The banging on the door had become too loud to tolerate any longer. The Stotches looked at each other across the dinner table and then at their son, and both of them were frowning.

"Butters! If this incessant knocking is in any way your fault," Mr. Stotch threatened, pointing a greasy knife at his son.

"I swear I don't know anything about it," Butters claimed.

"Are you sure?"

"Honest!"

"Maybe he's telling the truth," Mrs. Stotch suggested, daintily cutting herself a piece of Welsh rarebit.

"I am!"

"It's been going on for 10 minutes now!"

"I know, Dad!"

"Well, Butters, why don't you go get the door?" Mrs. Stotch suggested civilly.

"But you come right back to finish your dinner!" her husband added.

"I will." Butters slithered out of his chair and pulled up his pants, which had a tendency to slip down a little too far.

As he was walking from the dinner table, he heard his father order him, "And do something about those pants!"

"I will," he moaned. "I'd more like to do something about you first," he muttered under his breath. He paused for a moment, pretty sure that his father would overhear, but since nothing was screamed after him, Butters assumed he was in the clear.

As he got up to the door, he didn't just hear the pounding, he saw the door physically shaking. He was certain he could perceive the point of impact, and the vibrations radiating out from that spot. But no, that was stupid; he was just being paranoid again, seeing what wasn't there; what could never be seen.

"Hold your horses," he muttered, unlatching the door. He was slammed in the face when it flew open, and he toppled over in shock. "Aw, gee," he moaned, rubbing his cheek. "That smarts." Before he could get another word out he felt himself yanked off the floor by the collar of his shirt and shook, fiercely.

"Butters! Butters, thank god it's you. Butters, I need you help!"

"Eric?"

"There's no time, Butters! Say you'll help me!"

"Let go of me," Butters growled, pushing on Cartman's chest.

"Fine." Cartman let go of Butters' powder-blue T-shirt and he fell on his ass, hitting the carpet with a muffled thud.

"What's the big idea?"

"Shut up, Butters, I need your help." Cartman began to pace back and forth in front of the door, which he paused to shut.

"But my parents—"

"There's no time for that now." He stopped pacing and turned to Butters. "Listen to me very carefully. We're dating now Butters, okay. You are my boyfriend."

It hit the blonde boy like a sandbag full of cocaine smacking him in the face. "I'm your what?"

"My boyfriend, Butters. We are dating." Cartman grabbed Butters by the shoulders and shook him. "Do you hear me Butters? This is very important. Repeat after me: I am your boyfriend."

Butters looked shocked, and Cartman was about to smack him, but he felt the smaller boy pull him into a tight embrace. "Oh, Eric!" he exclaimed, burying his face in Cartman's letterman jacket.

"Oh … yeah," Cartman said confusedly, not returning Butter's hug.

"Gosh, I've been waiting so long for this. I can't wait to tell everyone at school."

"Everyone … at … school."

Butters pulled away. "Come on!" he grabbed Cartman's hand and tried to yank him deeper into the house, past a point of no return.

"Come … where? Where are we going, again?"

"Well, we gotta go tell my parents. We were eating dinner when you came, and my dad was annoyed by all the knocking. I didn't want to open the door but I did, and wow, am I so glad I did." He jumped in place and clapped his hands. "Come on, silly!"

Cartman suddenly felt that this was a bad idea. But before he could react, Butters had grabbed his hand and was yanking him along through the living room and to the dinner table, where Mr. and Mrs. Stotch were sitting.

"Butters!" his father shouted, pounding a fist on the table. "Where the hell have you been? Your mother cooked you this dinner, and it's getting cold."

"Oh, hello, Eric," Mrs. Stotch said warmly.

"Hi, Mrs. Stotch. Mr. Stotch."

"Mom, Dad," Butters said excitedly. "I got something to tell you. Eric and I are in love!" he let go of Cartman's hand and clenched his fists, barely able to contain his excitement.

"You are?" Butters' mother asked.

"Yeah, it was him knocking at the door, and he asked me to be his boyfriend!"

"You?" Mr. Stotch asked. "Boyfriend?"

"Yeah, yeah!" Butters was bouncing on his feet now.

"Oh, Butters!" His mother got up and rushed over to him, taking him into her arms. "My little boy! We're so happy for you!"

"You … want to date him?" Mr. Stotch asked, looking at Cartman incredulously.

"Uh—" Cartman began.

"Why are you saying that like no one would ever want to date me?" Butters asked from behind his mother's hair.

"Well, son, maybe if you got those pants fixed I'd have an easier time believing it."

"This doesn't have anything to do with my pants!" Butters protested. His mother was still clinging to him.

"Our little boy, our little boy," she was … was she weeping? Cartman hoped like hell that she wasn't, because even though other people's pain was generally bliss, that would just be too damn weird, even for him.

Mr. Stotch got up out of his chair and stalked over to his trembling wife and elated-looking child, who were still huddled together like something out of an Anne Rice novel. "Well, son," he said, his eyes wide with amusement. "We're proud of you." He ruffled Butter's hair.

"But … he didn't do … anything." Cartman felt like a complete idiot standing there, watching this entire thing unfold before him like a bad joke.

"Oh, I forgot about you," Mr. Stotch said, pulling Cartman into a tight, manly embrace. Actually, it was a little too manly for Cartman's comfort. He shuddered, but Butters' dad didn't notice this. "I guess you're part of the family now," he said awkwardly.

"I am?" Cartman asked. Mrs. Stotch let go of Butters, who massaged the spot on his arm were she had been gripping him with her well-manicured nails. Cartman noticed that the shirt was a little ripped. And bloody. What the fuck?

"Of course," she said. She went over to the table and pulled out a chair, indicating that he should sit down. "Anyone who loves our son—"

"—despite his glaring faults—"

"Gee, Dad." Butters rolled his eyes.

"—is welcome to join us at the table." Cartman was pretty sure this was figurative and literal. He glanced toward Butters, who was now doing a happy little jig to himself like he'd just won the lottery, or personally feasted on the entrails of his nemesis. Cartman sighed.

"What is that?" he asked critically, pointing at the shallow casserole dish on the table.

"Why, that's my mom's Welsh rarebit. It's her specialty."

"It comes with a side of peas," she added helpfully, nodding beatifically.

"Blech, peas. Well, um, what is this Welsh rarebit you speak of?"

"Bread covered in cheese."

Cartman shrugged. "Okay." He sat himself in the offered chair and smiled at Butters, who sat down next to him. "I really think this is going to work out awesome, Butters." He helped himself to a serving of rarebit.

"Me too." Butters was positively glowing, swinging his legs under the table. "I have never been so happy in my life."

"That's super." The rarebit wasn't too bad. It was basically toasted bread covered in Velveeta. Cartman enjoyed that particular cheese food product, so he ate it happily, trying to ignore all of the people around him.

"Who wants a glass of seltzer water?" Mr. Stotch asked, pointing creepily at Cartman.

Far be it for a guy with a mother who was really his father who was trying to trick a researchy guy from Duke into thinking he was gay in order to piss off his faggy Jew enemy by dating a kid referred to by the name of a dairy product to say, but damn. The Stotches were fucking weird.

XXX

"What what what?" Kyle's mother screeched upon seeing him stumble into the house. "You look like you fell into a cement truck!"

"Uh, yeah. I fell down a flight of stairs," he lied, trying to escape as quickly as possible, before he was buried underneath questions he either didn't want to or couldn't answer.

"Don't lie to me!" she cried, grabbing him by the arm as he tried to make a mad dash upstairs. "Here, come to the kitchen."

"I don't know, Mom, I have work to do."

But she wouldn't relent. She dragged him into the kitchen, where she was cooking something Kyle knew he wouldn't eat for dinner anyway. She pulled out a chair and stuck her hands in a bowl of … something. "Sit," she said pleasantly, nodding toward the chair. She caught him wrinkling his nose and she sighed. "It's only meatloaf."

"Yeah, okay."

There were a few moments of awkward silence while Sheila Broflovski kneaded ground meat and raw egg in a large mixing bowl. When she was done, she removed her hands and wiped them copiously on a dishtowel that had been sitting on the table. "Well?" she asked expectantly, putting down the towel.

"Well what?"

"Aren't you going to tell me what happened?"

"Uh, no. I'm not that dumb."

"Can I guess?"

"I'd prefer if you didn't."

"Kyle," she sighed, seating herself next to him at the kitchen table. She took his hand, and he felt for a moment like refusing to touch her grubby paw, knowing full-well it was covered in raw meat and raw eggs and who knew what the hell else. But she was his mother, and he couldn't refuse her. "I am your mother," she said carefully, as if this was a thing he needed to be reminded of. "I know you better than anyone." This he really doubted, considering how little she understood him, or what he wanted. He narrowed his eyes and rested his head in his hand, daring her to make the next move

"Who hurt you?" she asked pointedly.

"What? How the hell do you know?"

"I can tell when my son has been fighting. Who attacked you? If it's something serious…" She lowered her voice until it was husky, full of concern. "If it's because of who you are, bubbelah, you have to tell me."

"Actually," he said, a smile creeping onto his face, "I attacked them."

"What?" She swiftly let go of him and slapped his hand. "Kyle!"

"Jesus! You'd think I'd been hit enough for one day."

"You attacked someone?"

"Yeah, but they deserved it."

"Was it Eric Cartman?"

"Uh … no."

"Okay. Well." She ruffled his hair carefully, clearly seeing through his less-than-masterful deception. "You're a good boy. Only hit people who deserve it." She got up and opened the refrigerator, getting out a carton of orange juice. She poured it into a tall glass and stood in front of the table holding the cup, her face an emotionless blank. Kyle eyed it suspiciously, wondering if it was for him or what she was thinking. Slowly, however, she took a sip, and sat back down. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Stan took me to the nurse."

"Good," she said succinctly. "What else happened at school today?"

"Oh, nothing," he said blandly, really hoping she would dismiss him. He thought he heard some footsteps somewhere, but they didn't sound particularly close so he ignored that. "I turned in my lit paper."

"Ohhh." She said this in a long, drawn-out way, without much interest in her voice. "And what was that on?"

Kyle started to say something, beginning with, "Well, it was," but he didn't get to finish because a 10-year-old boy stomped into the room, making sure to produce as much noise as humanly possible.

"Cool!" the boy exclaimed, rushing over to Kyle. "You got maimed!" The boy reached out to touch his brother, but Kyle slapped his hand away.

"Don't touch me," he growled.

"Mom," Ike pleaded.

"Ike, don't touch your brother. Kyle, be nice."

"I am nice."

"He touches me!"

"Well, you touch my stuff," Kyle rationalized, like this was any kind of conclusive argument for the propriety of inflicting physical pain on one's sibling.

"Behave," Sheila advised, picking up a wooden spoon on the table. "Both of you."

"What happened to you?" Ike panted. "Were you fighting? Who did you fight with? Can I fight them? I just learned the death grip in krav maga. We should try it! You don't really die."

"That's not a real thing." Kyle turned to his mother and cleared his throat, trying to pry her attention away from whatever she was doing to those potatoes with that spoon. "Mom, I'm going to get my cell out of the car."

"Fine, fine." She waved him away with her spoon, and he joyfully sprang out of his seat and sprinted out of the kitchen, out of the house, and down the path to the street, where his car was sitting. It was a brand-new Jetta, given to him for his 16th birthday. Initially, it had been sparkling white. Now, sadly, it was ashy gray thanks to the many months since he got it, during which Kyle had not found a single chance to have it washed or, as his father suggested, wash it himself. The black sludge that cars in South Park were subjected to didn't help matters.

Digging his key out of his front pocket, Kyle opened the door and popped into the driver's seat. He yanked his phone out of its charger and frantically checked it for missed calls. Sure enough, in the time he'd been sitting in the kitchen, he'd missed three. Smiling widely, he pocketed the phone and slammed the door of his car shut, running back up the path to his door, and charging up the stairs. He heard Ike call out his name as he dashed down the hall, but he easily ignored this, smiling to himself all the way.

Hopefully, Kyle flipped open the cell and pressed "view." To his dismay, he had indeed missed three calls — all from Craig. His smile fell. He threw his cell phone on his bed in disappointment, and sat down next to it, sighing. He remembered that his backpack was still downstairs. Sighing deeper, almost dramatically, he picked up his phone and angrily dialed a number, eschewing the directory altogether.

It rang and it rang, and Kyle was willing to believe that Stan was pissed at him from earlier, and probably not picking up the phone on purpose. These thoughts briefly inspired grand ideas of furious voicemails, some of which might entail the words "breeder" and "shit-eating" and "worst friend ever." But Kyle's angry messages were preempted when the owner of the phone picked up after five rings.

"Hey," Stan Marsh began, but Kyle cut off whatever the hell Stan was planning on saying.

"Where the hell have you been?" he asked breathlessly, lying flat on his back.

"Uh. I had, um, practice," Stan replied. "You know, like I do."

"Well, what time did this practice end?"

"Uh, like half an hour ago. I'm actually standing in my room totally naked. I just got back."

"Naked."

"Yeah, no clothes."

This information had what could either be considered a glorious or adverse effect on Kyle, and he flipped himself over in his bed, although why he did this was uncertain, seeing as there was no one else in his room except Stan's disembodied voice on the phone, and Stan would never know what information like that was capable of doing to the wrong party. "Well, it would have been nice if you'd called me," Kyle said slowly.

"Well, how do you know I wasn't going to? I mean, I just got home."

"Well, were you?"

"Does it matter?" Stan asked, annoyed. "Dude, you need to chill out. You're being freaky."

"No I'm not."

"Yeah you are."

"I just think it would be nice if my best friend would call me, you know, see how I'm doing, that kind of thing."

"Well, how do you know I wasn't?"

"Well, you didn't!"

"Oh, dude, no way. I am standing naked in my room, fucking filthy, waiting to get into the shower, and the phone rang, and do you really think I would bother picking up if it was anyone but you?"

"I don't know!"

"Okay, you know what? I'm going to take a shower now. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Jesus, Stan, you can go—"

But Stan didn't hear where he could go, because he flipped the phone shut and held it in his hand for a moment, staring at the floor. "That fucker," he growled, tossing the phone straight up into the air. He didn't stay to watch it drop to the ground, hitting the carpet with a soft thump.

XXX

At lunch on Tuesday, Kyle had an agenda. Instead of getting any food, he went directly to the table, where he found Christophe and Pip eating chocolate pudding and peering down at a magazine together. Well, Pip was eating chocolate pudding. Christophe was chewing on an unlit cigarette, and he had another one behind his ear.

"Hello," Pip said casually, looking up. "Long time no chat."

"Um, yeah." Kyle didn't really want to chat with Pip. "Where is everyone?"

"Getting some lunch from the commissary, I'll wager."

"Although why any self-respecting faggot would want any of that fucking shit is fucking inexplicable." It occurred to Kyle that he no longer knew what that English piece of crap was talking about, if he meant the word 'faggot' in the colloquial or the literal sense or what.

"Right," he said, kind of dragging out the long I.

Soon enough, other guys started turning up at the table. First Thomas arrived, and then Token, and so on. The group began to idly chatter amongst themselves, although Kyle thought a few of them were checking out his wounds, which had apparently been marinating overnight. Soon enough, he saw Craig make his way over to the table only shove over Jason, whose jacket was already on the chair next to Kyle.

"Hey," he said nasally, putting down his tray. "I called you last night."

"You did?"

"Yeah, like four times."

"Oh, sorry."

"It's cool. I just wanted to see if you were okay, maybe you wanted me to come over and lick your wounds or something."

"That would have been nice," Kyle mumbled, not sure if he wanted that or not.

"Where's your food?"

"I'm not hungry." Kyle pulled out his chair and sat down, wondering how to get the attention of his friends. He looked around the table and saw that there were a couple of empty chairs, but he wasn't sure it mattered who was missing, if someone was. Not knowing what else to do, he grabbed the fork out of Craig's hand and banged down on the table.

"Hey!" Craig yelped, flipping Kyle off before making a sorry attempt to grasp at his utensil.

"There is a really serious problem," he began. "You see, there was this guy."

"Oh, fucking shit," Christophe drawled. "Do not bore me with your pedestrian tales of love."

"No!" Kyle shouted. "No, that's not what this is. He's a professor guy. From Duke." Pretty sure he had the audience's attention, he told the short story of Frank Granger, and his project, and what Kyle supposed it meant for homosexuals everywhere.

When he was done, he looked up, expecting a rally of support or something. A few people were staring at him blankly or even annoyed, but a handful had actually gone back to eating or talking, clearly not interested in what Kyle had to say.

"So?" Craig asked, wiping his nose in the sleeve of his blazer.

"You … you guys don't care?"

"Not really," Token said.

"I'm not an American citizen," Pip declared. "No offense, but it doesn't matter to me what they do to homosexuals in this country."

"This country is fucking shit."

"I'll second that and I totally live here," Craig agreed.

"Technically, you're thirding it," someone else pointed out. Craig responded, as was his way, with his middle finger.

"I'm serious about this, you guys," Kyle moaned. "Crazy, freaky shit could happen to us!" He paused, and when he didn't get any response, he repeated the phrase "crazy freaky shit" and waggled his fingers.

"Well, okay," Craig said slowly. "Suppose we should listen to you, and you're right, and Frank Whoever is out to get all the fags."

"That's not quite what I said."

"Whatever, whatever. What I'm saying is, if we listen to you, great, but what are we going to do about it?"

"Do?"

"Um, yeah, r-tard." Craig rolled his eyes.

"If this is really a problem — cock! — we should really do something about it."

"Oh. Well, honestly, I hadn't thought that far ahead."

"Well," said Mark quietly. "You should really consider weighing your options and forming a conclusive plan of action before demanding a response from your audience."

"Huh?"

"He means you need a plan," Token interpreted.

"I get what he means," Kyle moaned. "I just don't get why you guys don't care."

"I just don't know what we're supposed to be caring about." Token went back to eating his pot pie.

"I'm talking about the end of homosexuality! If Frank Granger, and his study, manage to determine what causes people to be gay, then people be able to use that information to stop being gay, and then no one will ever be gay again!"

"Everyone is a faggot," Christophe sneered. "God himself is a faggot. You cannot breed the faggots out of society."

"Yes, you can, you English piece of crap," Kyle shot back. "You can and they will!"

"Who is they?" Craig asked.

Kyle just put his head in his hands. "You guys…"

Kyle felt Craig's hand on his back, slowly moving in a comforting, circular pattern. Kyle was used to shoving Craig off of him in public, but now for some reason he welcomed the other's boy's touch. It was reassuring, and all he really wanted was to be reassured. "I'm listening," Craig said softly. "We're listening." Craig shot the rest of the table a glance to ensure that yes, they would listen.

Kyle lifted his head and looked at his peers, who were all focused on him, except for Christophe, who had gone back to reading his magazine. He was still chewing on that cigarette, and it was now bent where the filter met the tobacco.

He spoke slowly, eyes turned down so that he was staring at the table, not paying attention to his audience. "They'll round us up. They'll put us in camps. They'll breed it out of the population. You guys don't understand, you don't know. You don't know what it's like to be a minority."

"I resent that!"

"Sorry, Token. I … you know what I mean."

"Yeah, I think you're a self-absorbed prick. Comparing being gay now to 1930s Europe. It's insane. I know you people had to go through shit, but so did we. And actually, so does everyone. Things are good now."

"But they weren't always."

"Whatever, I don't need this shit." Token stood up, grabbed his bag, and stalked off.

"You do not seem to be making a lot of friends with your paranoid delusions." Christophe turned the page of his magazine, still not looking at Kyle.

"I'm not sure this day could get any worse," he moaned to Craig. Craig gave him a sympathetic smile and touched his hand again. Kyle smiled back.

"Hey fellas!" A bright little voice sounded out behind Kyle, and he turned around to stare up at Butters, looking perky as ever, if not more so, in his black T-shirt. Said shirt bore the dubious statement "I'm the prettiest woman ever." Pretty though he may have been, Kyle thought that "ever" was perhaps an overstatement, and that gawky, graceless Butters should not even be joking about being a woman.

But before Kyle could make a snide remark about the shirt, he saw something infinitely more frightening than a misrepresentative shirt: Eric Cartman.

Cartman had Butters' arm in a tight grip, and Kyle instinctively recoiled. "Jesus, Butters! What is he doing with you?"

"I'm not doing anything with him—"

"We're in love!"

"You're…" Kyle didn't know what to say. "You're … what?"

"We're dating!" Butters said exuberantly.

"Oh, oh no. Oh, hell no. Butters, what the fuck is wrong with you?"

"There's, there's nothing, I'm—"

"Chill, dude." Craig was stroking his hand. "Take a breath or something."

"I don't need a breath. This is insane!"

Up until this point, Cartman had just been standing there gripping Butters' arm, and Kyle had been too intent on staring at Butters in a combination of disgust and confusion to give Cartman a second glace. But he did now, and was honestly surprised — although really, he shouldn't have been — to see that Cartman was clad in black skinny jeans, some kind of tailored hoodie over his T-shirt, and an anemic scarf with sick-looking little tassels draped casually around his neck. The whole look made Kyle shudder, but while he was grimacing distractedly Cartman decided to speak to him.

"Oh, hi, Kyle." He slurred the name as annoyingly as he could manage. "Gee, that's some lovely eye makeup you have on. I've always said, blue was your color. As in, black and blue? It looks just great on you though, really." As Cartman spoke he kind of swished one hand around dramatically while his other hand held onto his elbow. Again, this made Kyle gag. It was like being trapped in the Twilight Zone, except the open door led to his gag reflex.

"You guys are dating now?" Craig asked Butters.

"Yeah, we are! Isn't it just super?"

"No," Craig replied.

"This table is filled to faggot-bitch capacity," Christophe declared. He licked his thumb despite the fact that a disintegrating cigarette was still hanging out of his mouth, and he turned the page on his periodical.

"Oh, there's always room for one more," Pip countered.

"This is Cartman!" Kyle cried out, throwing his hands up. "Look at him!"

Cartman let go of Butters and put his shoulder bag — since when did he own a shoulder bag? — over a chair. "If I'm going to sit here at lunch, Kyle, the least we could do is attempt to be civil to each other."

"Um, no, that's okay." He popped out of his seat. "Screw you, fat ass. I'm out of here."

As out of there as Kyle got, however, was across the cafeteria. "I cannot stand that fucktard!" he exclaimed, slamming his ass into a chair. Tweek, Kenny, Stan, and Clyde all looked up from their conversation, whatever that had been about.

"Jesus! Don't sit next to me, you'll give me AIDS! Ah!" Tweek threw his fork into the air hysterically, and it narrowly missed a girl sitting behind him as it fell back down.

"Who's a fucktard?" Clyde asked.

"Oh, it's Cartman." Kenny rolled his eyes. He subconsciously touched a cigarette tucked behind his ear, making certain it was still present. "It's always Cartman, so don't even ask."

"What'd he do now?" Stan asked, balling up his napkin and throwing it down on his plate, which had obviously been a pot pie at one point. Stan didn't eat mushrooms, however, so little gravy-covered chunks of mushroom littered his tray.

"I'll tell you all about it," Kyle said, batting his eyelashes, "if you leave here with me."

"All right," Stan said slowly. "All right, fine. I'll see you after school, Kenny, okay."

"Oh, no you won't."

"Oh-kay, fine, I won't." Stan got up and grabbed his tray, and Kyle happily bounced out of the lunchroom after him.

XXX

They wandered around the school silently for a few minutes, Stan leading the way. Finally, the reached the wooden double-doors of the library. "Here okay?" Stan asked, indicating the entrance.

"Yeah, yeah, it's fine," Kyle panted, not really knowing why he felt so lightheaded.

Stan found a table that was pretty secluded; it was by a window that overlooked the field, which was typically muddy from the combination of melting snow and students trampling over it during gym class.

"So tell me," he said, sitting down. "What'd he do now?" Stan pulled out a three-ring binder, ostensibly so that people would think he and Kyle were studying.

"It's not just him."

"Well, what did he do?"

"Well, apparently he and Butters are dating."

Stan didn't flinch at this. In fact, he continued to stare at Kyle, hands in his lap. "Yeah."

"You know about this?"

"Well, I have trig with Butters," Stan said. "Also Cartman showed up at my house last night and started asking me if my sister had any pansy scarves he could borrow."

"Really?"

"Yeah, really."

"Well, you know, do you think he's, like … up to something?" Kyle asked. He was wringing his hands together while he spoke.

"It's Cartman, of course he's up to something."

"Well, what are we going to do about it?"

"We?" Stan asked. "We are going to do nothing. He's not worth my time."

"But not mine?"

"Apparently, yeah, considering you keep giving it to him."

"But what about Butters?"

"Butters is a fucking moron," Stan said casually. "He'll figure it out. Besides, you don't give a crap about Butters."

"But, Cartman."

"But what about Cartman? How old are you, 2? Just ignore him, dude."

"I can't!"

Stan sighed and placed his hands flat on the table. "Is this all you wanted to talk to me about?"

"No, I'm fucking pissed off at the guys, too."

"Oh." This piqued his interest. "What about the guys?"

"Well, they don't care that this inherently homophobic thing is going on right under their noses."

"That sucks."

"Is that all you're going to say?"

"I don't know what you want from me, dude." Stan drummed his fingers on the table briefly. "Just tell me what you want."

Kyle moaned and fidgeted in his seat, which had suddenly become excessively uncomfortable. "I don't know," he croaked. "I just thought, you know, you're my friend, you'll help me."

"Yeah, fine, help you what? What do you want from me, Kyle?" Stan narrowed his eyes. "Tell me what you want from me and I'll help you."

Kyle's mouth twitched, and he squeezed his eyes together. "I don't know!" he sobbed, burying his head in his arms. "No one can help me!"

"Aw, aww." Stan reached out and awkwardly patted Kyle's frizzy hair. "Come on, dude. Don't cry."

"But you won't help me," he continued to warble.

"Help you do what? I don't understand, I don't understand. You just keep saying you want something from me, what the hell does that mean?"

"Help me stop Cartman!"

"I don't even know what he's doing," Stan said.

"Then help me stop Frank Granger."

"He's just some lame-ass academic dipshit from North Carolina. What harm could he possibly do?"

"Nobody understands," Kyle said sadly, one hand now fiddling with the zipper of his backpack, where he was hoping to find some tissues.

"What am I supposed to understand?"

"You're not gay so you don't understand. Those other guys, when they came out, they … they … well, it wasn't the same for them. When I figured out I was gay I was 11."

"I know, I know," Stan sighed, and his voice bore the annoyance of someone who had not only heard a particular story before, but lived through it as well.

"Well, you know what kind of hell it was, having to be in that place all by myself. Now, people come out, no one even flinches. But it was hard for me, and no one else was there for me."

"I was there for you," Stan said quietly. He lowered his head briefly. Kyle, who was still sniffling to himself, did not look into Stan's eyes and see the look of genuine hurt. "You just make it so damn hard to be there," Stan continued.

"Well." Kyle's words were tentative, and they felt like he was trying on a new pair of shoes, testing them out to see if they'd begin to hurt his feet if he kept them on for too long. "Maybe you can't be there, because you have football and you — you like girls, and you just don't know how it is."

Stan lifted his head with a sharp jerk and scowled. "Okay, that is just nuts." He brushed some hair out of his eyes. "I guess I should be sorry that I can't understand you like your little gay friends do. Next time you want to moan to someone, try that British shithead, or you know what? Try Craig. I'm sure he can make you feel better."

"Why are you saying that?"

"I hate you when you get like this," Stan said disgustedly, rising and scooping his three-ring binder off the table.

"Like what?" Kyle sniffed, wiping one of his eyes with the back of his wrist.

"You know."

"I most certainly do not!" Kyle hissed.

"Um, you know, you're all defensive and moody, and … and weepy."

"Yeah? Well, I hate you when you hate my girly emotions. Are you afraid of them? They make you uncomfortable?"

"Well, no, but…" Stan thought about this for a moment. "Okay, you're crying in the library during lunch period. No one broke up with you. You didn't fail a test. I mean, I want to help you but your reactions are just … well, they're scary."

"This is a big deal to me!"

"I know."

"Or did you forget because you're the quarterback?"

"This has nothing to do with my sexuality."

"Well, it has everything to do with mine," Kyle shot back, wiping some snot from his nose with his hand.

"Okay, you know what? I get that this is hard for you, and that you came out way before the other guys, and they don't understand what it's like in an environment where, like, not everybody's gay. But lay off them, because you're acting fucking scary and it won't help your cause. And seriously, lay off me. I'm your friend, Kyle. I just don't know how to deal with this." With that, Stan began to walk out of the library.

"Deal with this, Stan!" Kyle screamed, throwing one of his balled-up tissues at his departing friend. It fell a few feet from Kyle's chair and made a lackluster landing on the ground. "God dammit," he sighed to himself, wiping his eyes again.

XXX

Kyle was furious — furious — as he stormed to his locker. God damn that asshole Stan, and fuck those bitches he sat with at lunch. Once again he was alone, right back at the start where he always was. He became even more agitated when he saw, from a distance, that someone had stuck something to his locker. Why didn't anyone understand that he just wanted to be left alone? Why did Cartman have to be in Latin with him?

Kyle tore the flyer off of his locker and looked it over. It was an invitation to next month's Spring Fling, which was being put together by the social committee. Not caring — the person he'd like to go with would never go with him, anyway — he crumpled it up and tossed it on the ground.

"Now, that isn't very nice."

Kyle turned around and nearly slammed himself back into his locker when he saw Butters standing there, arms crossed. "Someone worked real hard on that flyer, and you're just going to throw it on the floor?"

"Someone really wasted their time, then."

"Oh, that's not very nice."

"Why should I give a fuck about being nice? No one's nice to me."

"I think everyone's pretty nice to you," Butters said. "And what's more, I'm on the social committee. Aw, heck, I'm the president of the social committee. And I made that flyer."

Kyle looked at the balled up thing on the floor, and kind of nudged it with his foot. "It was nice," he said sheepishly. "Nice job, Butters."

"Oh, you don't mean that. You're just saying it. But to make up for it, you can do me one little favor." Butter's tongue stuck out of his mouth while he fished something out of his back pocket. "I know you've got Latin next period with Eric and all, so … would you mind giving this to him?" Butters proffered a folded-up piece of notebook paper with the cheery label "To Eric! Love Butters! XOXOXO!" and every last "O" was in the shape of a heart.

"I, um…"

"It's a love note!" Butters gushed the obvious.

"Yeah, uh, Butters, here is the thing: I'm not sure I should be giving anything to that bastard."

"Hey! I'll thank you not to talk about my boyfriend that way."

"Yeah, well, here's the thing with that: Are you really sure you want to date Cartman? I mean, you know … can you really trust him?"

"Why the heck wouldn't I?"

"Butters! It's Eric fucking Cartman!"

"I know," Butters sighed. "Isn't he just so … ?"

"No, he's, ugh, why do you do this to me? Butters, what is wrong with my face?"

"Well, it looks like you ran into a door or something, my mom sometimes has that problem too."

"Yeah, that fa—I mean, your boyfriend beat me up. In the hallway yesterday."

"He did? That doesn't sound like my Eric."

Kyle slapped his forehead. "I am going to forgive the fact that you said that because it's been a long, long day. But seriously, Butters, this is Eric. Fucking. Cartman. Why, why does it not occur to you that he is probably using you for some fucked-up money-making scheme?"

Butters' face became very grave. It was as if a switch had been flipped, and his upbeat attitude had been powered down. "I know everyone thinks I'm dumb." His voice was cold and detached, and this was quite unlike Butters. It certainly caught Kyle's attention. "But I've loved him for as long as you've loved Stan. I think he's very handsome. I know he's not nice, but I can't help how I feel. And when the boy I love shows up at my front door and tells me he wants me, well. What am I to do but say yes?"

"This goes beyond not nice, dude. This is Cartman."

"Well, we overlook people's flaws if we want them to overlook ours."

"Butters, your greatest flaw is being too naïve and trusting."

"And you have too many to count." Butters' eyebrows shot up, and a smile returned to his face. "Give Eric my love, and my note. I'm seeing him after school, we're going to meet some friend of his. He's so excited to introduce me to his friends."

"Cartman has no friends."

"Well," Butters huffed, poking Kyle in the sternum. "This might surprise you, but he does too have friends. He's friends with a Mr. Frank Granger, who we're gonna go meet after school. Just please give him my note, please, will you? I'd be ever so appreciative, I would."

Butters turned and walked away from Kyle, who was left with his arms hanging limply by his sides, the folded piece of paper barely secure in his hand. "That bastard," Kyle whispered. "That fat fucking bastard."

XXX

Kyle did indeed give Cartman his note during Latin, placing it effortlessly on the desk where Cartman has his notes and textbook spread out before him. The linebacker quirked his lips in a smile when he picked up the note, only to roll his eyes when he read the label scrawled on the front. He looked around and shoved it in his bag without any fanfare. Although he wondered what this could mean — did it have to do with the study? — Kyle quickly shook his head and turned away from Cartman as he took his book out of his bag. The entire time the teacher was scrawling notes about the superlative on the board, Kyle eyed the clock, praying that there would be a fire drill, or maybe just a fire, and not only would class prematurely end, but the school would burn down with Cartman trapped inside of it. To his great dismay this didn't happen.

XXX

When the day was finally over, Kyle felt splendidly miserable. His bristling rage toward Cartman, Stan, and his disaffected clique had dissipated, and now he was left with a hollow numbness. It was like walking in a fog of melancholy, but the figurative fog in his mind gave way to the very literal one waiting for him outside. It was a gray day in South Park; even the slowly melting piles of permafrost were gray.

He couldn't really remember what he was pissed at Stan for. He remembered exactly why he was angry at Cartman, obviously, but it greatly bothered him that he couldn't name what was troubling him in regard to his best friend. He wanted to berate himself for being so damn infatuated, and it seemed natural that he should assume that it was his fault, seeing as he'd broken that line between romantic friendship and pathetic, undue lust. But Kyle knew that he had been keeping his feelings for Stan in line for too many years for this to be a problem anymore. Well, no, it would always be a problem, but it was a problem for him and him only. The great crippling sadness of knowing that his friend couldn't return his feelings only reared its head sometimes, when Stan was out with a girl or on a date with a girl. Stan liked girls, and girls liked Stan. In a town as small as theirs, a moderately normal 16-year-old boy didn't have to try terribly hard.

Coupled with the ever-growing ranks of homosexuals, the straight males in the class got an undue amount of action. Clyde, for instance. And Cartman. Kyle shuddered, because apparently a little thing like a lack of sexual attraction to men couldn't keep Cartman from consuming all the arenas of his life like a growing malignance.

As he trudged back to the car, Kyle's mind flickered between two looming shadows: What to do about Frank Granger, and what to do about Stan. It was as if something in their relationship had shifted recently. Kyle didn't love Stan any more now than he did a year ago, though. Did Stan just hate him? It didn't make any sense.

Kyle was moderately surprised to see someone lying on the hood of his car. From the angle he approached at, he could only make out a pair of shit-kickers, but Kyle knew only one guy in the entire town who wore Doc Martens with pinstriped pants: Craig.

"I was so bored," Craig said loudly as Kyle withdrew his key from the pocket of his jeans. "I thought you'd never leave school."

All Kyle said was, "Neh."

"Give me a ride," Craig ordered, sitting up.

"To where?"

"My house, your house, Harbucks, doesn't matter. You're coming with me."

"I am?"

"Yeah," he said, opening the passenger-side door. "We have a couple hours, Degrassi isn't on until later."

Kyle sat down behind the wheel. Craig sat down next to him and fastened his seatbelt. "You watch that?" Kyle asked, slightly too confused to turn the car just yet.

"Yeah, I love it. Never miss it. It's fucking hilarious. Every single kid is a whiny little shit. I want them all to die."

"So, you watch it…"

"Because I hope they'll all die. And they're all fucking hideous, too. I love it."

"Right." Kyle didn't know why this made so much sense, but it really did.

XXX

Kyle didn't want to go to Craig's house. His family was aggressively annoying. Worse than being aggressively annoying, they weren't welcoming or catering in any way. For Kyle, who had spent his entire life being welcomed graciously into the homes of his good friends (and Cartman), Craig's parents just rubbed him the wrong way. So he decided to take Craig back to his house, and if Craig wanted to leave to watch bad Canadian angst porn, he would give him a ride if he felt like it.

They crept into the kitchen, and no one was around. Kyle checked his watch, and remembered that his mother and Ike were probably at krav maga. A slow cooker was sitting on the counter, and Kyle didn't want to think about what was in there. "Do you want a drink or something?" he asked.

"Your parents aren't home?"

"Guess not."

"Can you make me a whiskey sour?" Kyle did a double take. "If you don't know how to make one it's cool, I do."

"I really don't think, uh, either of us can make that."

"What, do your parents measure their booze every night?"

"Have a Coke," Kyle said obstructively, handing Craig a can. Craig took it and the can opened with a hiss, but he didn't say 'thank you' or anything. He just stood there drinking it, and to Kyle's amazement he finished, wiped his mouth, crushed the can in his hand and handed the can back in about a minute.

"You are insatiable."

"Let's go to your room." Kyle obliged.

Upstairs, Kyle fell onto the bed and Craig sat down next to him. "What are we going to do?" he said. "What are we going to do about Frank?"

"Frank?"

"Yeah, the guy with the study."

"Right, him." Craig paused. "Why do we have to do anything?"

"Because!" Kyle barked. "We can't let him get away with this."

"What's he getting away with?"

"Finding out why people are gay."

"Why are people gay?"

"I don't know." Agitation tinged Kyle's voice. "That's what he wants to know. Frankly I don't care."

"You don't?"

"No!"

"I am so curious," Craig confessed. "I wish I knew."

"Why?" Kyle hopped off of the bed and began to pace in front of Craig, back and forth across his room, which was about 10 feet long or so. "So you could make yourself straight? Or make your children straight?"

"No, I don't want to be straight. And I hate children. I'm just, you know, curious."

"You hate children?"

"Yeah, they're noisy, dirty little fuckers."

Kyle stopped pacing for a moment and looked at his friend. "You don't want to have children?"

"Maybe if I met the right guy," Craig said thoughtfully. "But he'd have to be pretty amazing."

Kyle thought he heard a note of tension in Craig's voice, or some kind of restraint. But not wanting to pry he pressed no further, and soon enough he was back to pacing. "I've got to stop Granger. He can't do this! It's inherently homophobic. And now Cartman's helping him!"

"Cartman?" Craig asked.

"Yeah, him, that fat fucking cunt."

"He's not really fat."

"Ugh, whatever."

"I do hate him though."

"Yeah, so do I, I mean — what?"

"I said, I hate Cartman," Craig repeated. "I fucking hate him. He's a piece of crap. I hate how he walks, I hate how he talks, I hate how he treats you, and I hate how he took my topic for history presentations in seventh grade. I just fucking hate him."

Cartman's seventh grade history presentation had been on the Stonewall Riots, and how drag queens were mentally imbalanced which is why they felt it necessary to disrespect the authority of the New York City policemen that night. A psychologist had come in as part of Cartman's talk, and given the class an analysis of a drag queen's brain, or what appeared to be a drag queen's brain. Further investigation had revealed that he had been trading organs on the black market again. Kyle stopped pacing again and shot Craig a look.

"You wanted to do a report on Stonewall." Recognition crept into his voice.

"Well, yeah, I came out like the week before that."

Kyle sat back down on the bed. "So why don't you care?"

"About your Duke man? I mean, I care. In the abstract."

"Do you think you can care concretely?"

Craig blushed and lowered his head. "I care about anything you do."

"What? Why?"

"No reason." Craig was smiling stupidly, and he tilted his head to the side. "So, what is it that you want to do about this?"

"Oh." Kyle was caught off guard. He wasn't really paying attention to what Craig was saying; he was, however, looking into the other boy's eyes, trying to decipher that misplaced blush. "Um."

"I mean, do you want to call the school? The ACLU?"

"I don't know if the ACLU would be the right people to call." Kyle paused. "Also, they sued Stan and me a couple years back, so we're not really on good terms," he added quickly and quietly.

"I remember that." Craig nodded knowingly. "What was Stan doing with the Constitution?"

"It was a reproduction. Stan and I got off." Kyle immediately cringed at his choice of word, but Craig didn't seem to notice.

"Okay, fine. Who would you contact about this sort of this, then? GLAAD?" Kyle had to stifle a giggle at Craig's pronunciation, because when he said it he said it with a drawn-out short A and it sounded like "glaaaaaaaaaaaaahd."

"Hmm." Kyle put his arms on his knees and his head in his hands. "I guess we could just as easily go to the source."

"You mean the guy."

"His name is Frank fucking Granger."

"I wish my middle name were 'Fucking.' "

"I thought it was."

"Only in my dreams, baby."

Kyle rolled his eyes. "Can you be serious for moment?"

"Yeah, I can. You know what I think would work? Strength in numbers. Maybe if you could get the entire town to show up or something, he'd be pressured to leave."

"Hey, yeah," Kyle said with a note of revelatory amazement in his voice. "Fuck, yeah, this sounds like a plan."

"What sounds like a plan?" Craig wiped his nose with his sleeve immediately after saying this.

Kyle got up off the bed, turned to Craig, and struck a glorious pose. In reality, he looked a little silly with his left leg forward, his right hand on his hip, and his other arm raised in the air triumphantly.

"Ta-da what?" Craig said, studying Kyle's stance. "What is your idea?"

"A protest!" Kyle clapped his hands together. "If there's anything the people in this town are willing to do, it's give entirely in to mob mentality and get really pissed about something they don't understand."

"So you think picketing will get rid of Frank Fuck."

"Yes, I certainly do!"

"And how the hell are you going to organize this little party?"

"I'm not too worried."

"And why is that?"

"Craig, dear," Kyle said gravely, grabbing one of his sitting friend's hands. "Do you have any idea who I was raised by? It's in my blood."

XXX

Kyle was surprised to find that Craig was more than willing to forgo reruns in order to stay and help his fledgling gay rights career. They ran out of the house to get poster board so quickly that they didn't even notice his mother lecturing Ike in the living room, and they certainly didn't stop to answer any of her questions about where they were going. When they returned to the house, she stopped Kyle by the front door to question him about where he'd run off to, and why he was slumming around with Craig, and forget that he'd ignored her, shouldn't he be doing his homework? All of her questions were forgotten, however, when Kyle told Sheila his plan to stage a rally.

"Oh!" she cried, squeezing him affectionately. "My little boy isn't just brilliant, he's proactive!"

"Please, Mom," Kyle pleaded. His voice was dripping with chagrin. "Not in front of Craig." He swore he could hear Craig snickering behind him.

"Nonsense." Sheila dismissed this with a wave of her hand. "There's nothing embarrassing about being hugged by your mother in front of your friends. Is there, Craig?"

"Yes."

"What? Did you just give me the finger, young man?"

"No."

"I think you did!"

"I didn't."

"He really didn't, Mom," Kyle sighed. "Come on, dude. Let's go back upstairs."

XXX

Kyle quickly learned that Craig was horrible at making signs. "At least they're not as boring as yours," Craig scoffed derisively, pointing at one of Kyle's lackluster 'Gay is Good' creations.

"Shut up! At least I didn't paint a dying blowfish making out with a camel on mine!"

"It's two dudes fisting each other," Craig clarified. "That one has a mohawk."

"If that looked anything like what you just described it would be much worse. So thank God it doesn't!"

"You're such a priss! Haven't you ever tried it?"

"No!" Kyle stood up and crossed his arms. "And I bet you haven't either!"

"Well, no," Craig confessed. "But we could fix that right now." He waggled his eyebrows.

"No thank you." Kyle felt himself blushing, or at least knew he was blushing. "It's midnight, though. Can I drive you home?"

"How about we walk home?"

"Back to your house?"

"Yeah."

"Dude, I have a car."

"Come on," Craig prodded. "It's nice out, and I live four blocks away. It's the gentlemanly thing to do."

"My mom would never let me go out now," Kyle lied.

"Well, just walk me." Kyle shook his head. "Come on, you know you want to."

Kyle sighed and heaved his shoulders. "All right, fine! But I'm not in the mood to do anything retarded like throw rocks at Tweek's window."

Craig frowned. "But he always thinks it's his dealer coming after his toenails to even up his debts."

"Yeah, and the last time he nailed me with a balled-up pair of socks, and they weren't close to clean. So I'm going to decline."

"Fine, no riff-raff."

"Fine. Let's go."

XXX

The walk home was mostly silent, except for Craig's wheezy breathing. Kyle was used to listening intently to Stan's inhalation and exhalation, and Stan supposedly had asthma. But Stan did not make noise when he breathed; it was eerily calm, and all Kyle was usually able to hear was his soft breath expelling. He was pretty sure that he was the only person on the planet who could hear this sound.

Craig, on the other hand, sounded like a dying mule, or perhaps a fucked-up old car with an erratic motor. But other than that, South Park was remarkably quiet at night when it wasn't overrun with the out-of-the-ordinary. No cars drove by, few lights were on, and no one saw them moving down the street, Craig gleefully stomping on deposits of slush and Kyle carefully sidestepping them. It wasn't a very long walk at all, maybe 10 minutes, and they were at Craig's home not a moment too soon, and Kyle found himself following Craig to the front door.

"I really had fun," Craig said.

"What was this, a date?" Kyle asked.

Craig grabbed Kyle's hand, which was hanging effortlessly by his side. "You're great, you know."

"No, I don't know," said Kyle, narrowing his eyes.

Craig took Kyle's other hand. "Come on, dude. No one is this oblivious."

"Oblivious to what exactly?" Kyle asked. "I have to get ho—" He did not get to finish his thought, because his mouth was suddenly the victim of an unexpected assault by Craig's tongue. Kyle closed his eyes but otherwise, didn't move.

"You're not kissing back," Craig said, pulling away.

"I didn't say you could kiss me!"

"Who asks for permission?" Craig let go of Kyle's hands and grabbed his head with both hands, pulling the redhead into his face. This time, though it took a few moments, Kyle slowly began to return the gesture, carefully inserting one hand into Craig's back pocket. He gingerly began to press back on Craig's tongue, almost as if he were trying to push it out of his mouth entirely.

Craig began to push his thigh into Kyle's crotch. If Kyle had read about someone using this move in some bad online erotica, or had it described to him by a friend, he would have found it ridiculously juvenile and mundane. Now, however, in the heat of the moment — albeit a moment he didn't remember beginning and wasn't going to think about ending — he found it incredibly alluring, and as Craig kept kissing him the boy in the blue hat moved his hands to Kyle's rear, which clenched as Craig continued to rub him with his thigh.

"Whoa," Craig panted, pulling his mouth away, but continuing to knead Kyle's backside with relish. "Let's go inside."

"I," Kyle began, his breath coming in heaves. "I can't, I need to go, um, go home, my mom…"

"She's probably asleep." Craig kissed Kyle's jaw. "Just come in."

"I can't, dude. Your family…"

"They don't care." Craig took his left hand off of Kyle's ass, and removed his leg from between the other boy's thighs. He immediately replaced his thigh with his hand and began to feel Kyle's erection though his jeans. "Come," he said. "Come inside."

"I, ah, I really, you know." Kyle leaned into Craig a little more. "I can't!" his hissed, resting his head on Craig's shoulder.

"Shhh, that's okay." Craig carefully undid the button fly on Kyle's pants. "We don't need to go inside." Kyle wasn't looking, but he felt Craig's knuckles brush against him, and for a brief moment the cool (but not freezing) air was inside of his boxers, stinging at sensitive areas. Then the cold was blocked by something more intrusive: Craig's hand. Kyle let out a little whine, burying his face deeper in Craig's shoulder, the tie on his hat bonking Kyle on the bridge of his nose.

Craig was adept at this, moving carefully and stealthily up and down, pausing occasionally to give a slight grope. Kyle's mind was almost entirely blank during this experience, but that didn't mean anything was particularly clear. He could only focus on Craig's hands, one of which was inside of his underwear. The other was now sloppily fumbling through his hair while Craig resumed kissing him, although it was no longer relegated to Kyle's mouth. How curious that at any other time he would have been resolutely disgusted by the idea of anyone, human or animal, smearing lukewarm and slightly too viscous saliva all over his cheeks, but now — in the slush outside of Craig's house — he found it strangely appealing.

Things were becoming dire down below, and Craig began to whisper little things to Kyle. "Sweet nothings," they called them, but when Craig was using them they were less sweet than dirty and rather than innocuous, they were loaded barbs of solemnity. "Look at what I've reduced you to," he said softly and sharply. "It won't take long now, will it?" Craig did not receive any response to this more complex than formless whimpering.

Craig was nothing if not perceptive, and in this instance he was correct; it did not take long. Kyle was breathing heavily, but he didn't say anything — he shuddered and tightened his tenuous grasp on the other boy's shoulders. Withdrawing his slimy hand from Kyle's jeans, Craig glanced upward briefly, and pressed his lips into an O-shape. "It's snowing," he said, and in fact it was true. Being busy they hadn't noticed, but soft, small snowflakes were falling straight down, unencumbered by wind, failing to stick to the ground, which was soft and sloppy in mid-March.

"I really thought we were out of the season, now," Craig muttered. Kyle just blinked and moved his cheek to Craig's. Craig, not knowing what else to do, licked his hand clean. He kissed Kyle's jaw again, and then his cheek, and continued to work his way around the shorter boy's pale face.

"Go out with me Saturday night," Craig breathed into his friend's ear.

"Ah." Kyle continued to cling to Craig.

"Say yes."

"Mmf."

"No, that's not a yes, say yes." Craig deftly began to re-button the open fly on Kyle's pants.

"Yeah," Kyle sighed. "Yeah, okay. I, um, yeah."

Craig removed Kyle's hands from his torso and took a trembling hand. Craig began to lead him away somewhere, into the house, but Kyle stood perfectly still for a moment, his body not tensed at all, seemingly unsure of what to do. "Come on, dude," he said, gently tugging his friend along. "Let's go."

Inside the house, they collapsed on the couch. "Your family," Kyle said cautiously, looking around.

"They're sleeping," Craig assured him. "And even if they weren't."

"Even if they weren't what?"

"I don't know, they wouldn't care."

"Huh." Kyle looked around again. "They're really not going to wake up?"

"My sister might," Craig shrugged. "But no, they aren't."

"Okay, okay." Kyle felt comfortable with this, and he leaned into the other boy's frame. "I should really… return the, uh, the favor." Kyle touched the top button on Craig's pants, which would have been formal if not for the fact that Craig wore them to school, to paint posters, and while giving a hand job on the front lawn of his house while it snowed.

"Go right ahead." Craig spread his legs about as wide as they would go.

"You're not very subtle, are you?"

"Actually, I've been subtle for so fucking long that I can't stand it any longer. I mean," Craig sighed, "it's been like two years now that I've, you know … wanted you."

"Wanted me?"

"That makes me sound like a perv. No, I." Craig didn't know what to say. "You know, it's just, I've been trying. But I—" He became even quieter. "I couldn't compete for your attention, could I?"

"Oh? And who was I lavishing this attention on?"

"Oh, you know, that whiny little breeder."

"He's my best friend."

"Well, yeah, but dude, he … well, he's not … well, that guy is such a dick. He shouldn't string you along, but he does, I don't know what his game is."

"Don't say that about Stan!"

"Shhh, dude, my parents."

"I don't even like him! Why does everyone think that?"

"I, uh, I don't know. It's just, well, it's obvious, dude."

"How is it obvious?"

"Look," Craig said huffily. "I'll talk about Stan with you until the cows come home." The cows had indeed fallen into the habit of escaping their pen quite frequently. "But, you know." Craig pointed down to his crotch. "She likes to get what she wants."

"She?" Kyle gaped at Craig. "Your dick is a … she."

"No, it's just, ah, come on, dude. I know you got skills."

"How do you know that?" Kyle asked. He was so exhausted this didn't even insult him.

"People talk, dude. Just like people talk about you and Stan. It's nothing. It's just … gah, I am so horny, dude."

"I don't want people talking about me and Stan anymore." Kyle slipped down off the couch and began to rub Craig's thighs through his pants. "I don't like being talked about. So please." Kyle paused to undo the fly with his mouth, which made Craig's eyes go wide as his gaze bore down on Kyle. "I do not like Stan. And I will prove it here, okay?"

"Yeah, that is wonderful," Craig said, leaning back and closing his eyes. "I concur."