And here we have Stan's POV. Sorry that this is taking long to update, I've been busy lately.

My eyes pry open to see red, curly hair. Kyle's Jew-fro. That's right, I used it as a pillow. Now I know how he sleeps like a rock. It's so fluffy and comfy. Plus, he gives off a lot of warmth, which you wouldn't expect from a skinny body.

That's right, we fell asleep on the couch. Saturday nights are our movie nights. We were watching Red 2, but he had a migraine and fell asleep during. I think I fell asleep near the end, too. I remember that Ike had joined us around the time when they were learning about the bomb. Oh yeah, he's at my foot. He's curled up in a ball like a dog in his little blue footie pajamas. You'd think that since he's ten now, he'd pick another pajama color… or type.

I prod Ike's back with my toe. One of his loitering eyes open slightly to meet mine.

"Mmm…?" He groans.

"Want breakfast, kiddo?" I mumble.

And as though he hadn't slept in the first place, he leaps onto his knees and squeals, "Pancakes!" He really loves my pancakes. In fact, the whole Broflovski family does. Kyle invited me to their reunion last year. Most of the family turned their noses up at me at first, since they expected Kyle to bring a lady friend. But when the time came for brunch, the head chef got sick, so I offered my services, despite a few mumbling protests. An hour behind the grill and a gallon of home-made pancake mix later, and everyone was trying to get me to visit some time and come back for the next reunion.

I gently place Kyle down against the cushions, ruffle Ike's hair, and lumber into the kitchen. Damn that "just woke up" feeling. I stretch my arms and legs and twist my back and neck. A man has to have his body working right. As I unload the ingredients onto the counter, I catch Ike peeking from the doorway in the corner of my eye. Why not entertain that little game of peek-a-boo; the one where you look over and the kid hides as fast as he can. When I look over, he seems to actually disappear at a sonic speed. Damn, he loves my pancakes.

Bring the flame! After five minutes of cooking, the first two pancakes slap a plate to cool. On cue, footsteps patter against the staircase. Mrs. Broflovski waltzes in, following the aroma of my pancakes.

"Mmm… Are those Stan Marsh's famous pancakes I smell?" She says in her shrill voice. It's not a bad thing, really. You get used to it.

"You know it is." I say, handing her the plate to have the first two. Ladies first. She graciously accepts and rushes over to the cupboard and fridge to get the syrup and butter. I can literally hear the glare Ike shoots at his mother's hands. Like a sting of the piano.

"Don't worry, little man, you're next." I say to him. His eyes dazzle and he scrambles over to the table. I don't know why he's acting like this is a rare event; I sleep here a lot and make breakfast a lot.

By the time I finish making Ike's pancakes, Mr. Broflovski trolls in. "Morning, bud. Any for me?"

"Sure, I just finished Ike's." I reply, placing Ike's plate in front of him. I snort as he attacks his breakfast like a carnivorous animal.

Footsteps resound from the doorway. I look over to see the object of my affection: Kyle.

He's up early. I think. I've neglected to look at the stove clock.

God, he's even beautiful when he's at the pinnacle of worst appearances: post wake-up. He retains his best physical qualities: plump lips, his smooth, flat belly, (which is revealed by his shirts that he shimmied out of due to overheating and are now draped around his concave hips) and of course, his radiant skin that not even chlorine could dull. Sometimes I wonder if, appearance-wise, I asked Kyle out because he looks like some androgynous Greek god or goddess.

I can tell he's still in pain. He's clutching his head and squinting, and he's a bit hunched over. He wobbles over to my and crashes his head on my shoulder.

"Good morning, sunshine." I mock.

"Fuck you." He grumbles. I wrap my arm around him and cook with the other.

"You okay, son?" His father asks.

"Head… hurt…" Kyle groans.

"You need some pills, bubby. Ike, go upstairs and get the Tylenol for your brother." Mrs. Broflovski says.

Ike obviously doesn't hear her, he's trapped in his own little world of dairy and flour.

"Ike."

He looks up, startled.

"Tylenol."

He wheels out of his seat and strides out with a pancake dangling from his mouth.

"Pancakes." Kyle grumbles.

On command, I finish off Mr. Broflovski's pancakes and move onto Kyle's. While I flip one into the air, I notice him sway. I might be a ninja and never knew it, because when he starts to fall, I catch him, swing around his hip, and catch the pancake in the pan. Ike, who just returned, drops the bottle of Tylenol in astonishment.

I shake Kyle a bit. "Kyle. Kyle, are you okay?" He stirs a bit and struggles to open his eyes once more.

"Nng… Yeah, yeah…"

"You need to go back to sleep, dude."

He shakes his head weakly. "Need food for the Tylenol…"

That's right, he needs food in his stomach to take this stuff. It's the heavy-duty one.

Mr. Broflovski strides over from his seat and slings Kyle's around his shoulder.

"You still need to lie down." He says, quietly helping Kyle out of the kitchen to the couch.

There's just the sizzling of the pan for a minute or two.

"Poor baby. I wonder what's wrong with him." Mrs. Broflovski says.

"It's this weather. Drastic changes in the atmospheric pressure cause migraines to people who're prone to them. Shelley had to stay in her dorm room all day yesterday from one."

I shut off the flame under the pan and flip the golden-brown discs of pleasure onto a plate for the love of my life. Before taking breakfast to Kyle, I glance at the clock. 7:00. Crap, church starts in two hours.

Let's see, I still need food. Screw it, I'm a big man, I can eat later. But I should stick with Kyle, make sure he takes his medicine. Let's call that a half-hour. Getting home would take too much time, my parents would be out the door already. Good thing Kyle and I basically half-moved into each other's houses. I have an assortment of different clothes scattered among his drawers and closets, and I reserved half of my dresser for him. So a shower here and getting dressed, that's another half-hour. My Honda Civic's outside, the church is across town. If I take the right route, that's twenty minutes, but I can't predict how church-goers will fuck things up.

I sit down in front of Kyle's legs and slide his meal over to him. With whatever strength he can muster, he sits up and shoves a pancake into his mouth. Ike trots over and hands me the bottle of Tylenol. A pancake and a half later and I pop two pills into Kyle's mouth, which he downs without even asking for a drink. I kiss his forehead and say, "I have to go to church, okay?"

He groans. "I wanna go…"

My 180 becomes a 360.

"Beg pardon?"

See, Kyle's Jewish, if you haven't realized by now. He only goes to church with me for funerals. And let's not forget the crippling migraine.

"Lemme go with you." He mumbles.

"You have a migraine. I'm guessing you have a death wish if you wanna be surrounded by a bunch of pious, yodeling hicks in their Sunday best." Saying that makes me feel like Craig.

"I'll be fine." Kyle leans back on the cushion. "I wanna go." He whines.

Before I can fight this any more, he puts on his world-famous pout. His wide, sparkling eyes, his mouth becoming an upside-down u-shape, his light blush and his awkwardly furrowed brow.

Damn, he's cute. Puppy cute.

"Alright, but you're going home the moment you doze off." I groan. "Go shower."

"You first." He gripes.

I twitch. "Then go iron your clothes."

"You do it." He mewls while turning onto his stomach.

Am I talking to a fucking cat here?

I roll my eyes. "Okay, lazy." I scoff. He sticks his tongue out at me as I head upstairs to his room.

Sometimes I yelp when I walk into this room. You'd think I'd get used to all the Japanese plushies, walls lined with pictures of either Kyle's photo shoots or him and me on dates at the carnival, basketball posters, and the desk littered with various posts and guides. But I don't. I haven't. And quite frankly, I never will. I can see why Ike wakes up in the middle of the night screaming sometimes.

I open the closet and scope out Kyle's collared blue shirt and tan slacks. They're always next to my Sunday Best: a licorice-black blazer, a plain white formal shirt, and corresponding licorice-black capris.

Yeah, I know I made that bit kind of anticlimactic, but we can't all be models and get bombarded with free clothes.

I jog back into the hallway to get the iron and ironing board from the linen closet when I smash into Ike, who topples into the bathroom and hits his head on the toilet.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" I squeak, grabbing him by the arm and helping him back to his feet. He snatches his arm away.

"Are you trying to give everyone a headache today!?" He snaps. "Goddamn, mother of fucking Christ…" He mutters, stomping into the room. I wince. Does irritability run in the family?

I shake my head and snatch the board and appliance from the linen closet. Heading back to Kyle's room, I glance at the clock. 7:37. That much time could not have passed… could it?

Crap, forget God, Mom will strike me down if I'm late. I've only gotten away with getting in late once or twice, and that was because a hymn was going on and no one could hear the door slam. I look over to Ike, who's on the top bunk, rubbing his temples.

"Ike, could you iron our clothes?" I plead. Of course, he shakes his head.

"I'll give you ten bucks."

"Thirty."

"Twenty."

"Done." You little shit. I regret feeding you. Of course, I don't say it out loud. I never do.

The child hops off his bed and falls to his knees. I guess he forgot that he's in pain. I scrambles over to the ironing board. Tossing off my clothes, I stride over to the bathroom.

Which reminds me of a good reason as to why Kyle and I are moving. I can't tell you how many times Ike has walked in on Kyle and me. I think the phrase "tossing the salad" has been carved into his mind with a dagger of rainbow fire. Oddly descriptive, I know.

I turn on the hot water and let it rain over my raven hair. It's weird that no matter what temperature it is outside, I always want a hot shower. Even that time when Cartman released a Blaze from Minecraft. That was just as crazy as you may have imagined it.

I lean back against the shower tiles and let my chin drop to my chest. I wonder how Wendy's doing. I wonder how she'll react to us moving. Maybe I should have told her before I had even asked Kyle. Then maybe there would be less of a chance of her going Chernabog on us.

If we're lucky, she'll just take the reins of our affairs again. She did it when she saw Kyle and me holding hands for the first time. I have no idea what she had taught Kyle when she dragged him away and kept him away for the next week, but I was sure as hell ready to check if he suddenly had gender reassignment surgery. I'm guessing he learned how to be a girlfriend.

Which I didn't ask for, because I really did want to try having a boyfriend. But whatever.

I still love Wendy. But I also love Kyle. Even though they can both act like bitches. But really, who doesn't? Besides, I don't see why that would ever be enough to make anyone stop loving anyone.

"Boo!"

The curtain flies open. I yelp as my knees buckle. This is what I get for that "clutch your pearls" comment the other day.

It's Kyle. Goddammit!

He's standing up straight, so I guess the Tylenol kicked in fast.

Oh, he's naked. Is he gonna join me then?

"Don't do that!" I squawk at him. He raspberries, steps into the shower, and leans against me.

"Booh. I was just having a little fun." He coos. Okay, fine, whatever. I wrap my arms around his waist and collapse to my feet, bringing him with me.

I love that we're so intimate now. We can shower together, we can make nothing of serious situations, we basically live together. And we're both guys, so I don't have to give him the privacy I would if he were a female. It's so nice. That's an up-side to this relationship. No restrictions between us.

"Hey, remember our first time? It was right here, in this spot." I chuckle, though Kyle squirms a bit, as though a ghost is going to pop out from under him.
"Remember how I thought that the water was a substitute for lube and—"

"Ah-la-la-la-la-can't hear you!" He cries.

It was painful. For the both of us. Even for the water.

I run my fingers through his soggy scarlet locks.

"Your hair is so pretty." I whisper.

"I know." He says matter-of-factly. Wow, okay. He could have said "thanks", but whatever.

Instead of telling him, I distract myself by nibbling his ear. His shoulders streak across my chest as he squirms from the tickle of my teeth.

"I love you."

"I love you too, Stan."

The good news is that Kyle's migraine has completely subsided. The bad news is that Officer Barbrady is holding up traffic for some reason I don't understand.

I slam my head on the wheel. I've been told I'm an irritable driver, but we've been in the same place for fifteen fucking minutes.

I grit my teeth and try to fight the urge to get out and drag Barbrady across the street.

"Calm down, dude." Kyle buzzes.

I exhale sharply. "Yes, Princess."

He purses his lips. "Why does everyone call me 'Princess'?"

"Because you're so fabulous." I half-lie. I lean over and kiss him. The cheeky smile that spreads across his lips tells me that the answer satisfies him.

Of course, the moment I decide to look away from the road is the moment Barbrady finishes whatever the hell he was doing, as well as the moment when some jackass decides to honk me down until I move. I jab my middle finger into the air. In my mirror, I catch a glimpse of the culprit. Clyde and Craig. They must be carpooling. Craig returns the bird as I speed forward.

"Remember our first kiss?" Kyle randomly asks.

Of course I remember. I remember it clearly. I threw up on him.

I was too nervous. We were fourteen. It was a bit late after two years of dating, but we were put under the impression that taking things slow would result in the perfect relationship. We went to the NBA Playoffs. It came to Denver, thankfully, so the ride wasn't long.

Sadly, our seating was atrocious. We were landed smack in the middle of a bunch of terrible white-trash drunks who couldn't control their tempers and ended up fighting each other a few times. We were about to leave when the kiss-cam scoped the two of us out.

First of all, who drops the kiss cam on a couple of fourteen year-old boys? I feel like someone should have gotten sued. Second, worst timing. Kyle was gung-ho to kiss me, since the night sucked and a kiss would make it all worth it. I, however, glanced behind me to see if someone stabbed me in the gut.

That's pretty much what it felt like.

And, when Kyle finally puckered up and leaned in, my stomach evacuated its contents all over his face and jacket. Mother of God, it felt like the two years were just flying out of my throat.

Everyone in the stadium turned from the screen to either point and laugh or shake their heads and whisper. I'm fairly sure Kyle was about to knock me right out, but he lowered his fist and began to empathize when he saw my eyes start to leak. In fact, I started to sob. I sobbed at the hundreds who mocked us, even though they knew better. I sobbed that those wasted years and the worry that it was all over. But most of all, I sobbed because I let Kyle down.

I ran away as quick as humanly possible. I had to. I had to run away from that seat, away from those people. Away from Kyle.

I sat on the floor of the corridor, hugging my knees and wailing into them. God, I felt like such a pussy. And with the air smelling of piss, obviously the product of the poorly-cleaned bathroom nearby, I really felt like I had hit rock-bottom.

I pulled out my phone to call Dad. No response. I called Mom. No response. I called Shelly. She tried telling me to piss off, but I told her my situation and she told me she was on her way. Her sudden change of heart tells me that she's been there before. Well, maybe not exactly, but close to it.

I just had to go home. Go somewhere. Hell, I could die, I didn't care!

"Stop being a pussy, man."

I looked up. Kyle was standing in front of me. He wiped off as much of the vomit as he could some time before coming to me.

I sniffled and looked down at my scuffed Converses. "Are you gonna break up with me, Kyle?" I gurgled. God, I was pathetic back then.

He scowled. "If you keep being a little bitch."

I wiped my eyes swiftly while he dropped onto his rear and slid next to me.

"You threw up on Wendy all the time and didn't cry like this."

"This was different."

"How?"

"I don't know."

"Then don't say it was." He snapped.

We sat in silence until he raised his leg, ripped a huge fart, and fanned it at me. You can imagine how grossed out I was, but what intrigued me was that this was the most boyish thing we had done in a while.

"Agh, sick, dude!" I howled as I pinched my nose.

"Now we're even." He groaned. I'm sure he wasn't proud of doing what he did.

I socked him in the arm. He returned it, just harder. And more deserved. Even so, I tackled him, and soon we ended up grappling for dominance.

I glanced to check the hallway for signs of life, just so we wouldn't make any bigger asses of ourselves.

"Whoever stays on top…" I paused, trying to think of the perfect wager for this moment.

"Whoever stays on top gets to be on top until we're twenty!" Kyle blurted out.

Yes. Yes. YES. "Deal!" I shouted.

This little skirmish went on for what I'd say was ten minutes before I finally pinned Kyle to the ground. I didn't expect Kyle to have so much strength left inside him.

"You… lose…" I panted as I sat myself down on his belly.

"Do I have an extra life?" He purred. I didn't even realize the homoerotic situation that was going on until he said it.

"No," I gasped, "But you do get to play the bonus round."

Corny, but it worked like a charm.

I shifted onto his groin and leaned down to my lover's face. Our hot breaths battled each other the way we just did. The ginger's face brightened into a beautiful pink. He parted his lips to receive mine. It was an alien sensation, our lips meeting for the first time. As I rolled my tongue along his, I slowly maneuvered along every taste bud, remembering them, painting them in my mind, as though I would never feel them again. Our once-battling breaths became a single entity, a phoenix that soared back and forth between our lungs. Our body heat should have incinerated the floor. But it didn't. Kyle moaned into my mouth, and I returned a masculine grunt. We rolled over so that he was on my front, not letting our lips part once.

That is, until I threw him off and scrambled to the bathroom to throw up again. No good moment goes unspoiled. I have to say, I'm pretty astounded that he stayed with me after that, and not a word of it, too.

And now we're here. Kyle carved out chunks of his lifestyle for me. I'd tell him that I don't care what he looks like or that he didn't have to change for me, but it would break his heart, wouldn't it? I love him to death.

"Ugh, don't remind me." I say to Kyle, despite having just spun that entire tale to you.

"Hey, come on, you got a lot better at kissing me later on."

I smirk, proudly puffing my chest out a bit. I did get better, didn't I?

We're finally at the church. Twenty minutes late. Great.

On the way in, I spot the Stotch family rushing into the pews. They, of all people, are never late.

Kyle and I slide into the pew in the very back of the church. To our side is the Tweak family. Tweek and Mr. Tweek glance at Kyle, and the young Jew fidgets at the drop of their jaws. I sneer at them in a successful attempt to get them to stop. At least, Tweek stops, because pressuring another person would make him a complete hypocrite.

I look to the left and spot Wendy, who's preoccupied with fixing her hair into a ponytail. I try to scope out my parents. Kyle stirs in his seat from Mr. and Mrs. Tweak's whispering. There they are. My parents, the fourth left pew from the front. Next to the McCormicks and the Tuckers. I don't think they saw when we came in. I'd like to keep it that way.

"And now, I would like to identify those who we must keep in our prayers." Priest Maxi says. "Paul Sades, who just lost his family in a coach bus crash on the interstate. Vajj Aina, who—" He freezes in his unspoken embarrassment. The church comes to life with snickers and giggles.

"Ahem—anyway… Stan Marsh…"

My heart skips a beat or two.

"Who has just received a scholarship to the University of Denver…"

I sigh in relief. With a glance, I see that Wendy is flashing a huge grin and staring at the priest. She hasn't noticed me, but she seems to be happy for me.

"…And is moving to Denver with his partner, Kyle Broflovski."

Crap.

I sink into my seat, hoping to God that I haven't been noticed. Another glance at Wendy, she's turned to gritting her teeth and clenching her fist. Is it me, or is "A Night on Bald Mountain" playing?

I glance at the Tweak family. Please, please don't do anything stu—

"He's over here!" Kyle yells out.

You son of a bitch.

The disciples of the church turn to our corner. About half of the crowd claps and cheers for us. Others seem confused, probably as to why Kyle's here.

I give a sheepish wave and try not to prolong this attention. I think all of my schoolmates are here, except for Damien and Pip, of course. Funny story about Pip, though I'll keep it short since it's not relevant. See, even God hated him, so he was sent to Hell, and there, he and Damien actually developed a romantic relationship. Soon after, he got Satan to grant Pip life again. Pretty neat.

"Would you mind coming up to the podium?" The Priest asks warmly.

No.

"Yes." Kyle squeals.

No, no, no.

He grabs my wrist and drags me out of the pew.

No.

Sometimes I wish I were Craig. I could just flip them all off and that would be the end of it.

Trying not to seem like a baby, I release my weight and join my boyfriend in his stride to the front of the room.

Priest Maxi steps aside to let us stand in front of the microphone. I'd like to clock him for keeping this attention on us, but he'd just be a victim of circumstance. And assault.

"If you wouldn't mind, I think some people may have some questions for you."

"Sure, shoot." I sigh.

I scan the raised hands. Tweek, Red, Mr. Stotch, Ruby, Cartman, Kevin, Mr. Garrison, Officer Barbrady, and finally, Wendy. I think it's best to go by the lowest octane rating first.

I point to Ruby.

"Which one of you bought it?" The pre-teen asks.

"We both did." I say, wrapping my arm around Kyle's shoulder.

Kyle points to Red.

"Don't you have to be eighteen to buy a house?"

"Well, yeah, but we paid up front in cash, and that kind of makes it easier to avoid the technicalities." He replies. I can tell that neither of us want to get into the mechanics of law and purchasing property.

I point to Tweek.

"Nng… You'll still come see us, right, guys?"

I grin. These questions aren't half-bad.

"Don't worry. We're finishing our school year here, and we'll visit as much as we can."

Kyle points to Barbrady.

"You promise?"

"We promise." He chuckles.

I point to Cartman. Kyle discretely, yet powerfully, stomps on my foot. I suck in a sharp breath through my nose and swallow my yelp.

"You hid it from Wendy."

Silence. All is silent.

"That wasn't a question."

"And that wasn't an answer."

I sigh at the fatass. "What are you trying to do?"

He raises an eyebrow. Oh boy, here comes one of his villainous monologues. "You shouldn't imply that I'm trying to do anything, Stan. You claim to still love Wendy, like any good ex should. Yet you didn't tell her that you were moving in with your daywalking Jew ass-whore-"

I raise a finger to Kyle before he can release hellfire.

"You left her for a dude, in fact, and then you didn't tell her anything."

Wendy and Cartman never agree on anything. In fact, I think Wendy hates Cartman more than hate can actually exist. So why is he basically spinning out every word in her head, which is basically confirmed by her crossing her arms and nodding in the background?

"So I have two questions for you. Just two. First question: do you love Wendy?"

"Yes." Of course I do.

"Second question: Who do you love more?"

You sneaky asshole. This was your plan all along. If I refuse your question, I'll be questioned about it more. If I say nothing, I could hurt both Wendy and Kyle. If I answer truthfully…

Wait. What is the truth?

"Shut up fatass! Why would you ask something like that!?" Kyle barks. He knows that I can't answer something like that.

"You shut up, you dirty Jew! I wasn't talking to you!"

"Answer the question." Dad. Mom jabs him in the gut, but it was put out there already. Why, Dad? Just… fucking… why?

"Yeah, I'm curious as well." Mr. Garrison chimes in.

"Yeah, tell us, dude." Clyde calls out.

And among the rest of the requests to answer that comes in, Priest Maxi whispers, "…Maybe you should answer. You're kind of in a tight spot here, kiddo."

Oh, you're such a great goddamned help.

The room becomes a maelstrom of orders for the truth. I think I'm gonna be sick. My head's spinning. My legs are weak. Dammit, Cartman!

"I… I…"

Wendy's sharp eyes pierce my forehead like an arrow. Is the room spinning? I think it's spinning. I clutch the sides of the podium for support.

"Got you. The both of you." Mouths Cartman.

Through all of the chaos and confusion, I shoot a shockwave of a glare at the fatass.

The air feels dark and heavy and cold. But my skin feels warm. Like a heat wave battling a blizzard. The room goes silent for just this split second. The only ones here are me and him. I feel like a puppeteer. And he's a marionette.

Reality again. I think everyone just felt that, because every word that is said is chopped in half with an abrupt stop. Cartman leaps from his seat and shrieks. Everyone turns to the overweight boy, who is clutching his chest and panting. Without a clear word, though I do hear him mumble something like, "Screw you guys, I'm going home" he scrambles out of the pew and out of the church.

With Cartman as a distraction, I blurt out, "I think we shouldn't waste any more of God's time with questions!"

I grab Kyle's wrist, brush past Priest Maxi, and tug my ginger sweetheart back to the pew. We receive some glances and whisper here and there, a few people try to stop us and get me to answer the question, but for once, Kyle plays along and pretends that we have more urgent things to do.

Kyle had more fun than I had expected. With his migraine gone, the hymns lifted his spirits. We learned that the Tweek's don't follow any single religion, and rather, they mix a bunch of practices from religions around the world. Kyle was promised many gifts from various townspeople for the move, probably because he's so adorable.

Also, Wendy decided to shift over to our side of the room. She was pissed at me, I'm surprised that she wasn't generating steam, but rather than blowing her stack, she kind of invited herself over two our new house, so I'm going to pick her up at 2:00. I have to go to the optometrist first.

11:00. Time for a half-hour intermission.

"…And you're going to need granite counter tops to balance out the "cool" color scheme of the kitchen." I hear as I slightly pay attention to Wendy. Kyle's writing down everything she's saying. He must really like her ideas. I'd pay more attention, but I'm not even in the mood right now. My head's still swimming.

"Stan." I look up. It's Dad. Mom's standing next to him. "Hope you made it on time."

"As if I had a choice." I murmur, glancing at Mom. She elbows him when he starts snickering.

"Anyway, sorry about putting you on the spot there, son."

"It's okay, Dad. It was just Cartman being a dick again. You know how it goes."

"You remember your appointment to get that checked out, right?" Mom says.

"Yeah, Mom. I don't want this getting any worse." I groan, rubbing my temples.

South Park isn't a stranger to the strange. The doctors I've visited have found that I have a mutation. Apparently, it's a bit of a phenomenon. Doctor's slang calls it "Ghost Eye". It's a bit similar to Craig's mutated power, just with less mind control and less shooting laser beams.

I don't remember the details, but the summary is that at high levels of stress, I can make people feel dizzy or shocked by glaring at them while making eye contact. The drawbacks are that when it happens, it happens by accident, and it increases my susceptibility to stress-related medical problems. In fact, I was told I had a heart attack once and slipped into a coma. I wasn't denying it when I woke up in a hospital bed and saw that three weeks had passed.

I guess I'm more stressed than I know.

"Stan, do you want our game systems to be above or under the TV?" Kyle asks.

"Huh? Oh, under." I answer in an uncaring mumble.

"But you'll need that cabinet space for the game boards and stereo." Wendy interjects.

Jeez, this is starting to sound a bit expensive. "Are we gonna be able to afford this?"

"I know a guy. He'll hook you up with all this stuff at less than half the cost. Kyle will just have to put in extra hours at the country club. Maybe dress up extra-nicely to rake in modeling agents."

What? Kyle shouldn't have to put in extra hours. His shifts are already on Monday and Thursday evenings, as well as alternate Sundays. I tutor on weekdays, but my pay doesn't cut it.

"If it's for Stan, I'll do it." Kyle puts forth.

So many mixed vibes from this kid. One moment he's too lazy to iron his own clothes, the next he's about to put in extra hours just so we can have nice things we don't need.

Wait, I know why. He has motivation. It's a little implied agreement. Whenever Kyle does a good deed or two, I impulsively jump his bones at some point during that day. Call it a reward. Kyle seems to be willing to do anything for me because it usually benefits us both.

I smooch Kyle on the forehead. "You don't have to, you know…"

He leans on my shoulder and purrs. "I don't, but I know what I get in return."

I tense up. Bull's-eye.

Though I guess I can't blame him. We haven't made love in two weeks, which is a year in relevance to our average nightly escapades. And I'm a pretty good lover if I do say so myself.

"You wanna step out?" I ask. He nods. I excuse us from Wendy's presence. She starts tapping away at her iPhone, probably to her girlfriends for advice.

Damn you Priest Maxi.

Mother of God, this is taking forever to write. I had to split it into two parts so that this fanfic wouldn't look dead. _

Anyway, I'm enjoying writing Stan's POV. He keeps a lot of thoughts to himself, which helps me practice being more descriptive or trying to engage the reader more.