Author's Note: Okay, wow, this is getting noticed what the fuck? How do you people like my work? o_o I know it sounds cliched, but really, thank you for the reviews and favorites. I honestly keep them saved in my inbox, and read them when I want to feel better about my writing. (I mutter quietly to myself, "at least people on the internet like me," as I eat another cookie, and toss the 4th empty can of Mountain Dew over my shoulder. "At least people on the internet like me.") Sincerely, means the world to me and makes me continue with this. Because I had forgotten about it for a while. Apologies for that guys. For some reason, I was kinda busy over the summer, though I completely forget what I was doing. This year, I got accepted to a really competitive university (fuck yeah, 20-year-old-college-junior-still-writing-fanfiction) and have been thrown into a complete state of "oh my god what the fuck how do you apply yourself?" Also, I made the decision to Homestuck, and if you've read/played/done/became Homestuck, you know that once you start, you're on this long, confusing, mindfuck of a ride that you can't escape and it kind of took over my existence for a while. Not that you all care, so before onto the long awaited update, hugs for all of you! Yes, all of you! C'mere. Yeah, you too. Mmm, yeah, hugs.

Either way, random inspiration the other day, and instead of reading or writing any of my finals, I decided to sit my ass down and write all afternoon. Yup, just for you guys. Mhm. Happy Fucking Holidays, and kisses bitches xoxox.

iii

By the time Kyle was in Craig's car for the third time that day, he had played three rounds of Call of Duty. He had managed to kill Craig a total of twelve times, and effectively blown off his proverbial steam.

However, over the course of those three rounds, Craig had killed him twenty-eight times, almost triple the requirement for confessing to Stan.

"I'm not going to do it." Kyle said flatly over the sound of Dimmu Borgir.

"Alright." Craig returned, more flatly, before adding, "pussy."

"Just because I lost some stupid goddamn game doesn't mean I have to confess to him! I never said I would!"

"You still played. I took that as you accepting my challenge."

"I'm not gonna tell him."

"Okay, but you're never coming over and playing CoD with me again."

"I don't want to play CoD with you ever again!" Kyle exclaimed as they parked in front of Harbucks.

"You gonna come with me?" Craig asked putting his car in park.

"No."

Craig rolled his eyes and Kyle stewed in his awkward rage as he fetched Tweek.

Kyle weighed his options. A heavy conscious which he'd carried all of twenty-four-hours against the inevitable awkwardness, torment from Cartman, jokes from Kenny, and possibly - probably - the loss of Stan's friendship.

Telling him was out of the question.

People carried these things for years. Certainly, he could carry it with him until he grew so tired of it that it wouldn't be love anymore. It would just be a pain, like religion or like school work.

Wait - he couldn't put Stan in that category. Stan was… the most important thing to him. He couldn't just make him into a nuisance. That would be… like betraying him. Betraying all their years of friendship, and hardships, and memories.

Craig scowled as he returned to his car. "Guess you'll be sitting in back, Tweek. Someone's still sulking."

Tweek didn't argue with the new seating arrangement. "What'd you do to him?"

"He lost a CoD bet." Craig replied, pulling his seat back up.

"Craig's really good at Call of Duty." Tweek stated. "What'd you bet?"

"He has to tell Stan."

"Oh."

"I'm not going to." Kyle announced. "Can we not talk about this?"

"Sure, how was work, Tweek?" Craig said as blandly as ever as he put in a different CD, another opera.

"Slow. I just sat in the back, swept and drank coffee."

"No pressure?"

"No."

"Awesome. When do you work next?"

"Monday."

"Good. Text your mom and tell her you're staying with me tonight."

"What?"

"Okay, I'll text her then."

"No! Not while you're driving!"

Kyle tried to drown out their idle chatter with what he thought was the overture to Carmen, but ended up wadding through muddled sounds of sopranos, Craig's occasional chuckle, Tweek's occasional scream, and ways to not tell Stan.

When Craig parked outside the football field, Kyle thanked him for the ride.

"No problem, Ginger. I hope it works out for you and your beloved running back." Craig returned, his words coming out in white puffs.

Kyle slung his messenger bag over one shoulder, and headed towards the stands, before turning around. "Aren't you guys coming?"

"Nope." Craig smiled out of the side of his mouth and getting in the back of the car.

"What? Jesus, Craig! Not here-" A few more sounds escaped from Craig's car before Kyle decided he had quite enough of the both of them for the day.

In South Park, football games were a big thing. Elementary school football games were a big thing, so high school football was most of the town's pride. The stands were overflowing with proud parents, students looking for something to do on a Friday night, and various locals reliving their glory days.

As Kyle entered the stands, he greeted some kids he knew casually at school, as well as a few familiar adults before spotting a familiar, large figure in the midst of the stands.

"Where've you been, fag bag?" Was Cartman's greeting.

Kyle was silent and simply helped himself to a handful of whatever chips Cartman was stuffing his face with.

"Way to help yourself, greedy little son of a bitch."

"Where's Kenny?" Kyle asked.

"I don't know. He met with some girl from Park County like fifteen minutes ago."

Kyle briefly pondered how Kenny met these multitudes of girls.

"How was it?" Cartman questioned, before grabbing another fistful of chips.

"How was what?"

"Gettin' plowed by Craig?"

Kyle rolled his eyes. "We didn't."

"Oh, then what did you guys do for three hours?"

"Same thing we did at lunch."

"So, what, you psychoanalyzed his dick with your mouth?"

The very sound of that made Kyle sick. His mouth twisted as he thought about the onslaught of crude dick jokes Cartman - who, for a "straight" guy seemed to talk about dicks a lot - would be able to make if Kyle were to confess. He chewed the inside of his cheek and inhaled through his nose.

As Kyle prepared to defend himself, Clyde Donovan approached him. "Yo, Kyle."

"Oh, hey Clyde."

"Stan's down there." He motioned to the bottom of the bleachers, where the fence separated them from the field. "Wants to talk to you."

Kyle could actually feel the blood rush to his face, which he could always explain as being due to the cold, but still. "Thanks dude." He began to the descend the bleachers, leaving Cartman alone with his dicks.

"No problem. By the way, have you seen Craig?"

He thought for a moment. "Uh, no."

Kyle neared the fence, and heard Stan calling his name from his left. Stan was in his football uniform, cheeks flushed, and dark eyes bright. "Dude, I didn't think you were coming."

Kyle's stomach flipped and he swallowed. "I wouldn't miss it."

"What took you?"

"Craig had to pick up Tweek from work."

"Are you still coming over after the game?"

"Yeah, absolutely." Kyle nodded happily.

"Great!" Stan beamed, and Kyle smiled, probably too enthusiastically for a platonic relationship. "But, dude, I've gotta get back to the team. Meet me by my car after the game?"

"Yeah, dude. I-I'll see you there." Kyle nodded, and headed back up to Cartman, his stomach slowly sinking down from his throat.

"Stan jealous of Craig or something?" Cartman questioned upon Kyle's return.

Fortunately, by this point, Kenny had returned from his trist with the girl from Park county, so Kyle was able to respond with only a "fuck you" and ignore Cartman for Kenny's commentary.

This chick, apparently, had really nice hair. "Kinda chubby, not that I mind. But man, she had gorgeous hair. Really long, really thick, really dark, really straight, really shiny."

"Jesus, Ken, did you just fuck her hair?" Cartman snorted.

While this was certainly not Kenny's first random hookup, nor would it be his last, he always remembered a special feature about each girl. Nice tits, big eyes, pretty hands, Kenny would pick out a certain part of them, highlight it in all his retellings, and remember her fondly by it. He never had anything bad to say about anyone he slept with, or in this case, a wham, a bam, and a thank you ma'am, and always talked about them so highly. In a way, it was kind of romantic.

"Are you gonna see her again?" Kyle asked.

"Probably not." Kenny shrugged, taking a sip of Cartman's drink. Sort of romantic.

"Ey! Get your nasty lips off my pepsi!" Cartman cried. "God only knows where they've been."

"If you wanna know," He began. "You can kinda see her across the field if you squint really hard. Look for the hair."

"I think I see her." Kyle said, squeezing his eyelids tightly. There were several girls with dark hair that was long, but Kyle didn't really notice one with exceptionally gorgeous hair.

"Does this Rapunzel bitch have a name?"

"Probably." Kenny laughed. "I just called her babe, and she seemed fine with it."

"Nice."

Kyle smiled, sighed, and half watched the rest of the game. Since his dreams of basketball were crushed shortly after fourth grade, Kyle had decided to focus on grades and let sports fall to the wayside. Really, the only thing that kept him interested was the running back.

He sighed, and thought back to Kenny's story. He couldn't be completely gay, right? I mean, he had listened to all of Kenny's escapades with interest. It wasn't like he was disgusted with girls. They seemed okay. They seemed better than okay. Honestly, Kenny talked about them like they were the best thing ever. He just really hadn't had a chance with one.

Yeah, that was probably it.

Maybe he just needed Kenny to hook him up with someone.

That was a great idea. Then he could get rid of this… weird feeling in his stomach? I mean, it probably wouldn't fix everything, but it'd certainly help some. Get his bearings and whatnot. If it felt good, and if he liked it, then he could give up with Stan. And this feeling would go away.

Even when saying it in his head, Kyle knew it was absolute bullshit. And if he hooked up with someone who Kenny had hooked up with… Oh god. Who knew what else had been inside them.

It wasn't that Kyle didn't want to have sex with girls. He didn't necessarily want to fuck guys either. Like, Craig. Craig had the sex appeal of an ice pick. Tweek? Tweek would probably shake and scream nonstop the whole time. And Craig was probably into that. Ew. And Cartman? Did Cartman turn anyone on? Anywhere? You have to have some sort of horrible fetish to be into Cartman. And Kenny? I mean, I'm sure Kenny could charm anyone's proverbial pants off, but Kyle was smarter than that. And had a bit of a thing for being clean, so Kenny was definitely out of the question. Not even limited to them, but any guy. Clyde, Tokken, Butters, Brad Pitt, Taylor Lautner, Matthew McConaughey, shit, who else was attractive? What else was attractive?

No, Kyle didn't want to sleep with any of them. Or really with anyone. Except… he hadn't even thought about that with Stan. Just the thought made his clothes feel tight, and his face feel like it was on fire. Because, how… how would they? With girls, it was as simple as "a goes into slot b." And in men, there was no slot…

Oh.

Oh, that was how.

Oh, that would… that would have to hurt. Wouldn't it?

Kyle was sure as he began to put the pieces together in his head, he was making the most hideous and contorted faces, but honestly, this was just becoming too much for him.

Stan would have to…

Or he would have to…

And, Jesus Christ!

People got off on that?

People he knew got off on that!

Craig and Tweek got off on that.

And it would hurt.

And it would be fucking miles away from sanitary!

"Oh god." Kyle almost whispered before putting his face into his mittened hands and trying has hard as humanly possible to not think about everything he had just spent what seemed like forever contemplating.

No.

No way.

Nope.

This would not work. With Stan, or with anyone.

Nope.

Kyle would just commit himself to a life of celibacy.

It wouldn't be that bad. He would never have to worry about unwanted children, or STDs, or all the drama and emotions that go along with fucking. Honestly, Stan didn't even know Kyle had feelings for him, and it was already causing something like a World War within him. Imagine if Stan's feelings, and their libidos and other hormones were thrown in there. That would be a mess.

A horrible, sweaty, smelly, sticky mess.

Nope. None of that for him.

Just studying psychology and the torah.

And it'd be fucking great.

"Dude, what the fuck is wrong with him?" Cartman asked, motioning to Kyle.

"Maybe he really thought we were going to win?" Kenny shrugged, nudging him.

Kyle jumped at the touch, shooting his two friends a mortified look with a short, but loud yelp.

"The fuck is wrong with you?" Cartman questioned.

"I, uh, just feel… kinda sick." Kyle swallowed. Yeah, sick was an accurate description.

Kenny frowned. "Wanna ride home? I've got a date later, but I can drop you off."

"No, I'm going with St- you have another date?"

Kenny smiled and shrugged. "That's one word for it."

"Whatever, I'm out, fags." Cartman said, dismissing them with a wave.

Holding out his hand, Kenny pulled Kyle up from the bleachers. "You're going home with Stan?"

"Yeah."

"And you'll be okay?"

Feeling all sorts of combinations of shame, disgust and butthurt, Kyle could only nod and say, "Yeah, I'll be fine."

"No, no dude." Kyle continued, through their laughter. "Even his guinea pig has a Spanish name."

"You've got to be kidding me." Stan was staring to wheeze at this point.

"No dude! Totally serious!"

"Oh God!"

The two had made it to Stan's house before ten. South Park had lost, just barely. Not that Stan was too upset. Competitively wasn't really Stan's thing. He just played because he liked the game. At this point, he was more interested in Craig Tucker's dirty, hispanic secrets.

"Dude, what's his name on Live?"

"I didn't see."

"Shit, it's probably like ProphetPapito or something."

That comment brought both of them to the edge of hysteria, Kyle throwing his head back against the wall, hitting with a light thud, and Stan doubling over, arms holding his stomach.

Once Stan had caught his breath, he sat at the edge of his bed that Kyle had already made himself comfortable on. "Motherfucker loved Peru."

"Loves Peru. Still fucking does." Kyle corrected.

"Still talks about it."

"Dreams about it."

"Wants to take Tweek there."

"Carry him up to the tops of the Machu Picchu."

"Ride with llamas through Buenos Ares."

"Alpacas." Kyle corrected again. "And Buenos Aires is in Argentina."

"Still hilarious, Papi."

"Don't call me dad,"

Stan looked at Kyle, then resolutely back to the darkness of his room. "Dude, Craig sucks."

"Nah, he's kinda cool." Kyle defended.

Stan looked back at him, his expression a mix of "excuse me?" and "guuurl you did nooot."

Kyle paused, mulled over the events of the afternoon and returned. "Nah, Craig does suck." He laughed.

"Craig is the Reya de Sucks."

"Reya means queen."

"Perfect!" Stan exclaimed, decided he'd had quite enough talk of Senor Tucker for the evening. "Wanna watch a movie?"

"Yeah, sure."

Stan realized it was him who had asked about Craig, and continued on the topic, but he was curious. Kyle was his best friend. Always was, always will be, and now here's Craig. The fuck is Craig doing here? Craig doesn't belong here. Now, Stan didn't see Craig as competition. No, fuck no. Craig was the ValuTime, underfed, less ambitious and more vulgar version of him. You probably couldn't take Craig to a retirement home. He'd end up offending everyone, giving kind, elderly women heart attacks, making Tweek cry for inadvertently killing his grandma with his foul mouth, and flipping off the entire nursing, cooking and janitorial staff. Stan could get a little rude with his language, and even lose his temper once or twice, but Christ, you could clean him up and take him out of his basement occasionally.

And he acts like he knows everything! Seriously! Had he even taken an algebra class yet? Where the fuck does he get off? He never even tries in any class, barely passes, and still acts like he could be a professor on the subject.

And his teeth! Ugh. Hideous shades of mismatched and uneven yellows, not aided by smoking for all those years.

No. Craig was, in no way, competition. Craig couldn't even come up to Stan's ankles, in spite of him looming a good three inches over him.

Nope.

Kyle had even said it himself: Craig sucked. Craig was the queen of suck. Craig was a Latino-phile with a shitty attitude and no real friends except people who pitied him. Like Kyle. Only pity. No feelings of friendship. No feelings of camaraderie. No feelings of liking. No positive feelings.

Nope. No competition on the Craig front. None. That's why Kyle was here. And distinctly not with Craig.

Craig had Tweek, and Stan had Kyle and all was as it should remain.

"Dude, Nic Cage sucks." Kyle commented as the credits began to roll.

"Yeah, I know but c'mon, that was a fun movie."

"I guess." Kyle sighed. He had managed to forget about the one-sided tension between the two of them, which was easy for the most part when they were just enjoying themselves. Laughing at the expense of Craig, watching shitty Disney movies with shitty actors, shamelessly jamming in the car to Ke$ha, all were enough to distract him from the warm feeling expanding in his chest as he watched Stan get up from the couch at the foot of his bed to take "Sorcerers' Apprentice" out of the DVD player.

Unfortunately, now Stan was standing up, and was at a distance to be ogled, shamelessly. He had taken a quick shower while Kyle made a frozen pizza, and he had returned dressed only in blue sweatpants that bore the South Park Cows name on the left leg. Originally, it had only earned a gulp from Kyle, but he quickly turned the lights off, and the movie on, so it wasn't distracting for long. However, now that his eyes had adjusted to the light, or lack of, Kyle was able to notice how well shaped his arms were. And how lean his stomach was, but rippled with muscles in all the right places.

Guys weren't supposed to be sexy. Like, really. With a girl, this would be acceptable. In fact, it was supposed to be natural with a girl. Guys were supposed to be the ones that are overpowered by their urges, taken over by the sheer beauty, and then fuck the shit out of whatever made them succumb to these primal urges that society had insisted they keep under such tight check.

But that wasn't the case here. It was far from the case. Guys weren't supposed to make their best friends look longingly at them from across a dark bedroom after a high school football game, and make those best friends want to share embarrassing and strange and messy feelings that he didn't even have words for with him. He wasn't supposed to make the air catch in his throat, and the blood rush to all his extremities, and the room suddenly get warmer.

Stan wasn't supposed to be sexy like that. In that unknowing, and completely natural way. He wasn't trying. Was he? Oh, god, was he?

Great, now he was sounding like Tweek.

Kyle sighed, and looked back at Stan, who was currently rifling through his DVD collection, unknowingly. He began to feel sick.

Physically fucking ill.

Because this was really nice what they had. Their friendship, it was really, really fucking nice. On several levels, it fit the qualifications for "perfect" for both of them. They knew each other secrets, weaknesses, tastes in food, favourite colours, guilty pleasure music, family history, reactions to over the counter medicine, and lists upon lists of other shit. No one knew Stan like Kyle, and vice versa. Kyle would defend Stan to the death, and vice versa yet again. What they had was special. What they had was envied. What they had was kind of fucking magical.

And here was Kyle, wanting to ruin it.

What the fuck was he thinking?

"Uh, dude, I'm actually kind of tired." He spoke up, but barely.

"What?" Stan turned around from his DVD collection.

"Yeah, I think I'm just gonna go to bed." Kyle said, hardly above a whisper, as he started to snuggle into the couch.

"Aren't you gonna get in the bed, dude?"

No, fuck no. They had shared each others beds before, but tonight that was out of the question. Not even within the same universe as the question.

"No, I, uh," Shit. What was a good reason for sleeping on an old couch that smelt of cheesy poofs and video game sweat? "I've been having back pain."

"Back pain?"

"Yeah, sleeping on a couch can help."

"It can?"

"Yeah." He rolled over, resolutely facing the cushions instead of Stan.

"Alright then. I'm gonna put in a game though. I'm not really tired."

"That's fine."

"Do you feel okay?" Stan asked.

Kyle exhaled deeply before saying, "Yeah."

"You sure?"

"Just tired."

Stan paused, and walked closer. Kyle refused to look at him, but felt him drape a blanket over his body.

"Good night, dude."

"Good night, Stan."

This was definitely not going to work out well.