Perchance to Dream
Disclaimer: See Prologue
Summary: Stanneh's goin to Kahl's house.
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Elsewhere II
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After school, I head home, with Kyle's latest gift hanging over my shoulder. Greg kindly gave me the day off, which I was notified of by a note for me at the office after lunch. Apparently somebody died or something. Oh well. Just gives me…six hours to make sure I'm ready for this.
I've had all day to plan out what I'm going to say to Kyle when I get my hands on him. That'll probably pose the first problem. He'll either be getting blasted off his ass or laid by the time I get there, so I may have to kick back with a beer and begin fending off drunk girls while I wait. When I do, I'm going to punch him in the face, and just start bitching him out. Three years worth of hurt and anguish into a…ten to fifteen minute rant, I figure. Uninterrupted. If he decides to pipe up or object to something, it could be twenty to twenty-five, but that's alright too.
When I get home, I sneak upstairs and hang up the clothes before lighting up a cigarette to calm down. I don't think Buddhist meditation would do anything for me when I'm this nervous, though. I suppose the best analogy to my situation is a prisoner of war who's returning home for the first time in three years. How different is everything going to be from what I left? How different will the people be? Will anyone greet me?
I spend the two hours before dinner trying to calm myself down. I spend all dinner trying to calm myself down. I spend the half-hour shower I take afterward trying to calm myself down. I try jacking off to calm myself down. That one, surprisingly, works. The side effect is that I have to take another shower. I don't mind that, it wastes time, which I need to be doing.
Getting out for the second time, I head back into my room and put on a clean pair of underwear and apply deodorant/antiperspirant before shrugging into a clean white undershirt and begin the process of changing into the party outfit Kyle so kindly gave me. First comes the shirt. It's a deep red long sleeved shirt that feels like silk and with black buttons, and I take care to not cause any pulls in the fabric. I decide to leave it slightly open at the top, to show off a little skin. Next come the pants, black dress pants that don't really seem to be my size until I get them up around my hips, at which point, they fit perfectly. No need for a belt, even. Which is good, because I don't have one that would match these pants. Once my shirt is tucked in properly, I sit down and grab the black dress shoes, one of which has rolled-up black socks in it. I pull those on first, and then slide on the shoes before heading to the mirror and pirouetting.
I look damn good. Now, I have to do the hair. A sexy tousle and gelling that in place should take care of that, since I took advantage of Kyle's salon trip last weekend. A few strokes of a razor to take care of any stubble along my jaw and upper lip, and Sexy Stan is ready to go.
A glance at the clock shows that I need to be heading out if I'm going to get to Kyle's by 9:30 exactly. Now, the question is if I drive or not. It's a nice enough night to walk, but it's a long enough walk to scuff these shoes…
"Dad?" I ask, from halfway down the stairs.
"What, Stan?"
"Can I take the car to Kyle's?!"
"Yeah sure, keys are on the front table!"
"Thanks, Dad!"
It doesn't strike me until I'm already out the door with the keys in hand that Dad didn't ask my WHY I'm going to Kyle's. Or why I couldn't walk there. Now, Dad's not the most involved Dad in the world, but he's not THAT disinterested in what I do and why I'm doing it and all those parent-y questions. What in the hell is going on here?
My drive to Kyle's is brief and quiet. Mainly because I don't want sonic vibrations from the radio pumping full blast to mess up my hair. Or air from the vent, so that's down on low. Just to be safe, I park down the block from Kyle's house at 9:27 P.M., allowing me three minutes to walk to his house and ring the doorbell at precisely 9:30 P.M.
The door swings open to reveal not Kyle, as I expected, but a very, very drunk Kenny in the process of getting even drunker. Behind Kenny, there're about sixty people in various stages of drunkenness and undress, with more probably throughout the house and upstairs. The music is techno hip-hop, and there's a keg set up in the corner, with another table of liquor with a cooler of ice adjacent to it.
"Sup, Stan?" Kenny slurs, clutching to me to keep from falling while swigging back another Solo cup of beer.
"I'm looking for Broflovski. Happy birthday, by the way," I tell him, shouting to be heard over the music that I'm surprised hasn't elicited a noise complaint to the police yet.
"Ah, thanks dude! You ain't such a bad guy, ya know?"
"Yeah, I've heard…where's Broflovski?"
"Off…thataway…somewhere," Kenny shouts, gesturing with this cup arm towards the kitchen, where there are about 12 half-naked girls and another keg.
"Thanks, Ken," I shout, guiding him to a seat on the stairs and moving towards the kitchen.
"BROFLOVSKI!" I scream, passing through the fog machine that's on its last legs, though still manages to hiss out another stream of moisture as I pass. This would be a lot easier if I could see and if the music was off…turning around, I head back through the smoke to the living room, tiptoeing over a pair of drunk teens that are dry-humping each other, dodging a make-out fest that crosses my path suddenly and accidentally stepping on a passed out sophomore boy on my way to the stereo and the light switch. I hit the pause button and flip on the lights, and not too surprisingly, I am subjected to vociferous displeasure. And doused in beer. Great, a three-shower night.
"Shut the fuck up!" I yell at them in my angry voice. "I'm looking for Broflovski. Where the fuck is he?"
Confused, drunk, and horny teenagers stare at me with blank stares, blinking at me and each other in ignorance and doubt before replying with a collective "Dunno."
Luckily for me, the object of my search comes running into the living room from upstairs, quite upset, quite drunk, and with his long-sleeved striped white, orange and green shirt halfway open, exposing a chest that has been getting attention from a woman wearing purple lipstick, and a liquid stain on the crotch of his khaki pants that I doubt is from beer.
"WHO THE FUCK TURNED OFF THE STEREO!?" he yells, approaching it and me to turn it back on.
"That would be me," I snark, leaning against it and crossing my legs. Immediately the expression on his face turns from one of intense anger to one of … pleasure?
"You came!" he says with a smile, approaching me and giving me a hug. His eyes are half-glazed over and he reeks of alcohol, so I push him off me.
"What in the HELL is wrong with you!?" I exclaim. He blinks stupidly.
"Staaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan!"
"Back the fuck away or I will fucking wreck your face," I snarl as he tries to come at me again.
"Why're you so mad?"
"WHY AM I MAD!? Why am I MAD? YOU!"
"What'd I do?"
"Don't you even get me STARTED on what you did!" I exclaim, standing incredulous at how he has no idea that I'm even MAD at him.
"Did I do something wrong with the letters?" he asks. "I'm not all that used to begging sexy guys for anything…"
My eyes bug out. Sexy guys? Begging for things? Kyle? Not all that used to!?
"WHAT!?"
"Whaddaya mean, what? I'm talking about you, sexy…oh, god, you just know how to push every button I have, don't you?" he asks, taking in my appearance, especially my hair. What in the HELL? I am seriously starting to get creeped out here.
"Oh come on, Stan, don't be shy…"
"Don't be SHY!?"
"Yeaaaaaaah…we can go up to my room…have a nice 'talk'…"
"Hell. Fucking. No."
"Why nooooooooooot?"
"You're blasted. And hitting on me. I'm outta this bitch!" I declare, hitting the stereo and turning the lights back off before pushing past him and the suddenly active group of revelers once more, who cut him off from me. I use this time to run to the front door, throw it open, and run with total disregard for the status of my shoes to the car, jump in, start it up, and peel out.
What the FUCK just happened back there? Kyle was…Kyle was HITTING on me. Like he was in love with me, or wanted to fuck me, or something like that. That can't possibly be right. No way in Hell can that be right.
Kyle is straight, I tell myself.
Kyle was drunk, a little voice inside my mind reminds me.
That doesn't matter, though. Kyle is straight.
People tell the truth when they're drunk…
Kyle. Is. Straight!
As a circle…he wants to bone you.
No. No fucking way. I'll yell at him Monday, when he's sober. I'll yell and bitch and give him an extra-extended version of what I was going to give him here, the extra being the new ammo this has given me. If he IS gay, then that'll bring it out, and I can figure out where to go from there.
One thing's for sure, if he is, we're going to have a lot of fun. Because taking him down will be easier than getting arrested for killing Kenny. All I'll have to do is some extraordinarily gay act with him that he responds to in front of a bunch of people, and I'll be set. Especially if one of those people is Cartman. Wouldn't that just be delicious? All that work Kyle had to do to turn Cartman to his will, and I ruin it in an instant? Oh, it would be positively delightful!
I pull back into the driveway, run inside, and hurriedly strip out of the clothes that reek of beer and Kyle, run to the shower and stay in there for thirty minutes, scrubbing myself clean from his touch and his breath. I'm absolutely disgusted that I went over there, and that a GUY who was about two minutes removed from foreplay with Wendy (at least, I hope it was Wendy, if not, he's got even more explaining to do) was practically THROWING himself at me. He was THROWING himself at me, without a doubt. He wanted to do something. He said me, dressed like I was and with my hair like that pushed all his buttons. This was on purpose.
This was on purpose…it had to be on purpose.
He knew he was going to get blasted.
He knew how I was going to look.
He figured he could get away with any number of things; a kiss, a grope, hell, full-on mansex, because he was drunk.
But he didn't figure on me not going along with it.
Oh, BOY does he ever have some explaining to do.
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Notes: Well, here it is, folks! The latest chapter of PtD, and – by the grace of God – the second chapter in the fine month of April. Want to know why? Because I pulled a seventeen hour day last Sunday working on the first draft of my term paper, which I turned in last Monday and am awaiting my professor's notes on it. After I get them, I'll just have to make the changes, and do two presentations, and I'll be in the clear until Finals week. Which…is…um…holy shit, two weeks away.
Not enough time to knock out another chapter, probably, but I may have another one for you around Mother's Day. Because by then I will be home. Almost hard to believe at this point, but I will be. And then you can revel in Stan FINALLY getting a chance to rip into Kyle.
On a side note, I would absolutely flip if this baby hit 100 reviews on this chapter. Only nine to go! Depending on who 100 is…a prize may be in order. I haven't done a oneshot in a while…
L8rz, y'all.
Phoenix II