/
It's Kenny's one blunder—his only mistake in all his years of masterful coquetry—he should've never kissed Stan Marsh, ever.
Kenny said it once, to Stan's face—specifically, to the dilemma of his lips after another curt kiss in the locker room—and Stan had laughed with a smile, without desperation or difficulty. He thinks Kenny is concerned about the rumors floating around the high school (he's not; he's more confounded over Stan's willingness to be with him, another boy). He tells him: don't worry, Kenny, it's really not a big deal.
It doesn't matter if people know they're a thing.
But people don't know the whole story and how could they? Stan doesn't remember or Stan won't tell them about spinning the bottle in the swing of sixth grade spring, when the delicate white blossoms were inundating sidewalks, when they were on the peripheries of welcomed adolescence. It could be too much, maybe.
He might not want to talk about being trapped in Clyde Donovan's closet for five minutes with Kenneth McCormick, eyelids scrunched against each other, dark eyelashes coalescing into a contour over the pout of his cheeks. Stan's lips were puckered sour like the taste of Warheads—because Kenny's memory is relative to a steel trap and he can't really forget his only slipup—and Stan's fingers were clenched around his throat, thumbs digging into his Adam's apple painfully, excruciatingly—but they still held the kiss. But Kenny's not sure if he could really call it that now, considering the manner in which he kisses at age sixteen. It was too innocent and easy, no movement whatsoever, just the juxtaposition Kenny's lips against Stan's, for seven lengthy seconds.
The parting was harsh; Stan's clammy palm found Kenny's forehead and shoved him back into coats and boxes. He wiped at his mouth with the collar of his sweater, effectively concealing the stain of rose swamping his cheeks, the tremble of his lips, the puberty-riddled whimper that escaped them as he scrambled on his hands and knees for the door.
Kenny can remember—but it's understandable if Stan can't; his mind is too centered on football, baseball, keeping his grades decent so he can become a scholar athlete. That mistake was years ago and faint, like the pigments in all of Kenny's over-washed shirts. It could be hard to recall who initiated the kiss—because that's what truly matters when it comes to comprehending the complex issue of osculation, because the initiation explains motive and places blame.
People don't know that Kenny leaned in to kiss him first, in the dim light of Clyde's closet, with coarse and inexperienced sixth grade lips. Kenny should've never done something so simple and effortless. It was the beginning of the end: the instigation of feelings and moments that should've never happened, that could potentially ruin an immaculate friendship.
(But it's already ruined, right? Because of his only fucking mistake.)
/
"Want some dessert?"
"No thanks, man."
The window in Stan's living room granted a rather mundane view of his street, but when the sun managed to set in the evenings, the suburbs of South Park were swathed in a calm and ethereal indigo hue. A golden and orange ring haloed the mountains beyond the symmetrical houses across the street and shone over the blue into Kenny's eyes. He sits on the sill, counting the cars roll by—but he can feel Stan's eyes inching over his physique, even as he clambers in the kitchen for his sister's birthday cake ice cream.
"Come and sit with me. You're kinda far."
Stan calls for him when he finds the carton; he obtains a spoon from the silverware drawer and sits at the table. Kenny approaches languidly, without a neat article of clothing veiling the curiosity plastered on his face, the vivid pink of his lips—Stan can't stop staring.
"I thought we were going to the batting cages today."
Stan hums, spoon swirling ice cream and sprinkles together, "I'm not feeling it. We can go to the cages later. Tomorrow, I mean."
Kenny stays quiet; he seats himself. They observe each other, Stan beaming at the blonde between bites of ice cream.
"I can't believe you don't want any. It's good."
Stan offers him a taste: a spoonful of white ice cream, a generous chunk of yellow cake, and a plethora of assorted sprinkles.
Kenny doesn't decline; he leans over the table—elbows propped and lids fluttering shut as the cold spoon prods his upper lip, begging for entry. Kenny doesn't like the grin Stan provides when he lets himself give into his friend's ministrations. He doesn't like how Stan considers this an indirect kiss. He doesn't like how that expression compels a callous scoff from his lips, but a stutter from his heart. Stan is surprisingly tender, remarkably saccharine.
Kenny wonders if he was like this with Wendy-
"You're sure you don't want some? We can share."
Stan gestures with the spoon. Kenny's reply was accompanied by a languid smile, "I'm sure; I don't want Shelly to murder me."
Stan grimaced, black bangs tickling his eyelids, "She's such a bitch."
This is routine; this is comfortable and content. They've done this before with and without ice cream. Kenny knows what's next:
Stan will lead him upstairs by the hand—even though Kenny knows where his room is. He'll close the door behind them, suggesting more than what will actually occur. If Stan is feeling impudent, he'll plant kisses in neutral and platonic places like one would plant flowers: the wrist, the palm, the forehead.
They'll lie down for a while, under the hefty blankets of Stan's bed, Kenny's cheek against Stan's sternum. Kenny admires his scent too much: the sports deodorant mingled with hints of cologne. He'll be able to eavesdrop on the murmurs of his heart, the even thuds against bone. The dissonance will ease him into sweet dreams of pretty admiral ocean tides and gorgeous sapphire skies adorned with cotton candy clouds, sweet as the nothings sighed into his ears. Stan will slip fingers over his shoulder blades, around the mounds and down the canyon of vertebrae, where the sweat convenes due to the unyielding warmth of the sheets and Stan's body
A day will arrive when Stan—after countless evolutions of sentiment and longing—will transition his fingers from the tedious planes of Kenny's clothed back to the unknowns of his bare stomach. He'll circle his navel and toy with the elastic enclosing his waist, prompting a gasp of his name: Stan. Essential eye contact will commence and linger, even as his fingers loop around the subtle jut of his hipbone—the ball and socket—even as they descend past the elastic to corporal places of trepidation and pleasure, past points of comfort and platonic.
It's a future that frightens Kenny, because he doesn't know what his body will want, what his brain will tell him to do, what his heart will think. He tried to plan it out during his myriad of daydreams, but he knows that all things lustful are impromptu and brainless. What if he flinches when Stan touches him? What if he bites when Stan kisses him, teeth tearing through lip, blood staining the sheets? What if he freezes in the process of unbuckling Stan's belt, gullet compressed, meager muscles taut, and eyes moist with unbidden tears—because Stan will inquire with fretful eyes and benign fingers caressing Kenny's skin: what's wrong, are you okay?
What if he looks up at him with those damp cheeks and restless irises, what if he struggles, lips quivering with unspoken words? What if Kenny can't explain how he doesn't love Stan like he should, effectively severing the arteries in his friend's heart and provoking eternal abhorrence, which means so much more when Kenny can't ever die?
/
Ahhh, this chapter is… frustrating. But tell me how you feel.