laugh with. Or if he'd been in anything resembling a laughing mood.
"Okay—M-mom, you can—" he wheezed slightly, shooting a glare at the highly amused Kenny and Butters. "Air, I need air—"
"Sharon, honey, let him breathe," his father chimed in, gently pulling her back. She sniffled by her husband's side, who looked around the room at the three tuxedoed teenagers before him. "Looking sharp, boys! So, what, none of you could get dates?" He laughed awkwardly, trying to make his own joke funny by encouraging them to laugh with him. Didn't work. Randy cleared his throat, looking for conversation. "Always thought Stan would be on his way to pick up Wendy Testaburger around this time tonight—"
"Dad, shut the fuck up."
"Language, Stanley," his mom chimed in.
"I'm just saying," Randy Marsh defended, taking a sip from his beer. "Didn't have to be Wendy, that was just a joke... it was in poor taste, I'm sorry." Stan nodded in recognition of the apology and headed over to where Kenny and Butters were standing. "But, come on, three good looking guys such as yourselves? Must've been at least a couple girls at that school begging you'd ask them to be their date."
"Randy..."
"I'm just saying!" he insisted. Though none of his words were mean-spirited, Stan could smell the veiled disappointment in his father's words from miles away. "Kinda lame to go to prom alone, isn't it?"
He laughed again as he took another sip of his beer can. It was a joke, of course. Just a harmless joke at the expense of three young boys about to go to an importantly embarrassing social event. But Kenny, ever eager to tell the truth and, sub-sequentially, make people uncomfortable whenever possible, decided to do... well, exactly that.
"Butters has a date."
Randy turned to face them and give the smaller blond a hearty pat on the back. Butters coughed. "Now, that's how it's done, kiddo! Which girl? Who're you goin' with?"
Kenny smirked.
"I don't think I really qualify as a 'girl,' Mr. Marsh."
The silence that followed wasn't deadly, but it was sure as hell uncomfortable. Uncomfortable and awkward.
Except maybe for Kenny, who looked like he was having the time of his life as he laced his fingers in Butters', who looked petrified. Stan, who had controlled his sharp inhale down to a silent breath after his friend had spoken, had his nose pinched in between his thumb and forefinger.
"We should, uh, head out," he interjected, breaking the tension in the room as gracefully as a hammer breaks a mirror. His dad almost jumped at the sound of his voice. "Yep, let's go. Night, Mom."
"N-night!" she called out, stunned and embarrassed on behalf of her husband, as Stan exited the house, followed promptly by a widely grinning Kenny who confidently wrapped his arm around Butters' waist and lead him out the door into the cold.
As soon as they were out of earshot, Kenny led them all in a burst of laughter.
"Oh my fucking Christ, that was priceless!"
"Dude," Stan chided, trying to sound angry through his laughter but failing. "Dude, that's gonna be the most awkward conversation of my life when I get back, you know..." He chuckled, and stumbled a little on a rock on the ground, feeling the flask knock against his breast. "Speaking of awkward, whatd'ya say we make this stupid fucking thing we're walking to—" Stan reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his flask "—a little more bearable—" only to look up and see that Kenny was holding his out as well. They stared at each other for a half second and started laughing again.
"Jinx!" Butters said, jumping up slightly on his toes.
"You are so fucking cute," Kenny told him as he grabbed him by the waist pulled him into a kiss, opening the flask with his free hand. Stan did the same, minus the kiss, and wished he had Kyle next to him so they could out-cute them. Which they would have, he was sure.
Wait, what?
Out-cute them? Since when did he want to—Jesus Christ—the fuck? Did he just.. think that?
Of course he did.
I hate this.
He took a swig as he watched Kenny shotgun half of a huge gulp directly into Butters' mouth. Stan—oh, poor, poor Stan—was getting hard just imagining doing the same thing to the red-haired beholder of his manic obsession. He grit his teeth, and forced himself to think about his dead Grandpa again.
Jesus tap-dancing Christ, this sucks.
"Seriously, though," he said, clearing his throat and switching flasks with Kenny, who gave Stan's over to Butters. "My Dad's probably annoyed and disconcerted as hell right now—"
"Ah, what the fuck ever," Kenny said, waving his free hand in the air in his 'who cares' way. "Just tell him it's none of his business—"
"It's his business when you go off and make it his business—"
"Dude, chillax, it was fucking funny!"
"No, it's not fucking funny," Stan huffed, unable to stop thinking about what his father would say if he'd done that same exact thing with Kyle tonight instead. He could just imagine the look on Randy Marsh's face as his son told him he was going to his prom with another penis-bearing human being. It would ruin them, he was sure. So why was a huge part of him getting so excited at the very thought of that scenario? "My Dad isn't that comfortable with the whole gay thing—"
"Jeeze, Stanie, who cares?" Butters interrupted, taking another swig of the flask as they rounded the corner of the school gym before he closed it and handed it back to Stan. "Like your Dad is really going to be that concerned with the fact that Kenny and I are going to prom together? Stop projecting your fear of what your Dad is going to think of you being gay onto every little situation that's remotely related."
Stan and Kenny both stopped walking.
The tall, dirty blond looked from his still-moving boyfriend to his flabbergasted friend and back before cracking his middle finger and thumb together in Stan's direction, giving him a very significant look before he caught up to Butters, who still hadn't realized they'd stopped. Stan still hadn't found his legs.
Why did everyone seem to have such a good grip on what he was supposed to be doing but himself?
"Stanie?" he heard Butters calling, and snapped out of his reverie. Having been called out so bluntly, however, he was more than a little pissed off. He stayed still.
"Stan, come on..." Kenny pleaded, not wanting the night to be ruined over something so stupid. Stan sighed, unable to agree more. He had enough stress in his life as it was without getting worked up when his friends were really just trying to help. He walked over to them and landed a dude-punch on Butters' left shoulder.
"Ow!"
"Pussy."
They could hear the music from the gym now, and Kenny groaned in tandem with Stan as he hid the flask in his coat pocket again. They approached the doors, three dudes dressed to impress with ties and bows which would soon be lost to boredom.
"This is going to suck."
First thing they saw when they walked in, other than tacky flashing disco lights in a dark auditorium and the vague shadows of their twenty something classmates dancing, was the abandoned picture panorama where all the couples must have taken their epic prom photos. The lights were off on the plastic 'stone' arch, and a couple of the fake roses on the fake vines had fallen down into the trampled confetti below. He wanted to scoff at it, but somehow found it too... depressing. Too desolate to mock.
"Hey there, boys," they heard the familiar voice of Mr. Mackey call out to them over the dated, pounding music. "Come 'n get your wristbands, m'kay?"
Stan looked over at Kenny, who raised an eyebrow at him as they both followed the bouncing Butters over to the welcome table. Poor old Mackey was dressed in his best, condemned to sit there all night and wrap a paper bracelet around a few handfuls of students, stuck until midnight with nothing to do. He seemed to be enjoying himself enough, though. Stan smiled at him as he put his wristband on, deciding not to question the pointlessness of it, since there were only so many students, no one was allowed (technically) to drink alcohol, and admittance and re-entry were free. He'd just think of it as a souvenir.
Soon as everyone was banded, they walked past the decrepit photo arch and into the crowd.
It was so lame.
So beyond what anyone would ever be able to call 'lame.'
In fact, it sullied the good name of 'lame.'
Most everyone was either dancing awkwardly in groups of girls, or sitting down in groups of guys—just what Stan and Kenny had expected to walk into. Butters, however, wasn't going to let the lackluster energy bring him down. Like always, he trotted off into the middle of the dance floor and boogied down in honor of Michael Jackson, the infamous GaGa, and the cast of Glee.
"Wanna go get some punch?"
"Probably tastes like fruity piss," Kenny snorted. "Sure."
They walked over to the snacks table, laden with two extra-large bowls of pink something-or-other, one of which was almost empty, and an even larger bowl of half-eaten, half-pulverized Dorito, Cheeto, and Cheez-It mix. Some napkins, paper plates, and plastic cups garnished the side of the table, with 'SPH 2010' printed in the school colors on them. Thank god they lived in this po-dunk, redneck, white trash, mountain town.
"You're not gonna go dance with Butters?" he asked Kenny, pouring his friend and himself a plate and a plastic cup full of white, lower-middle class goodies. They walked over to the fold out chairs and tables to sit down.
"Nah, not yet," he answered, smiling at the flash of blond jumping about in the short distance. "Probably save that for the after-party. Or a slow one, if he lets me—"
"After party?"
"Yeah, dude, at Bebe's house," Clyde's voice rang out, making Stan and Kenny jump slightly as they watched their classmate pull up a chair and sit between them. Clyde looked at them both, mostly Stan, amusedly. "Where have you been?"
"Under a rock, apparently." Stan finished his punch and grimaced slightly. Too much lemon and grapefruit juice in the mix. He looked around the room, searching anywhere for the flash of red he so desperately wanted to see and avoid. No luck.
"Well," Clyde continued, "remember that hush-hush fundraiser she was doing these past few weeks?"
"Couldn't care less," Kenny quipped, causing Clyde to shove him.
"Shut up, douche, this is a good one!" he bitched, punching Kenny on the shoulder. "Well, she told everyone she trusted—me, Token, Wendy—" The sound of his ex's name almost made Stan snarl. "—Craig, Annie, and Red, she told us it was for the after party, and, after collecting all the cash, she tricked her parents into going out of town again by paying her older sister to fake a personal crisis out in California."
"The fuck?" Stan turned, looking at Clyde for the first time in the whole conversation. "Who does that?"
"Ha, I know!" Clyde cheered, rubbing his hands together in anticipation of the debauchery to come. "Only Queen Bebe can pull that shit off. So, yeah, the 'rents are out, and we bought twice the alcohol we had last time. It's gonna be a shit show—Hey, Kyle."
Stan didn't look up. He couldn't. His eyes froze. He could have sworn they would bore a hole in the ground on the spot he'd been looking at. Moving would put his stupid, too-lemony-and-grapefruity punch at risk for ruining his rented tux at the sight of Kyle in his. Fuck that. He'd look up at him soon, surely...
"So," he heard Clyde finish, as he got up from his seat. "After party. Bebe's. You down?"
"Uh, yeah," he heard Kyle hesitate. "Guess so. See you there, man."
He heard the slapping together of hands. He heard the chair in between Kenny and himself creak with the weight of a human being. He smelled that god-forsaken wonderful smell that he'd been dying to smell for too fucking long now. And he still couldn't look up long enough to say something to him.
"Sup, dude?" he heard Kenny start, thanking him silently for breaking the silence.
"Bored," Kyle shrugged. Stan could see only from his knees down to his polished dress shoes. He had to look up. Why wasn't he looking up? "So, there's an after party?"
"Apparently. Clyde came over to tell the whole story of Bebe's deceit-capade."
"Yeah, I heard..." Kyle mused. "That's kinda fucked, if you ask me. But, hey, free booze, right?"
Why couldn't he look up at him? Or say anything?
"Very true, dude. Very true."
"God, I could use a drink."
IF YOU CAN'T LOOK THEN FUCKING SAY SOMETHING.
"I-have-a-flask-full-of-Jim-Beam-if-you-want-it's-kinda-half-empty-but-you-can-have-the-rest-if-you-want-I-mean."
Silence. Then—
"Dude, I was easier to understand when I used to close my parka around my mouth," Kenny said. "The fuck did you say?"
Stan shut his eyes in embarrassment. He could feel sweat forming on his forehead, the back of his tongue stuck to the back of his throat as he tried to swallow.
"...I have a flask with a bit of Jim Beam in it if... if you want."
There.
You said something.
Way to go.
Eyes fixed on the ground, he munched on some cheetos and heard Kenny laugh lightly. He sent him a telekinetic 'shut the fuck up.'
...This sucks balls.
"Yeah, sure... We should probably go outside, though," Kyle said. "The music's giving me a headache."
The three of them got up and walked over to the back exit, Stan keeping his eyes anywhere but on Kyle's face. Kenny made sure no one was looking as Stan pushed open the door and walked the three of them into the open air. He watched Kyle take off his bowtie, sticking it in the door to keep it from shutting, and swallowed hard. Nervously, he waited for him to turn around before he handed him the flask, still not looking up at his face.
"Thanks."
"Sure."
Oh, it was awkward. It was tense and it was awkward, and tense all over again. Stan walked to the wall of the building and leaned against it, staring at the floor near Kyle and Kenny's feet. He heard Kenny opening his flask too and reached his hand out for it.
"Shit," Kyle coughed in between gulps. Normally, Stan would have laughed at him and patted him on the back to help him out. He hoped to God those days weren't over yet.
"You good?" Kenny asked, doing to Kyle exactly what Stan had just wanted to. His inside-self growled.
"Not yet," he laughed, taking another sip. He looked at Stan, who only could surmise as much out of the corner of his eyes. "Mind if I kill it?" Stan shrugged, and Kyle downed the rest of the contents of the silver metal container and handed it back to the raven haired paralytic. "Are you ever going to look at me?"
Oh fuck.
Now he HAD to look.
Oh fuck, oh fuck.
And, still, he didn't.
"Well?"
The subtle, yet clear warning tone in his voice was enough to make Stan feel like the eight year old he once was, being reprimanded for having done something very wrong; something he knew was very wrong. Kyle had the kind of effect on him that made him feel the old sweeps of nausea from his romantically excited childhood rearing their heads for the first time in a decade. The maddening feeling of reverting to his pre-pubescent self was deeply unnerving. And the fact that it was Kyle, whom he had shared everything with since they were too young to retain substantial memory, that was making him feel this way... that was still quite the pill to swallow.
Not for lack of trying, however.
So, since he needed to give an answer, he settled for the truth.
"I will when I feel like I can."
About forty-seven seconds passed in complete silence, broken only by the sound of rustling fabric and cardboard, followed by the click and flickering light of a lighter.
"You two are fucking stressing me out."
Kenny took a drag of his cigarette, exhaling deeply as he handed Stan the lighter and a smoke, whose hand was extended in a request for one. Stan closed his eyes and brought the cigarette to his lips and lighting it. He could feel Kyle's disapproval sinking into his skin.
"You shouldn't be smoking, dude," Stan told Kenny, handing him back his lighter. "You'll wreck your voice."
"Not like it's gonna be put to use anyway."
Stan, grateful as hell for the change of subject, pressed on. "You don't know that. I mean, you got in to Juilliard. With good reason—"
"Right," Kenny scoffed. "Wasted a hundred bucks to be told I can go to the damn school if I have about a hundred thousand more."
"Oh, come on, dude," Kyle cut him off. "There's ways around that shit. If you really wanna make that happen—"
"—then make it happen," Stan finished, almost catching Kyle's eye but managing to avoid him at the last second. Another pause in conversation as blonde and black took long drags to drag out the time they needed to be silent. After a while, Kenny chuckled a somewhat cynical, but mostly hopeful, chuckle.
"You two are something else."
A little 'bing-bong' sound emanated from Kenny's pocket, and he flipped open his phone, responding to the text. Not two minutes later, the door they were leaning near opened as Butters, breathless from dancing, came out to find them. He opened his mouth to greet them and seemed to lose his words, as the sight of Kyle and Stan standing at a normal distance from each other made him do a double-take. Kenny pulled him close.
"Hey, what's up? You said you wanted to ask me something?"
"Oh, uh, yeah," he stuttered, looking away from the two who refused to look at each other. "I, um... you know that song I like? The one by the Drifters?"
"Uh huh..."
"Well, I, uh," he mumbled, looking down in shyness, even in front of the person who knew him best. "I put in a request, and it's coming up in a few songs, and I wanna... wanna dance? Just one, please?"
Kenny smiled.
"Come on," he said, taking Butters by the hand and leading him inside. He handed his flask over to Kyle before pausing at the door to look at them both. "Get your shit together, you two. It's the end of the end. And I'm not gonna fucking pick sides on this one. Us hanging out shouldn't be this... difficult."
Alone.
Finally.
.
.
.
.
.
Shit.
