They stop at McDonald's for sustenance, and Kyle's appetite is back as soon as he smells bacon grease. He usually tries to keep kosher, for his parents' sake more than anything, but after his near-death experience he feels confident that God will forgive him for a few bacon, egg and cheese sandwiches. He's so hungry that he's temporarily able to ignore the stale smell of puke that has infested the car, though he can't forget the fact that his hands are filthy. He's careful to hold his sandwiches and hashbrowns only by their wrappers so that they don't get contaminated.
"I want to marry McDonalds," Stan says, his mouth full of McMuffin. He's in the backseat with Cartman. Kenny is driving, too fast, and Kyle is up front with him. He laughs and turns back to Stan.
"You sound like Cartman," he says. "Though I kind of agree."
"God, I'm so happy right now," Cartman says. He's forking syrup-covered McPancakes into his mouth. "I'm alive and eating the greatest food in the world. Fuck you guys, though, seriously."
"Kenny, did you even eat anything?" Kyle asks. Kenny has been sipping from a huge cup of coffee, staring straight ahead and letting Kyle control the song choices. "Here, have some of my hash brown," he says.
"Can't eat," Kenny says.
"Why not?"
"I don't know, my stomach. Thanks, though."
Kyle glances into the backseat and meets Stan's eyes. Stan shrugs. Kyle can't remember the last time he saw Stan like this, dirt covered and ravenous, chewing with his mouth open. He wants to take a picture.
"Dude, calm down," Stan says, nudging the back of Kenny's seat. "It's not like the Phoenix airport is known for its packs of wild dogs. Butters is fine."
Kenny makes a vague noise of disagreement. Kyle actually thinks Stan is wrong about that, too. Stan disconnected from his parents around the time of their divorce, and even before then, he never feared their disapproval very much. Kyle can relate to Butters, though his parents were never emotionally abusive. They were controlling, and demanding, and Kyle still feels like shit when he disappoints them. Butters fears his parents about a hundred times more than Kyle does, and he's got to be terrified, afraid that he's failed them, that they hate him, and that he's alone in the world now. Kyle wipes his greasy fingers on his jeans, regretting the McDonalds already. He tries to choose upbeat songs that will calm Kenny down.
They cross the border into Arizona around one o'clock in the afternoon, and there's still six hours to go until they reach Phoenix, though with the way Kenny is driving they might make it there in five. Kyle is in and out of sleep, too dirty to get comfortable. He can feel the dirt under his nails, and the putrid smell of Cartman's puke is so strong that he feels like he can taste it. There's still some of it smeared on Stan's jeans, though he tried to clean it off as best he could with McDonald's napkins.
Kyle fidgets in his seat, fools with the radio, and moans unhappily when he sees that only ten minutes have passed since he last checked the clock. Stan and Cartman are both asleep in the backseat, Cartman snoring and Stan curled up against the window, one of Kenny's sweatshirts balled up under his head. Kyle looks over at Kenny. He's got both hands on the wheel and he's leaning forward slightly, as if doing so will get them to Phoenix faster.
"Dude, Butters is gonna be okay," Kyle says. Kenny grunts.
"I don't know what the fuck's going to happen," he says.
"Things are going to work out, you'll see."
"Are they, Kyle? Butters doesn't have any money. He won't be able to go to college without his parents paying his way. He's got no place to live."
"Dude, his parents will take him back. They all just need to cool down for awhile."
"Yeah, for like, three years. That's what it would take for him to even have a chance of really getting out from under their bullshit. You know they tell him he's stupid? That no worthwhile company would ever hire someone who forgets to clean out the lint trap on the dryer? They tell him he's going to end up collecting garbage for a living if he doesn't start paying more attention to his responsibilities. They work him to the fucking bone, and it's never enough. His hands are like a factory worker's, like a kid who's been doing slave labor since he was six."
"Dude, calm down," Kyle says. "I know they're hard on him -"
"You don't know, Kyle! You think you can relate just because your parents expect you to make A's? Because they want you home by midnight? Everything that goes on in that house is a test. They think it will make him work harder, that it'll make him more successful or pure-hearted or some shit. Like he could be any more pure-hearted, Jesus Christ. But they're not just chores, they're mind games. They once made him dig a hole in the backyard as punishment for breaking a plate when he was drying the dishes. He had to dig until it was too deep for him to climb out. Then he had to spend the night down in the hole and think about what he'd done."
"Fuck," Kyle says. He feels the McDonalds threatening to lurch back up his throat. "That's not - are you sure that's true?"
"Yeah, Kyle, who the fuck do you think found him in the hole and got him the fuck out of there? After about two hours of negotiation. He cries and shakes like a motherfucker just at the thought of disobeying them. It's child abuse, and nobody in that town ever noticed him enough to give a shit. Not even you guys."
"Kenny," Kyle says. He still feels sick to his stomach, though the urge to vomit has passed. "We noticed -"
"I'm not talking about me." Kenny is glaring at the road, his knuckles going white around the steering wheel. "This isn't some goddamn metaphor."
"I know. That's not - do you want me to drive for awhile?"
"No. I've got it."
Kyle presses his lips together and stares out the window, at the cacti that have begun to appear along the side of the road. There are more cars on the highway now, Kenny weaving in and out of them as he races toward Phoenix.
"Why didn't you tell someone?" Kyle asks. "Why didn't you tell me? We might have done something to help him."
"Please," Kenny says. "They just would have coached him into denying everything. Actually, fuck that, he wouldn't even need to be coached. He protects them. He doesn't know anything else. He wants them to love him, and they tell him all the time that it's conditional."
Kyle doesn't know what to say. He picks at the left knee of his jeans, the denim there beginning to fray.
"I guess Stan told you everything," Kenny says, muttering.
"Um," Kyle says.
"Yeah. That's what I thought. Whatever, I knew he'd tell you. Or, I was drunk and didn't give a shit, I guess. I just want to help him now. For years all I did was take from him. Food, comfort, even money. I hated getting handouts from you guys, but with Butters it was like it didn't count. I treated him like shit, just like his parents did."
"Kenny." Kyle sighs and checks the backseat. Cartman is still honking out disgusting snore-bursts, and Stan hasn't moved from his position against the window.
"At first I was just being nice to him because I felt sorry for him," Kenny says. "I mean, I'm not stupid. I knew he had a crush on me. I'd used it to my advantage for so long, I figured I owed him some affection. But you can't fake affection for Butters. At least, I couldn't. It means too much to him. It started being the best part of my day, then it was the thing I was fucking living for, because I was making him happy, and he deserves it so much, Kyle, Jesus Christ."
Kenny's voice is steady, but he's pushing gas pedal down even harder, the speedometer trembling close to ninety-five miles per hour.
"Dude, be careful," Kyle says. "I'm only going to forgive you for almost killing me once, okay?"
Kenny smiles, his eyes still on the road. "So you forgive me? For real?"
"Yeah." Kyle groans. "I know what it's like to want to physically attack Cartman at any cost."
"It was literally like my mind was wiped clear of everything else," Kenny says. He groans. "Except, you know. That I have to get to Butters, like. Now."
"He's stronger than you think, dude. He made it through all those years with his parents."
"Yeah, and now he's left them. You guys don't know. Pleasing them is a big part of his identity. When they found me in his room - shit."
"Oh, God." Kyle winces. "You weren't in the middle of something, were you?"
"No, but we had been about an hour earlier. There was nakedness, dude. Cuddling. Come stains."
"Fuck." Kyle gets hot under his t-shirt and checks the backseat again. No sign of consciousness from either Cartman or Stan. "Um, so." He fidgets. "You're, like. Gay? Or just gay for Butters?"
"Eh, I don't know. Did I ever tell you guys that in eighth grade I let Clyde blow me?"
"What?" Kyle flails as quietly as possible. "Clyde? Fucking - Clyde?"
"Yeah, I know. Not my finest hour. But we were fucked up and he wanted to try it. He went through his whole gay angst thing afterward. I'm pretty sure he's like ninety percent straight, but man did he overcompensate for the rest of high school, shit. I never really had that crisis thing. Dicks, pussies, whatever. All I know is that Butters is the only person I've ever been willing to drive nine hours through the desert for. You know?"
Kyle looks out the window, though there's still nothing to see, just cacti and sagebrush.
"Don't ask me if I know," he says.
"I'm not stupid," Kenny says. "I know you know."
Kyle realizes then that they're not listening to any music. He hurries to put some on, and Kenny lets the subject die. Kyle tries to catch sight of Stan in the side view mirror, but he's sitting diagonal to the passenger seat, and Kyle can only see his shoulder. He wonders if this is what living across the country from Stan will feel like: being able to glimpse only a small part of him, a slightly distorted reflection, whatever contact Kyle is able to make with him just a reminder of how far away he is.
Cartman wakes up an hour later and starts complaining about lunch. Kyle has no appetite, and can only think about a searing hot shower, perfect little hotel soaps wrapped in plastic, fluffy white towels. Stan blinks awake to the sound of Cartman's complaining and rubs his hands over his eyes.
"Where are we?" Stan asks.
"Getting close to the Grand Canyon," Kyle says. He keeps seeing the signs.
"Dude, seriously?" Stan says. "We should - I mean if we're gonna stop for lunch anyway -"
"It's not like there's an Arby's on the rim of the canyon," Kyle says. "I've been there before, with my parents - they charge you like forty bucks a car to get into the park, it's this whole thing."
"So, what, you're on Kenny's side now?" Cartman says. "I don't care if the next Arby's we see is at the goddamn mouth of hell, we're stopping."
"Fine," Kenny says. "Whenever you guys start seeing fast food sign, just tell me which one you want to stop at."
"It's been awhile since we've seen any, though," Kyle says. Cartman groans.
"What is this fag music we're listening to, in the meantime?" he asks.
"The Cure," Kenny says. Cartman snorts.
"Jesus Christ."
"You can pick the music when you drive." Kenny's hands are so tight around the wheel that Kyle is afraid the skin over his knuckles is going to split.
"Fine," Cartman says. "Let me drive, then."
"No. I'm driving until we get to Phoenix."
Kenny is starting to look dangerous again, so nobody argues with him. Kyle wishes he was in the back, his head on Stan's thigh. Then he remembers the puke on Stan's jeans and reconsiders.
Only when they're getting close to Flagstaff do they start seeing signs for recognizable eating establishments. They stop at a Taco Bell, and Kyle gets what he considers to be the only safe thing on the menu: a meatless quesadilla. The smell of Cartman's and Stan's food makes him feel like he's swimming in a vat of oily ground beef anyway. Again, Kenny eats nothing, just orders an enormous Mountain Dew.
"You're going to faint," Kyle says.
"I'm fine," Kenny says. "It's only four more hours to Phoenix."
Everyone else groans at the reminder. Kyle is dying to stretch his legs, and his ass is beginning to get sore. He looks back at Stan, who gives him a tired smile.
"We'll do something fun in Phoenix," he says. "After we pick up Butters."
"And shower," Kyle says.
"Hell yes," Stan says.
"Aw, are you guys going to shower together?" Cartman asks. "How cute." He punctuates this with a poisonous Taco Bell fart that makes everyone groan and lift their t-shirts over their noses. Cartman laughs, delighted with himself.
"Damn," he says. "That was a good lunch."
"Fucking sick!" Kyle says. He rolls his window down and sticks his head out the window, coughing. Stan and Kenny do the same. Cartman just sits there looking pleased. Closing his eyes against the stinging desert wind, Kyle tries to cleanse his mind with a fantasy about showering with Stan. It's definitely one of his top three jerk off scenarios, so many of his favorite things in life combined: Stan's skin, his hands, his hair when it's wet, and the more day to day pleasures of hot water, soap, and the feeling of someone else's fingers digging in to wash his hair, something he only experiences in real life when he goes to the barber shop. It's not quite as thrilling when some crusty old guy is doing it, telling Kyle he's got a dry scalp while he does.
Kyle sleeps fitfully after lunch, waking up to saguaro cacti and the roar of a passing motorcycle gang. He closes his eyes again and thinks of what would happen if he ran away from school during his first semester and showed up at LAX, texted Stan with something like, I'm here, please come. Stan would come, confused and worried, but then what? Kyle would be a skinny eyesore among Stan's brawny friends, worse than he was in high school. People in South Park knew that Stan and Kyle came as a matched set, even though they didn't really match anymore. Out in the real world, they'd look ridiculous together. Maybe it's good that he's not going to UCLA. It would have been worse to grow apart while they still shared a zip code.
The sunlight is waning by the time they start seeing signs for Phoenix, and as they near the airport the clouds are backlit by brilliant orange. Kyle feels nervous. He wonders if Kenny will kiss Butters in front of him, in front of Stan - surely not in front of Cartman? The thunderous sound of planes taking off rattles him as they look for a parking space in the deck attached to the airport. Stan groans and stretches when he climbs out of the car, and Cartman takes his time, brushing taco shell bits from his pants. Without a word to any of them, Kenny bolts for the main entrance to the terminal. Kyle sighs and runs after him.
"Wait up!" Stan calls. Kyle turns and waves him forward. Cartman is still puttering around near the car.
"Kenny!" Kyle shouts, but he's deaf to them already, taxis slamming on their brakes to keep from hitting him as he runs through the loading zone. Horns blare, but Kenny just keeps going, oblivious. Stan catches up to Kyle and they cross the street together, keeping their eyes on Kenny.
"This is crazy," Stan says. He's grinning. "It's like a movie."
"Oh, Jesus. Are you enjoying this?" The idea that he could be makes Kyle blush.
"Kind of." Stan elbows him. "Our little Kenny's all grown up."
"Dude, Kenny's been grown up for a long time. He got a BJ when he was nine."
"I know, but this is different. He's all, like. In love and stuff."
"Now you're getting romantic about this, really? Kenny and Butters?"
"I don't know. I've just never seen Kenny like this. Have you?"
"Fuck no," Kyle says. "It's kind of freaking me out." Stan was asleep during Kenny's rant about how Butters deserves to be happy. Kyle will have to tell him about it later, when they're freshly showered and sharing a hotel bed. He beams when he thinks about how close they are to having that, and to sleeping on a mattress instead of a forest floor.
The airport is busier than Kyle anticipated, crowded and chaotic. He'd pictured a mostly empty lounge, Butters sitting miserable and alone while a guy buffed the floors. They're crashing into people as they try to follow Kenny through the baggage area, luggage carts making it into a kind of maze. Kenny stops near a bank of pay phones and looks around, dragging his hands through his hair.
"Maybe we should have him paged," Stan says. All three of them are breathless, turning in circles and finding no sign of Butters.
"If he went back," Kenny says, shaking his head, "If he chickened out -"
"There he is!" Kyle grins when he sees Butters sitting near the windows, bent over with his elbows on his knees, his left heel jiggling as he stares down at the carpet. Kenny dashes toward him, vaulting over a huge duffel bag that someone has dumped near one of the carousels. Stan and Kyle follow. Butters looks up when he hears Kenny's footsteps, his eyes going huge.
"Kenny!" Butters exhales his name like it's a breath he's been holding for nine hours. He leaps out of his seat and runs to Kenny, who says nothing, just grabs him and squeezes him so hard that Kyle can feel it in his own ribs. Kyle looks over at Stan, who's watching them, grinning.
"You came," Butters says, over and over, his voice muffled against Kenny's shoulder, both hands fisted in the back of Kenny's shirt. "You came, oh Jesus, oh God, you came."
"Of course I fucking came," Kenny says. He pulls back and cups Butters' face in his hands, tilting it up toward his. Butters is teary-eyed but beaming, and Kyle can't believe he never noticed the way Butters looks at Kenny before.
"That fella who let me use his phone," Butters says, sniffling. "He was nice and all, but he had a flight to catch, so I wasn't sure if you sent a response or nothing." He peeks around Kenny's shoulder and smiles at Kyle and Stan.
"Are you okay?" Kenny asks. He's examining Butters the way Stan did after the crash, turning his face this way and that as if he's looking for fading bruises.
"I'm okay now," Butters says. His eye catches something in the distance, and he laughs. Kyle and Stan turn to see Cartman lumbering toward them. He's got a half-eaten soft pretzel in one hand and a soda in the other.
"You guys, seriously," Cartman says, panting. "What the fuck? Oh - hey, Butters."
"Hey, Eric," Butters says. "You came, too, huh?"
"As a conscientious objector," Cartman says, mouth full of pretzel. "Good job ditching your parents, though."
Kenny gives Cartman a deadly look. Butters wilts a little, still tucked against Kenny's chest. If Kenny doesn't let him go soon, Cartman is going to start making jokes. Kyle walks over to pull Butters out of Kenny's arms. Butters comes willingly, and gives Kyle a hug that squeezes the breath from him.
"Thanks for coming, you guys," Butters says. "I knew I could count on you."
"It's no problem," Stan says, taking his turn to hug Butters. "How'd you get the money for the plane, anyway?"
"Oh, you'll never believe it!" Butters says. "It was your girlfriend! Wendy said she thought I looked terrible at graduation, and she came over to the house to cheer me up. I was supposed to be grounded, but she was the valedictorian, so my parents thought she'd be a good influence. Joke's on them, I guess." Butters rubs his fists together. "She gave me three hundred dollars and told me to get the heck out of there."
"Oh, Jesus," Stan says. He palms his back pocket. "No wonder I have like eighty missed calls from her."
"Wendy was able to convince you to leave?" Kenny says. "Really, in one afternoon? I've been telling you to get out of there for years."
"I know, Kenny." Butters turns pink and glances at Cartman, but he's more interested in his pretzel than this conversation. "It's just, well. I thought I could do it, but then you were gone, and everything was just terrible." He moans and throws his arms around Kenny again, pinching his eyes shut against Kenny's chest. Cartman pauses in mid-chew, frowning.
"Wait, are you guys fags for real?" he asks, his mouth full of pretzel.
"You are fucking begging to get your ass kicked," Kenny says.
"It's a legitimate question!"
"I'm gonna call Wendy and let her know you're safe," Stan says, already dialing. He wanders off with his phone. Kyle turns back to Butters and Kenny, who are both looking at Cartman, Butters blushing furiously and Kenny staring at him in warning, daring him to ask again.
"So, like." Cartman glances at Kyle. "Are we gonna eat dinner here at the airport, or -?"
"First of all, I don't know if you noticed, but you're already eating something," Kyle says, gesturing to the pretzel. "And secondly, hell no, we're not eating here. If I don't get in a shower in less than twenty minutes I'm going to kill all of you."
"We're going to get a hotel room here tonight," Kenny says to Butters. "Then, tomorrow, we're going to Vegas."
"Oh, Vegas." Butters smiles up at him. "Like we always talked about."
"Shit, are you guys going to get gay married there or something?" Cartman asks, groaning.
"Is it legal?" Kenny asks, hopefully. Kyle snorts.
"I don't think so," he says. "Let's walk back to the car, okay? Stan can talk to Wendy while I drive."
He doesn't really expect Stan's phone call with Wendy to last throughout their trip to the hotel, but it does, complete with doofy laughter and Stan telling her what a great person she is, to have helped Butters this way. Kyle doesn't disagree - Wendy is great, she's great - but by the time they find a decent looking hotel in downtown Phoenix he's less enthusiastic about taking a shower, since he feels like his skin has been stripped off. Butters is talking nonstop about his plane ride. Apparently a stewardess was mean, the lady next to him was nice, and they served little bags of pretzels instead of peanuts. Kenny is asleep with his head on Butters' shoulder, and Butters is stroking Kenny's hair despite Cartman's pointed stares, like he doesn't even know that he's doing it.
"Alright," Stan says when valets with shrill whistles are motioning the car up toward the hotel's front doors. "I gotta go, we're here. I love you, too. Okay. Bye."
Kyle's vision tunnels, and he almost runs over a bell boy. He thought he was over this jealousy shit. It's so pointless and predictable and such a waste of his fucking time. The others are talking as the valets struggle to figure out what items of luggage they want brought up and what to leave in the car. Kyle nods when spoken to, though all he can hear is Stan saying I love you to someone who isn't him. It's not as if it's anything new. He can never predict when it will hit him hard like this.
They get a double room on the seventeenth floor, and their request for a rollaway bed is shot down. There's a convention in town, all the rollaway beds spoken for. Kenny and Butters claim one of the beds by dropping into it and snuggling up together to watch TV, and Cartman asks Kyle and Stan to pick a number.
"Whoever guesses closest to my number will get to share the other bed with me," he says. Stan snorts.
"Yeah, that's fair. How come you're automatically in the bed? Let's flip a coin."
"It's fine," Kyle says, already heading for the bathroom with a clean pair of clothes tucked under his arm. "I'll sleep on the floor, I don't care."
"Kyle -"
"I said it's fine, Stan, just fucking leave it."
He closes the bathroom door hard, aware that he's being an idiot. He won't be able to explain the change in his mood, and everyone out there probably knows Stan's phone call with Wendy is to blame, anyway. He's sweating as he undresses, thinking about this. Will they talk about him? What the hell's wrong with Kyle, why is he such a bitch, what does he expect from you, Stan?
Kyle's teeth are gritted by the time he climbs under the hot water, and he can't really enjoy it the way he'd hoped to. He scrubs his skin until it's raw and claws his fingernails into the soap to clean the dirt from beneath them, his nail beds stinging. He wanted to linger under the water, to think about Stan - how he'll come in here when Kyle is done and rub his soapy hands all over himself, stroke his cock, make soft noises that the blast of the shower will hide - but now it's just too pathetic. Stan will be thinking about Wendy, not even needing to stretch his fantasies very far, because he knows what it's like to have her skin pressed against his, her lips on his neck, his hand between her legs. Kyle slaps the shower off, dizzy with anger that he knows he hasn't earned. Stan never promised him anything.
"I'm gonna go get the sleeping bag from the car," he says as he walks out of the bathroom, dressed, steam puffing out behind him. He steps into his shoes, not making eye contact with any of them. Stan is staring at him in that fucking cloying goddamn way that he does when he pretends not to know why Kyle is acting like a dick, Cartman is hurrying to claim the bathroom and Butters and Kenny are ignoring the TV in favor of whispering together, their heads on the same pillow. Only when Kyle has left the room does he realize that he doesn't have a key for the room. He heads for the elevators anyway, more interested in getting away from all of them than how he'll get back in.
He wanders the lobby before heading toward the valet stand. The hotel is big, technically a resort, about twenty minutes from the airport. Convention attendees are crowded around the lobby bar, dressed in business casual douche-wear and laughing over drinks. Kyle walks to the back of the lobby and peeks out at the pool, trying to feel less hateful. Wendy did a good thing for Butters, and in a lot of ways, Kyle loves her, too. She's always been understanding about his friendship with Stan, allowing them time alone together. He thinks of the look she gave him during her graduation address. Maybe she's a little too fucking understanding. Condescending, even. Pitying. Kyle feels like kicking something, his anger ratcheting back up like a thermometer that's ready to burst, swelling between his ears. Once he gets like this, there's nothing to do but sleep it off. Last year, when Kyle punched a hole in his bedroom door over a smart ass comment his brother made to him at the dinner table, his parents made him go to anger management counseling. He was able to bluff his way through two sessions with a therapist and convince everyone involved that he doesn't really have a problem. It's his fucking business if he wants to get angry and grind his teeth away at night. Nobody's going to be able to talk him out of feeling this way.
He retrieves the sleeping bag and returns to the room, his mood even worse than it was when he left. It doesn't help that Stan is freshly showered and treating Kyle the way he always does when Kyle starts to seethe, like he's a grenade that must be handled with care. Kyle unrolls the sleeping bag near the window and swipes one of the pillows from the bed.
"What are you doing?" Stan asks. "We're about to go to dinner. I saw a Chili's on the way in, I thought -"
"You guys go," Kyle says. He stretches out on the sleeping bag and rolls toward the wall. "I'm not hungry."
Silence. The shower is running, and Kyle can hear Butters humming to himself from inside the bathroom. Cartman is splayed out on the bed he'll share with Stan, probably trying to formulate the perfect insult to send Kyle over the fucking edge. Kenny is on the other bed, pitying him. Kyle wouldn't be able to sit through dinner with them without throwing a drink in someone's face.
"Kyle," Stan says.
"Leave him alone," Kenny says. The bed springs squeak. "He's tired. I'm gonna go have a smoke, I'll meet you guys downstairs."
The door to the room opens and shuts. Out in the hallway, Kyle can hear the elevator bell ding. He's so tense that his jaw aches. Stan is standing in the middle of the room and staring at him like a perfect idiot; Kyle can feel it. Cartman seems to be at a loss. Commentary on this particular situation is probably just too easy to bother with. In the bathroom, the water shuts off. Butters is still humming like he's singing a song about being able to sleep in Kenny's arms tonight. He doesn't even need lyrics.
"So, uh," Stan says to Cartman. "Is Chili's okay with you?"
"Yeah, sure, whatever," Cartman says. He sounds a little moody himself. "Just tell Butters to hurry up and finish powdering his fucking nose in there."
"Give him a second, dude. He's been in an airport for like, twelve hours."
"Is Kenny seriously hitting that?" Cartman asks.
"What do you think, dumb ass? Don't give him a hard time about it, he's been through enough. And Kenny might for real kill you in your sleep if you keep dogging him."
"I'm not saying shit. It's not funny anymore, just sickening. If they try to fuck while we're in the room -"
"They won't! Goddammit, Cartman, shut up."
The bathroom door opens, and Butters comes out, still humming. Kyle can picture him clearly: rubbing a towel through his almost neon-blond hair, smiling around the room obliviously.
"Where's Kenny?" Butters asks, a hint of distress in the question.
"He's waiting for us downstairs, he wanted a smoke," Stan says. "Ready to go to dinner?"
"Yeah! I, uh, I don't have any money, though. I had two dollars left after I bought the plane ticket, but I spent it on a donut at the airport."
"That's okay, I'll cover you," Stan says. "Or Kenny will. C'mon, let's go, I need a real meal. Kyle, are you sure you don't want to come?"
"I'm sure."
"What's the matter with Kyle?" Butters asks. The question is so puppyish that Kyle laughs.
"He's fine," Stan says. "He's just tired. Dude, don't you at least want us to bring you something?"
"I said I'm not hungry."
"Stan, you heard Kenny, leave the bitch alone." The bed groans as Cartman climbs off of it. "C'mon, assholes. Those baby back ribs aren't going to eat themselves."
Somebody pulls open the door, and Butters starts talking excitedly about what he might order, his voice disappearing out into the hallway, Cartman's grumbling complaints trailing after him. Stan heaves a dramatic sigh before following them out. The door closes, the elevator bell dings, and they're gone.
Kyle rolls onto his back. The room is perfectly silent, unlike anything he's experienced since they left on this trip. There's always background music from the car stereo, Cartman's snoring, Stan's camera clicking, the wind against the car and the bugs in the trees. Here, there's just an empty drone. He tries to enjoy it, his rage on a low boil in the center of his chest now. Ike once suggested that he'd get a lot out of meditation. Kyle tried it, but he couldn't turn his mind off, just sat there feeling anxious about the fact that he wasn't relaxing properly. The whole concept of trying not to think about anything is idiotic to him, though he wishes it were possible.
He gets up and wanders the room, poking through everybody's stuff. Stan's dirty clothes are in a pile in the corner of the room, reeking. Kyle finds a dry cleaning bag in the closet and stuffs them into it, adding Kenny's and Butters' so that the gesture will seem less conspicuous. He throws Cartman's in, too, resenting the fact that he has to touch them. He hangs the bag on the doorknob and walks back into the empty room. Stan left his camera sitting on the bedside table. Kyle turns it on and flicks through his pictures; there aren't many from today, just a few shots of the desert from the windows of the car. There's one of Kyle from the night before, holding a fishing pole and smiling drunkenly. That night already feels like it took place about two years ago.
Bored and hungry, he stretches out on the sleeping bag again. He could order room service, but then his excuse about not wanting to go to dinner would be blown. Resentfully, he decides he wants to jerk off. Stan can shoot his load to thoughts of Wendy, that's fine, but Kyle isn't hurting anybody by thinking about Stan when he reaches into his pants. No one other than himself, anyway.
He closes his eyes and tries to come up with a good self-destructive fantasy. Those always make him come the hardest, with fluttery little moans that he can't contain in the quiet of his bedroom. In his fantasy, Stan is mad at him. More furious than Kyle has ever been about anything, which is saying something. He pushes Kyle down onto the bed - a hotel room bed, here or anywhere, doesn't matter - and tells him he's going to teach him a lesson. Kyle shouldn't be fantasizing about taking it up the ass - it's sick, stupid, degrading - and if Stan fucks him hard and raw he won't want it anymore. That's what Stan thinks, anyway. Kyle closes his fist more tightly around his cock, pumping himself, gritting his teeth. The Stan of his fantasies is ruthless and prone to dirty talk, calling Kyle a slut and pulling his ass cheeks open wider to get a better view as he impales him. He comes all over Kyle's back, and Kyle comes in his hand, whimpering, imagining he can feel the heat of Stan's seed on his skin, branding him across his back in long stripes.
When it's over, Kyle's cock softening against his belly, come stains cooling on the sock that he used to catch the evidence, his fantasy flips around completely. Cruel, homophobic Stan evaporates. He's replaced by Kyle's best friend, the real Stan, who cradles him and praises him, saying, God, Kyle, that was so good, like Kyle just did a back flip off the diving board at the pool. Kyle rolls onto his side and hugs his pillow, imagining Stan's hands soothing through his hair, Stan kissing Kyle's forehead and whispering against his skin, love you, so much, God, dude. Unable to fool himself, Kyle falls asleep, perfectly aware that he's hugging a pillow.
He wakes up scared, not sure where he is. There's whispering, footsteps, and all he can see for a few seconds is a section of coral pink carpet. He remembers where he is when he hears Butters' voice.
"But I don't have any swim trunks!"
"What, you didn't pack your bikini in your running away from home bag?" Cartman says, not whispering.
"Shut up! Kyle's sleeping." That's Stan, of course. Perpetual protector of Kyle's rest.
"I didn't pack anything," Butters says. "I just kinda walked out."
"Well, that was brilliant. I guess you're poorer than Kenny now. Congratulations."
"Shut up," Kenny says. "Kyle has a swimsuit, Butters. You can borrow it."
"I don't think he'd like that," Stan says.
"Why not? They're about the same size."
"I just don't think he'd want Butters' junk all up in his swimsuit. You know how Kyle is."
Kyle wants to be mad about this comment, remnants of the rage still hanging around, but he's grinning against the pillow, glad that his back is turned on the room so that his cover won't be blown.
"Fine, then loan him your swimsuit," Kenny says. Stan groans.
"Alright," he says. Kyle hears a bag unzipping. "Just to save you from the wrath of Kyle."
"Thanks, Stan!" Butters says. "You're the best." The bathroom door opens and shuts.
"You'd better not, uh, arouse him while he's wearing my suit," Stan says to Kenny.
"Aw, sick!" Cartman shouts. "I just ate!"
"I said shut up, you're gonna wake Kyle!" Stan says in a hissed whisper. Cartman scoffs.
"Like I give a shit. Kenny, what the fuck are you doing?"
"Changing into my bathing suit."
"Aw - aw!" There are more muffled protests from under the blankets on the bed.
"It's not like you've never seen Kenny's ass before," Stan says.
"Are you sure you don't want to come with us?" Kenny asks, ignoring Cartman as he continues to gag as if he's dying from the sight of Kenny's nudity.
"Well, I can't, now," Stan says. "Butters is using my suit."
"You could use Kyle's. He wouldn't care, you know. If it was your junk."
"Fuck you. Anyway, it's too small, and - I told you, I don't want to swim! Quit looking at me like that."
Butters and Kenny leave for the pool a few minutes later, Butters chattering away about the games of sharks and minnows they all used to play together as kids. Stan putters around the room when they're gone, brushing his teeth, fucking with his phone. Kyle stays perfectly still inside the sleeping bag, until he hears Cartman start to snore and Stan slipping into the bathroom for a piss. Kyle takes the opportunity to tuck his cock into his sweatpants, doing so as quietly as possible. He whips the come-crusted sock under the bed, enjoying the idea that Cartman would be disgusted if he knew it was there.
By the time Stan emerges from the bathroom, Kyle is back in position, rolled toward the wall and pretending to sleep. He hears Stan's jeans drop to the floor, heavy with the weight of his wallet, this particular nighttime noise familiar to him from countless sleepovers. Kyle always seems to get into bed first. He stays perfectly still, listening to Stan climb into the bed with Cartman, whose snoring is quiet and steady now, as if he's settled into a pleasant dream about Taco Bell.
"Move over, asshole," Stan whispers, but Cartman just goes on snoring. Stan groans, and the bed creaks when he settles down onto it. For one oddly vivid moment Kyle is sure that Stan knows he's awake, but it passes, and he hears Stan breathing in soft sighs the way he does when he's asleep.
Kyle drifts off again, into a dream about Stan trying to wear his swim shorts, blushing when they hug his ass too tightly and do nothing to conceal the bulge of his cock. It's not an erotic dream; Kyle is stressed about this, on Stan's behalf. He finds a towel and wraps it around Stan's waist, restoring his modesty. Stan smiles down at Kyle, strokes his cheek, and Kyle thinks he's going to get kissed, but Stan just lifts his camera and takes a picture.
He wakes again when Butters and Kenny return to the room, but it feels like another dream to him: the two of them laughing and shushing each other, wet swim shorts slapping against the back of the room's desk chair, the smell of chlorine. Kyle falls asleep before they go quiet, to the sound of one of them whispering to the other, very softly, c'mere.
The room is still pitch dark when he wakes up, and he's cold. Someone has lifted off his blanket, but it's not a blanket, it's Stan's sleeping bag, and someone is climbing in behind him though there's only room for one. Kyle moans and twitches, wanting to cry out for Stan, but Stan touches his hip and whispers shh into his ear before he can.
"It's just me," he whispers. He settles in behind Kyle, pressed up against his back, spooning him shamelessly. His breath smells like Kenny's booze, thinly masked by toothpaste.
"Mmph?" Kyle says, turning his head on the pillow, though he still can't see anything. Stan's nose bumps his cheek; his breath is hot.
"Cartman's hogging the whole bed," he whispers. The volume of his voice makes Kyle shudder, or maybe it's the flimsiness of his excuse. Kyle presses his ass back against Stan's hips, drowsy enough to want to test him. Stan doesn't balk, only slides his hand from Kyle's hip and across his chest, tucking his arm around him. Kyle wills himself to wake up, to appreciate what's happening, but he's so tired, and afraid this is only a dream. If it is, he wants to live in it for as long as he can. He closes his eyes and settles down against the pillow again, sucking in a deep breath to match the one that Stan is taking. He exhales when Stan does, Stan's stomach softening against his back, his arm growing heavier over Kyle's side. In paradise, floating, Kyle is still greedy: he slides his hand over Stan's inside the sleeping bag.
"Kyle?" Stan whispers just as Kyle has decided that it must be a dream, and that he's okay with that, as long as he gets to keep feeling warm like this.
"Hmm?"
"In the car. This morning." Stan's voice is small, which is ironic, because he feels so big right now, wrapped all the way around Kyle. "I thought. For a minute, I thought -"
"I know." Kyle didn't mean to cut him off, but he barely understands where he is right now. "Me too."
Stan moans like some part of him is still scared, waiting to tumble over that cliff. He threads his fingers through Kyle's and pulls both their hands to Kyle's chest, squeezing him in close. Kyle falls asleep with Stan's breath hot against his neck. It's happened before, but it's never felt like something that might matter in the morning. In Kyle's dreams he dissolves completely into Stan, like sugar into hot coffee. It happens over and over again, and feels good every time.
Morning seems to come in minutes, and Kyle blinks against the pale glow of dawn, just faintly visible from beneath the room's curtains. He puts his hope in stasis as he takes stock of reality, but there's no need: Stan is still hugged tightly around him, his face buried against Kyle's shoulder now, knees tucked in behind Kyle's. Across the room, someone is whispering, giggling, and Kyle is afraid they've been caught by strangers who won't understand, but it's just Kenny and Butters fooling around in their bed, their voices muffled by blankets. Pinpricks of concern start to coat Kyle's skin like bug bites, making the hair on his arms stand up: Cartman is in the room, California is only two days away, and Stan is going to have to let got of him eventually. They're going to have to look each other in the eyes again soon, and it's highly possible that Stan will do what he did on that camping trip: sit up, yawn, and announce that they should probably get moving.
Kyle tries to sleep again, and when he can't, he blocks out the sound of Kenny and Butters' giddy whispering and concentrates on how it feels to be held. Last time he was zipped into a sleeping bag with Stan they were both afraid they were going to freeze to death, and Kyle could only appreciate the details in hindsight. Now, he's careful to keep still and take stock of everything: a spot of drool on the neck of his t-shirt, the slow in-and-out of Stan's breath against his back, the way Stan's fingers have loosened around his without releasing them. Stan's heartbeat, the heat of his thighs, the way his bangs tickle the back of Kyle's neck. Kyle tries to match Stan's breathing, wants to dissolve into him again.
"Shh!" Butters says from across the room, giggling.
"Come on," Kenny says. Blankets are shuffled, the bed creaks.
"Kenny!"
"Shh! C'mere."
They creep into the bathroom together and shut the door. There's more whispering, then the shower comes on, mercifully cloaking any further noise. Kyle wiggles his ass back involuntarily, hating himself for it even as the feeling melts its way down his spine. Stan moans but doesn't wake, his fingers twitching around Kyle's. There's a loud thunk from the bathroom, like someone's knee running into the wall, then a peel of laughter. Cartman snorts in his sleep and rolls over, muttering to himself. Kyle is frozen, afraid to breathe. He takes a moment to consider how terrible it would be for Stan to wake to a blaring interrogation from Cartman, but still can't bring himself to end this.
There's a set of faint but distinct noises coming from the bathroom, a thump followed by something high-pitched and desperate, like a mouse who is taking sinful pleasure in being stepped on. Butters getting fucked, almost definitely. Kyle flushes with a combination of rage and embarrassment. Those two can have each other whenever they want, and they're going to walk all over his moment anyway. Stan is still heavy with sleep, but Cartman is beginning to grunt like a hibernating bear that's being poked with a stick. The pace of the thumping picks up, and suddenly Butters is having a screaming orgasm, some combination of a primal shout and Kenny's name echoing against the shower tiles like a wake up call. Cartman bolts upright with an angry snort, and Stan jerks awake, his eyelashes fluttering against the back of Kyle's neck.
Kyle sits up, throws a protective arm across Stan and turns to look at Cartman. He's frowning with confusion and actually looks a little bit terrified, like someone just clubbed him in the head. There's more squeaking from the bathroom, and then Kenny groans. Cartman looks over at the empty bed, and Kyle actually cringes as he watches realization sweep across his face.
"Oh, you're fucking kidding me," Cartman says. "SICK!" He glowers at Kyle like this is all his fault. Stan is still groggy, slumped inside the sleeping bag and squinting up at Kyle, frowning. "And what the fuck is this?" Cartman asks, flinging his hands in their direction. "When the fuck did I check into a gay brothel?"
"You were kicking me," Stan says to Cartman, sitting up. "What was I supposed to do, go get in their bed? God, they did seriously just – are they seriously?" He looks to Kyle for the answer. Kyle just stares at him, listless. Stan's leg is still pressed against his inside the sleeping bag, but he feels like a paper bag that's been crumpled and thrown over Stan's shoulder, purpose served.
"Yeah, I guess they're having mad gay sex in there," Kyle says when Stan continues to stare at him, waiting for an answer. "Imagine that."
"Fucking gross!" Cartman says. "Well, I'm not using that shower. I'm not even using the toilet in there, shit."
In the bathroom, the shower shuts off. Kyle extracts himself from the sleeping bag. He's not sure where to go, hates having both Cartman and Stan's eyes on him, and is halfway to the bathroom when the door opens, steam pouring out around Kenny's shoulders. He's naked, whistling, a towel around his waist.
"Hey, guys," he says.
"Kenny you sick fuck!" Cartman says. He whips a pillow at him. "Don't you have any goddamn respect for anything? We have ears, okay?"
"Oh, fuck off," Kenny says, cheerfully. Butters pokes his head out of the bathroom behind him, his fist pressed over his mouth as he peers around the room. He's wearing one of Kenny's shirts, a towel wrapped around his waist. "Wait there, baby," Kenny says, holding up a hand. "Cartman's being voyeuristic."
"Dude, whatever," Stan says. "You guys were, like. Exhibitionistic. Or whatever." Stan is still in the sleeping bag, stretched out on his back again. Kyle is standing in the middle of the room, wondering why no one has noticed that he's got a dozen arrows sticking out of his chest, bleeding him dry.
"Sorry if we woke you fellas up," Butters says, his voice tiny with embarrassment. Kenny waves his hand through the air and walks back to the bathroom, two pairs of boxer shorts clutched in his hand.
"Don't apologize to them," Kenny says. "They loved it."
"No, we didn't!" Cartman says, sputtering. He seems at a loss, as if he's going to start tearing chunks of his hair out from sheer exasperation.
"Could you be more of an asshole, Kenny?" Kyle says, afraid of the edge in his voice, though he doesn't want to soften it. Kenny turns in the doorway, frowns.
"Jesus, sorry," he says. "It's not even that early –"
"You know, you're the most selfish person I've ever met in my fucking life?" Kyle says. The rage is back, worse and better than ever, making him ten feet tall, a solid column of fire. He can't look at Stan right now, and can't hurt anyone here as badly as he can hurt Kenny, needs to break something.
"What the fuck?" Kenny says. He doesn't even look angry yet. He glances at Stan, and that's all Kyle needs.
"You want to act like you've grown or changed or some stupid shit, because you're willing to pick Butters up at an airport?" Kyle scoffs. "Yeah, hi, hello – you're still getting your dick sucked, asshole. So keep acting like you know goddamn everything, but I'm tired of trying to make you feel better when all you ever do is whatever the fuck you want."
"Kyle," Stan says.
"No." Kyle holds up a hand in Stan's direction, still can't look at him. "He almost fucking killed us yesterday, and now, yeah, we're supposed to laugh it off if Kenny wants to get laid while we're trying to have two minutes of fucking peace –"
"Hey, I'm sorry, okay –" Kenny says, narrowing his eyes like he doesn't mean it, not even a little.
"No, yeah, we're supposed to be glad." Kyle laughs crazily, backing toward the door, ready to walk home shoeless. "Glad for whatever we can get, right?"
Kenny's eyes change, but he doesn't look sympathetic exactly. Butters peeks out from the bathroom again, chewing on his fingernails now.
"Kyle," he says, sheepish, tiny. "I'm real sorry –"
"Yeah, you know what, so am I." Kyle slams out of the room and walks toward the elevators, actually expects Stan to follow.
He doesn't.