The Scenic Route

by hollycomb

The boys embark on a six day road trip to California before separating for college. Cartman is a pain in the ass, Kenny has no future, Butters is in crisis, and Kyle doesn't know how he'll say goodbye to Stan. Stan/Kyle, Kenny/Butters. COMPLETE!

5. Chapter 5

Kyle doesn't have anyplace to run to, so he ends up in the hotel lobby, sitting at a little table near the coffee bar. The air is pleasantly breakfast-scented, but he has no appetite, regret mixing uncomfortably with the anger that's still sloshing around in his stomach. He thinks of Butters' fear of disappointing people, the innocent trust in the way Stan wrapped around him last night, and of Kenny saying, You know, Broflovski, you're like a mother to me. None of it is fair, all of it is infuriating, but Kyle knows he has no right to blow up at any of them, least of all Kenny. He puts his head in his hands and listens to the sound of people ordering breakfast at the coffee bar. He's been there for almost twenty minutes by the time he hears a familiar lip smacking noise. He looks up at Cartman, not surprised to see that he's already procured food.

"These ham and cheese croissants are fucking sweet," Cartman says. "You should get one. They sell them right over there."

"I'm not hungry," Kyle says. He was prepared to gush out an apology to anyone who came, except Cartman. He thinks of Wendy's graduation speech and almost feels guilty, but Cartman asks for everything he gets and then some.

"So," Cartman says, chewing. He seems kind of nervous, something Kyle never thought he would see. "You're pissed at Kenny."

"Yeah," Kyle says, muttering. He's not. He's really mad at Stan for not kissing him, and has been since that camping trip when they got stranded, the morning when Kyle woke up in Stan's arms. It was the defining moment, when everything was either going to change completely or stay the same. Kyle can't hate Stan for wanting things to stay the same, but there's a lively ball of hate bouncing around inside him even so, splattering his insides with acid.

"I'm pissed at that fucker, too," Cartman says. He sits down across from Kyle at the table, and Kyle wants to tell him to get lost, but he could use some company right now, and everyone upstairs probably thinks he's a lunatic and an asshole. "Kenny's such a fucking dick. I really didn't think he'd have the nerve to sodomize Butters within fifty feet of us."

"He wasn't sodomizing him," Kyle says, though maybe that's the technical term. "They're in love. Not that you'd know anything about that."

"You think I've never been in love?" Cartman says. He peels some of the brown paper away from his croissant and takes a gigantic bite, staring at Kyle like he's daring him to answer.

"Um, no," Kyle says. "I think you'd just call anyone who said they were in love a fag. Even if they were in love with a girl."

"Well, it's faggy to say I'm in love," Cartman says, sputtering. "But all it means is you want to fuck someone so bad you feel like you're gonna die from it."

"Cartman, goddammit," Kyle says, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"What! You know I'm right. Okay, and sometimes, maybe, you also want to, like, let them sit in your lap while you debate politics, and make out with them in front of everyone after your football game, and eat Double Stuff Oreos with them in your, like, special secret way -"

"Jesus, Cartman." Kyle rears backward and stares at him, stunned. "Your idealized version of love would involve Double Stuff Oreos. Who the fuck are you talking about?"

"No one! Okay? Nobody! Just, this is theoretical, Kyle! God!"

"Alright, fine!"

They sit in silence for awhile, Cartman taking angry bites of his croissant and Kyle picking at his nail beds, trying to imagine the sort of person Cartman would fall in love with. Stan used to joke that Cartman loved Kyle because he was always on Kyle's case when they were kids, more interested in irritating him than anything else, but Kyle never got that impression. Cartman just focused on him because Kyle gave the best reactions. Stan and Kenny could always ignore him if they wanted to. Kyle was the one who exploded with fury no matter how many times he told himself not to let Cartman get to him.

"Do you think I have an anger management problem?" Kyle asks. Cartman rolls his eyes. He's finished his croissant, but there are still flaky bits of it stuck to his lips.

"I think you need to get laid, Kyle," he says. "Then you'd be less pissed off at everyone who has been."

"Fuck you! I know you're a virgin, so don't try to lie to me."

"Ha! A virgin, really? You look at this mound of manfulness across from you and assume he's a virgin? Yeah, right."

"Okay, whatever, but you've never had a real girlfriend." Cartman does have admirers, which Kyle finds disgusting, but they're all shrieking freshmen girls who put too much stock in his football playing abilities.

"High school girls are to be used and thrown away like tissues," Cartman says. "None of them are worthy of long term attention."

"Yeah? Then who've you been eating Double Stuffs with, asshole?"

Cartman doesn't blush, but his lip starts to twitch, nullifying his attempt to sneer dismissively at Kyle.

"I told you, dumb ass, it's nobody! That's just, like. My fantasy girl."

"Holy Christ, I never thought you'd say the words fantasy girl." Kyle considers this for a moment. "Unless it was in a pop song you were trying to take to the top of the charts."

"Whatever." Cartman is flustered, brushing croissant crumbs from his shirt. "At least I'm not in love with Stan."

"This conversation's over." Kyle stands from the table, and feels so suddenly dizzy that he loses his balance. Cartman reaches out to catch his arm before he can stumble over.

"Jesus, all I have to do is mention his name and you faint?" Cartman says. Kyle yanks free from his grip.

"It's just 'cause I haven't eaten in twelve hours," he says. "I feel like shit."

"Whose fault is that? Go get one of those ham and cheese croissants. You will not be disappointed."

"I don't have my wallet," Kyle says, grumbling. He rubs his palms over his eyes, wondering how he'll ever be able to show his face in that room. Kenny will be hurt and sulking, Butters will rub his fists together frantically enough to make his skin chafe, and Stan won't be able to look at him after the way he talked to Kenny, who is supposed to be their egg.

"C'mon, you cheap ass Jew," Cartman says, grabbing the back of Kyle's shirt when he tries to head toward the elevators. "I'm gonna buy another croissant, anyway. I'll get you one."

Kyle is speechless as he watches Cartman order and pay for two croissants. Cartman brings one to Kyle and hands it over, already digging his teeth into the other one. Kyle takes a cautious bite, half expecting something disgusting to ooze out of the golden pastry, an elaborate joke that Cartman set up with the breakfast bar attendant's help. The croissant is delicious as promised, only ham and melted cheese inside.

"See?" Cartman says. Kyle almost cries, not because he's moved but because this is a really bad sign about the state of his life. He's become so pathetic that even Cartman pities him. He eats more, his wariness increasing as Cartman's grin widens.

"What the fuck are you smiling about?" Kyle asks, worried.

"Heh," Cartman says. "I made you eat ham."

"You didn't make me. And I don't keep kosher, anyway. I had bacon yesterday."

Cartman looks thoughtful for a moment, chewing.

"Would Stan's dick be kosher?" he asks.

"Fuck you, fat ass!"

"No, I'm serious! How about his jizz? Are there rules for this?"

"I said I'm not - and it doesn't even - goddammit, Cartman!"

They ride back up the room together, Kyle glowering at the buttons on the elevator panel. He's so nervous about showing his face in that room that he's actually glad he doesn't have to reenter it alone, even if that means having Cartman at his side.

"Did they send you down to get me?" Kyle asks as they walk to the room. "Or were you just looking for food?"

"Stan got down on his knees and begged me to save you," Cartman says. He snorts at the hopeful look on Kyle's face. "What do you think, ass master? I was hungry."

"Did they say anything?" Kyle asks. "After I left? Were they, like. 'Fuck Kyle?'" He hates having to ask Cartman about this, knowing there's an eighty percent chance he'll just tell Kyle what he doesn't want to hear, to piss him off. Cartman shrugs.

"Butters is the only one who said anything," Cartman says. "The little pussy was real worried about you. I was like, Jesus, Kyle does this all the time. What's the fucking difference?"

"I don't do this all the time." He stops outside the door to their room, listening for animated chatter from within, Kenny and Stan discussing his many failings while Butters tries to counter them out of politeness. There's no sound expect the faint drone of the television.

"What the hell are you worried about?" Cartman asks. He frowns and digs out his room key. "They always forgive you."

Cartman walks into the room and Kyle follows, preoccupied by what Cartman said only until his eyes meet Stan's. He's stretched out on the bed, dressed but still messy-haired, toying with the hem of his shirt. Kyle looks away from him, at Kenny, but he's staring at the TV like he hasn't noticed that Kyle has reentered the room. Butters is in his lap, his fists pressed together but motionless. He gives Kyle a sheepish smile, shoulders lifting.

"The dry cleaning came back," Stan says, gesturing to a pile of clothes wrapped in plastic, laid out on the end of the bed he's sitting on. It looks absurd, their t-shirts and jeans neatly pressed, given this royal treatment.

"What the hell is this?" Cartman asks, rifling through the pile until he finds his shirt and pants.

"I sent everything out last night while you guys were at dinner," Kyle says. "I didn't want the smell of your puke in the car for another day."

"Well, I'm not paying for it," Cartman says as he tears the plastic away from his jeans.

"My treat," Kyle says tightly. He tries to catch Kenny's eyes again, but Kenny is still stoic, watching some local news report, his arms locked across Butters' chest. Kyle can feel Stan watching him, but he doesn't look back. He slinks into the bathroom and takes another shower, cleaning all remnants of Stan's scent from his body. By the time he emerges, dressed and frizzy-haired, the others have packed up their things. Kyle stands in the bathroom doorway for a moment, waiting to be told that he's not welcome on the rest of the trip, that he'd better get a taxi back to the Phoenix airport.

"I packed your bag," Stan says, pointing. Kyle's backpack is on the bed, zipped shut. He stares at it for a moment, then looks at Stan, trying to apologize without speaking. It's worked before. Stan just looks tired, and a little afraid of him.

"Let's go," Kenny says. He's at the door, shouldering his bag. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out some crumbled bills and throws them onto the bed. "That's for you, Kyle," he says, still not looking at him. "For the dry cleaning."

"You don't have to -" Kyle says, mumbling, but Kenny is already walking out the door. Butters gives him a sympathetic look before following.

"Somebody's in the dog house!" Cartman says, smirking. "I guess that means Stan has to sit in the back with the gaywads, since me and Kyle are both feuding with Kenny at the moment."

"We're not feuding," Kyle says.

"Whatever, it's fine," Stan says. He heads for the door. "I'll sit in back with them. Cartman, you can drive."

"Sweet."

The drive from Phoenix to Las Vegas is five and a half hours long, and Kyle suffers every minute of the first two hours like another stone on top of his head, the weight getting heavier as the miles pass. Twice he has to chew on his knuckle to stop his eyes from watering. He can feel Kenny's resentment emanating from the backseat, burning against the back of his ear. Cartman blasts his usual obnoxious music, and Kyle lets him play whatever he wants, not in the mood to bicker with him. He chances only once glance into the backseat, assuming everyone back there is asleep. Stan is playing with his phone, and Butters is toying with the strings on Kenny's hoodie, singing along to Cartman's crappy music under his breath. Kenny is staring out the window, his arm around Butters and his elbow on the armrest, his fist curled over his mouth. Kyle turns back to stare out the windshield at the seemingly endless desert highway. He knows Cartman will pull over the second he sees a fast food sign, and when he does Kyle's stomach lurches, not at the thought of Del Taco but at the prospect of having to sit around a table with this awkwardness that he caused hanging over everyone.

He allows himself a moment to wonder if it's actually Stan who caused this, but that's not fair. Stan is just physically affectionate in a platonic way. They've always been different from other best friends, but it's never meant what Kyle wanted it to, not to Stan.

"Man, your car handles like shit," Cartman says to Stan as the five of them are walking into the Del Taco, Kyle hanging back. "It's like driving a fucking go cart."

"Yeah," Stan mutters. He doesn't seem to be listening. Kyle heads for the bathroom, not wanting to stand in line with them while they order. He wishes Kenny would scream at him, or at least call him a repressed asshole.

He's washing his face at the sink when the bathroom door opens and Stan slips inside. Kyle turns off the water and dries his face, hoping Stan won't just unzip at the urinals without a word to him. Stan comes to the sink and stands in front of Kyle, staring at him so wearily that for a minute Kyle actually thinks Stan is going to hug him.

"What you said," Stan says, fidgeting. He takes a deep breath and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "To Kenny-"

"I know, I'm sorry," Kyle says sharply. "I was just hungry and overtired. You woke me up - I couldn't sleep -"

He actually slept well, better than he has in weeks. He turns away from Stan, shaking. The rank, airless stench of the bathroom combined with the greasy aroma of Del Taco is making him sick, and he's not going to have a conversation about this here.

"You're mad at me," Stan says. "You have been since last night."

"No, I'm not. I'm just sick of this trip, okay? It didn't turn out the way I wanted it to."

"'Cause of Cartman? I don't think he's been that bad."

"Yeah, he's just ranting about how everyone's a fag all the time, it's really fun."

"Jesus, Kyle, he's not serious. You know how he is."

"Well, I guess it's serious now, since he was right about Butters and Kenny. Whatever, it's just - it's not Cartman. It's everything."

"I think you should apologize to Kenny," Stan says.

"Yeah? I think you should fuck off and stay out of it."

Kyle didn't mean to say that, and hates the sound of the words once they've left his mouth. Stan turns for the door. Kyle catches his arm, pulling him back.

"Sorry," Kyle says, trying to make his expression as pathetic as he feels. "I'm sorry, shit, I don't know what's wrong with me."

"Kyle," Stan says, broken-sounding, and then he does hug him. Kyle can't do this again, can't lose himself in the feeling of being held only to get dropped back to earth when Stan is finished with him. Still, he wraps his arms around Stan's back and closes his eyes against his shoulder, the smell of his shirt blocking out everything else.

"I want you to tell me what's wrong," Stan says.

"No, you don't." Kyle's voice is tiny. Stan releases him and steps back, still holding his shoulders. Kyle shakes his head. "I'm just hungry," he says, beating back the shake in his voice. Stan nods.

"So don't be a snob about fast food tacos," he says. He rubs Kyle's shoulders. "And don't be mad at Kenny. You forget - they don't have anyplace to go."

"That sounds kind of nice right now," Kyle says.

"You're stressed about college," Stan says. "I know. I am, too."

"I thought I was ready for everything to change, but it's like, the closer it gets, the more I'm not." He thinks of what Stan said that day at the lake. Do you ever wish you were that age again?

"I know," Stan says. He groans and pushes Kyle a little, making him stumble backward. "You asshole," he says, his voice getting tight. "Why didn't you just come to UCLA? You knew I couldn't turn down that scholarship -"

"I couldn't turn down mine, either!" Kyle says. "And you - you just expect me to follow you around forever? Is that it?"

"Forget it, just." Stan shakes his head and walks to the door. "I'm sorry, you're right, you should do whatever you want. I just thought you might want to come to college with me. Fuck, Kyle." He stands with his back to Kyle, his hand on the bathroom door. They both startle when it pushes open, almost smacking Stan in the forehead. A big guy in a flannel shirt walks in, giving them both a suspicious glance before heading toward the urinals. Stan walks out of the bathroom, motioning for Kyle to follow.

Stan pays for Kyle's tacos, and Kyle allows it, too listless to refuse. They join the others at an outdoor table. Cartman is talking about his truck, and only Butters appears to be listening. Kenny is eating, not taking his eyes off his taco.

"And it's got, like, these custom speakers," Cartman says, shredded iceberg lettuce dropping down into his lap. "Which were, like, designed by the studio that did the sound effects for Star Wars."

"Wow!" Butters is wide-eyed, clutching a chicken taco with both hands. "Really?"

"Yeah, it's pretty freaking sweet." Cartman looks at Stan and Kyle, then at Kenny. "So," he says. "Uh, Vegas. That'll be pretty awesome."

"Yeah!" Butters says. "Me and Kenny are gonna -"

"Don't jinx it," Kenny says, squeezing Butters' thigh.

"Oh, right! Well, anyway, I think it'll be pretty fun." He glances at Kyle and shrinks a bit, as if he's hearing Kyle's rant again in his head. "Uh, what do you guys think? Are you gonna gamble?"

"Really, Butters?" Cartman says. "You're asking a Jew if he's going to gamble?"

"Fuck off," Kyle says. "You're the one who said gambling was for -" He stops himself, feeling Kenny's eyes on him.

"Poor people," Kenny supplies. "Or was it white trash? Idiots?" He's staring at Kyle like he's the one who said these things.

"All of the above," Cartman says.

"So you're saying Jews are too smart to gamble," Kyle says, unable to deal with Kenny right now. "You're, like, complimenting Jews in the midst of being a stereotyping asshole. And anyway, I might gamble." He glances at Kenny. "I mean, that's part of the fun, right?"

"Yeah," Stan says. "We should play slots."

"Slots! Oh, God," Cartman says. "Don't be a pussy. If you're going to gamble, at least play blackjack."

Kenny gets up from the table, gathering the trash from his meal. He goes to throw it away, then lingers by the trash cans to light a cigarette. Kyle knows he should go over there and try to apologize, but he's terrified. He looks to Butters instead.

"Hey, I'm sorry I shouted at you guys this morning," Kyle says. "I was half-asleep. I'm kind of a dick when I first wake up. Just ask Stan," he says, elbowing him. Stan nods, his mouth full of food.

"Oh, that's alright, Kyle," Butters says. "Kenny's just a little mixed up right now. He doesn't want to go back to South Park without me, and I can't go back there."

"Why can't you go back?" Stan asks.

"Well - my parents would ground me!"

"You could live with Kenny," Kyle says.

"If you don't mind sleeping in a rat-infested crack den," Cartman says.

"I don't want to be a burden or nothing," Butters says. "And I couldn't live in South Park, not after leaving home the way I did. What if I ran into my dad at the grocery store?" He cringes at the thought. Stan reaches over to pat his back.

"You guys will figure it out," Stan says.

"Maybe we'll win a million dollars tonight in Vegas!" Butters says, brightening for a moment. He slaps his hand over his mouth, eyes widening. "Oh, hamburgers, did I just jinx it?"

"There's no such thing as a jinx," Kyle says. "But it's - you know it's a really, really long shot, right? The idea that you'd win anything more than, like, maybe a couple hundred bucks?"

"I know," Butters says. He grins. "I outscored you on our statistics final, remember?"

"Ah, yes," Kyle says. Stan snickers.

"It's just that I think the universe owes Kenny something really good! Don't you think? After everything he's been through?"

"Well, yeah," Stan says. "But that doesn't mean -"

"What if it's you, Butters?" Kyle says. He glances at Kenny to make sure he's still out of earshot. He's smoking, watching cars pass on the road.

"What now?" Butters says. He always looks so sad when he's confused, like a baby animal who can't find his mother.

"What if you're the good thing that Kenny deserves?" Kyle says. Cartman chokes on his taco meat, laughing, but Kyle ignores him.

"Oh - me?" Butters' cheeks turn pink. "No, I - I'm just another person he has to take care of. That's why I didn't want to leave, or make my parents mad so that they wouldn't pay for my college. Kenny said he'd help me out, but he helps his family already, and I didn't want to be another mouth to feed. And now I guess I am one," he says, moaning. He puts his head in his hands.

"Butters, it's okay," Stan says. "Kenny, um - oh." He stops talking when he sees Kenny walking to the table, a cigarette-scented cloud arriving along with him.

"Jesus, Kyle, what did you say to him now?" Kenny asks, going to Butters.

"I didn't say anything!"

"Oh, Kenny, don't be mad," Butters says, looking up. "It's my own fault, I got myself worked up -"

"Let's go," Kenny says. He hooks his hands under Butters arms and pulls him up from his seat. "I'm ready to fulfill my white trash destiny in the casinos."

"You know I don't think you're white trash!" Kyle says, narrowing his eyes at Kenny. "So quit looking at me like that."

"Oh, right, you just think I'm a freeloading loser."

"Guys!" Stan says. "Maybe you should go, like, have a talk -"

"I don't have anything to say," Kenny says. He's shepherding Butters toward the car. "Let's go. I'll drive. You two can sit in back with Cartman."

Kyle offers to sit in the middle seat, because he's the smallest and it's only fair. Stan shakes his head and takes that bullet himself, Cartman's girth brushing up against him. Kenny lets Butters pick the music, and Cartman complains at first, then seems to realize that Butters' taste in music isn't so different from his own. Butters sings along in his chirpy little voice, occasionally adding hand gestures that make Kyle think of Butters' time as a tap dancer. Periodically, Butters reaches over to touch Kenny's leg, and Kenny will answer by smoothing Butters' hair or rubbing his neck. Watching this, Kyle realizes he wasn't just taking his anger at the situation with Stan out on Kenny. He's jealous, too, not of Butters specifically but of both of them. Whatever else is going on in their lives, they're so at peace with each other.

None of them is able to sleep after the caffeine they had with lunch, though Kyle thinks Cartman is asleep for awhile, his forehead resting against the car window. At one point Cartman sighs heavily, and Kyle looks over to see his eyes reflected in the window, drowsy but open, half-lidded. He wants to tell Stan about what Cartman said earlier about being in love. It's the kind of thing that can't wait, so weird that it requires Stan's immediate input. Kyle digs out his phone and starts typing a text. It will be like practice for their separation, baby steps: to begin, he'll try this while Stan is still beside him, the hair on his forearm tickling against Kyle's.

He hears Stan's phone buzz after he's sent the text and leans over to watch him read it.

Cartman is in love with somebody.

Stan snorts and smiles, keeping his eyes on his phone so that he won't give away their game, though no one is really paying attention. He composes an answer and sends.

wtf? is that code for something

He said love is wanting to fuck someone really bad, so maybe. But it seems kind of serious. He mentioned Oreos.

oreos? if this is some sick sex thing don't tell me

Not a sex thing. I don't know, look at him. He's pining?

Stan glances over at Cartman skeptically.

dude he's probably thinking about when he can eat next

Kyle barely withholds a loud snort of laughter, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth. Stan sneaks a look at him and smirks, his lips twitching as he tries not to laugh. No, this won't be the same when they're a million miles apart. Something happens low in Kyle's stomach when Stan smiles at him like it's a secret he trusts Kyle to keep. It's some combination of arousal and childish excitement. No amount of texting can replicate it.

Maybe the thing he wants to eat is this girl. He called her his FANTASY GIRL, dude.

grossssssssssss

Kyle laughs again, silently. He glances up front at Kenny, afraid that he'll have detected this somehow, Kyle again allowing himself to get happy about something involving Stan. He can't see Kenny's face, just the top of his head. Kyle used to envy Kenny's hair so much, silky straight and blond. He sends a new text to Stan, abandoning the subject of Cartman.

Kenny hates me.

Stan shakes his head while he composes his response, and Kyle wants to peek, but he waits until Stan has sent it.

your opinion means more to him than anything dude. just say your sorry and everything will be good again

Kyle chews his lip, staring at Stan's message. Sometimes he makes fun of Stan for having dumb jock moments, but his misspelling of you're is suddenly very endearing. It's just a typo, or maybe even shorthand; Stan is a pretty good writer, a solid B student in Lit classes. He only really had a hard time with theoretical math and Spanish. Kyle tutored him in both. He waits to know what to send next, his elbow pressed against Stan's.

Jesus, you know what I just realized?

what

I'm the only virgin in this car.

He watches Stan read this out of the corner of his eye, waiting for a visible reaction. Stan responds immediately.

you forgot cartman

He claims he's used high school girls like tissues. I wouldn't be surprised if he'd convinced at least one moron football fan to sleep with him.

Now there's a pause, Stan staring at his phone's screen, his thumbs poised over the buttons. They've never talked about the fact that Stan has sex with Wendy, but Kyle is sure that he does. Last year, looking for a pencil, he found a receipt for Magnums in the bottom of Stan's backpack. Apparently every teenage boy buys those, but Kyle thinks Stan might actually need them. He's had a noticeable bulge since sophomore year. Stan's fingers begin moving over the buttons on his phone, and Kyle looks out the window, afraid to see what he's typing. His phone buzzes.

you should be glad you're a virgin

Kyle flushes, acutely aware of every place where his body is touching Stan's. He remembers being fourteen and sick with a fever of 103, an afternoon when Stan came to bring him his homework and sit by his bed for awhile. Stan held his hands just over Kyle's chest and said he could feel the heat rising off him. Kyle managed to get hard under the blankets, despite the fever.

Why should I be glad?

He can feel Stan sigh, though it's inaudible over the jangle of Butters' music. Stan opens his mouth like he wants to answer out loud. He's still staring down at his phone. He types.

this is faggy but it will be special

Kyle feels his body temperature approaching 103, reading this. He makes a small sound in the back of his throat that he hopes Stan won't hear. They blast by a sign out on the highway: Nevada border, 40 miles.

Maybe, Kyle sends.

They're both staring at their phones. Kyle swallows the excess moisture in his mouth and watches from the corner of his eye as Stan does the same.

You should have told me when you first had sex, Kyle sends. Not the details or anything, just. That it had happened.

why

Kyle sniffs, and doesn't dignify that with an answer. They tell each other everything. Except the most important things. Stan's thumbs are moving again, keys clicking.

I didn't want to brag

As soon as he's sent that he starts typing again.

and it wasn't that great. I was kind of embarrassed

Did you barf on her or something? Kyle actually doesn't want to know anything about this, but he can't turn back now.

or something

Kyle waits for more and gets nothing. Stan puts his phone down and Kyle closes his into his fist, staring out the window again. He should feel elated, maybe, to hear that Stan's first time with Wendy wasn't perfect. He'd envisioned candlelight, a bed scattered with rose petals, simultaneous orgasms. It pisses him off to hear that Stan wasted his virginity on something unexceptional. He's angry as he composes his next message.

I guess you'll have better sex in college.

Stan stares at this for awhile before responding, thumbs moving listlessly.

I guess

Traffic increases as they get closer to Vegas, and the sun starts dropping toward the desert, still bright. Kyle has a hard time envisioning what he'll do once they arrive. The others must have vetoed Stan's camping plan while Kyle was fuming in the lobby of the last hotel, because they're driving straight into the city.

"Oh, boy, I wish I had my phone!" Butters says, bouncing in his seat.

"For what?" Stan asks.

"So I could take pictures! Look at it, geez!"

"Here, Butters," Stan says, handing him his camera. "Take some for me."

Kyle is vaguely excited by the neon lights himself, as if they're promising him something he won't forget. He feels them sliding across his face like gaudy makeup, their colors sinking into his cheeks. Stan is at his shoulder, looking out the window at the same thing. They turn to each other and smile. Kyle's eyes burn when he looks out the window again, but it only lasts for half a second. So Stan thinks Kyle's first time will be special. Kyle has imagined it so many different ways, but always with the same person. His fantasies never involve candlelight, rose petals, not even simultaneous orgasms. Stan would be awkward, laughing in nervous hiccups, and so gentle. His thumbs would slide from Kyle's cheekbones to his ears, softly and as many times as necessary, until Kyle was ready.

"Which hotel should I stop at?" Kenny asks. "One of the cheap ones, I guess."

"Nah, let's get a good one," Stan says. "How many times are we all gonna be in Vegas together?"

"Probably never again, but that doesn't mean I want to blow my cash on a room I'm barely going to see," Kenny says.

"I'll treat," Stan says.

"What?" Kyle turns to him, frowning. "Dude, no. We can stay in a dump, it's no big deal."

"You hate dumps," Stan says. "It's okay, really. I had more money saved up than I realized."

Kyle scoffs, his mouth falling open, but Stan just shrugs. Something is weird. If Stan really has extra money, why is Cartman on the trip?

"How 'bout that one with the fountains?" Stan says, pointing. Butters takes a picture.

"The Bellagio?" Kenny says. "I think it's, like. Super expensive."

"No, it's not," Stan says. "Look, pull in there. If it's five hundred bucks a night we'll go somewhere else, but I really don't think it's that bad."

"Dude, what are you doing?" Kyle asks, keeping his voice low. Stan shoulders him.

"Having fun," he says. He starts to say more, than lifts his phone and types it out instead. Kyle sighs and reads the message Stan sent.

I know you haven't had that great of a time so far. that sucks dude. kenny and butters will be gambling, and cartman will probably go look for whores or something. let's have a good time tonight ok?

Kyle bites down at his smile as he types his response: We don't have to stay in a palace to have a good time.

couldn't hurt tho, Stan sends back. and I bet the pool is awesome

Stan makes the arrangements for the room while the rest of them hang back, Kenny consulting a map of all the casinos in the area while Butters looks on. Cartman is preoccupied with his phone, and Kyle is too worried about how much this room is going to cost to pay much attention to any of them. He watches Stan as he hands his debit card over and laughs at something the front desk clerk has said. He looks so grown up. Kyle wants to take a picture.

"Only three hundred bucks a night for a partial lake view room," Stan says when he walks over to them. Kyle sputters and grabs the bill from Stan's hand.

"Three hundred bucks? Are you kidding me? My parents have paid less for a suite in Manhattan! During the holidays!"

"Well, not everyone has your magical Jew powers of bargaining," Cartman says, snapping his phone shut. "Give me my key, I'm gonna go look around."

"Try not to get herpes," Stan says, handing one of the plastic key cards to him. Cartman smiles in a worrying way, his eyes narrowing.

"You think I need to pay for sex?" he says. "Really? That's ironic, coming from you."

"Coming from me?" Stan says. "Why?"

"No reason," Cartman says, still smirking as he backs away. "I'll see you guys later."

"What the hell was that about?" Kyle asks when Cartman is gone.

"I've got no idea," Stan says. He shakes his head. "Fuck him, anyway. Let's go check out our room."

"I sure do appreciate you paying, Stan," Butters says as they head toward the elevators. "I'll pay you back for all of this someday, honest."

"Don't worry about it, Butters."

"If I win anything tonight, you can have some of it," Kenny says, his face still buried in the casino guide.

"Uh, okay," Stan says. He glances at Kyle, who rolls his eyes.

Their room is on the fifteenth floor, and the view of the "lake" out front is indeed very partial, but they've got a nice view of the strip and the beds are huge, fluffy with down feathers. Kyle is allergic, but only mildly, and he doesn't mention it, not wanting to appear ungrateful. He knows Stan got this room for him, to thank him for putting up with the camping trips, Cartman, and the invasion of his sleeping bag last night.

"I asked about a cot for Cartman, and they said they have extra large ones," Stan says, grinning. He throws his bag onto the bed closest to the window, then takes Kyle's and tosses it there, too. Kenny puts his bag down on the other bed and gets a pen from the room's desk. He sits down and starts circling casinos he wants to visit. Outside, the sun has begun to set, the orange that's bleeding into the sky making the neon seem unimpressive. Kyle stands at the window, and in the reflection he can see Stan gesturing to Butters, talking with his hands.

"Oh, um, I'm gonna take a shower," Butters says. "I feel kinda dirty after that car ride."

"Alright," Kenny says. "I'll be ready in like twenty minutes. I'm making our game plan."

"Sounds good!" Butters kisses the back of Kenny's neck and skips toward the bathroom, shutting the door softly behind him. There's some humming, then the shower comes on. Kyle keeps his back to the room, pretending not to know what Stan is up to.

"I'm gonna call my mom," Stan says. "I got a text from her, she's worried. I'll, uh. I'll be right outside."

He hesitates for a moment, then leaves. The door closes heavily. In the bathroom, Butters is singing the last song that came on in the car. Kyle sucks in his breath and holds it. He can hear Kenny's pen moving on the glossy casino map.

"That was subtle, huh?" he says, turning from the window. He's clutching at his left elbow, feeling idiotic. Kenny doesn't look up.

"You know Stan," Kenny says, muttering. "He doesn't like conflict."

"Ha. Yeah. But you know, I was just being a hysterical bitch. Earlier. I didn't mean any of that. You know that."

Kenny says nothing, just keeps writing. He doesn't look angry, but his stoicism seems forced.

"So you hate me," Kyle says, his voice shaking. Kenny closes his eyes, his pen going still.

"Here," he says, getting up. Kyle thinks he might get punched, but even that would be better than Kenny's indifference. He watches Kenny root through his bag, and huffs a nervous laugh when Kenny pulls out a bottle of vodka.

"This is the good stuff," Kenny says, bringing it to Kyle. "Grey Goose. I was saving for - I don't know. But I need to keep my head tonight if I'm going to win any money, and you need this more than I ever did." He pushes the bottle into Kyle's hand. The glass is clouded, smooth; it feels expensive.

"Kenny," Kyle says, staring down a the vodka.

"Drink that tonight with Stan," Kenny says. "I've seen you wasted when he wasn't, and I guess he only gets drunk with his football buddies, but you've never really gotten trashed together as far as I know, and you're in Vegas, and, just. Drink that. All of it, between the two of you."

"That's your prescription?" Kyle says, hurt. Kenny is still avoiding his eyes. "That'll fix everything?"

"Doubtful," Kenny says. He pulls off his shirt. "But it's worth a fucking shot, right?" He throws his shirt onto the bed and unbuttons his jeans.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Kyle asks.

"I'm gonna have sex with my boyfriend, if you don't mind." Kenny steps out of his jeans and walks to the bathroom in his boxers. "I'll try to keep it quiet this time, but I'm not making any promises."

"Kenny -"

"Kyle." Kenny stops with his hand on the door and turns back to him. He looks like he's going to rant, but his eyes soften and he shakes his head. "You know what you need to do. Maybe that will help. I don't know what else to tell you."

He disappears into the bathroom, and Kyle is left holding the bottle of vodka, staring at the closed door. Butters makes a sound of happy surprise as the rings on the shower curtain click across the bar, and the last thing Kyle needs right now is to overhear another round of passionate fucking. He walks out into the hallway, dazed, still carrying the Grey Goose.

Stan is sitting on the floor near the room, his cell phone pressed to his ear. He pats a spot of carpet beside him without looking up, and Kyle sits.

"Yeah," Stan says, speaking into his phone. "I know, Mom. Jesus, yes. I've tried! No, I have no idea. I gotta - Mom, I gotta go. Okay. Alright, I will. I will! Okay, bye. Ah - I love you, too. Bye."

He hangs up and looks over at Kyle, raising his eyebrows when he sees the bottle of vodka that's resting against Kyle's bent knees.

"What's that?" Stan asks.

"Grey Goose."

"Okay. Kenny gave it to you?"

"Yeah." Kyle peels off the seal around the cap and pops it open. He drinks from the bottle, wincing.

"Um," Stan says. "I take it this means things didn't go well in there?"

"Not really. You want some?"

Stan nods and takes the bottle, drinks. He keeps his eyes on Kyle like he's waiting for an explanation.

"Kenny's in there fucking Butters," Kyle says.

"Good for them."

"Yeah. Can we go someplace else? Maybe get some dinner?"

"Are we bringing this with us?" Stan asks, lifting the bottle.

"Fuck yes."

Stan snorts. "Alright. I'd better get my bag, then. I'll get our swimsuits, too."

"Kay."

Stan scrambles up, then bends back down again. He touches Kyle's knee, jiggling it a little.

"Are we still gonna have fun?" he asks. Kyle drinks from the bottle and tries put on a convincing smile.

"Yeah," he says. "Kenny's pissed, but he'll get over it. I'm okay."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

Stan pats Kyle's knee and goes back into the room. Kyle drinks from the vodka again, thinking about what Kenny said. You know what you have to do. He doesn't, actually. Kyle knows what he wants, what he needs, but he doesn't know what to do about the fact that he'll never get it. Drinking vodka does seem like an increasingly effective plan, even as it burns all the way down his throat, sitting heavy in his stomach. He's taking another swig when Stan dashes out of the room with his shoulder bag.

"Dude," he says, shaking his head. "Butters is loud."

"Are you surprised?"

"Not really." Stan helps Kyle up and takes another drink from the bottle before stowing it in the bag. He claps Kyle's shoulder. "Are you ready to fucking do this?" he asks.

"Yes," Kyle says, though he's pretty sure he's not. But it feels good to be alone with Stan, and his head is already swimming a little, making him bold enough to lean close to Stan when they're in the elevator. They ride down to the lobby and get a table on the patio of the hotel's steakhouse, where they can watch the fountain show from their seats. Kyle dumps their water glasses over the balcony when the waiter has gone, and Stan laughs as he watches Kyle replace the water with vodka.

"Kenny says we have to drink all of this," Kyle says.

"Okay, dude, but pace yourself," Stan says. "It's like seven o'clock, and I want to stay up all night."

"All night?" Kyle grins at him across the table.

"Yep. Till the sun comes up."

Kyle slows down after that, already drunk enough to laugh at everything Stan says, his cheeks aching. They eat cheeseburgers and talk about the old days: Chinpokemon, Lord of the Rings, Guitar Hero. Every story seems funnier than it has before, and when Kyle's knee touches Stan's under the table Stan doesn't move his away.

"You remember when, um," Kyle says, still laughing from the last story Stan told, though he's already forgotten what it was. "You remember when we TP'd Mrs. Dreibel's house?"

"Oh, shit, yeah, the art teacher!" Stan cracks up, clapping. "You were like, ready to hang yourself with guilt, dude."

"I was such a neurotic fucking kid," Kyle says. "How'd you guys put up with me?"

"Um, first of all, 'was?'" Stan says, and Kyle kicks him. "And secondly, like, whatever. You were the best person in South Park, easy. I knew that from day one." Stan holds up a finger to emphasize: day one. Kyle snorts.

"Best person in South Park is like saying, uh. Best Chinese food in Mexico."

They both laugh hard at this, Stan shaking his head.

"To my best friend," he says, lifting his glass of vodka. "Kyle Broflovski: the best Chinese food in Mexico. Probably the best Chinese food in the world."

"There's better Chinese food in L.A., I bet," Kyle says. He clinks his glass against Stan's and drinks.

"Nope," Stan says. "You're the best Chinese food anywhere. Your Chinese food is better than the Chinese food in China."

"You're drunk." Kyle is laughing too hard too talk, almost.

"So? Man, fuck this waiter." Stan digs out his wallet and throws three twenties on the table, more than enough to cover their burgers and Cokes. "Let's go swimming."

"Okay, fucking, uh, high roller. Why are you throwing all this money around?"

"I sort of feel like it's my last night on earth?" Stan says, standing. Kyle downs the rest of his vodka and follows Stan from the table, feeling pleasantly wobbly.

"Don't say that." He catches Stan's arm. "It's not your last night."

"We'll hit California tomorrow," Stan says.

"Yeah, and we'll have one night of camping there, and then that hotel you wanted to get on the coast. And that's not, like. The end of the world."

"Whatever," Stan says. "I don't want to think about it. C'mon, we can change in here." He pulls Kyle toward a lobby bathroom.

"I need to digest first," Kyle says, whining and pulling him back. "C'mon, let's go to the casino."

"You actually want to gamble?" Stan seems charmed. He loops his arm around Kyle's neck and walks him toward the casino area.

"Not really," Kyle says. "But don't tell Cartman."

"I'll tell him you gambled your ass off," Stan says. "That you lost a hundred bucks like a gentile."

Kyle cracks up, flopping against Stan. "I love it when you say gentile." He hooks his arm around Stan's waist to steady himself.

"Tell me more words to say."

"Jewish ones?"

"Any ones."

Kyle thinks. They're pressed together, standing at the entrance to the casino. A woman in a vest and bow tie is smiling at them, and Kyle feels like hugging her, like hugging everyone in here, but he also doesn't want to let go of Stan. He's pretty sure the vested lady is supposed to check their bag, but she just waves them in like she's got a weakness for boys who drape themselves all over each other in public.

"I can't think of anything for you to say," Kyle says, disappointed in himself. All the things he wants to hear from Stan are unmentionable, filthy and sweet.

"You'll come up with something," Stan says. He pats Kyle's chest. "C'mon, let's check this shit out."

They wander aimlessly, amused by everything, sneaking drinks from the Grey Goose bottle. Inside the cave of the casino, the whole world feels bright and loud in a friendly way, and if Stan lets go of Kyle for a moment he'll grab for his hand when he's ready to move on to the next flashy display of cards or slot machines, pulling him along. Kyle has lost track of how long they've walked the aisles when Stan stops abruptly near a craps table. Kyle crashes into his back, bracing his hands on Stan's hips and leaving them there.

"You know what I just realized?" Stan says, looking over his shoulder at Kyle.

"What?"

"This place is kind loser-y."

"Yeah. Don't tell Kenny that, though."

"Let's say a prayer real quick that Kenny wins a million dollars tonight."

"Kay, yeah."

They both go quiet, and Kyle shuts his eyes, pressing his face to Stan's shoulder. The noise of the casino seems to soften around them. He feels like he's sitting high inside his own head, like anyone who passes by won't be able to see him. He prays, but not for Kenny.

God, please don't take him away from me.

It's the smell of Stan's shirt that corrupts what should have been a selfless prayer. He says another quick one for Kenny's happiness before opening his eyes.

"Well," Stan says. He sighs and puts his hands over Kyle's. "Time for the pool."

They drink more on the way to the lobby bathrooms, spilling some, shushing each other, laughing until the vodka dribbles from the corners of their lips. The men's room is empty. They dart into the handicapped stall and change in front of each other for the first time in maybe seven years. Kyle is too drunk to see straight under the bathroom's fancy mood lighting, but he gets one good eyeful of Stan's cock. It's big and heavy-looking even while soft, hanging below the hem of his t-shirt.

"I forgot you weren't circumcised," Kyle says, just in case Stan saw him ogling, trying to play it off as casual. Stan laughs so hard he falls over.

The pool area is set up to look like a Mediterranean courtyard. After a fifth of vodka, with the pool lights glowing against the dark, the effect is stunningly convincing. The pool is empty, everyone at dinner or the casino, so there's no one to be splashed when Stan takes a running leap into the water. Kyle laughs and jumps in after him. The water is warm, and it has a kind of magical quality, glowing green under the starless, light-poisoned sky.

"You should have dry cleaned my bathing suit," Stan says, swimming to Kyle. "Butters' balls were in here."

"Sick, dude!" Kyle laughs. He wants to put his arms around Stan. Before that can happen, he stretches out to float on his back, something that normally makes him feel anxious, mostly due to the vulnerability of his nipples. With Stan beside him, he's not afraid to close his eyes and float, safely monitored. Stan puts his hands under Kyle's back and carries him around like a waiter's tray, guiding him through the water. Kyle laughs, the sound of it muffled by the water in his ears. He opens his eyes and looks up at Stan.

"Put your arms out, too," Stan says. Kyle puts his arms out, one slipping behind Stan's back.

"Remember when we did this when we were kids?" Kyle asks, though he knows Stan remembers. That's why he's doing it now.

"Yeah," Stan says, still moving Kyle through the water like he's a magic carpet and Stan is the magic. "This was your favorite, right?"

"Nope."

"No?"

"My favorite was this." Kyle slides off of Stan's hands and swims around him, holding him still when he tries to turn. He drapes his arms over Stan's shoulders and hoists himself up onto his back. Stan gets the idea and pulls Kyle's legs around his waist.

"Oh, yeah," Stan says. "I'd try to swim with you on my back."

"The rescue game," Kyle says. He would pretend to be a helpless boater who couldn't swim, stranded at sea. Stan was the Navy SEAL. Sometimes they switched places, but Kyle liked riding on Stan's back better than trying to carry him. They usually only played this when no one was around to tease them for it. Kyle knew what he was because of this game. He would wrap his arms and legs around a pillow at night, pretending it was Stan.

Stan tries to swim a little, but mostly just walks around where the water is just up to his shoulders, Kyle holding on tight. They can hear the fountains, and some distant noise from the strip, like television commercials from another room. There's faux-Mediterranean music playing on the pool deck, mandolins warbling. Overhead, spotlights cut through the hazy sky.

"Remember when you carried me home?" Kyle says, starting to feel drowsy. His nipples are as sharp as icicles against Stan's back. "From Clyde's party?"

"Dude, that was like five days ago."

"I know." Kyle sighs and rests his head on Stan's shoulder. "Want me to carry you for awhile?"

"Nah. I'm good."

Stan starts humming something under his breath. It's the song he wrote for Kyle when they were kids, the one about hybrid cars. Kyle closes his eyes and listens for awhile, then hums along with him.

"I thought of what we could do," Kyle says.

"Yeah?"

"We could run away and join the circus. Kenny and Butters, too. Hell, even Cartman. He could be the amazing fat man. Kenny and Butters would be, like, trapeze artists."

"Okay. What would we be? Me and you?"

"I don't know. I think we'd ride elephants."

"Cool. Let's do it."

Kyle starts to feel cold, and he clings more tightly to Stan, trying to absorb his body heat. Stan just keeps walking through the water like he'll never get tired of it, but he goes stiff when they hear people approaching the pool area, the shrieking laughter of what sounds like an entire bachelorette party.

"We should get out," Kyle says, so that Stan won't have to.

They wrap themselves in towels and slip past the women who are pouring into the pool area, one of them jumping in with her clothes on while the others laugh hysterically. Stan grabs the shoulder bag and then Kyle's hand, pulling him back toward the hotel.

"I bet the other guys are still out," Stan says. "You want to order sundaes from room service?"

"Room service is so expensive," Kyle says, though he is hungry, and ice cream sounds perfect.

"It'll be worth it," Stan says. He squeezes Kyle's hand, and that's all the convincing he needs.

They drink more vodka while they're waiting for their sundaes to arrive, sitting on the bed in fresh boxer shorts, reeking of chlorine. Kyle stares at Stan's naked chest without shame. Stan's hands are on Kyle's knees, and they feel like they always have: possessive, protective, perfect. Kyle reaches up to fix Stan's hair for him. His bangs are damp and messy, and Kyle orders them carefully, taking his time.

"Where do you think Kenny is right now?" Kyle asks.

"See, I knew it," Stan says. "You're still worried about him."

"I'm allowed to care about other people."

"Other people?"

"Other than you," Kyle says. He feels mean for saying so and he gives Stan an apologetic look. Stan is so drunk, color high in his cheeks, his eyes glazed.

"I know that," he says. "I don't – I'm glad you care about Kenny. I mean, I do, too. Remember, we took care of him."

It's not really a question, but Kyle nods. Guiltily, part of him loved that week. He got to spend most of it in bed with Stan, Kenny safe between them.

"I felt like we could do anything," Kyle says. "The two of us. Like we could fix any problem."

"We didn't really fix him, though."

"I know."

"Butters did?" Stan looks uncertain about this. Kyle laughs.

"Wherever Kenny is, Butter is with him," he says. "So that's good."

Stan nods in agreement. He looks down at Kyle's legs. They're folded Indian-style, same as Stan's, their knees touching.

"I was scared," Stan says. He takes Kyle's hands and presses them between his. Stan's are bigger, smoothly callused from so many years of football, push-ups, part time jobs. "What happened to Kenny, that day? It scared the shit out of me, seeing him like that. I was really glad you were there."

"Me?" Kyle can hear something rattling out in the hallway, probably a room service cart with their ice cream.

"Yeah." Stan turns Kyle's hands over like he's going to read his fortune from them. "Don't you know how scared I get, all the time? When came to my games – I needed you there. I can't do this without you, at UCLA. I don't think I can do it."

"You can, don't be –"

There's a knock on the door, and Kyle wants to scream that they've got the wrong room, but Stan is already catapulting off of the bed, going for the door. He's still in his boxer shorts, shameless. Kyle rolls off the bed and rifles through his bag until he finds his last clean t-shirt. He puts it on and considers sleep pants, but decides against them. Stan tips the guy at the door and pushes the cart into the room himself, smiling like he's already forgotten what he was saying before the ice cream arrived.

"Dude," Kyle says, watching Stan remove a ridiculously fancy silver cover from a giant bowl of ice cream. "You're gonna be great in college. You're gonna be a star. Everyone will love you."

"I don't know," Stan says, mumbling. "Look, there's cherries and everything. Here, c'mon, before it melts."

Kyle lets the subject die, hoping he'll remember this in the morning. The fact that Stan is scared shouldn't make him feel less terrified himself, but it does. They eat their sundaes in bed, staring at the TV, shoulders pressed together. The ice cream is good, but Kyle can't really appreciate the taste. All he can think about is Stan's lips, how they must be sweet and cold. He wants to taste them, warm them up. He wants Stan's mouth all over him, trails of sticky sugar left behind on his skin.

They start getting tired after eating, and Kyle clears the ice cream bowls off the bed so they won't wake up in puddles of melted goo. He washes his hands and stares at himself in the bathroom mirror. His hair has dried stupidly, but otherwise he looks better than he expected. He's gotten the start of a tan over the past four days, and this fast food diet has added a few pounds to his skinny frame. He wets one of the washcloths on the counter and brings it to Stan, who is already stretched out in bed, hugging a pillow.

"Here," Kyle says. "For your hands."

Stan rolls onto his back and lets Kyle wipe his hands clean. They're not as sticky as Kyle expected, but he takes his time anyway, wanting to kiss the pad of every finger. Stan watches him work, his eyes half-closed. When he's done, Kyle tosses the washcloth onto the nightstand and sticks his legs under the blankets, scooting closer to Stan. He lets Stan watch him tiredly for awhile, waiting to see what will happen. Even now, drunk, he's not expecting much. Stan takes hold of Kyle's face clumsily, turning his jaw like he's trying to get a better look at him.

"Your face is perfect," he says. He sounds unhappy about this. Kyle laughs.

"Yeah, okay."

"It is, shit. Trust me."

"Trust you? Okay, you drunk asshole. That hurts, by the way."

"Oh, sorry." Stan releases Kyle's jaw from his death grip and pets the mark he left there with two fingers, softly. "Sorry, Kyle."

"Fuck you. 'Sorry?' Okay, Stan. You're sorry, great." Kyle's rage feels different now, diluted but still dangerous, cloudy poison. He rolls away from Stan, beginning to feel sick from too much ice cream, or vodka, or both. Stan scoots up behind him, like Kyle knew he would. He squirms under the blankets and presses himself to Kyle's back, touches his hip.

"Kyle," he says, right in his ear. "Don't hate me. You're my Chinese food. My best Chinese food, forever."

"Yeah? So why don't you eat me?"

Stan laughs, and Kyle does, too, though it's not funny. He laughs harder when Stan puts his teeth around his shoulder, pretending to take a bite. He presses his teeth into Kyle's neck, and they're both laughing, but it drains away when Kyle feels Stan's tongue on his skin, soft over the shallow teeth marks he left on Kyle's skin. Stan lets out a choppy breath, tickling the short hairs at the back of Kyle's neck. He licks Kyle again, from the collar of his t-shirt to his hair line. He does it again, and again, and Kyle's cock is already pressing against the front of his boxers.

"Sorry," Stan whispers, breathing hard. His grip on Kyle's hip has gotten tight enough to leave a bruise. Kyle closes his eyes, selfish prayers growing inside him like flowering weeds.

"Don't stop," he says, whispering. This is it, last chance, doesn't matter that they're drunk. "Please? It feels good."

Stan hesitates. Kyle wants to do something to encourage him, but he can't make himself move. He lets out his breath when Stan lowers his mouth to his neck again, waits to be licked.

"We can't." Stan sounds like he'll cry. Kyle shakes his head against the pillow, his eyes still jammed shut. He's afraid to look.

"It doesn't matter," Kyle says. "I don't need anything. I won't tell anyone."

"Kyle –"

There's a sound at the door, a beep: someone's key card. Stan rolls away from Kyle as the door is flung open. Kyle stays where he is, his eyes still closed.

"Oh, sorry, were you guys about to fuck?" Cartman says. He snickers and throws something onto the desk. "Guess what, assholes? Guess who just won two thousand bucks?"

"You did not." Stan sounds fine. Not wrecked, not wanting. Tears burn behind Kyle's eyelids, and he keeps his lashes closed over them.

"Did too," Cartman says. "Check this out."

"Holy shit!"

"Hey, Kyle, wake up! Look at my money."

"Leave him alone." Now Stan is all predatory; this is what he likes. Protecting Kyle, keeping him in mint condition, unused on Stan's shelf.

"Whatever, dickwads. I'm gonna go get my own room. A super awesome suite, and you guys can't come."

"You're going to blow that money on half a night in some cheesy hotel room? Cartman, you asshole. You should give that money to Kenny."

"Fuck no! Are you crazy? I earned this with my amazing card playing skills. That broke piece of shit and his little lap dog can find their own way."

"You're going to hell," Stan says. Cartman laughs.

"Yeah, okay. See you there, homo. Have fun taking pictures of Kyle while he sleeps. I'll be up in my suite, watching title fights on a 60-inch flat screen. See you in the morning, fags."

"Maybe you can find your own fucking way home!" Stan shouts, but Cartman just slips out the door, disappearing again. Kyle wipes away the only tear that escaped before Stan can see it. His chest is jittery with the effort of holding the others in, but he can do it, he has to.

"Can you fucking believe him?" Stan says, huffing. Kyle doesn't respond. When Stan reaches for his shoulder, Kyle slaps his hand away.

"Don't touch me," he says. His voice is stronger than he expected. He's proud of himself.

"Kyle. I'm sorry, that was –"

"I know you're sorry. I've heard it. That's good, you should be. Now leave me the fuck alone. I'm tired."

Stan says nothing. Kyle can feel him sitting up in bed, watching him. After a few long minutes, Stan turns out the light beside the bed and settles in for sleep on the other side, far from Kyle.

Kyle sleeps easily and without dreams, pulled under by the alcohol, blacked out. He wakes up to flat darkness, heavy silence. He feels like he swallowed a bowling ball, an evil thing in his stomach that won't be easy to purge. His head hurts, and he's coated in sweat, shaking. He closes his eyes again, tries to sleep it off, but the shaking only intensifies. He wants to get up and go to the bathroom, to try to drink some water, but he can't move. Minutes pass, and his heart pounds as his teeth begin to chatter.

"Stan?" he says, weakly. Stan sits up quick, like he was waiting to hear his name.

"Yeah? What's wrong? Are you okay?"

"N-no. I think. Something's wrong."

Stan puts the light on, and Kyle pinches his eyes shut against it, his head pounding. He has vague memories of the evening: Stan licked him, they fought. It all seems far away now, this pain the only thing that's real. Stan is touching him, feeling his forehead.

"You're burning up, dude."

"I'm not. I'm cold."

"You're cold? God, Kyle, you're shaking really hard. Shit – fuck. You've never drank that much before?"

"You know I haven't. Oh, God, Stan, it really hurts."

"What hurts?" Stan rolls him onto his back, and Kyle groans.

"My stomach. My head. I don't know."

"Do you have your insulin thing?"

"The meter? Yeah, it's in my bag. But this – you think the alcohol fucked up my blood sugar?"

"I don't know. Maybe?" Stan is already kneeling on the floor, digging through Kyle's bag. "Where – are you sure you brought the meter?"

"Yeah, it's in there. I had a treatment before I left, enough for two weeks. Shit." He moans and rolls onto his side again, curling into a ball. There's something very wrong, and it's right at the center of him. He thinks of kidney failure, liver poisoning.

"I shouldn't have given you that ice cream," Stan says. His voice is fucked, shaking hard. "That was stupid of me." He's tearing Kyle's bag apart, flinging stuff everywhere. When he finds the container for Kyle's insulin meter he fumbles it, cursing.

"Stan," Kyle says, hugging his arms around himself. "I think I'm really sick."

"Fuck." Stan walks to the bed, puts the case on the nightstand and pulls the tester pen out. "Okay. What do I do?" He's watched Kyle do this to himself before, but Kyle has never needed help with it. He puts a hand out.

"Stick my finger, then you put the blood on one of the strips."

Stan nods, going pale as he takes Kyle's hand. Kyle watches him work, weak with sickness and still drunk, shivering. Stan puts the strip into the meter and flips it on, waits for the reading.

"You're okay," he says, though the meter hasn't finished processing yet. He pushes Kyle's hair off his sweaty forehead, still staring at the meter, his hand shaking badly. Kyle startles when it beeps, and Stan shows him the screen: 112.

"That's bad," Kyle says, his voice cracking. "Shit, Stan, I'm not – I'm gonna have a stroke, I can feel it. My vision's all blurry."

"Kyle, please, don't – okay." Stan throws the meter onto the nightstand. "Hang on. I'm gonna put a shirt on. Hang on."

Stan ends up in one of Kenny's shirts, and he lifts Kyle out of the bed, still barefoot as he carries him to the door. He's making aborted little crying sounds, swallowing them down, cursing as he struggles to get the door open while carrying Kyle.

"You're gonna be okay," Stan says. He sniffles and kicks the door open after he's managed to work the knob, carries Kyle out into the hall. "I'm gonna – gonna take you downstairs. They'll call an ambulance." He hoists Kyle up, getting a better grip on him. Kyle keeps trying to talk, but he can't make his voice work, and he's shaking so badly that his muscles feel out of his control. The fact that Stan's shirt smells like cigarettes is confusing, upsetting.

Kyle is in and out of consciousness on the way down to the lobby, his head lolling over the side of Stan's arm. Colors blur together, people gasp, everything is too loud. Stan is asking for help, trying not to cry. Kyle thinks he hears his mother's voice, but it's just some front desk clerk. The air changes: they're outside, a valet is barking something into a walkie-talkie. Kyle stares up at the flashing lights in the motor lobby, everything an angry splash, like paint mixed with too much water. Someone tries to take him from Stan, and Stan won't let them. He sits down on the curb and hugs Kyle to his chest, rocking him. He's given up on trying not to cry. Sirens wail, getting closer, and Kyle doesn't want them to come. He wants to die in Stan's arms, right here on the curb.

He wakes again when he's being strapped into a gurney. He whimpers, reaching for Stan. He's there, and he manages to touch Kyle's outstretched hand before being batted away by paramedics.

"I want to ride in back with him," Stan says. He's taking shuddering breaths between sobs.

"What's his name?" one of the paramedics asks, a chubby woman who's rolling gurney-strapped Kyle into the back of the ambulance with the help of another paramedic.

"Kyle," Stan says. "I can ride in back, right? Can I?"

"Yeah, c'mon, I need to talk to you. Sit there. Okay. Kyle? My name is Nancy. Can you hear me?"

He can, but he can't make his voice work. He twitches, afraid that it's a seizure.

"He has diabetes," Stan says. Kyle hasn't heard his voice this wrecked since they were very young. "Type 1."

"I heard you the first time," Nancy says. "What's he had to drink tonight?"

"Vodka. A lot of it. Oh, shit, shit."

Kyle blinks out of consciousness again. He feels himself in motion, wonders if he's passing into some other world. When he opens his eyes, the blur of florescent lights it too bright, so he closes them again. He can hear Stan's voice as he tells a new person who Kyle is: eighteen years old, diabetes type 1, not a drug user, allergic to walnuts. Kyle drifts between what's happening and disquieting darkness, flattered that Stan knows these things about him. Even his age sounds like something he didn't know about himself when Stan says it.

The world shifts and realigns around him. He feels it from far away, in a place where he can't hear Stan crying anymore. He's been comatose twice in his life before this. Stan was there when he woke up, both times. Stan was the one who saved him, both times.

He feels close to understanding something and tries to stay down in the dark where he might know it. Outside of his body, the world grows quieter. He wonders if he's dead, and opens his eyes to find out.

It's daytime, though just barely, and he's in a room with a window. There's an IV in his arm, a blanket over his legs, but he's still wearing the t-shirt he put on when the ice cream arrived. His boxer shorts are hidden under the blanket. He turns his head and sees Kenny sitting beside his bed, chewing on the sleeve of his hooded sweatshirt. Kenny sees him move and smiles sleepily, scooting his chair over to the bed. His eyes are red, and his enviable hair looks greasy.

"Hey," he says, softly. He puts his hand on Kyle's chest. "You're awake."

"Where am I?" Kyle asks. His voice is working again. He's not dead, unless Kenny is, too. He puts his hand on top of Kenny's, relieved to find that it's warm and solid.

"The hospital," Kenny says. He swallows something else down, maybe tears. "Fuck, Kyle, I'm sorry."

"For what? Where's Stan?"

"He went with Butters to get some food. He wanted to stay, but he's the only one with money on his debit card, and nobody had cash." Kenny shakes his head, resting both elbows on Kyle's hospital bed. "I lost mine. My money."

"Kenny."

"You knew I would."

"I don't know anything. What happened? Was I in a coma?"

Kenny laughs a little, shaking his head. "No. You were drunk as a boiled owl. Stan was, too, raving like you were going to die. You were hypoglycemic when they brought you in. They gave you something to get your blood sugar back to normal, but it wasn't that serious."

"What's this IV?"

"Just fluids. You were dehydrated, too. Fuck, Kyle, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have given you that booze."

"It's not your fault," Kyle says. They stare at each other for awhile, their hands still pressed together. "It didn't work," Kyle says. He feels so weak, like he weighs two pounds. Kenny nods.

"I guess I knew it wouldn't," he says.

For awhile they're both quiet, and Kyle thinks of scooting over and offering Kenny half of the narrow bed. He looks so tired.

"What are you going to do?" Kyle asks. Kenny shakes his head.

"I don't know," he says. "How about you?"

Kyle laughs, and it turns into a weak cough. He thinks of telling Kenny what happened with Stan, the licking, but maybe he imagined that. It doesn't matter if it was real or not, here in the light of day. Stan will pretend not to remember.

"You want to know what I think?" Kenny asks.

"Yes."

"I think it's good that you're going to school on the east coast. Getting away from him. This isn't good for you. None of it's been any good for you."

Kyle looks away from him, at the window. If he wasn't too dehydrated to manage it, his eyes might be wet. His fingers twitch on top of Kenny's hand while he waits to get angry about what he just said.

"I know," Kyle says. "But I can't do anything without him." He thinks of something Stan said last night, trying to remember. Something about football.

"Yes, you can," Kenny says. "You've just never tried."

Kyle laughs to himself, the pale light through the window blurring with something that isn't quite tears.

"I thought I was dying," he says. "Last night."

"Yeah, well." There are footsteps out in the hallway. Kyle can hear Butters' voice. Kenny stands. "You weren't," he says.

Stan comes through the door first, and flies to Kyle when he sees that he's awake. Kyle sits up, opening his arms for Stan. He lets himself be hugged, held, lets Stan sniffle against his shoulder.

"You look awful," Kyle says, petting Stan's hair.

"I'm such an idiot," Stan says. His voice is muffled against Kyle's shirt. He doesn't seem to willing to let go of him. Kyle looks over at Butters, who grins and waves.

"We brought you some breakfast," Butters says. "Blueberry muffins!"

"Thanks, Butters." Kyle tries to extract himself from Stan, but he's still not letting go. He meets Kenny's eyes, and Kenny shakes his head.

"You two are something else," he says. "One measly bottle of hard liquor and you end up in the goddamn emergency room."

"Well, he does have diabetes," Stan says. He sits back, his hands sliding down to Kyle's elbows. "Are you sure you're okay?" he asks. "The doctor said you were just hungover and dehydrated, and something else – hypo something?"

"Hypoglycemic," Kyle says. "It's just, like. A hunger-induced panic attack, sort of."

"Hunger? But we ate all that ice cream."

"Yeah, well, like you said. I do have diabetes. I sort of screwed up on my diet yesterday, to put it mildly." He can't believe how broken Stan looks, even now. His eyes are so red. He's still in Kenny's tobacco-scented shirt, but he's wearing jeans, too. Kenny must have brought him some. "Are they going to arrest me?" Kyle asks.

Stan raises his eyebrows. "For what – oh. Underage drinking? Dude, it's Vegas. No."

"Did you bust a capillary or something?" Kyle asks, touching the corner of Stan's left eye.

"Yes," Stan says. "Crying."

"We were really drunk," Kyle says. He looks over at Butters. "Can I have a muffin now?"

"You sure can! We got orange juice, too."

They eat breakfast in tired silence, Stan sitting on Kyle's bed and Kenny in the room's single chair, Butters in his lap. Butters is the only one of them who doesn't look partially destroyed, though he is quieter than normal.

"Where's Cartman?" Kyle asks.

"Who knows," Stan says. "In the presidential suite, I guess. I haven't called him." Kyle widens his eyes at the mention of Cartman being able to afford a suite, and Stan shakes his head.

"He already told me, Kyle," Kenny says. "You don't need to protect me. Cartman is lucky. I'm not. It's not news to me."

"Something good's gonna happen for you soon," Butters says. He wipes muffin crumbs from his lips and rests his head on Kenny's shoulder. "I just know it."

"Yeah, no kidding." Kenny smiles at him, kisses his nose. "What do you think you are?"

"Me?" Butters says. He lifts his head, that baby animal expression on his face. "Well, I'm –"

Kenny kisses him, cupping his face in his hands. Kyle tries not to stare, but it's surprisingly hot. He looks at Stan to check his reaction. Stan just looks exhausted, watching them with half-lidded eyes.

"You're my good luck charm," Kenny says to Butters, who wilts toward him like he wants to be kissed again. He seems to remember where he is and blushes, pressing his fist to his mouth.

"I didn't do a very good job of being good luck last night," he says.

"Last night was my fault," Kenny says. "I jinxed myself."

"I can give you guys some money," Stan says. Kenny groans.

"Shut up, Marsh," he says. "You've already bankrupted yourself on this trip."

"No, I haven't," Stan says.

"Oh, shit," Kyle says. "Did they call my parents? Is this little adventure going to be reported on their insurance?"

"Dude, I didn't give them your insurance information," Stan says, laughing. "I know a lot about you, but I don't know your dad's fucking insurance carrier."

"I'm surprised they admitted him, then," Kenny says. He eases Butters off his lap and stands. "I'm gonna go have a cigarette. You coming?" he asks, pinching Butters' ass. Butters grins and nods.

"Don't tell me you have him smoking now," Stan says.

"No, I just like to watch," Butters says, clutching at Kenny's arm as they walk toward the door. Kenny turns back to Stan and Kyle and raises his eyebrows. Stan snorts.

"Fucking weird to see Kenny like this," Stan says when they're gone. He settles back onto the pillows, beside Kyle.

"Jesus," Kyle says. He rubs his hands over his face. "I'm a dead man."

"Huh? Why?"

"The insurance! They're not going to let me out of here without paying, and I can't pay for a fucking emergency room visit, it's probably like a thousand bucks. My parents are gonna find out I was drinking. Fuck!"

"It was thousand and five hundred," Stan says. He's picking at his nails, avoiding Kyle's incredulous stare. "And don't worry about it. I paid already, cash."

"What?" Kyle shoves him. "Stan, what the fuck? Are you joking?"

"No." He sighs and looks up at Kyle like he's afraid he'll be scolded. "I have to tell you something."

"What? You're selling drugs? Where the fuck are you getting all this money?"

"UCLA gave me a signing bonus. It's not technically legal, so it had to be this big secret."

"What the fuck? This is in addition to the scholarship?"

"Yeah. Up front."

Kyle stares at him, overwhelmed by the amount of questions he wants to ask. He huffs, at a loss.

"Are you going to tell me how much it was for?" Kyle asks. Stan groans.

"I feel like an asshole," he says. "This is why I didn't want to tell you."

"Why?"

"'Cause it's a lot, okay?"

"How much? Fuck, Stan, you tell me everything! Or you're supposed to."

Stan scoffs. "It's thirty thousand dollars, okay?"

"Holy shit!"

"I know!"

"Stan!"

"What?"

"How the fuck – how – why didn't you tell me?"

"I just told you why! It doesn't even feel real to me. And I thought – fuck."

"You thought what?" Kyle is reeling, his eyes dropping down to Stan's throwing arm, the one he held Kyle with in the sleeping bag the other night. Apparently it's worth thirty thousand dollars, up front.

"I thought you'd hate me for going there just because of the money!" Stan says, sitting up. "Other schools offered me scholarships. East coast schools. Not Penn State, but schools that are, like, a train ride away. But as soon as my dad heard about this thirty thousand, he was all, like, in my fucking face about how much I needed to take it, and he's right, I mean, I could break my arm in my first game, but whatever happens I'll have this money, and it's like a down payment on a house, okay, Kyle? Okay?"

Kyle looks away from Stan, his eyes narrowing. East coast schools, a train ride away. He thinks of the house Stan could buy with that money, and the cheerleader he would share the master bedroom with.

"Wait," Kyle says. He closes his eyes, shakes his head. "Wait, just. If you have all this money, why the fuck did Cartman have to come on this trip with us? You could have just told me your grandparents gave you graduation money, you could have told me anything –"

"I know, I'm sorry," Stan says. He winces, groans. "It's just – it's Wendy."

"Wendy?"

"Wendy told me to bring him. She felt really guilty about what she said at graduation. She thought he'd feel better if he was included in something –"

"What the fuck does Wendy care?" Kyle asks, quickly becoming hysterical.

"I know!" Stan backs away, looking increasingly guilty. "I told her 'fuck no,' but then Butters couldn't come, and I thought –"

"You thought? You thought what, Stan? What the fuck could you have been thinking? That it would be fun?"

"Well, yeah!" Stan says, frowning. "I mean, when we were kids –"

"When we were kids he tried to kill me on a regular basis!"

"Oh, Jesus, not really."

"Yes, really! What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"I'm nostalgic, okay? I –"

"Nostalgic? Nostalgic?"

"I want things to be like they used to be!" Stan says, shouting. His face is red, chest heaving. He gets off the bed, cursing, and walks to the window. "When we were kids. I wanted things to be like that again."

"Oh, that's bullshit," Kyle says. "Wendy said jump and you asked how high."

"What?" Stan turns to glare at him. "That's not – I don't do everything she says."

"Yeah? You don't go crawling back every time she curls her finger, no matter what –"

"No! And that's really rich, coming from you."

"Coming from me?" Kyle's heart is pounding. He feels close to saying everything, on the off chance that some of it would hurt Stan.

"You don't know how many times she broke up with me because I was –" Stan hesitates, his mouth hanging open.

"Because you were what? Too much of a fucking pussy? Too willing to do everything she wanted?"

"Because I ditched her for you!" Stan says, throwing his arms out. "Because you were at home, alone, waiting for me, and I had to – to –"

"To what?" This isn't the rage, it's something else, all ice and no fire. "To take care of me? The way you take care of Kenny? The way you're so worried about fucking Cartman's feelings that you'd fuck up my only week with you all summer just so he doesn't sit at home crying over something Wendy said? You're such a great guy, Stan Marsh. Give yourself a pat on the back. Well done. You saved everyone! And obviously we're all doing really well, especially me."

"You're an asshole," Stan says, crying again. He slams out of the room, almost crashing into Kenny, who enters slowly, wide-eyed, Butters close behind him. They're both cringing. Kyle puts a pillow over his face, doesn't want them to see him.

"Whoa," Kenny says.

"I want to go home," Kyle says.

"Did they have a fight?" Butters asks Kenny, whispering.

"I, uh. Yeah. Can you go find Stan?" He kisses Butters, and the door opens and shuts again. Kenny sighs and walks to the bed.

"Kyle," he says.

"I don't want to talk about it," Kyle says, from beneath the pillow. His heart is beating so hard that he's surprised the bed isn't jumping.

"I actually think that whatever happened just now was probably overdue, and healthy."

"Oh, fuck you, Kenny! You don't know everything."

"So you keep telling me. Are you ready to get out of here?"

They call a doctor to remove the IV, and Kenny helps Kyle into a pair of jeans that he and Butters brought from the hotel. Kyle is irritable and heartsick, grumbling like a petulant child. He signs himself out of the hospital, scowling at the blue PAID IN FULL stamp on the form. Stan's glamorous football life has already begun. He's lying to himself if he thinks the money was the only reason he chose the west coast. He wanted to get away from Kyle, the boy who sits alone and waits for him.

"Do you want to talk about it yet?" Kenny asks as they walk toward the hospital's front doors.

"Nope," Kyle says.

"Do you still want to go home?"

"Yes, but I can't afford the plane ticket, so fuck it. At least I'll get to spend two more days with you." He stops walking, and Kenny does, too, turning back to him. "You're not coming back to South Park, are you?" Kyle says.

Kenny rubs a hand through his hair and looks away from Kyle. When he looks back, the answer is all over his face. He shakes his head.

"I can't stay there and take care of them forever," he says. "I know my mom will take care of Karen if she has to, and Kevin might help, too. They love her. I've just got to stop trying to save them."

"Yeah." Kyle sniffs. "You and Stan have that in common."

Kenny looks confused. He shakes his head.

"Dude, whatever," he says. "Stan's never going to stop trying to save you. That's what he does. It's his thing."

"He'll have a hard time doing it from the other side of the country. He could have gone to an east coast school, Kenny. He's as burned out on this as I am."

"Kyle." Kenny groans and takes his arm, pulling him toward the doors again. "Whatever. Let's just get the fuck out of Vegas, please. We'll figure this out in California."

"I've already figured it out," Kyle says. "What you said before – you're right. I just need to get away from him. He gets off on being worshiped. That's what the whole football thing is about. Good for him, he'll have a lot of fans."

"Stop talking shit," Kenny says. The hospital's sliding glass doors part for them, and Kyle sees Butters and Stan sitting on a short wall near the main entrance, bright yellow lantana bushy against their backs. They seem to be having a heart to heart, and they both go quiet when Kenny and Kyle walk up to them. Stan isn't crying anymore. He won't look at Kyle, which is just fine with him.

"So, are we getting a taxi back to the hotel?" Kenny says.

"Sure!" Butters pops up. "I'll, um, go inside and call one."

"Here, use my phone," Kenny says. He hands it to Butters, who walks over toward a giant mailbox to make the call. Kenny sits beside Stan and gets out his cigarettes. He takes one out and sticks it behind his ear, squinting up at Kyle.

"Gonna sit?" Kenny asks.

"No, thank you."

"Suit yourself. You're the invalid." Kenny elbows Stan. "What's next on the agenda?" he asks. Stan moans and leans down to put his elbows on his knees.

"The Mojave Desert," Stan says, muttering. Kenny snorts and grins at Kyle.

"Sounds perfect."

The taxi ride is short. Stan pays the fare when they arrive at the Bellagio. The early morning haze has burned off and the sun is blistering overhead. They walk into the hotel, nobody speaking, and Kyle is hardly surprised when Cartman walks up to them carrying a white buffet plate loaded with breakfast food. He's gnawing on a piece of bacon, frowning at them.

"Jesus," he says. "What the fuck happened to you guys?"

"Long story," Kenny says. He slaps Cartman's shoulder as they walk past. "Eat fast, tubby," he says. "It's time to go to California."