This Could Be Anywhere But Here

Chapter Ten

"Assistant Section Editor," Kyle says, his smile shining with pride.

Kenny promptly hands Kyle and myself shots of tequila. Why he keeps picking this shit is beyond me. Kenny's a pro, but I'm a pussy when it comes to tequila. I hate this stuff. I'm going to have to step in and buy the next round if I know what's good for me.

"That sounds fancy," Kenny says.

"It's really not fancy."

"Cheers! To Mr. Fucking Fancy."

The three of us click our glasses together and knock back the shots. The burn lingers on my tongue and I promptly wash it down with a beer.

Kyle's excitement has barely subsided since he broke the news to me about his new job. He's been all smiles since we walked in here. I'm in a great mood, too (despite trying to keep this tequila down.) I'm still very excited for him and have every intention of getting nice and drunk tonight to celebrate. I even have the next two days without Cartman.

An overall awesome formula for an overall awesome night.

"When do you start?" Kenny asks, filled with questions that I already know the answers to.

"Next Monday. Super early, too. I have to be down there by 5AM."

"Are you gonna find a place in Denver?"

Kyle shrugs, "I'm not sure. I think so. The commute will probably get on my nerves after a while, but I'll see how it goes."

We've only been here an hour and Kenny's bought three rounds of shots already. To say he's a heavy drinker is an understatement. This shit is like water to him. But, he's been distracted. Apart from his genuine interest in Kyle's new job, his eyes keep darting over to his father at the other end of the bar. It's nothing really out of the ordinary. There's his dad, trucker hat and all, peering down into his moonshine. It's not a happy picture, but it's nothing unusual.

At least, that's what I thought.

Ten minutes later he whips out a knife from his boot and stabs the counter of the bar, all while shouting at the bartender for another drink. Kenny instantly jumps up from his seat and runs over. We follow and try to help, but he protests as he pulls one of his father's arms over his shoulder. I instinctively grab Mr. McCormick's other arm anyway, tug it around my shoulder, and then help Kenny get him outside.

"If you throw up," he begins, shoving his father inside the back seat of his car, one limb at a time, "or try to stab anything else, I'll gun it to 80 and push you out the door. Comprende?"

Mr. McCormick mumbles something else, but none of us hear anything besides Kenny kicking the back door shut.

"Are you sure that you're okay to get him home?" Kyle asks, always the first to be the responsible one.

Kenny nods, "Yeah. My tolerance is above and beyond compared to you two."

"Are you coming back?"

He shakes his head and opens his driver's side door, "Nah, I'm night shift in two hours anyway. You two fags have fun. I'll catch up with you tomorrow."

As they drive off, Kyle turns to me, "Well, this place got old quick."

"I know. Now that we're actually old enough to get in here, it's not nearly as cool as I thought it was."

"Do you just want to grab a few six packs and drink at my house? My parents and Ike are scoping out college campuses. They're not back until tomorrow."

It's funny, just when I'm starting to feel old as balls someone says, "Let's drink at my house, my parents aren't home."

I nod, "Let's hurry, before my dad stumbles in here too."

XxxX

Two six packs between us and they go quick. I balance one of the last beers on my thigh, my grip loose on the cold bottle and my head relaxed on Kyle's shoulder. Thank God we're only drinking light beer right now. That tequila really hit me.

We're three episodes into a Law and Order marathon on Kyle's couch and I have no idea what's going on besides making fun of the bad acting and shitty dialogue. This is what we do with entertainment we're not into—tear it apart. Kyle is much more forgiving than I am. I have a tendency to shit on everything and sometimes he has to throw a little optimism my way.

This is not one of those times.

"Wait for it, dude. Wait for the cry." He points to the screen and my head falters, but I don't budge.

We both laugh hysterically when the camera zooms in on a poor imitation of what may or may not be tears, while a dramatic musical score roars through the speakers. I bend forward as my stomach tightens with laughter and I almost spit out my beer. This shouldn't be this funny…but it's fucking hilarious.

When we both stop laughing like hyenas, I lean back into my seat and Kyle's arm drapes around my shoulder. My head rests in the nook of his arm, and it's much more comfortable than his boney shoulder. I snicker lightly to myself. He's always had boney shoulders. We're both tall, but I'm the one with a little more meat on my bones. He's lanky as hell all around.

I nuzzle my head into his chest. He smells like that weird off brand detergent his mom always buys.

I look up to share my thoughts on laundry but he's already smiling down at me, "You're about to drop your beer," he says and nods to the teetering bottle hanging loose in my hand.

"No I'm not," I say defiantly.

"You're drinking mine anyway, give that back," and he reaches his hand towards mine.

I shake my head, hair ruffling against the wrinkles of his t-shirt, "No way." I push myself off of him, sit up with a grin and finish off the rest.

"I only said you were going to drop it, not that it was going to disappear if you didn't finish it in two seconds."

"Catch up, Jew Boy," I tease.

He scoffs, "Fuck dude, you are around Cartman too much. And now we need another one. Thanks for that."

I laugh and jump up from the couch. He's by my side in an instant, standing so close that I pause, just to take in this small moment for no other reason than to stretch it as long as possible. His eyes are level with my own, "You know that last beer is mine, right?" There's an obvious hint of a challenge in my voice.

As soon as the words are out of my mouth, he darts for the kitchen in a quick attempt to reach the refrigerator first.

I grin, and lunge for him from behind. Both of my arms wrap around his frame in a bear hug and I lock my grip around his chest. We both trip and topple over. The floor comes right at us and I don't even feel it when we hit the ground, tangled in each other's limbs and laughing.

We wrestle each other—two grown men, giggling. He's stronger than I remember. It completely catches me off guard when he manages to push off his knees and knock me backwards. My hand smacks against the coffee table and the air in my lungs juts out of my throat when I land.

I definitely feel the floor this time.

I'm on my back and he's suddenly on top of me. He yanks each wrist above my head in the second I take to catch my breath. I buck my hips upward to try and throw him, but he doesn't move. I try another tactic and push off my feet, but the lack of traction in socks is getting me nowhere. My cheeks hurt from laughing and my stomach is in knots.

This is all really exciting for some reason.

"Got ya down, Stan," he breathes, a cocky smirk on his face and his hold unwavering. "When's the last time this happened?"

"You're not getting…that beer," I manage to say, still trying to wiggle out of this hold.

"That's what you think."

He abruptly lets go and tries to make another run for the kitchen. As soon as he's a step away, I roll over and grab hold of his ankle. He stumbles and topples back to the floor, landing on his shoulder.

I'm on him in an instant. I pull his wrists behind his back and add just enough pressure upward for this to be uncomfortable but not painful. I lean into his ear, my chin on his shoulder. He squirms back and forth, teetering on his stomach like an overturned turtle. "Too slow," I whisper before I pounce off his back and run for the kitchen to grab the last beer in the house.

I fling the fridge open and hold the bottle up in victory. I feel the need to tackle him again when he drags his feet into the kitchen with wounded pride, rubbing his shoulder, but I don't because I have no other reason besides the fact that I just want to touch him again.

I take a seat at the kitchen table and wipe my warm head with my forearm. Kyle begins looking through all of the cabinets, searching for liquor. He kneels on the countertop to go through the very top shelves.

"Are you sure you don't wanna go to a liquor store? We can just walk," I say in between a sip of my prize, "It's not that far."

All I hear is the clanking of glass, or pots, or whatever the hell Kyle is doing to his parents' cabinets, "No way, dude. I know that there is like, a gallon of whiskey in here somewhere. I stashed it on Christmas."

"Last Christmas?"

"Yeah. That's when I broke the news to my mom about coming home after graduation. That was a great holiday. She was pissed."

It's odd not knowing everything about him, "But, she seems ecstatic to have you home."

He continues, "She's out of her mind, dude. She's proud of me and all, really glad to see me again, but she's so pissed that I decided to come home." He accidentally drops a metal pot to the floor and I jump at the noise, "She's driving me crazy. I really need to find another place."

Kyle hasn't spoken much of his family. He mentioned he was happy to see Ike, said he missed him a lot while he was away, but his mother is a different story. This is the first that he's mentioned any kind of interaction between the two of them besides her disapproval with his hair.

"Why didn't she want you home?"

"Think about it." He turns to me and sits down on the counter, putting his search for whiskey on hold for a second. He almost slips, but catches himself. Feet dangle back and forth in front of him, "I graduated in the top of my class. Denver isn't ideal."

I mean, I have thought about that. But I never wanted to admit it. What's wrong with Denver anyway? "I thought you said that the Denver Chronicle is a good opportunity?"

"It is, I'm not saying that it's not. I just mean that there were other opportunities that were…more up to her standards. She didn't want me to come back to South Park. She thinks I have too much 'potential' for this town." He looks down at his swinging feet, "I don't need her running my life for me, and I'm not ready to start from scratch again. All of my offers were in Boston, Philly, and New York. As exciting as that may be, I don't need that, dude. Not yet."

He rubs the back of his neck, his right foot lightly tapping on a cabinet, "Besides, there really is a lot of opportunity at the Denver Chronicle. From what I've heard, I can climb the corporate ladder pretty fast and get a good title under my belt. I can't do that at a huge paper or a News site. I'll be stuck as an Assistant Editor for years. I can advance faster in a smaller place because my chances of being noticed are a lot higher."

I smile because I love his logic. It means that he's here for good, or at least for a little while.

"But anyway," he changes the subject as he kicks off the counter. I get the vibe that he doesn't enjoy talking about her, "I think I remember where that whiskey is." He bends down and starts on the bottom cabinets.

In between the sound of tupperware toppling over and cleaners shifting out of place, I try not to think aboutwhen he hid this whiskey in the first place. When I was home with my family, unsure if Kyle was down the street or across the country…unsure about anything involving him at all.

"How long were you here for Christmas?"

"Only like two days. I feel like I got off the plane and got right back on. A ha!" He suddenly exclaims, "Found it." He pulls out an entire jug of brown, thick liquid.

My eyes widen at the size of it.

"90 proof." He smiles and kicks the tiny door shut, "Drinking while my parents aren't home. Just like old times."

I smirk at his wording, "Are you mocking me?"

He laughs and grabs us clean glasses from the sink, "I totally am."

I take the jug from him and this thing is fucking huge. No way we're finishing this. But, I think we can make a pretty good dent.

A pretty good dent and a half later, we've somehow relocated to the staircase. I don't remember why we decided to try and make it up the steps, but here we are.

He's sitting two steps above the one that I'm on, his knees beside me. I have an arm hooked around his leg so that there's some kind of support if I decide to fall on my face. He takes a drink of whiskey and my eyes follow his Adam's apple as it bounces up and down with each swig. He shivers off the burn of the drink with a vicious shake of his head before his eyes are back on me.

For some reason, I think of Travis, and all of the questions that I have surrounding that mysterious dude from the East Coast, "Kyle?"

"Yeah?"

"What's up with you and Travis?"

He tilts his head and squints, "What do you mean?"

I kneel forward and turn to face him, balancing myself on this tiny step so that I'm eye level with him, "I saw him in the diner the other day, and he stormed out after you got the job. And then he was touching you all boyfriend-like in the movie theater. And…I don't know, dude," I pause and try to make my words not string together in a disjointed ramble, "I feel like… like, you're hiding something."

His hands are around the glass in his lap, fingertips tracing the rim. I'm not sure how long we're silent, but I just watch him and wait for an answer.

And then he sighs, "We used to date."

"Used to?"

"Yeah. For three years."

What the fuck—three years? How did he not mention something like this before? "Wait, so you're broken up now? Are you really?"

He nods instantly, "Yeah, totally. We broke up six months ago."

"Why didn't you tell me?" I ask, and I sound angry—because I am. Three years? Why does he have to keep hiding shit?

"I'm sorry, dude. All of this is still kind of…new."

"What do you mean 'new?' This?" I motion a hand back and forth between us, "This is not new."

He looks down, "I know. He's just been weird about it. When we broke up, we still had to share an apartment until our lease was up after graduation. I tried to stay friends with him, but he'd always get drunk and tell me how much he loves me, and—"

My stomach plummets. Travis was in love with Kyle? Fucking in love?

I ignore whatever else he's saying. Not by choice, but I suddenly can't hear anything coming out of his mouth right now. Love? Kyle's been in love while he was away? Did he love Travis back? Does he still love him?

I fall back to sit on my ass, but my stupid-self forgets that I'm only kneeling on a step with absolutely nothing behind me but gravity, and I begin to lose my balance.

Kyle's hand is instantly around my waist, "Be careful!" He yelps, and pulls me towards him to balance between his legs so that I don't tumble to a busted head.

"Do you love him?" I ask, readjusting myself in front of him again, each hand placed carefully on his knees. I make sure to try and keep my balance this time. It's kind of hard. The entire staircase feels like it's swaying and I'm struggling to keep rhythm.

"No, I said we broke up, and I mean it."

"Why did you two break up?"

He shrugs and darts his gaze anywhere but me, his hands clasped firmly back around the glass. I briefly wonder if he feels as drunk as I do, "Because I don't love him."

"Three years and you didn't love him?"

He shakes his head, "No. I thought I might've for a second there, but no, definitely not. It was fun in the beginning, but it just wasn't right. I was kind of a dick about it too because I feel like I always knew that it was never going to work out between us. Part of me was only with him because he helped me deal with accepting the fact that I'm gay and I was scared to leave him. He always cared about me more than I did for him and I think he finally figured that out. He tried to give us another shot when he came to visit, but you can probably guess how that went." He rubs his forehead, and I swear that he holds back an eye roll, "I didn'task him to do that. He didn't have to come to Colorado to figure out we were done when we already covered that. I just want to be friends. I didn't know that's why he wanted to visit."

His head is heavy as his eyes stay on his alcohol, glasses hanging onto the very edge of his nose. I can see my reflection in them, all distorted and transparent.

"I still feel like a dick. He's taking this whole thing pretty hard."

"You're not a dick."

"I feel like one."

"Ya know, I was really jealous when you brought him around."

He lifts his head back up to look at me, his eyes staring over the brim of his glasses, "What? Why?"

"We had all those plans for college that didn't happen, and then you bring this dude around… he was like my replacement."

Fuck. That sounds really dramatic out loud.

He laughs, albeit very briefly, "You don't really feel like that, do you?"

I nod, "That's why I was so quiet when we all went dinner. I was pissed off because we were meeting the dude that got to go to college with you and do everything that we always talked about doing together."

He squints at me and then shakes his head, "Stop it, Stan. You are completely and totally irreplaceable."

He says it so casually, like I'm the one who is clearly confused here. I soak in those words for a moment. They're nice to hear. I feel heat beginning to swell in my cheeks.

And then I suddenly ask, "What's it like?"

"What's what like?"

"The whole gay thing. I mean, I should've known. You never wanted to go out with any of the girls that I tried to set you up with. I thought you were just picky."

He smirks, "Picky is one way of putting it. I don't know, dude. Girls just don't interest me. I know a beautiful woman when I see one, but that's about it. She's beautiful. Like a painting."

"So, like… man pecks give you wood."

He lets out a loud laugh, "Man, you do have a way of wording things. Sure, if you want to be blunt about it. The way you get turned on by women, flip that around and that's how I feel about dudes. It's not rocket science."

I try not to think about the dream that I had. When I was totally turned on by a dude. This dude.

"How did you figure it out?" I ask, filled with questions.

He hesitates and chews on his bottom lip, "I just kind of… gradually realized it, I guess? I was always confused about how I felt towards girls growing up. I knew that I should've been attracted to at least one of them, that I should feel something, but then that never happened. Not really."

I laugh.

"What?" He asks. I can't tell if he's curious or embarrassed.

"It's just funny. The parallel, I mean. You and your brother. Your mom is all nuts about him sexting and your nose was always in a book or on the basketball court."

He laughs, "Don't make me out to be a total loser. Jesus Christ, Stan."

"Were you attracted to any of the guys in high school?"

"High school?"

"That'd be around the time you're figuring all this out, right?"

"You went to the same place. When there are dudes like Cartman walking around…"

"Round not your type?"

"Funny."

"What is your type?"

He raises an eyebrow again, totally suspicious, "Why?"

"Just curious. Do I have to have an ulterior motive?"

"No, I just want to make sure that you're not going to set me up on some weird blind date."

I laugh, "No. I wouldn't do that."

"Do you seriously want to know? What's with all the questions?"

I grab my glass from the step and take a long drink of my whiskey. As I lean my head back to finish it off, I feel his hand move around my waist again. He doesn't want me to almost-fall like I almost-did a second ago. What would I do without him?

Probably be in a neck brace, for one.

"I already lost you once because you couldn't talk to me about this stuff. I don't want that to happen again."

He stares at me for a moment, taking his hand back, and studies my eyes. His have a slight glaze, reflecting off the florescent lights above. He seems unsure, but continues, "Okay… my type? Intelligence for one."

"That's a given."

"Um, someone funny. Someone that I can talk to."

"That's all generic stuff, Kyle. Is this the type of shit that you would put on a dating profile?"

"What do you want from me, dude? A preteen novel?"

"What about Clyde? He was a total jock in high school and really popular. Dudes like that?"

"Clyde?" Kyle laughs, "Cool guy, but a moron."

"Butters? Sweet and innocent type?" I can't get that one out with a serious face.

"These can't be real questions."

"How about Kenny? Funny stoner guy?"

He visibly recoils, "Dude, ew. Kenny is like my brother."

"What about me?"

This is the first without an immediate reaction. He stares at me, probably wondering why I'd ask such an awkward question. To be honest, it logically seems like the next one to ask. We're talking about people he could've been attracted to in high school. I'd naturally be a candidate for that question. Anyone else would ask him about me first.

And… I want to know.

As the silence stretches, I can guess his answer. This conversation suddenly has my blood pumping faster and I hope the whiskey keeps my stomach from churning into a panic attack. I don't need to puke on him again.

But I smile.

And so does he, "Would that be weird?"

I don't answer. I just watch and marvel at him in front of me, inches away. His hair is growing in now. Tiny auburn curls are starting to take shape again. He never changed as much as I originally thought. Kyle is still in there. The same green eyes, big smile, goofy laugh… I don't think that I'll ever be able to get used to him with glasses though.

I lift my hands and his eyes ping-pong back and forth as they watch me. I gently pull off his glasses, and there he is. He looks just like Kyle. My Kyle—the one who never left me.

All that loneliness I felt because of his absence, in this moment, none of that exists. Right now, we're eighteen, back to how we were and picking up where we left off. I can finally say that I have my best friend back, and fuck—I love this guy. I really do. No way I'm letting him move that far away again. I need him. I don't make sense without him.

I don't hesitate. I move in, embrace gut instinct, and kiss him. I linger for a moment, eyes closed and spinning from alcohol.

His lips are tight, and unmoving. This doesn't last long, because he doesn't respond. I don't even think he breathes.

I back away immediately, "What's wrong?" His glasses have already fallen to the carpet, forgotten.

He doesn't say anything—it feels like an eternity. His eyes are wide, and his lips are pressed together in a firm, uneasy line.

Maybe this was a bad idea. I didn't even think that it actually was an idea, it just kind of happened. He didjust imply that he was attracted to me before though, right? Maybe I read that wrong. Maybe he just meant I was a type and that's it. Maybe I need some more whiskey. Maybe I—

He suddenly grabs the back of my neck, and pulls me towards him. When our lips connect again, I can't help the smile that forms against his. He's actually kissing back this time and I'm not sure what happens, but it's like something almost violent awakens and I can't get enough of him. There's a hunger building that I didn't know existed, and when our tongues connect and I lean into him, I'm reminded of my dream. Reminded of how badly I wanted him, and how badly I want him now.

He stands up, only breaking the kiss for a second to regain his balance, and I blindly follow.

It's weird how accurate my brain predicted what he would look like while we were doing this.

I stumble lightly up the last few steps with him, still very drunk and very unbalanced. His hand finds my waist again in an almost protective manner. I breathe a laugh into his mouth as I lift my arms over his shoulders and pull him against me. Half out of need, half out of support.

I realize that I don't have to be gentle with him like I would a girl and it's even more exciting. Our chests crash together and our hands roam. It's almost combative, like how we were wrestling earlier.

I should've kissed him then.

His hands moves down my back and his fingers brush against the bare skin beneath my t-shirt. It sends goose bumps down the length of my spine and we're still tangled with one another, our mouths struggling to keep up. This is totally and completely different than anything I've ever experienced. It's consuming. Fierce. I've never fucking felt like this before.

I push him forward, passion reeling me into him. We're in the hallway now, and the temperature up here is skyrocketing. He pushes back against me, hard, and I stumble, my ass landing on an end table. Family pictures tumble to the floor, various photos of the Broflovskis staring up from the carpet. He grunts into my mouth and I can't help the low moan that erupts from the bottom of my throat.

I push off the table with my foot, aggressively forcing him backwards to the opposite side of the thin hallway. Our lips only part after the back of his head slams into a shelf.

"Shit, are you okay?" I ask, completely out of breath, worried I may have hurt him.

Before my brain registers a reaction, I'm pushed against the other side of the hallway again, Kyle's chest crashing back into mine. He looks angry. Furious even. But there is lust radiating off of him and I actually want him to hit me. I want him to throw me into another wall. I want—

"I'm not that fucking fragile, Stan."

Almost as if it's a challenge, my hands grip the sides of his face, palms pressing into his cheeks as my mouth finds his again. His tongue dips across my lower lip in a lavished, deliberate movement, and I fucking love it.

In what feels like the longest hallway of all time, we finally reach the door to his room, and I never noticed how much I was pulling on his shirt until it's perfectly taught away from his abdomen.

He suddenly backs away and pushes his palm flat against my chest to stop. His lips are swollen and red, breath heavy, and he looks like he's trying hard to hold onto any kind of restraint that he may have. I don't blame him. I can't stop either. "Stan."

"What is it?" I breathe, moving forward with an overwhelming crave to continue.

He pushes on his hand, keeping me at a distance. "Should we be doing this? I'm pretty drunk and you—"

"Don't be a boy scout, Kyle," I say, annoyed that he's even trying to comprehend what's going on right now. I need to kiss him again, not talk.

I try to move forward, but he still stops me. "Tell me you won't regret this," he breathes, his words impatient and heavy.

"I won't. Fucking kiss me already."

His eyes are intense, and I don't even know if he registers my answer because his barrier is instantly down again. My lips crash back into his, teeth collide, and we stumble into his room. He pushes me forward as he kicks the door shut and hangers hooked on the back topple to the floor. He slips a quick hand behind him to press the lock and in that small instance I miss his touch before he practically jumps back on me. My vision is blurry as hell but I don't care. I don't care about anything right now other than Kyle.

His hands are on the brim of my shirt and he slides both up my chest in one swift movement. Goose bumps trickle down my back and I bite down on his lip just before we break apart for him to pull off my shirt.

All of this is so overwhelming but so fucking good. I don't think I could stop again if he tried. He feels better than I imagined.

For something to feel this right, it has to be what I've always wanted, what I've always needed. Regret isn't something to think about right now.