/
On the back of Kenny's right hand, there's a shit-streak brown birthmark; it looks like a deformed and distorted heart. Stan mentioned this in the fourth grade during lunch, verbally, as if he hadn't noticed before. This was when he was starting to feel Kenny and his distance, how he just seemed to quietly lurk and loiter in the milieu of places. He started to feel want, like longing for Wendy and a subtle longing to understand Kenny better.
Hence, Stan's meager emphasis of the shit birthmark. His mouth was full of shitty school lunch nachos at the time, and between nasty chomps, he pointed. Stan's index finger delicately wandered the dilemma of Kenny's rouge skin, flushed by the occurrences of recess. Stan marveled at how his motions trailed white, then blossomed pink.
Kenny, enigmatic and quiet, rolled his wrist to be rid of his touch, which prompted awkward eye contact that lasted long enough for Stan to turn the same rosy shade as him. Stan's hand recoiled back beneath the lunch table and he started chewing again because—for some unknown and insignificant reason—he had stopped. His attention returned to his shitty nachos smothered in shitty cheese, but Kenny's gaze persisted—his finger flicked out to catch his concentration.
His lips moved beneath the orange veil of parka, "What's wrong?"
Stan swallowed, a bulge of taco meat and tortilla visibly descending down his throat. He explained again, but the reiteration was sloppy: "Your birthmark. It looks like a heart. But it's kinda like a shit stain too."
He watched as the blonde's fingers curled in, how his lax hand morphed into a subtle fist. Stan glanced at Kenny's sharp knuckles, then Kenny's mostly veiled expression, eyes a little too wide and expectant. Wrinkles breached the space between Kenny's eyebrows and little lines creased the bridge of his nose. Stan was able to discern the frown on his lips, despite the hood; it was a skill that came with time and observation, particular care for the small details.
"Gross."
Stan snorted, puckering his lips over his chocolate milk's straw. He spoke around it.
"But it does look like a heart?"
Kenny's head tilted at a thoughtful angle—his eyes narrowed that small bit, enough to let Stan know he was thinking.
"I guess."
There was an instant of silence, a moment of agreement between them; Kenny looked up and their eyes converged on the same path. Stan felt the urge to smile sheepishly in front of his lunch table audience: Kyle and Cartman and somehow Craig, because this was a certain warm shade of gratifying—the kind that fills the heart, pumps through the veins, and flashes back to the arteries. This was cool because Kenny was cool, in the quiet and magnetic way. This was the feeling of progress-evolution.
"But I think it looks like a dick, but only if you really look."
Stan choked on his chocolate milk in sudden laughter; it burbled out of his nose, trickled down his chin, and dripped onto his tray.
/
Kenny was good like that, especially at making Stan laugh. He didn't speak often, but when he did, he spoke like regurgitation—sudden, colorful blurts of whatever, whenever. Sometimes, he told Stan vulgar things, things he didn't comprehend until he was entering high school—and even then, Stan only had the gist of what was supposed to happen, how it was supposed to feel, but by freshman year, Kenny had done some of those things. He didn't talk about it—but Stan asked, of course. He explained with blank expressions.
Kenny seemed so mature, between his quiet and his experience, especially in the fifth grade. At the time, the notion of middle school seemed less like school and more like prison: no recess, more figures of authority, limited bathroom passes. Kenny didn't fret though; he wasn't worried about shit, which made him cool, the kind of cool that represented movement, progress—like, evolution.
Stan admired his coolness throughout the weeks leading to Christmas. Stark's Pond froze, thick enough to accommodate ice skaters. Sometimes, he'd gaze at Wendy's trail of dark hair as she weaved through the rest, gliding on her skates. Other times, Kenny would be there too—people watching, he said—palm clasped to his cheek like he was bored, but not bored enough to go home. If Stan prodded him enough, he'd tell dirty jokes—the kind that made Stan flush and snicker behind his hand.
Stan was in the median of laughter when Kenny sighed, fingers fidgeting with each other.
"Sometimes, I want to skate too, you know."
It was random—he had just told a joke about thighs, Santa, Thanksgiving turkeys, and what's in between. It was an example of his regurgitation talk. Kenny was shy for once: head down toward the ground, shoes lightly kicking at small heaps of snow. He peeked at Stan from a cover of blonde bangs and blonder lashes, before blushing handsomely, leaving Stan agape and entranced. He was pretty, like Wendy but a little different around the edges. It took Stan millennia to speak
"…Skating, huh?"
"I'm a little jealous."
Kenny didn't have skates. He didn't have snow boots either. Stan glanced at his muddy white sneakers, blatantly damp from the snow.
"Maybe we should go somewhere else. If it'd make you feel better."
"Like, where?"
Stan shrugged, but took Kenny's hand anyway. He didn't protest. The paths of the park were laden with compact snow and overshadowed by barren trees. It was a bad idea, probably—walking through all that indistinguishable white, interlaced by sharp scrawls of branches. They could get lost together, which didn't seem so bad, if it was with Kenny.
But the blonde suddenly requested a closer view of the skaters treading the frozen pond; Stan obliged without inquiring why, tugging his hand to the shores, and lingering like nothing could split them apart. Kenny took a tentative step onto the ice, pausing as his sneakers slipped an inch. He took another, dragging Stan along with him. They both slithered on the ice, hands still connected—Stan laughed until he noticed Kenny's solemn expression.
"Hey, what's wrong?"
"Nothing. I just…"
He averted his eyes; his expression was wind tinged and pink. He was being pretty again.
"This was fun, but you can let go now."
Stan didn't want to—and for a split second in time, he had an instinct to articulate his feelings, to tell Kenny that his hand was warm against the chill of winter, that holding his hand felt natural. He wanted to say that the snowflakes in Kenny's eyelashes made him look handsome, in that kind of ethereal and benign way. He wanted to voice his thoughts: this was progress, that they were finally getting somewhere—but where was somewhere, exactly?
So Stan's fingers slipped from Kenny's palm and digits; he flushed irritatingly bright in their pale environment—but Kenny didn't say anything. He never said a thing, even as Stan slipped on the ice and onto his ass.
/
Kenny kissed him in sixth grade, in the brilliance of spring, in the dark of Clyde Donovan's closet. They were shoved together by whomever, smushed in the dark over a game of Spin-the-Bottle.
Before Stan's eyes could actually adjust to the pitch black, before he could complain about their ridiculous predicament—in a closet, expected to kiss within the next few minutes—Kenny's fingers curled over the ridges of Stan's shoulders. They were gone before Stan could mention them, but they left warm impressions—so warm, it distracted him from the approaching pair of lips that found his precisely, right on target.
It could hardly be called a kiss.
Stan remembered the stillness, the awful push of their lips in that dark room. He recalled being puckered beyond belief, like it was his first kiss. He remembered his hands having their own minds, their intentions to wring Kenny's neck. He had strangled Kenny, throttled him, trying—but not trying to kill him. Stan ended the kiss with a shove, remaining flustered and cosmos pink, panting despite the insignificance of it all. He took the hems of his sweater to his lips to hide his coloration, to muffle the sound that left him. Stan scrambled out of the closet faster than he thought was possible.
His heart rattled his chest, his entire body. His legs felt like the stems of plucked flowers—but it was just a kiss, wasn't it? By then, he had kissed Wendy; they were together as a couple, one of the most familiar in their grade, but this was different. It could've been how Kenny was so willing, how he had kissed Stan first, without complaint, without difficulty. It could've been his composed and unruffled attitude, even as he languidly rolled off the boxes Stan pushed him to.
But the dilemma—the real dilemma was this: Stan had never kissed a boy before.
So, maybe, he was a tad upset.
Stan didn't talk to Kenny for an entire week, but they never really conversed anyway—not like friends would. No one took notice of Stan's tightly crossed arms, his knitted brows creasing the skin between them, or his deliberate glares in Kenny's direction. Most of his nuisance came from Kenny's indifference, his quiet; he didn't care about the kiss. It didn't seem like anything to him. Stan avoided him until the commencement of the sixth grade baseball season, until he found him in his neighborhood ostensibly daydreaming after practice.
"What are you doing?"
Kenny stood below a blooming tree, straggling branches reaching overhead. He shrugged, "Just thinking about things."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
Stan's cleats were still molded to his feet, despite the discomfort and clack. The pungent smell of freshly cut grass pricked his senses and the sun's rays pierced his eyes; it was enough to make his expression scrunch. Dirt stained his knees and sweat threatened to drip from his brow, from clumped strands of hair adhering to his skin. His hand brushed over them, wet and icky.
"We need to talk."
Kenny blinked, gestured with a curt incline of his skull; he looked cool, like progress.
"Come here then."
Stan approached in a few long strides, but still kept his distance. Kenny stood next to the tree like it was an altar, staring up at the soft pink as if it were stained glass. His fingers touched the bark, a carving with the letters K and M. His azure irises fell to it and Stan looked too, until curiosity compelled him to speak.
"Those your initials?"
"Mhm. I did this forever ago. The fourth grade, I think."
It had only been two years. Stan sighed, changed the subject, "Last week, at Clyde's, you kissed me."
Kenny looked up again, like he had to remember, "I did." There were blossoms in his hair, adorning his bangs. Attractive, but distracting. Stan cleared his throat, puberty aching into his voice.
"That was really fucked up, what you did."
"Oh yeah?" But Kenny's tone didn't chide; it didn't break. Puberty didn't fuck him like that. He peered at Stan with perplexity wrenching his expression, nudged his hand with his own; he didn't notice how it had left the coarse bark of the tree. Sunlight flickered through the petals and chartreuse leaves above and into the blonde's eyes, glimmering like summer swimming pools.
He murmured, "It was just a kiss."
There was an instant of parted lips searching for the comeback, the right words; there was unsteady eye contact, convergence and divergence. Then, Stan lunged for his mouth with pursed lips. The expanse between them was larger than Stan remembered; he had to reach for Kenny's shoulders clumsily, but quickly—and once he had them in his grasp, he yanked their bodies together. Their lips collided with another vicious feeling of push.
He kissed Kenny amid the descending spring blooms—lips taut and unyielding against his infuriatingly softer mouth—and Stan had kissed him with the intent to settle the score, as a reprisal for the incident in Clyde's closet. He kissed him with all his irritation and vexation, brutally mashing their faces together for the sake revenge. But somehow, it softens: Kenny's hands cupped his cheeks and Stan's fingers laced themselves around the nape of the blonde's neck. Stan could taste honey, like the color his skin would become, the faint underlying flavors of other girls' lip-gloss. Stan's thumbs found Kenny's Adam's apple and he pressed, more tenderly than he had in the past. The blonde broke away from him.
Kenny's skin was honey hued beneath in the meager shade of the blossoming tree; he lacked any hint of flustered pink. When he spoke, the facets of his expression were blank, his tone curious and slightly apathetic, "You're not mad at me anymore, are you?"
"You noticed?"
"It was hard not to."
Stan flinched—his cheeks inundated with a brilliant crimson hue. He tensed, his shoulders rose and hunched. He stammered:
"You didn't say anything?"
Kenny smiled like sadness, rouge blooms slipping from his hair—but Stan interjected before he could even imagine speaking.
"Don't kiss me again."
Kenny's signature head tilt gave a puzzled look; he inquired, "But… you kissed me?"
"Because you kissed me first, Kenny!"
Stan reminded Kenny that he had a smart, pretty girlfriend, that he was in a committed relationship, that this whole kissing fiasco was technically cheating, and that Kenny—despite the sun's gleam floating in his vividly bewildered blue eyes and the sun's belligerent rays casting an angelic halo around all his orange—was a heathen.
/
Kenny maintained that heathen status as the years passed, but Stan never said anything. He fucked girls lovingly, then left them—he never committed and he was never attached. Other people gossiped and blathered about that bad habit of his in particular, but Stan didn't, for however long. He thought that might've mattered to Kenny one day, but it seemed like nothing mattered to him—he stayed quiet and enigmatic, never voicing his desires but always acting on them. He'd touch Stan's elbow if he wanted the rest of his fries, or his apple juice, or anything.
He'd touch girls right above the curve of their hip if he wanted sex; he never gripped, just let his fingers dance there. It was a practice that was more apparent during high school, or as they entered high school—Stan can't really remember. But he does remember losing Kenny in high school, to the masses. Their classes diverted down two different paths, their time together shortened and torn apart.
There were kids from nearby small towns, too small to have their own high school. The student population swelled past anything Stan had ever seen in reality. Halls were full, classes were full—Stan felt like he saw someone new almost every day. Lunches were split into sections; Kenny never appeared in Stan's lunch, not with Kyle or Cartman—but he floated around the cafeteria in the form of gossip. People were always talking about Kenny: his lack of wealth, his beauty, his mystery and none of it was news to Stan.
But he listened nonetheless, palm cupping one cheek. Somewhere down the line, after enough he heard enough rumors, a nostalgic ache prodded at the ventricles of his heart.
Stan missed him, for however long.
/
Their mouths—Kenny's and Stan's—didn't reunite until the spring of their high school junior year, when baseball conditioning ended and the official season began. That semester, Stan's batting average began to ascend past the point of "good." That semester, Stan had physical education with Kenny for sixth period.
They didn't really get to talk. They were too preoccupied with dodging red rubber balls, climbing thick, prickly ropes, and jogging chilly miles on the track outside. It wasn't like Stan didn't look; he paid so much attention to Kenny, to the way his hair clung to his forehead after a good mile, the way he laughed at whatever with vivid smiles. He had grown since middle school, Stan noticed: he was taller, but shorter, his skin was a smidgen darker from the love of the sun, and his voice—the depth was novel.
Moles peppered his body— on the curve of his spine, the breadth of his shoulders, in the crevasse of his collarbone; Stan discerned those details in the locker room, changing. He wasn't supposed to look then, not when Kenny was slipping out of his jeans and into his gym shorts in front of everyone. Nevertheless, Stan casted trivial glances toward Kenny as sweat resulting from workouts and exertion rolled down his lithe body in beads.
But when Stan had kissed him so laboriously, he had stared—stargazed. It was only the two of them among the resounding walls of the locker room.
"I heard you and Bebe were involved."
New rumors declared that Bebe Stevens rebounded with Kenny, the infamous Kenny McCormick; Stan couldn't imagine all that blonde, sweating, and moaning. His fingers in her curls, her nails digging into his back.
Over the curve of his honeyed shoulder, Kenny gave him a look, like he knew what Stan was thinking. He stripped his gym shirt (scrawled in Sharpie: Kenneth M.) from his damp body like one would unpeel a banana. Stan could hear the peel from his place by the empty showers, over the dripping. Kenny threw his shirt in his locker and Stan continued.
"Clyde was like, losing his shit or whatever. He said he's gonna fight you."
The gym shorts were next, tossed in his locker with a simple flick of the hand. Stan briefly noted another brown birthmark blemishing the back of Kenny's thigh. Stan was marveling at its resemblance, possibly to Arkansas, when Kenny groaned, "Shut up." He was plastered with a scowl, even as he slid into his holed jeans and slipped into his wrinkled shirt.
"We didn't fuck. She's just saying that. You're saying that too."
"I'm not—I don't mean it like-"
Kenny huffed, pacing past him, "Heathen, right?"
"Kenny, wait-"
Stan caught the blonde by the wrist, harshly, but he didn't mean to be so rough. He was on the verge of an apology, words on the tip of his tongue—until he realized how insignificant Kenny's wrist was, how they hadn't touched in years. Kenny's fingers were clenched in a minor fist—that was the size of heart, palpitating within his body. He could feel it if he pressed hard enough. He let his thumb ease into the underside of Kenny's wrist, as if his skin was the flesh of a peach—and the blonde gasped his name.
"Stan."
"I didn't mean it like that. I was just saying…"
His argument trailed off as he peered down at what he had done. Stan found the protruding veins lining his arms, emphasizing his vehement hold of his friend; he found the subtle contrast between their hues, Kenny's mellow tan underlined by Stan's paler complexion. He glanced back at Kenny, his concern vivid in his eyes. Stan let himself gawk, even as Kenny twisted in his grasp.
"Bebe's lying, you know."
Kenny's eyes ambled to meet Stan's, from their previous slant toward the floor; his lips curtly lowered into a frown, then rose to a one-sided smile.
"You know."
Kenny's irises were so in love with the color blue; there were lighter strands reaching out from his pupils, darker variations of color hidden near the peripheries. His eyes were oceans wide, cavernous, restless scenes into another world maybe, somewhere far from South Park that Stan couldn't even fathom the distance. Stan blinked in a sequence, like an epiphany.
Kenny tried to roll his wrist in vain again; he spoke quietly, in a tone that was too gentle, "You can let go now."
And suddenly, Stan was back in the fifth grade wanting and feeling, but never doing.
"No." Each finger flexed over Kenny's wrist; Stan could feel Kenny's pulse quicken as he pulled him closer, as he murmured dangerously quiet, "I don't want to."
Stan dove for Kenny's mouth.
His free hand had gripped the nape of Kenny's neck, holding him in place as their lips ached against each other—no softness, no movement, no progress, just push. Kenny didn't resist the kiss, but he stayed frustratingly stagnant; it took an eternity, an entire passing period to coax him open to very slight undulations and exchanges of whose lips were between whose—but absolutely no tongue and no touch. They kept their hands locked around wrists and flat against each others' cheeks. Nonetheless, Stan was breathless by the time they parted, a sound of softness echoing in their seclusion. He was flushed, one clammy palm slipping against a locker, another beside Kenny's hip—he had the blonde trapped, frazzled, agape, and fuck, he wanted more.
He nipped at Kenny's lips again with just as much intensity and enthusiasm, but a curt hand to his chest propelled him back against another wall of lockers. Kenny looked like he was going to heave or cry or both; an explanation was necessary.
"I haven't kissed you in forever."
Stan advanced on him again, gently this time. Kenny's hand reappeared, over his sternum—fingers clenched the fabric of his shirt. Kenny bit his lip and closed his eyes, skull lolling back to rap against the lockers. They were subtle and quiet, pants and rustles and sounds of metallic contact; Stan's murmur was the same volume, barely audible.
"I wanted to remember the taste."
(Honey, like his skin, fainter hints of other girls—their lip-gloss—and a new inkling of cigarettes)
Stan nudged their foreheads together benignly, making their bangs mingle, watching Kenny's diaphanous lashes flutter in bemusement. He pressed his thumbs into the blonde's feeble sides, discerning that twitch of lips, that conceding hiss in response to the touch. Kenny spoke again, but his voice was a mere whisper. Stan's eyes fell to his mouth, the quiver of his abused lips.
"What the fuck."
/
This kiss was just another secret, another blushing memory he kept to himself, scrunched against the walls of his cranium—until he told Kyle, mistakenly, in a rant of other things: his father, baseball, how technically, Wendy doesn't know he cheated on her with Kenny's mouth.
"Wait, what?"
"What?"
"What you just said-"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"You bastard! You fucking kissed Kenny!"
Kyle shoved his shoulder, hard enough for Stan to fall off his bed. He landed on carpet with a grunt:
"It's not like I murdered him. Why are you so mad?"
"Because you put all your shit in danger because of a kiss: our friendship with Kenny, the girlfriend you spent years puking over and bitching about—are you fucking stupid?"
Stan rolled over, onto his stomach.
"I like him, I think."
"As in… like-like?"
"It might be a crush."
His tone jumped an octave, "Might be?"
"More or less. I don't know. I just—I want him."
Kyle practically screeched, "Sexually?"
"I want some part of him, I don't know."
Kyle groaned, head falling into a cradle of his palms. "So you are fucking stupid, I knew it. All these years and I fucking knew it."
"Listen Kyle, I'm just not sure."
A pillow plopped down on the back Stan's head as Kyle sighed, "Maybe you should—I don't fucking know—figure it out, huh?" He took the opportunity to snuggly wrap the pillow around his skull, padding his ears, and muffling his voice.
"I know."
"You can't just do things on a—a whim, Stan. We had that discussion after you broke up with Wendy over chicken nuggets. Didn't we talk about that?"
"Yes, we talked about that. I know."
"And you could've told me about your random-ass feelings towards Kenny before you… you know."
In retrospect, if Stan really took his time to think it over—feelings and all—he figured that they weren't really that random, not in the scheme of things. But he huffed anyway.
"Fucking Communication. I know."
"No, you don't."
Kyle slipped off the bed to sit on Stan's back, compressing ribs and the organs they protect compactly. He pinched the nape of Stan's neck, which prompted a hiss of disapproval, but the redhead probably didn't care. Long moments traversed over them in quiet, but in relative comfort. When Stan decided to speak, Kyle sighed in vexation.
"Kyle."
"What?"
"You think I fucked everything?"
Another moment. Another sigh.
"Not everything. Not yet. You haven't fucked everything yet."
/
Stan thought about the concept of seriously liking Kenneth McCormick for a week and a half every morning before he went to school, between over-milked, soggy cereal and brushed teeth. He was only close to being certain—dangerously certain—when Kenny stopped avoiding him in gym class, when they were seated on the sidelines because they had ousted each other in a game of dodge ball. Accidently, Stan had cracked Kenny in the face with a ball—and it was an accident; he just hadn't said sorry yet. There was a cherry red splotch outlining the blonde's honeyed cheek and a heavy blob of guilt aching in Stan's chest—but he didn't apologize.
Kenny beat him to it.
"Sorry."
"What for?"
"I made you upset. You're mad at me."
There was an intimation of indifference in Kenny's tone, a kind of apathy that made Stan cringe. Disgust laced his words.
"I'm not. Is that what you think?"
Kenny didn't answer.
"I should be sorry—I am sorry. I hurt you."
Stan spotted the splotch of red staining the blonde's expression. The little lines of the rubber ball were zigzagged across his skin. He wanted to touch, to placate; he had fingers prepped by Kenny's temple, ready to descend and caress—but he didn't. He let his hand drop and smack against the slick wood of the gym floor.
Kenny shrugged, "Not so much." He poked the blemish himself, and bright, buttercup-pink bloomed sunshine-golden under the pad of his finger. "I'm okay."
"The kiss too. I'm-" Stan was a little too loud, but the slap of rubber balls pounding the floors, the walls, and teenage bodies made him discreet. He quieted himself and tried again, "I'm sorry about that—a little. I'm sorry I didn't ask for your permission, and uh, I was too much, maybe. But I'm not sorry I kissed you."
Kenny had a conglomeration of worry and weary battling on the planes of his expression. His bottom lip quivered; his voice creaked under the pressure Stan provided.
"Stan, what do you want from me?"
Like that—donned in a plain shirt and basketball shorts, apprehensively poised, but still vulnerable and tangible in depth of his eyes, the full frown of his lips—Kenny was so handsome. Stan had another urge to touch, to cup his cheeks with such remarkable tenderness all to assure him that this wouldn't hurt—but he didn't.
Instead, he muttered a reply, "Nothing serious."
He thought about Kyle: you haven't fucked everything yet.
Instead, he murmured, "Just…just a little more."
/
Kenny didn't have to give Stan anything. He could have said no. He could've told him to fuck off. He could've punched Stan in his fucking face—he did sound like he was making some kind of lewd proposition. He could've mentioned the predicament of Stan's smart, pretty girlfriend, how they're still involved in a committed relationship, and the importance of maintaining a friendship and not ruining it with kisses and touches and emotions.
But Kenny gave him more anyway, for whatever reason—Stan was grateful for the progress: opportunities to let his eyes linger for too long, to push back blonde bangs with gentle fingers, to kiss chastely in quiet spaces. More was good for a while, until it wasn't. Stan longed for more of Kenny's attention, more of Kenny's time, more savored evolution.
But asking Kenny to accompany him to the batting cages was hard. Stan didn't know how to approach him. He didn't know whether to be charming and suave or be subtle, like the idea of going to the batting cages wasn't a date. It was; Stan had envisioned gorging themselves on cheap but fun baseball food: hot dogs and popcorn. They'd laugh in the arcade, sneaking lesser kisses behind the glow and music of machines. At the end of the night, before closing, he'd pay for a hundred pitches for them to share. He'd demonstrate the first fifty, feeling Kenny's blue eyes swarm over him. Then he'd show Kenny how to hit a baseball properly; his fingers would curl around Kenny's hands, teaching him how to swing correctly in the spotlights—but then it'd all about the hips, the right rotation and thrust when he swung and—
Stan ended up going to uncomfortable, heat-ridden places if he thought about the batting cage date too much; he didn't know if it was right, if it was the more he truly wanted. He decided, after Kenny agreed to go—because he had never been before—that he wouldn't touch Kenny's meager waist or the feeble jut of his hips. He'd touch his hands, platonic and neutral locations of Kenny's body.
But Stan didn't get to touch them that much; Kenny was just content with sitting stagnant on a nearby bench and observing Stan's attempts to bat at incoming baseballs. He wasn't interested in the games at the arcade. He was fine with snacking on Cheetos from the vending machine until his fingers turned powdery and undeniably orange like the rest of him. He said he'd watch; in fact, he promised.
The first ten pitches were warm-up, to get the kinks out of Stan's body, to make him sweat. He didn't exchange his knitted cap for a helmet until he felt clamminess crawling down his forehead and heat near the hems of his hat. He called for Kenny.
"You're watching, right?"
"Yeah. You look good."
Stan swiveled, lips curving into a smile. Kenny reclined on one elbow, crumpled Cheeto bag between his fingers.
"I know, but thanks anyway."
He heard Kenny snort. The pitches that followed the first ten got Stan in the groove. The baseballs that reflected off his bat in an undignified manner vexed him, made the bat slide in his clammy palms, and gave him fuel to strike the next pitches exigently. His good hits—the ones that smacked the bat with that sound—induced whistles from Kenny, prompted a corner of his lips to tug into a smirk. This felt good, like the bruising forming on his side.
A hundred pitches always left blood. Blisters popped open after the fiftieth baseball struck the inside of his bat and Stan had to force himself not to think about the pain. He flexed his fingers in front of Kenny afterward, making an exhibition of the blood and pus seeping from his palms like ooze. Stan thought they were cool, similar to battle scars; his coach thought they were signs of hard work; Kenny just thought they were gross.
He gingerly touched Stan's fingers, frowning, eyebrows drawn over pretty blue eyes.
"So, maybe we should go home. I can drive, since your hands are…bleeding."
Stan was only a little disappointed, but this was like, the first date. There would be others.
He started planning future dates where he'd buy Kenny dinner, something he never had before. They'd watch television in the garage before kissing languidly—not deep, just romantic. They'd see the Rockies play before the end of the season—like they could afford that.
Somehow, Stan managed Wendy and Kenny simultaneously, like he juggled football and baseball. He coddled them both with study dates and batting cage outings. He could handle the stress of Wendy trying to bore through him, the ambiguity of being in the same vicinity as Kenny. It was easy to tell Wendy he loved her, after so many times—but with Kenny, it was different; Kenny—his messy blonde hair, his vibrant blue eyes, the way he kept calm and quiet—was definitely different. Liking a boy the way he liked Kenny was more different than he thought it would be.
Every touch was indefinite, either too languid and awkward or too fast and unaffectionate. They moved slow, much slower than he would have with any girl—but Stan always coveted for more. New and soft caresses to the cheek and softer kisses to the pulse of the wrist had Kenny curious. He questioned their status after a spontaneous batting cage visit; Stan had lounged back in his lap, over the ridges of his knees, and Kenny leered over him.
It was just about sunset, just about time for the spotlights to flash over the cages. The mountains of South Park always ate at the descending sun. An indigo shadow had encroached their space—Kenny's and Stan's—and suddenly, they were doused in subtle dark. The breezes felt cooler. Lights from the arcade bounced off Kenny's skin; blues, violets, and pinks flashed and hovered over him, tinged the outlines of his lips as he spoke.
"What do you think?"
"…What?"
Stan might've been distracted by looking up into the blue of Kenny's eyes, how it almost matched the deep blue of their surroundings. Or maybe, he was infatuated with the faint tug of his pink lips, how he couldn't discern a smile or a frown; he could've been enamored with the way Kenny touched him, index finger slightly sweeping along the skin of his forehead, through damp, dark bangs. Behavior as gentle as this took weeks to pry out of Kenny, but it was well worth the time.
"What do you think we are, Stan? You and me."
Stan couldn't call what they had a relationship, since he was immersed in another one. They hadn't really gone out on an actual date; they hadn't really kissed and they never came close to fucking or doing anything he could compare to something tangible. So Stan smiled awkwardly.
"We're a thing."
Kenny hummed in agreement, maybe; his lashes batted beside blonde strands that fell forward. An unknown something twitched at his mouth, but he stayed silent for a moment or two. By the time Kenny spoke, Stan had let his eyes close; he was on the peripheries of sleep, but the blonde flicked his forehead.
"Are you gonna take a nap here?"
"I feel like it."
"You shouldn't. We shouldn't even be like this. People can see."
Stan tossed anyway, so his cheek was smashed against Kenny's lower thigh. The fingers that were teasing his bangs were now ghosting over the shell of his ear, pushing strands of dark hair behind it. A few silent moments passed before Stan flipped back to his previous position, looking up at the endearing amusement of Kenny's expression, the separated pink lips, and long blonde lashes.
"You just don't know what you want."
Kenny hummed again, soft and low, and Stan tried to discern the melody that was lulling him to sleep again. Fingers grazed over his scalp, then slipped to the skin of cheek, tender-like. They fell lower to the expanse of the throat, but barely touched—ticklish, Stan recalled.
Abruptly, Kenny's gentle fingers left Stan's skin; his hums ceased. Stan opened his eyes to find a dark magenta blush tingeing Kenny's honey cheeks, his sought attention centered on someone else. Stan's vision glided over to the notorious Craig Tucker, his fuming eyes glaring under knitted eyebrows, his ferocious fucking grimace.
Stan grasped Kenny's hand promptly, thumb pressing against the warmth of his palm; Kenny peered at him with the saddest of expressions, the most nominal of frowns, blonde lashes awning over pretty blue eyes. Stan's thumb slipped to the center of his wrist, where his pulse resided. He felt it once, then twice—and murmured with a placating voice that simmered in his trachea:
"It doesn't matter if people know we're a thing, Kenny."
He'd like to think he said it loud enough for Craig to hear, but he was already pacing past the arcade and the concession stand in lengthy, even strides—he has such infuriatingly long limbs. It's how he can rip a ball past any average batter before he can blink, how he can lob fastballs breaching the cusp of hundred, even at practice, after a thousand pitches.
Stan's not his fan; he doesn't like thinking about the notion of Craig Tucker—his pessimistic and cynical aura that makes things that linger too long beside him die, the way he demands attention wordlessly. Even then, Kenny's eyes followed him; he provoked immediate progress from Kenny with a simple look.
Kenny's lips quivered with undeclared words—the same way Stan's heartstrings did in the chasm of his chest—and as much as he wanted to kiss and placate, he didn't. Stan's thumb ran over Kenny's pulse again, feeling it quicken and calm—but other than that, he watched—stargazed. In that indigo blue, Kenny's eyes were so dark; constellations could've sprouted in them.
"Kenny, let's go."
/
Emotions and desires evolve—and suddenly, Kenny's in Stan's home, in Stan's bed, in Stan's arms. He's more in love, maybe—if that's what it is—he's more infatuated with every facet of Kenny: his azure eyes, his pink lips, and his honey skin that's more caramel from the sun. He's bolder and braver; it's easier to press his lips to Kenny's shoulder, his cheek, or his hastening pulse pushing against his wrist. Currently, he's shyly considering the notion of lapping his way into Kenny's mouth, convening their tongues, and melding their lips. He can imagine the gasp, the sound of mouths coalescing tenderly. The thought is warm and delectable, pooling under Stan's stomach and worming through his intestines.
He thinks—he knows—it'll be the first step into other and better notions that he can't think about so coyly. He'll yearn for shameless touches in sensitive and personal places, harder and urgent kisses; he'll desire progression and evolution until their connection is definite and certain. He'll want gasps and moans of names between wanton sounds of culmination; he'll want more touches, more kisses, more love.
In the end, he will always want more.
/
Look at all those fucking dashes…Anyway.
This is longer, but worse, I think. I don't know where I'm going, honestly, but I never do.
Tell me how you feel.