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!

7. Chapter 7

A/N: Thanks again to everyone who has read and reviewed. This chapter got LONG. And let's pretend the Fiesta Bowl sometimes takes place on Thanksgiving weekend, ok? There's still an epilogue to come, it should be up next weekend if not sooner!

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On the last Friday before Thanksgiving, Kyle is the only person in Geary Hall who isn't packing up his stuff for the trip home. The halls are filled with a frantic energy that's making him anxious, everyone celebrating the papers they just turned in or tests they just came back from, looking forward to a week of gorging and slacking. Kyle feels like the entire eastern seaboard is being evacuated for an emergency and he's the only one getting left behind, but there's no way he's going back to South Park for the holiday. If he did, he might have to see Stan.

"Broflovski!"

Jacob shouts this almost every time he walks into their room, as if he's genuinely surprised to find Kyle in his usual place: at his desk by the window, hunched over the keyboard of his laptop. Kyle gets along with him fine, but he's glad that Jacob is going home to Rhode Island during the break. He can't wait to have the room to himself, for the ability to watch porn in peace if nothing else.

"Are you seriously going to stay here?" Jacob asks. He's asked Kyle this daily since he learned of his plans. "The dining halls are gonna be closed and everything. What will you eat?"

"I'm pretty sure they're not going to shut down the whole town for Thanksgiving break," Kyle says, though he wouldn't be surprised if some of the smaller restaurants shortened their hours. The town isn't named 'State College' for nothing, and it will be pretty empty until classes resume.

"Won't your parents be pissed that you're not gonna be there on Thanksgiving?" Jacob asks. He's packing wrinkled piles of laundry into his duffel as he speaks. Kyle checked the box for 'Extremely Important' on his roommate questionnaire when asked, 'How important is cleanliness to you?' He's not sure how he ended up matched with Jacob, who hasn't washed his sheets once since they moved in. Kyle washes his every Thursday.

"My parents aren't thrilled about it," Kyle says. It's an understatement; his mother cried on the phone when she told him he wasn't coming back until December. He'll have to cross that bridge when he comes to it, but right now the idea of returning to South Park still leaves him feeling raw and ruined, as if he's back on that beach, eyes closed, lips puckered, swooning like an idiot. He gets hot with embarrassed rage just thinking about it.

"Don't you want to see your friends and stuff?" Jacob says. "You - do have friends at home, don't you?"

Kyle snorts, his face growing hotter. He hasn't talked about anyone from home with Jacob or any of his other friends at Penn State. On move in day, Jacob asked Kyle if he had a girlfriend, and Kyle tersely outed himself in response. Jacob proclaimed this to be 'cool,' and he occasionally asks Kyle if he's met any nice guys, but that's the extent of their discussion about Kyle's social life.

"I have friends," Kyle says. "But they all live in California now. They're not coming home for Thanksgiving, either."

His friends number exactly two: Butters and Kenny, who are too busy being internet famous to get in touch with him very often. Shortly after Kyle's abrupt departure from California, they met a UCLA film student slash amateur pornographer who convinced them to use their mutual adorability to their financial advantage. Five months later, is pulling a little over six thousand dollars a month, and Kenny claims that he has an interview lined up with the Times about the popularity of their kitschy porn site, which features both hardcore sex and cooking segments that involve Butters wearing a frilly little apron and nothing else, cheerfully making cupcakes as if he finds nothing odd about this situation at all. It might be more accurate to say that Butters himself has gotten famous, through some combination of his screaming orgasms and natural sweetness. People outside of South Park don't really know what to make of him. Kyle has read articles about their site online, ranging from finger-pointing hilarity to overblown psychological analysis of the concept. He's sort of proud of them and sort of horrified, mostly just relieved that they only have sex with each other in their videos.

"I'd better get going," Jacob says. The dorms have gotten quieter already, a few shouts still audible from other rooms but more no stampedes moving up and down the hallways. "Are you sure you're gonna be okay?" Jacob asks, standing at the door with his bags. Sometimes he actually reminds Kyle a little bit of Butters, though he looks more like Cartman, chubby and dark-eyed. He's always concerned about everyone, but with Jacob it approaches nosiness.

"I'll be fine," Kyle says. "I'll be able to get a lot of work done."

"All you do is work, Broflovski."

"That's not true." He's started taking long runs around campus, training with the idea of running the Boston marathon in the spring, and some of the obsessive reading that Jacob would interpret as work is just for pleasure. He's been reading a lot of modern Slavic fiction and American Civil War histories, and the combination of the two is uniquely depressing in a satisfying way. He's stopped listening to music for the most part, because every song is about Stan rejecting him, even the ones without words. Especially the ones without words.

"Alright, then," Jacob says. "If it's late and all the stores are closed, you can have some of my instant oatmeal. It's in the top drawer of my desk."

"Thanks, Jacob."

When he's gone, Kyle gets up from his desk and goes to his narrow twin bed, stretching out on his back. He folds his hands over his stomach and listens as the dorms get quieter and quieter, the sky darkening outside. There are heavy snow clouds looming, and there's the threat of a blizzard. Kyle knows he should stock up on food, but some part of him likes the idea of being trapped here for days with only Jacob's oatmeal for sustenance. He wonders if Stan would see the blizzard on the news and worry about him. Probably not. Stan stopped attempting to contact him back in September, after Kyle successfully avoided the temptation to read or listen to any of Stan's messages for over three months. He doesn't want to hear it: the awkward back-pedaling, the apologetic understanding, the we could still be friends. They can't. Kyle doesn't want that anymore. He wants peace, wants to be as hard and polished as a stone, the kind of guy who surprises people when he finally smiles. So far, at college, he's succeeded in this. Maybe after another month he'll be able to return to South Park without crumbling.

He ends up falling asleep on his back, and when he wakes up the room is dark. The silence beyond his dorm room door feels menacing, like a blind creature that's waiting for him to move so he can be tracked. He hurries to put on a light. Outside, some snow is falling, but nothing too serious. He goes to his computer and checks the weather, glad to learn that the storm isn't predicted to hit until tomorrow. It's looming on the radar like an open wound, pink and red at the center. Boston has already been blanketed in fifteen feet of snow. Kyle has been around snow all his life and has never been afraid of it before, but he's never been alone with the threat of it. He thinks of that night on the mountain with Stan, inside the sleeping bag, how desperately they held each other.

He can't imagine that kind of intimacy now, the way they used to slide together at the center of Stan's couch when they could have been on opposite sides. It was dangerous; he's better off without it. He closes the weather tab and checks his inbox. There's a new email from Kenny.

hey bitch so guess what

Kenny doesn't believe in punctuation.

my sister told me that her friend told her that ike said you told your mother your not coming home for thxgiving

wtf

i mean i guess i get why but listen you could fly out here and stay with me and buttercup he is getting really good at cooking man i am like in paradise here and hes gonna make a big meal and our whole production team will be there

i know your all snobby about the porn industry but their actually really nice people and i think you would have fun

maybe you would meet a guy just sayin

and no i dont mean a porn star you know most of our team is in grad school at the school we dont speak of

speaking of that did you see his last game

man

anyway so hit me up and let me know if you want us to front you the money for a ticket its no problem we are raking it in hand over fist

i dont think butters even gets how famous he is its really cute

he says hello btw and says to send you his love

write back you ass

love kenny

Kyle is smiling at the screen by the time he reaches the end, despite that comment about Stan's game. Kyle didn't watch it, but he read about it online. Avoiding the real life Stan was easier than he expected, the jolt of terror that shot through him every time he saw a new text or email making it easy to jam DELETE before he had to consider what it might say, but football Stan is too tempting not to research obsessively. Kyle has a very secret folder of pictures saved from Stan's games, and he'll have to delete it if this laptop ever gets within a hundred miles of South Park. Looking at the pictures and searching for new ones is like self mutilation, so painful that Kyle's stomach will be upset for hours after the initial flush of curiosity dies off, but he can't seem to stop doing it. Stan has started three games as quarterback now, which is rare for a freshman. He's beloved at the school, and he looks happy in his pictures, pink-cheeked and messy haired when he pulls off his helmet. Kyle is pretty sure he's not the only person in this great nation who beats off to Stan's press. He's probably just the only one who hates himself for it after he comes.

Kyle has no intention of flying out to California and spending the holiday with Kenny and Butters and their entourage, but he'll figure out how to let Kenny down gently later. He closes his laptop and dresses for the cold, afraid that the little shops within walking distance might have closed already. He wishes he'd brought his car to school, though the prospect of another road trip was too much for him to bear, especially since he would have been alone. He laces up his boots and pulls on the old green ushanka he wore every day when he was a kid. Now it's restricted to wintertime, and it usually comes off once he's indoors.

The hallways are eerie, so silent that a dripping sink startles him when he walks past the bathroom. He thinks of what taking a shower in there will be like with the emptiness echoing around him while he's naked and vulnerable. Usually he loves finding the bathroom empty, but it will be different when he knows that no one's around to barge in and spoil his jerk off by farting or singing bad pop songs at the top of their lungs.

Outside, the campus is like the set of a zombie movie, everything emptied out, last night's snow covered in retreating footprints. Kyle is heartened when he sees a grad student type walk by in a pea coat, a takeout cup of coffee steaming in his hand. They wave to each and move on, headed in opposite directions. When Kyle sees the little paper 'OPEN' sign on his favorite on-campus market, he breaks into a run to make sure he'll get there in time. He's hungry now, and the prospect of eating instant oatmeal all week is decidedly less romantic. He gets a hand basket and loads it with junk food and soda, his stomach growling. The clerk is expressionless as usual, and while the lack of dialogue is something Kyle usually appreciates, especially when he's hurrying off to class, he finds himself wishing the guy would say something.

"So," Kyle says, feeling out of practice with words, though Jacob left only five hours ago. "Pretty big storm coming, I guess?"

The clerk looks up at Kyle as if he can't imagine what he's talking about. He's a short, older man with giant glasses, and Kyle has never seen him wear anything but this same faded plaid shirt, though it always looks clean. This is Kyle's favorite market because it's cleaner than all the others on campus.

"The storm?" Kyle says, raising his eyebrows. "The snow storm?" He feels like an asshole, hoping the guy speaks English.

"Oh, yes, the storm," the man says. He's got an accent, but Kyle can't place it. "You're going home?" he says to Kyle, suddenly warm with concern.

"No," Kyle says. "Staying here. That's why I'm stocking up."

"No Thanksgiving?" the clerk says. "No turkey?"

"No, not this year."

He pays and leaves, feeling like an idiot. That guy probably assumes Kyle has no family, or that he doesn't get along with them. He's actually missing his parents and his brother a lot, but he'll see them in December. He needs more time to prepare for being questioned in person: Are you making friends? Seeing anybody? Have you spoken to Stan? When Kyle came home from California he tried to hold it together, but as soon as he walked through the door and heard his mother call from the kitchen - Bubbeh? - he was fucked. He thought he'd emptied his tear ducts between the wibbling he'd done in the backseat of the taxi, the broken sobbing that convinced the lady at the ticket counter to change his flight with no fee, and the panic attack he had on the plane as he deleted that first text from Stan, but he managed more tears in the presence of his mother, who rocked him and pet him like he was five years old again. By dinnertime, everyone in the Broflovski household knew, without Kyle having to say so out loud: Stan finally knew how Kyle felt, and the news was not taken well.

He gets back to his room and tugs off his hat and boots, his damp socks and soggy pants. Turning the TV on makes the room seem a bit cozier, especially once he's got the volume up louder than he's ever dared while people might be studying. He makes himself some instant noodles in the room's little microwave and sits on his bed while he eats them, the blankets over his legs and the pillows propped up behind him. It's nice, being alone, safe and effortless, and he's careful to avoid ESPN as he flips through the channels, not wanting to glimpse anything that will remind him of Stan, who must be back in South Park by now, either having a beer with his dad or setting the table for his mom. Kyle twirls noodles around his chopsticks, thinking of the first Thanksgiving after Stan's parents split up. To avoid conflict, Stan had dinner with Kyle's family. It wasn't long after their first real fight, when they didn't speak to each other for weeks, but once they made up they were more inseparable than they'd been in years. They stayed up late playing Go Fish in Kyle's bed, their shoulders pressed together even as they hid their cards from each other.

The television is only able to hold his attention until nine o'clock, then it just starts to get on his nerves, every other show on ten different channels featuring Gordon Ramsey screaming about something. He turns it off and drags his laptop into the bed. He's got a new email from Ike, but it's just a link to an online comic that he thought Kyle would like. It's something very avant garde and Kyle doesn't really get it. He doesn't have the patience for Ike's sense of humor, but he knows Ike is only emailing because he misses him, so he spends half an hour drafting up a response, rambling about how marshmallows in Pennsylvania don't taste as good as the ones they would roast over the burners on the stove when their parents were out. This segues into a complaint about the fruity, functionless scarves that people on campus wear, then there's a long paragraph about an article Kyle read about how the dinosaurs might have been bright pink. He sends, imagining Ike laughing under his breath as he reads Kyle's nonsense, smoking pot in bed while one of the Gordon Ramsey shows plays on the little TV he keeps on top of his dresser. Loneliness drops over Kyle like a hood when he imagines himself there with Ike, stupidly high and drooling over cooking shows. He closes his web browser and opens his image folder, clicking through the many layers of randomly named sub-folders until he reaches the one that contains his pictures of Stan.

Sometimes he does this in a kind of thoughtless haze, and sometimes he's irritated with himself from the outset, hating his cock for getting hard at the thought of the pads under Stan's jersey, the way he looks when he's wearing only them and his uniform pants, the bulge of his cup obvious and eye-catching. He's gotten bigger, just slightly, and his posture is better than it was when he stood on the sidelines during high school games, catching his breath. He looks like a guy who knows what he's doing. He looks like a guy who knows how to fuck, though if what Cartman said is to believed, that's not true. Maybe some other girl has taught him, somebody less intimidating than Wendy. Pretty but soft, too overwhelmed by the rowdy crowds to actually attend the games. Stan would take her out for dinner afterward and relive every play. She'd half-listen, admiring him, her dainty elbows on the table.

Kyle likes to torture himself with this kind of shit before getting to the good stuff. It makes it better, which is sick, but what about this isn't.

His fantasies twist away from probable reality and into pure indulgence: Stan in their high school locker room, naked and soapy, coming up behind Kyle and pressing him to the cold tile, spreading his thighs, touching him everywhere. Kyle shoves his boxers off under the blankets, imagining Stan's hard cock pressing between his ass cheeks, teasing him, the way Stan would laugh under his breath when Kyle whimpered and pressed his hips back, wanting more.

Are you still a slut for me? Stan would ask, knowing the answer. He would make Kyle kneel down on the dirty shower floor and beg to suck him. He'd pull Kyle's hair - in the fantasy it's still long enough to pull. In reality it would be hard to get a handful, though his curls are starting to come back in. He shaved them off just before leaving for college, and decided he actually looked worse without them, but it was too late. He did like the hard look of the buzz cut, the inauthentic toughness it gave him. Now his hair is softer than ever, like the first layer of fragile green things that grow back after a forest fire. He reaches up to touch it, imagining Stan's hand there, tugging him forward, making Kyle take more of him into his mouth.

The usual stuff isn't working, and after ten minutes Kyle's cock is starting to chafe. He gets more lotion and initiates emergency procedures, the thing he does when he needs to come or risk getting walked in on, Jacob's classes nearly out for the day. It makes his face turn red, even now that there's no chance of somebody barging in, but it works every time. He kicks his blankets away and lifts his legs, bends his knees, presenting his ass to the Stan who isn't there, tugging on his dick with one hand and holding onto the back of one knee with the other. He jams his eyes shut and lets the feeling of vulnerability sweep across his skin, this thing that he knows he'll never actually offer to anyone, least of all the person who he wants to give it to most.

"Fuck me," he says, whispering the words into the air and throwing his head back, eyes closed, spine arching. "Fuck me, Stan, yeah."

He's close, his hand moving fast now, tears gathering at the corners of his tightly closed eyes. He imagines Stan hovering over him, so big, his cock shoving in and out of him, so big, pulling him open, taking him hard. Kyle needs just one more thing, whining now, so the Stan in his fantasy leans down to whisper in his ear:

"She never made me come like you do."

Kyle groans as he pumps himself dry, no one around to hear it. He's shuddering, emptied out, his legs lowering to the bed. He's gotten so good at rejecting the second stage of his fantasies, the part where Stan turns sweet and holds him while he recovers, but he needs it too much now, can't fight it. He pulls his blankets up and rolls onto his side, imagining Stan spooned up behind him, soft kisses on his neck, Stan's throwing arm snug across his chest. It doesn't work, not like it used to. Now Kyle knows what it's really like to lie still while Stan sinks into sleep against his back, growing heavier, his breath slowing. He pulls his blankets over his head and tries to sleep, feeling like he's still on that plane ride home from California, most of which he can't actually remember. Flight attendants kept bringing him water and tissues, people stared, Kyle felt like his ribs were going to fall out of his chest. When he does sleep, he dreams that Stan is sitting next to him on the plane, ignoring him, typing things into his phone.

It's cold in the room when he wakes up, and he pokes his head out from beneath the blankets, remembering a rumor he heard that they would turn off the central heating in the dorms during the holiday. It's still pitch dark outside, no snow falling. He stumbles across the room, squinting under the overhead lights, and flips them off. Back into the bed, he tries not to be afraid of the dark. It's mostly the quiet that scares him, and he thinks about digging out his mp3 player, but the last thing he needs is an hour of listening to those old songs. Sick of myself when I look at you, don't you think I wish that I could stay, everybody here wants you. He hears all his old songs in his head anyway, hiding under the blankets again.

Maybe staying here alone was a bad idea.

When he wakes again, he can tell that it's morning, even with his blanket still over his face. He bats it away and sees snow falling heavily past his window, almost a pure white sheet. For a long time he just watches it, imagining that he's being buried alive.

He hears something, distantly: footsteps. They're on the stairwell, then coming down the hallway, getting closer. He sits up and makes sure that he bolted his door. He did, but it's a small comfort when the person outside starts knocking on it.

"Who is it?" Kyle shouts, still on the bed, the blankets pulled up to his chin.

"It's me," someone says, and he sounds so much like Stan that Kyle knows he must be dreaming. Maybe he's just forgotten what Stan sounded like, because when he climbs out of bed the room feels freezing, and he can't remember ever being cold like this in a dream. He goes to the door, pulls the chain back and opens it just to make sure that it's not actually Stan on the other side. When it is him, breathing hard like he ran up all five flights of stairs, his coat damp with melted snowflakes, Kyle can only stare.

"Your hair," Stan says. Kyle reaches up to touch his head. His hair is as it should be, if this is reality: chopped short but growing longer, his curls reforming.

"I cut it," Kyle says.

They stand there for awhile, Kyle half-asleep and shivering, Stan holding the same shoulder bag that they stashed the vodka in that night in Vegas. Kyle finds his voice first, huffing in disbelief.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, remembering that he's angry.

"You wouldn't answer my texts," Stan says.

"I didn't even read them." Kyle has been so proud of this, but now that he hears it out loud it just seems childish and stupid.

"Can I come in?" Stan asks.

Kyle looks down at himself. He's wearing come-stained boxer shorts and a t-shirt, his nipples visible through the thin fabric. He did not prepare himself for the possibility of Stan asking to come into his dorm room under any circumstances, ever.

"I guess," he says, stepping out of the way.

Stan walks into the room, and Kyle watches him take it in: Jacob's messy desk, Kyle's perfectly straightened one, the mussed sheets on Kyle's bed. Kyle has imagined a reunion with Stan so many times, in a million different ways: furious, tender, fifty years down the road. He doesn't know what to say, doesn't even know where to look.

"So," Stan says. "Do you like your roommate?"

"Seriously?" Kyle glares at him. "Seriously, that's what you're asking?"

"I have a lot of shit I need to say!" Stan looks angry for a moment, then helpless, standing on the other side of the room. "I just. I was in the airport for like ten hours, my flight was canceled because of the storm, I had to beg to get a flight to Boston, then I took a bus here –"

"A bus?"

"Yeah, Kyle, a bus! 'Cause you won't talk to me, and I can never get away from football, I'm supposed to be in fucking Glendale for the Fiesta Bowl on Saturday, but I don't give a fuck, I need to talk to you."

"You know what, you can go catch a fucking bus back to the Fiesta Bowl," Kyle says. He grabs a pair of sleep pants from the floor and pulls them on, awake enough now to realize that he's half-naked, his heart pounding. "'Cause I don't want to hear it. You're sorry, I'm pathetic, you don't hate me, fine, whatever, great –"

"You think you know everything!" Stan says, shouting already. It sounds absurd in the midst of the empty dormitory, as if they're on a sound stage.

"I know enough," Kyle says. "You – I – made a fool of myself, and –"

"Stop!" Stan says, holding up his hands. "See, this is what happened last time. You started yelling, and I didn't know what to do, and you – you left me there –"

"Oh – fuck you!" Kyle growls in frustration and picks up his pillow, pitching it at Jacob's bed. "I left you? You're actually mad about that? Is that what your fucking text messages said, 'why'd you leave me, Kyle, I can't imagine why you'd react that way when I said 'what the fuck' after you, after –'"

"I'm terrible at this, okay?" Stan says, shouting. "Ask Wendy! I tried to get her to email you, but she said that would only make you angry –"

"Wendy? You told fucking Wendy about this?"

"Who else could I talk to? I didn't want to hear it from goddamn Kenny, my best friend wouldn't talk to me –"

"Stop calling me your best friend!" Kyle shouts. He's actually prepared this part, but never thought he'd get to use it. "I don't want to be your best friend! I told myself for so long, that's what was most important, that was what I really wanted, but it wasn't! I wanted to be what Wendy was, okay? Is that going to send you running out of here? Is that what you need to hear so you'll know this is really over? I don't know why you're here, Jesus Christ, I can't even look at you."

Kyle turns away from him, bracing himself against the door, not failing to realize that he's also blocking Stan's only exit. He can hear Stan breathing, can hear him walking across the room. Stan will give him more bullshit, those old easy touches that don't mean anything, evaporating like sugar against Kyle's skin, things he'll think he only imagined.

"You don't have to look at me," Stan says. His voice is tight and tiny, and Kyle wonders if anyone else has heard it like this since it changed, since Stan became something resembling a man. "That's fine. I don't care. Will you listen, though? Can you just listen to me for a second?"

"I don't want to hear this," Kyle says. He's crying; he was never crying when he pictured this, always kept his face stony until Stan left. "I don't want to hear that you feel sorry for me –"

"I miss you!" Stan says, so loudly that Kyle can hear the windowpane rattle, or maybe he's losing his mind. "And I know why you did what you did."

"Great, yeah, that makes me feel a lot better." Kyle wipes his face on his sleeve. "You understand, you get it. That's real wonderful, Stan, thanks."

"I've been watching gay porn," Stan says, his voice suddenly much quieter, though that statement is loud enough to still the air. Kyle opens his eyes, trying to work that out as something he can refute, dismiss, or explain. He turns toward Stan slowly, just to see if he's joking. Stan is red-faced, breathing hard, his hands in fists.

"What?" Kyle says.

"Okay, just – listen," Stan says, holding up his hands. "After you – after the beach that day, all I could think about was getting you to talk to me, and then it was obvious that you weren't going to, so I decided I was going to hate you, 'cause you make me so mad, Kyle, you're so fucking stubborn. Then, I just, you were gone, but I couldn't stop thinking about what happened –"

"Don't tell me this," Kyle says, crying. "I can't hear this."

"Listen!" Stan says, walking closer. "I just – I thought, like, shit. I should have tried it. It's not like I haven't thought about it, Kyle. I'm not stupid."

"You knew all along," Kyle says, shaking his head. "You knew, and you just fucking toyed with me, you made me think –"

"Stop!" Stan slams his fist against the door, inches from Kyle's head. He's standing right in front of Kyle now, glowering down at him. Kyle shrinks and shuts up, his palms pressed against the door. He's trapped, faced with his biggest fear, the thing he's been avoiding since he left California: Stan is so close Kyle can smell the coffee on his breath, and there's no one else around, nowhere in this room to hide.

"Don't cry," Stan says, his voice soft and small again. He wipes the tears from Kyle's cheeks, and Kyle closes his eyes, his chest shuddering as he tries to hold everything else in. He wants to speak, but he can't, not without losing his shit completely.

"You say you wanted to be what Wendy was," Stan says, still speaking softly, still too close. "That was what I was most afraid of, dude, more than anything. All I did with her was screw things up and make her mad, and it was like the more I tried to give her what she wanted, the more I fucked it up. We'd have these horrible, tense fucking dates, and then I'd go to your house, to your room, and you'd be so - you just - you thought I was so awesome, you made me feel so good about myself -" He breaks off there and looks at the window, his voice beginning to shake. Kyle looks, too. The snow is still falling, washing out the world with white.

"I'm not good at, like. Any of that stuff," Stan says. He looks at Kyle and wipes more tears from his cheeks. "I couldn't kiss her without puking, I was a terrible fucking lay, I always said the wrong thing and ticked her off. And it wasn't Wendy, Wendy's fucking awesome, it was me, and I just - I hated the thought of us turning into that. I wanted things to stay the way they were, because it was so easy with you, and you were just - mine, Kyle, I don't care what you want to call it, you were mine."

"You asshole," Kyle says, and that's all he can manage. Stan seems to understand that there's no real malice in it. He's still trying to dry Kyle's face, which is a losing battle.

"It's been harder and harder," Stan says. "Keeping you in this neat best friend box. I know I took advantage of the fact that you'd let me - touch you, and I'm sorry, but I couldn't help it, you were just - so - it was different from Wendy. I didn't have to feel all guilty and freakish if I didn't get hard when I was with you. I felt good if I didn't, because it was like I'd won some fight with myself, or protected you, or us, or something - God." Stan winces. "This is so fucked up. I'm so fucked up."

"Yeah," Kyle agrees, weakly. Stan laughs.

"You don't know how panicked I was that day," Stan says. "On the beach, that last day. I would have paid the whole thirty thousand for one more night with you, and I tried to be casual about it because I didn't want to freak you out, but I needed you so much, Kyle, more than ever. Then, you. Kissed me, and -"

"I didn't kiss you," Kyle says, angry humiliation lending some strength to his voice. "I tried to kiss you. You flipped out."

"Yeah, I flipped out! In the middle of everything else that was going on, I just - I couldn't even imagine dealing with that. You turning into Wendy, everything getting ruined, you finding out that I can't kiss, that I'm so fucking bad at this stuff that someone would rather be with Cartman -"

"It never occurred to you that maybe you didn't like girls?" Kyle says, glaring at him. "Never?"

"Of course it did! That was my worst fucking fear in the world!"

"Why? Because it would make you like me? Not the golden boy, not perfect -"

"Because that would mean I could be with you!" Stan is on the verge of losing it now, and Kyle has calmed somewhat, beginning to actually hear some of the things Stan is saying. They watch each other for awhile, Kyle not sure if he should interrupt and Stan looking as if he's having a hard time regaining his voice.

"I didn't want to disappoint you," Stan says. "You've got this idea that I'm - so great - I don't know why you think so, but I would go out there and fuck up on the football field in front of everyone, I'd have Wendy laughing at me behind my back with Cartman, I'd take all of that if I had to, but not you. I didn't want you to find out that I actually don't know what I'm doing most of the time."

"So that's it?" Kyle says. "I was too important to touch? Like some collector's item, still in the box?"

"I don't know, that's how I justified it," Stan says. He sniffles and rubs his face dry with the sleeve of his coat. "Mostly I'm just a pussy. Or, I was. I faced my fear of letting Wendy go, you know, I admitted to myself that I'd failed at that, at making her happy. And I puked my guts out before my first game, but I did it, and I won, and, um. Have you been watching my games?"

"I've read about them." Kyle starts unbuttoning Stan's coat. It's so soggy from the snow that he might catch a cold if he leaves it on much longer.

"So, yeah," Stan says, watching Kyle's hands as they work their way down his chest, undoing buttons. "I faced two of my three big fears, and I'm still alive. And I wanted so bad to see you, Kyle, but you just shut me out."

"I'm your third big fear?" Kyle reaches the bottom of Stan's coat and pulls it open, sliding it from his shoulders. It drops to the floor at his feet, revealing a long-sleeved shirt that's much too thin for this weather and the Lucky jeans that Stan got as a graduation present from his dad.

"Kissing you is my third big fear," Stan says. Kyle is still looking down at Stan's jeans, then his feet.

"Are those new snow boots?" he asks, the calm that overtook him when he realized why Stan is here beginning to fade.

"Kyle," Stan says.

"You mentioned gay porn?" Kyle says, looking up. He flinches when he realizes that Stan has moved even closer, his elbow braced on the door near Kyle's head.

"Oh - yeah." Stan chews his lip. "Um, I thought I should, you know. Try it. I hate it, though, God, everybody's so ugly. I mean, I guess that's why Kenny and Butters are so popular, 'cause they're cute and young and all that shit. Not that I go to their site!"

"Me either," Kyle says hurriedly, though he has watched a few of the cooking segments out of morbid curiosity. Butters wears barrettes in his hair and uses oven mitts shaped like animals.

"I keep doing it, though," Stan says. "The random videos, even though most of them are so nasty. It's not the thing that bothers me, I mean, I think the thing is why I keep watching them, but it's never right, they're always bored or trying too hard or just too damn ugly to get off on. I realized, you know, recently, that I'm looking for something every time I click on a video. I'm looking for this one specific thing."

"What are you looking for?" Kyle asks, though he thinks he knows the answer, that feeling.

"For someone who looks like you," Stan says. He blushes, finally; Kyle's face is on fire. "And then, even if I find someone who has, like, the right color hair, or the right sized shoulders, that just makes it worse, because they're getting fucked by someone who doesn't look anything like me, and I get all jealous and upset and start imagining you with guys at college, guys who know what they're doing -"

"I haven't been with anyone," Kyle says, and admitting this out loud makes his eyes wet again. Stan lets out a long breath, nodding.

"I hated those videos because they were always going to be wrong," Stan says. "Because I was always looking for one of the real you and the real me. That's what I wanted. That's what I want."

He touches Kyle's hair, moving closer. Kyle is all shaky breath and burning cheeks, flattening himself to the door as Stan presses against him, his elbows framing Kyle's head. Stan doesn't look scared anymore. He looks like someone who's about to have a meal he's been waiting sixteen years to eat. Kyle isn't sure that he won't lose consciousness from the overwhelming fact that this is actually happening, Stan's face lowering toward his.

"You can tell me if it's not good," Stan says, his breath hot on Kyle's lips, fear jumping back into his eyes.

"Stan," Kyle says, begging, and then it's happening, in real life, Stan's lips pressing to his, his tongue coaxing them open, pushing into his mouth. Kyle doesn't really know how to kiss, though Bebe tried to teach him when they were in middle school. That was wet and unsanitary, and he hasn't had many fantasies about kissing on the lips since then. If he knew it could be like this he would have. Stan's tongue is warm and soft and perfect, lighting up every nerve and making Kyle hard inside his sleep pants, and Kyle can't stop tasting it with his own tongue, trying to climb Stan for better access. Stan gets the idea and grabs Kyle's thighs, hoisting him up and bracing him against the door with his body, still kissing him, both of them moaning into it now.

"That's good," Kyle says, running his hands through Stan's hair. "That's good, really guh-mph."

Stan doesn't seem to need reassurance as badly as Kyle thought. He's confident enough to squeeze Kyle's ass as he kisses him, Kyle's legs wrapped tight around his waist. Kyle wants to be squeezed until he pops, wants Stan's hands everywhere, all at once. Stan is hard, too, his cock rubbing against the seat of Kyle's sleep pants.

"You licked my neck," Kyle says, panting. "In Vegas."

"I know," Stan moans and presses his face against Kyle's cheek. "I think about how you tasted every day. Every time I come."

"Fuck, okay, the bed, put me on the bed."

Stan carries him there, sucking at Kyle's neck, and when his legs hit the edge of the bed they crash down onto it together. Kyle is blinded by how much he wants this, and by his disbelief at actually getting it, wants to slow down and take everything in but can't seem to do it, especially when Stan flips him onto his back and straddles him, kissing him like he's never not known exactly how to do this. He pushes his hand up under Kyle's shirt, and Kyle's moan is so deep and hungry that it startles both of them. Stan pulls back as if to check that Kyle is okay, his hand still under Kyle's shirt, resting over the curve of his ribs.

"If we'd done this when we were fifteen," Kyle says, panting, thinking of that morning when they woke up together after the snow storm. "It would have scared the shit out of me."

"It's not scaring the shit out of you now?" Stan asks. Kyle shakes his head.

"Do you know - how much - how often - I think about what it would feel like to have you in me?"

"Jesus fuck, Kyle." Stan drops down to kiss him, hard and hungry and huffing his breath into Kyle's mouth as he feels his way over his chest. They both moan when he finds Kyle's right nipple and rubs his finger around it.

"I could see them through your shirt," Stan says, whispering this like it's a secret. Kyle beams at him, because he is a little awkward, and it's perfect, such a relief.

"Put your mouth there," Kyle says. "Your teeth, too."

Stan pushes Kyle's shirt up, exposing his chest to the chill of the room, and Kyle reaches into his sleep pants to touch himself while Stan licks and bites at his nipples. He's going to come, and he wants to, so he can get hard again and come again, and again, all day, pinned under Stan.

"Are you cold?" Stan asks, lifting his head. His mouth is pink and swollen, and Kyle can't resist touching his lips. Stan licks the tips of Kyle's fingers. "You're shaking," he says.

"We could get under the blankets," Kyle says. "You could take off your boots." Saying so makes him wonder how long Stan will be able to stay. He shoves the thought away, not wanting to spoil this, and just lies there with his legs spread and his t-shirt pushed up, nipples red and bitten. Stan is staring at Kyle as he unlaces his boots, and Kyle realizes he still has his hand down the front of his pants. He strokes himself, slow, and Stan moans.

"I always thought about this," Stan says. "How you'd look."

"When I jerked off?"

"Yeah."

"I would have shown you if you asked."

"I would have exploded if you showed me."

"That's the idea, isn't it?" Kyle says. He considers pushing his pants down, showing Stan his cock, but that's still terrifying. He keeps stroking himself while Stan undresses, and he wets his lips at the sight of Stan's naked chest, the striped boxer shorts that are straining to contain his erection.

"Do you remember, in the car," Stan says as they're climbing under Kyle's blankets together, "When we talked about how you were a virgin?"

"Am a virgin," Kyle says. He pulls his t-shirt off, and Stan's hands go right to his nipples again.

"I don't think I'd ever thought about the fact that someone else might take that from you," Stan says. "Not until then, when you were getting ready to go off to college without me. It freaked me out. I never wanted anyone else touching you."

"I waited for you," Kyle says. He finds Stan's hand under the blankets and brings it down to his crotch. "No one's even touched me here before."

"Good," Stan says, his eyes going dark. He reaches into Kyle's pants, and they both stop breathing when his hand closes around Kyle's cock. "'Cause this belongs to me."

As soon as he says so Kyle comes, groaning and holding both of his hands over Stan's, hips jerking. He had no idea that he'd been waiting his whole life for Stan to say that, but he does remembering longing for this: coming down from an orgasm while pressed into the scent of Stan's body, Stan kissing him slow, still holding his dick.

"Sorry," Kyle breathes out. He's apologizing to himself, maybe, for having waited so long to bear the humiliation that would ultimately result in this perfect fucking moment. Stan raises his eyebrows.

"Sorry?" he says. "Are you kidding?" He leans down to put his lips against Kyle's ear, and he whispers like they're not residing in their own private snow-caked castle. "I want to watch you do that so many times," he says. Kyle smiles up at the ceiling, delirious with contentment. He feels for Stan's cock, rubbing it through his boxers.

"Dude, you're huge," he says, whispering. Maybe they'll whisper for the rest of the day, to make up for the earlier shouting. Stan smirks.

"Wendy complained," he says.

"That your dick is big?"

"Yeah."

Kyle smiles harder than he has in months. "No wonder she likes Cartman," he says, and they both laugh. Stan kisses Kyle's cheeks, moaning like he can hardly stand to see him this happy, like it's too much.

"You want me to take them off?" Stan says when Kyle runs his fingers around the waistband of Stan's boxer shorts.

"Yeah," Kyle says. He should take his sleep pants and boxers off, too, since they're filled with come. They both shuffle out of the remainder of their clothing, still hidden by the blankets, which grow hotter when they're naked together beneath them. Kyle touches Stan's chest, running his shaking fingers down over the muscles that have gotten bigger since he last saw them. Stan wraps his arm around Kyle and presses kisses down along his jaw, and there's something so nakedly reassuring about the way he's handling Kyle now: Don't be afraid of my cock, Kyle, it won't hurt you. Kyle starts laughing again, nervously, his hand on Stan's stomach. He can feel the looming heat of Stan's cock, and he's not afraid, he just wants to savor this moment, but it's Stan who looks sort of worried when Kyle meets his eyes. Kyle kisses him and makes a mental note not to laugh again, because Stan is a sensitive little flower when it comes to certain matters.

"You like that big gentile dick?" Stan asks, smirking, but Kyle doesn't take the cue to laugh. He nods and rubs his thumb through the slit, smearing precome, watching Stan's eyes flutter shut.

"I want to suck you but I don't really know how," Kyle says. Stan groans and humps himself through Kyle's fingers.

"You could practice on me," he says. "I could give you tips."

"Was Wendy good at it?" Kyle asks glumly. He knows he should avoid these sorts of questions, but he's going to wonder so he might as well ask. Stan shakes his head.

"She didn't do it," he says. "I mean, she wouldn't."

"Did she think it was anti-feminist?" Kyle asks, surprised. He's only had his hand on Stan's dick for thirty seconds and he already wants it in his mouth.

"No, she - un, Kyle - she, uh, tried it once and got all pissed off because I said 'don't bite me.' I was kidding, but she, ah, took it really personally. 'Kay, I'm gonna, I'm gonna come if you keep doing that with your thumb."

"So come," Kyle says, and Stan does, wincing like it hurts him and then going loose-limbed with a groan, his head falling back. Kyle licks his neck while he breathes through it, wants a picture of him like this. Stan looks so content to be conquered by an orgasm, all grown-up and still fragile.

"C'mere," Stan says, though Kyle is already practically on top of him. They roll together under the blankets and kiss sleepily, touching each other's miscellaneous places. Kyle traces the curl of Stan's ear and Stan rubs his thumb over the dip before Kyle's hipbone, making him shiver. The world is soundless except for their kissing, the whisper of the snow and the soft hum of the central heating, which must have kicked back in.

"Did you really take a bus from Boston?" Kyle asks.

"Eleven hours," Stan says. "Then the snow caught up to us when we got to Pennsylvania, and there was an announcement on the intercom that we might not make it if the weather got worse. I prayed so hard." He kisses the bridge of Kyle's nose, looking nervous about this all over again.

"Eleven hours, God - when did you leave California?"

"Wednesday."

"Holy shit, dude!"

"Yeah. It's the week before Thanksgiving, man. The airport was worse than the bus ride. Are you seriously going to stay here all week?"

"I think so. I mean, originally I was just doing it to avoid you. How'd you find out, anyway?"

"Kenny," Stan says. Kyle grins.

"Of course. Did you tell him you were coming here?"

"No. Man, I didn't even know I was coming here until Wednesday afternoon, after I finished my last class. I had a ticket to Denver and everything."

"Wait," Kyle says. "Wait. Your last class lets out on Wednesday afternoon?"

"Not for the whole week. I skipped Thursday and Friday." He shrugs. "I'm a football player, dude. We get away with shit."

"You dick," Kyle says, grinning. He kisses Stan's neck, can't go half a minute without the taste of his skin. "You're all salty," he says. "When was your last shower?"

"Uh, Wednesday morning?"

"Jesus, Stanley. How do you still smell so good?" Kyle moans and pulls him closer.

"Maybe you like it when I'm dirty," Stan says, and Kyle snorts. "So you can be all horrified and feel really clean in comparison."

"Whatever, dude. So, now what are you going to do? There's a blizzard. You're stuck here." Kyle lifts his eyes to Stan's shyly.

"I was gonna stay here anyway," Stan says. "For the week. As long as you let me kiss you."

"You knew I would."

"No, I didn't. Kyle, I haven't heard from you in five months. Jesus, there's so much I have to tell you."

"Like what?" Kyle asks, grinning.

"I don't even know where to start," Stan says. He sits up, and Kyle admires him in the glow from the snowfall. He's glad he didn't put the light on when he let Stan into the room, because this natural light was perfect for their first kiss, pure and soft through the window.

"Are you hungry?" Kyle asks. "I bought a bunch of food yesterday."

"Are those Chips Ahoy?" Stan asks, sounding almost emotional about this when he spots them on Kyle's desk.

They have cookies and Gatorade for breakfast, both of them still naked, crumbs falling onto the sheets. Stan tells Kyle about playing football, the way the size of the crowd sometimes makes him feel like he's underwater, and how apparently it's not cool to fuck cheerleaders but to go instead for the dance team who performs during the basketball games. There's a coach who dumps cups full of chewing tobacco spittle in the lockers of players who've disappointed him, but Stan hasn't gotten this treatment yet, though he dreads it all the time.

"Do you ever actually make it to class?" Kyle asks. Stan flicks his chin.

"Yes," he says. "I'm taking Hebrew."

"You're shitting me! Say something!"

"I can't, it's too embarrassing! My pronunciation is horrible."

"Dude, you might recall my bar mitzvah. Mine isn't exactly great, either."

Kyle talks about his classes, probably at too great a length, but he's lying on his stomach now, Stan's fingers moving softly over his back while he talks, and he really needs Stan to know every detail about the assholes in his Semantics class, like how this one girl named Emily accused him of developing a New Jersey accent when he got particularly worked up about Barthes.

"Have you made any friends?" Stan asks after Kyle has complained about his classmates for thirty minutes.

"Not really," Kyle says. "I never learned how to make friends without you as my buffer."

"Your buffer?"

"Yeah, like, I was the hysterical, scrawny nerd to your level-headed jock. It was a schtick we had. I liked it. But I guess I have a few friends. I mean, there's Jacob."

"Who's Jacob?"

"My roommate," Kyle says. Stan looks over at Jacob's bed as if he might have appeared there.

"Oh, right," Stan says. "He looks like a slob."

"Dude, your room looks exactly like that."

"Not always. Do you think we could live together?" Stan meets Kyle's eyes when he asks, and Kyle thinks of him on that bus ride, praying so hard.

"You want to live with me?" Kyle says.

"I want to wear your ass as a hat," Stan says, and Kyle laughs. It's a long-standing joke, the first evidence their classmates ever had of their feelings for each other, though Bebe was the one who actually wanted Kyle's ass for a hat at that point.

"Seriously, though," Kyle says, shoving him.

"I am serious," Stan says. "Unless you're going to nag me about making the bed every morning."

"Are we already fighting about whether or not you need to make our bed? The come hasn't even cooled yet, dude."

"It has so," Stan says. "I keep rolling into puddles of it over here. They're ice cold, trust me."

"I was being metaphorical, Stanley."

"Are you going to call me Stanley now that we're fucking?" Stan smiles like he actually kind of likes this. "Is that how it's gonna be?"

"Maybe." Kyle pinches his ass. "So are we fucking or moving in together, or am I still talking about my inability to make friends without you?"

"Both. Or, all three. I haven't really made that many friends, either. So maybe you have something with this theory that we need each other for social interaction."

Kyle smiles and hides his face in the pillow. Stan's fingers are still moving across his back, giving him goosebumps. We need each other. Clearly that's true. Kyle was on autopilot before Stan showed up, and he's going to be virtually functionless when he leaves again. But he won't think about that yet.

"I have a hard time believing you haven't made friends," Kyle says.

"People have all these expectations about me," Stan says. "It's like - okay, I'm kind of proud of this metaphor, so don't laugh."

"Kay."

"It's like being in a foreign country, and you look like everyone else there, so when a waitress comes to your table to take your order she's all smiling and shit, asking what you want in the native language, and you have to decide whether you're going to say, "Sorry, English only," or try to vomit out the like, five restaurant-related words you memorized on the plane ride over. Either way, you know her face is going to fall when she hears you speak."

"Is this pronoun significant?" Kyle asks, his heart beating faster.

"Say again?"

"You're saying 'she,' Stan. Is this a girl-related anxiety in specific?"

"Not really," Stan says. "I think I just pictured a waitress. Is that sexist?"

"Probably."

"And, also, I've been thinking, like, the way I grew up? With my parents the way they are? I always wanted to do right by my mom, and if she got upset with me it mattered, but my dad, well. You know my dad."

"I certainly do."

"He's so absurd, and I love him, but I taught myself to ignore him when necessary. I think that's why I was so good at ignoring Cartman when we were kids, and why I don't really give that much of a shit about what guys think of me. Aside from you, 'cause you're, you know." He pauses there, his fingers going still on Kyle's back.

"I'm what?" Kyle asks.

"The one who matters," Stan says.

Kyle turns to smile at him, not sure if he's disappointed or relieved that Stan didn't say, you're my boyfriend. There's no way that could be true, not yet, anyway. Maybe not ever, since Stan is a newly famous football personality.

"Oh my God," Kyle says, sitting up fast.

"What?" Stan looks alarmed. Kyle flails for a moment, grinning.

"You know what we haven't talked about yet?"

"No?"

"Dude!" Kyle flails again. "Kenny and Butters! Are porn stars?"

"Oh, shit, I know!" Stan sits up, too, grabbing Kyle's arms. "You fucker, I wanted to freak out about this with you so bad -"

"Me too, holy shit, I can't even -"

"I know, it's like, and their camera girl, have they told you about her?"

"The grad student?"

"Yeah, she, like - okay, well, Kenny met her while selling pot."

"Of course. Wait, where did he get pot?"

"He's Kenny, who knows? But yeah, I was all, trying to get him a job at the campus library, that kind of shit, and he's got to be all macho and act like he's got it covered, so he's out selling pot behind my back and he meets this girl -"

"Is she pretty?"

"Not - really. I mean, she looks like Johnny Depp if he was a five foot tall woman."

"I - wow."

"Yeah. So anyway, she's trying to talk them into setting up this porn site, she's like, it'll be artful, it will respect your love story."

"Oh, Christ."

"I know. And I'm like, desperately trying to talk him out of it, assuming this perverted female Johnny Depp just wants to see them fuck -"

"Obviously."

"Right? And Kenny's all hesitant, because Butters kind of has this whole history of exploitation already, but Butters is like, really into the idea, like, I think he wanted us to hear them fucking in the shower that morning, dude, he's a little messed up."

"Understandably."

"Sure, sure," Stan says. "Anyway, so they launch this thing, and Kenny is telling me that it's going to further Butters' dream of being a celebrity chef -"

"Yeah, I heard all about that." Kyle rolls his eyes. "I, uh. Actually watched one of the cooking things."

"Me, too," Stan says. "It was surreal."

"To say the least."

"I accidentally saw Butters' ass."

"Same here."

They stare at each other gravely for a moment, then Stan grins and they both start cracking up. Kyle gets tackled, and they're still laughing when they kiss, flushing as they press together, Stan flattening Kyle to the mattress.

"I grilled Kenny on what you thought about this," Stan says.

"Butters' ass?"

"Yeah, Kyle, Butters' ass. I would lie awake at night, burning to know your opinion about it."

"Yours is better." Kyle reaches around to cover it with his hands, the flush on his cheeks deepening.

"Thanks," Stan says. "But seriously, what do you think about this? Kenny is all proud of himself for making money, and Butters is skipping around making cupcakes, but it still makes me a little queasy."

"I know," Kyle says. "It's 'cause Kenny is our egg."

"Our what?"

"Our egg. Remember, fourth grade? The egg we had to keep safe for a week?"

"Oh, yeah." Stan grins. "We were the gay couple."

"The first one in South Park elementary."

"We were revolutionaries, basically."

"Even if it was against our will."

"Totally," Stan says. "It still counts. But, so - what? I don't like the idea of Kenny whoring himself for money because he's my egg?"

"Our egg, Stanley. And he's not whoring himself. Well, maybe he is, a little, but he only sleeps with Butters, right?"

"So far as I can tell, yeah."

"So good for them," Kyle says. "I mean, does it disturb me on one level, yes. But they seem happy. Are they happy?"

"I think so," Stan says. "I don't see them that often. I gave them free tickets to a game that I didn't end up playing in, and I wanted to take them out to dinner after, but Kenny was like, 'you can't be seen with us on a game night, we're gay porn stars.' And it made me want to quit the team, 'cause he's right."

"You don't have to quit," Kyle says, because he doesn't want to be Stan's reason. "You just have to be discreet."

Stan shrugs. He's up on his elbows, studying Kyle's face. Kyle braces himself for a serious conversation, which will be difficult with their dicks bumping each other like this, both of them hard again.

"Hey," Stan says. "Kyle?"

"Yeah?"

"I want to suck you but I don't know how."

"Don't tease me."

"I'm not." Stan ducks down to suck on Kyle's earlobe, which feels good enough to make Kyle's hips lift without his permission, his cock pressing more firmly against Stan's. They both groan, and Stan rolls his hips down for more contact.

"You don't have to know how," Kyle says when Stan moves lower, sucking at his neck now. "Just do things with your mouth."

"Biting excluded?"

"Do you really want to bite me?"

"No way, dude," Stan says, kissing Kyle's chest, moving lower. "You're my egg."

"Don't say that! The egg is our baby!"

Stan snorts and looks up at him, and Kyle fears he'll come just from having Stan's face so close to his dick.

"Sometimes I worry about you, Kyle," Stan says.

"Don't worry about me. Blow me."

The idea of having Stan's mouth around him is actually pretty intimidating and weird, because for some reason he always pictured it the other way around, but as soon as it's there Kyle is a-okay with this arrangement, grabbing Stan's hair and arching up into that soft, wet heat. If the feeling of Stan's tongue sliding between his lips was overwhelming, this is out-of-body, and Kyle is coming way too fast, Stan swallowing it down.

"Let me do you," Kyle says before he's even regained his breath, Stan crawling up to get a better look at his post-orgasm face. "And I want, ah. To kneel on the floor. Between your legs."

"Won't you be cold?" Stan asks. He's kissing Kyle's face, and Kyle is both curious and petrified to find out what his come tastes like on Stan's tongue. He dares a little lick against just the tip, not sure if he likes it until he tries again, and again, and yeah, he likes it.

"I won't be cold," Kyle says. "I just want to try it, like. On my knees. I guess that's weird." He realizes that this will mean climbing out from under the blankets, letting Stan see him naked, but Stan will be exposed, too.

"I don't think it's weird," Stan says. "It's pretty fucking hot."

"Yeah?" Kyle is thrown by this. He frowns. "Am I hot to you?"

"Kyle. Really?"

"No, I just, I've never thought of myself that way."

"That's part of the reason why you're so fucking hot. To me. Probably to a lot of people."

"Bull-shit. Wait, why?"

"Because you're so innocent about it! You're, like, pouty and defensive and it's so fucking cute, and your shoulders. Look at them."

Kyle looks, confused. "What about them?"

"They're, like -" Stan groans and licks one, then the other. "So perfect. Didn't you ever notice how I couldn't keep my hands off of them? I always had my arm around you, dude, it was like, default. They just fit, under my arm, under my hands - and they're so firm and dainty at the same time -"

"Don't call me dainty!"

"See, I love how you're all sensitive about your size," Stan says, still grinding down against him. "I loved that you didn't get big."

"Well! Uh! I'm not small. I'm not Butters."

"I know. You're perfect. It's like Goldilocks. You're just right."

"Can I just suck your dick, please?" Kyle says, not sure if he's annoyed or flattered by this conversation.

"Well, fine," Stan says. "But I'm gonna rub your shoulders the whole time. Or maybe your hair. God, I fucking love your hair." He molests it as he says so, and Kyle grins, because he's waited a long time to hear someone say so, and only Stan's opinion on this really matters. "It looks good like this. All soft and stuff. I miss pulling on your curls, though."

"I loved it when you did that," Kyle says. "I think the first boner I ever had was directly related to you playing with my hair."

"I'm trying to think of the first one I consciously affiliated with you," Stan says. He looks away, squinting. "Oh, wait. We were thirteen, you were spending the night, you moaned."

"I moaned?"

"Yeah, in your sleep. Went right to my dick."

"I was probably having a sex dream about you."

"At thirteen?"

"Fuck yes, Stan. That was like, my nightly sex dreams about Stan stage. You were always pinning me to something and rubbing yourself on me. In my dreams."

"And sometimes in real life," Stan says. He does it now, rolling his hips slow, making Kyle hard again.

"Alright," Kyle says, pushing Stan up by the shoulders. "I need your dick in my mouth, like, now."

"Oh, Jesus Christ," Stan says, scrambling off of him. "Yeah - just - hurry, before I come from thinking about what you just said."

Kyle is too full of nervous anticipation to give much thought to leaving the safety of the blankets, but then the cool air outside the bed hits him and he realizes that Stan can see everything. Soon enough, Kyle can, too, Stan sliding free of the blankets and scooting to the edge of the bed, putting his feet on the floor. They smile at each other sheepishly, neither of them looking crotch-ward yet. Stan puts his hands on Kyle's shoulders and draws him forward gently, until there's really nowhere for him to look but right at Stan's cock. Kyle's mouth gets wet, his heart slamming.

"Ready?" Stan says, like they're about to go over a steep hill together on a sled. His voice is a little pinched. Kyle answers by opening his mouth and taking him in, sucking the tip, sighing at the taste. Stan curses softly, one hand sliding into Kyle's hair.

"Oh," he says when Kyle takes him deeper. "Fuck, yeah. Kyle. Kyle, oh, Kyle, yeah."

It's not the first time Kyle has been taken aback by the intimate way that Stan pronounces his name, but it's the first time that pronunciation has made him grab his cock and start jerking it. He spreads his legs as he takes Stan in as deeply as he can, holding him at the base. There's no way he's getting even half of this monster in his mouth, but he can feel Stan thickening on his tongue anyway, getting close. When he starts making helpless little noises Kyle knows he should prepare himself to swallow, but he's too busy pumping his own load onto the carpet, shuddering and moaning around Stan's cock. Stan comes with a shout, and Kyle only gets half of it down before he pulls off, coughing, taking a shot in the face.

"Shit, sorry, sorry," Stan says, pulling Kyle up into his lap. "I should have warned you."

"You made it look so easy," Kyle says. He coughs again and wipes at his chin, accepting Stan's shirt when he offers it as a come rag. When his face is clean he reaches around Stan and grabs the Gatorade, chugs.

"Should I be insulted by your eagerness to wash me off your tongue?" Stan asks, but he's grinning.

"I won't lie," Kyle says. "It's not my favorite flavor. Do you always come that much?" He kisses Stan so that he'll know he's not opposed to this, just surprised.

"No," Stan says. "Need I remind you that was my first real blow job ever?"

"What, you didn't get them from the dance team?"

"I didn't trust those bitches not to bite me."

"Seriously, though," Kyle says. He looks down at Stan's collarbone and plays with his hair at the back of his neck, which has gotten long enough to curl upward a little. "Did you. Um."

"No," Stan says. He tips Kyle's chin up so that their eyes are locked. "I'm still a gay sex virgin, and I wasn't about to try girls again. Want to hear what I did instead? It's really gross."

"Um. Okay?"

"I would have gay porn playing on one side of my computer screen, and pictures from our road trip on the other side. The best pictures, I mean, of you."

"Oh, Jesus, I jerked off to pictures of you, too," Kyle says, rolling his eyes. "You scared me there for a second."

"I felt so dirty, though!" Stan says, looking sincerely distressed. "That gay porn was so not worthy of your pictures. I really hated myself for doing this, you've got no idea."

"I've got some idea."

"I'd feel so guilty afterward," Stan says. He pulls Kyle closer and kisses him very tenderly, stroking his back, all of this as if in apology for dirtying the sacred road trip pictures. Kyle accepts it graciously, petting Stan's hair.

"I saved every picture I could find of you," Kyle says, whispering. Only Stan can ever know this. "I'd get all excited when I found one, but I kind of hated them, too, because they were pictures of your life without me. You were this post-South Park stranger."

"Who went home after his games and jerked off to pictures of you," Stan says.

"In lieu of being seen out on the town with gay porn stars."

"In lieu of?" Stan says. "Out on the town? See, I knew you'd turn all Ivy League without me."

"Penn State isn't Ivy League," Kyle says. "It's Public Ivy. We all pretend to be proud of that."

"What's Berkeley?" Stan asks.

"Hippie capital of the world," Kyle says. Never mind that Penn State is ranked lower than Berkeley on the USN Report. It's not like Kyle couldn't have gotten in, and it's not like Wendy got a full scholarship. Just a partial scholarship. Probably only enough to cover her books. And the USN Report is stupid, anyway. UCLA was ranked higher than Penn State, too.

"You sound like Cartman," Stan says. "Did you hear he followed her to school?"

"Yeah, he told me."

"Don't tell me you two are still in touch."

"Hell no. Sometimes I check his Facebook to see if he's listed Wendy as his girlfriend, though."

"He hasn't," Stan says. "You should hear the way she talks about him. Like, oh, he's so annoying, he's such a cancer on society, he's going to become the supreme dictator of the world if she doesn't stop him. Sometimes I just put the phone down and play video games when she really gets going."

"You think they're still - uh?"

"Oh, yeah. I know Wendy pretty well. I can hear it in her voice. She seems happy, though. I should have let her run after him years ago."

"You don't miss her at all?" Kyle asks. He slides off of Stan's lap and crawls back under the blankets, feeling more exposed by this conversation than his actual nakedness. Stan follows his lead, shrugging.

"I think we'll always be friends," he says. "We've talked a lot about why we were both so desperate to stay together even though we were miserable. Cartman was right, I was this big challenge for her. You know how badly she needs to win. She was this thing that I always thought I could get right if I just worked at it hard enough. I hated my parents for giving up the way they did. You remember."

"Yeah," Kyle says. He squirms against Stan's chest, his tension draining away as Stan's arm curls around him. "I can't believe you've only been here a few hours," he says.

"It's been more like four hours, I think," Stan says.

"What? Seriously? What time is it?"

"About one in the afternoon."

Kyle sits up and looks at the clock in disbelief.

"How are we still in bed?" he says, looking back to Stan.

"Where else would we be?" Stan asks.

"Good point." Kyle drops down into his arms again, snuggling close under the blankets. He pretends like he's trying to sleep, hiding his smile against Stan's chest while Stan strokes his hair, his cheek, his shoulder.

"Goddamn," Stan says, whispering. "I missed you."

"You can't leave," Kyle says. He kisses Stan's neck, afraid to look at him while he says this. "You'd miss me too much. Right?"

"Right." Stan sighs. "You taking a nap?"

"Not really."

"Want to show me around?"

"Um, this is pretty much it," Kyle says. He lifts his head to look at the room. "That side is Jacob's, as we established."

"I meant around campus, dude. Before the snow is up to our chins."

They dress for the cold, and Stan beams when Kyle pulls on his old ushanka. When they leave the room the dorm doesn't feel empty anymore, though by all indication they're the only ones here. They fill the whole building with their voices, laughing as their footsteps echo heavily down the stairwell. Out in the courtyard, the snow is still coming down, though not as heavily as before. Stan walks through it awkwardly, out of practice.

Kyle shows him around, holding his hand because they're the only ones out. They're both wearing gloves, the thick wool making them hold on that much tighter, straining for each other through this barrier. Stan laughs at the names of the quirkier buildings: the Mushroom Research Center and the Coal Utilization Lab, the Dairy Complex. Predictably, Beaver Stadium makes him laugh the hardest.

"We have to break in there," he says. "I bet I can figure out how. We have this thing, the guys on my team, where we break into stadiums when we're visiting."

"I thought you were done chasing beaver," Kyle says, tugging Stan away from the stadium.

"I'd want to find a football first, anyway," Stan says. His eyes are all lit up like he seriously wants to enact this plan. He laughs when he notices Kyle looking at him warily.

Kyle shows Stan the boring everyday places, not sure what he really wants from this tour. Stan is quiet in the presence of Kyle's dining hall, the liberal arts college where he has most of his classes, and his favorite market, which is still open.

"We should go in and buy something," Kyle says. "The clerk was worried about me yesterday."

"How come?"

"'Cause I was gonna be alone for Thanksgiving."

Stan kisses his cheek and they head for the store, dropping each other's hands before walking inside. Kyle waves to the clerk, wanting to point both fingers at Stan and gloat, Cartman-style: This boy came here for me, he's mine, he lets me lick him, it's fantastic. He's blushing as he follows Stan through the store, watching him examine random things.

"I was just thinking about how we need condoms," Stan says, whispering when they pass the store's small selection. "But I guess we don't. It's not like you'll get pregnant, and I had to get a test during my physical. I don't have anything."

"You were worried that you did?" Kyle says. He feels guilty for whispering, like the clerk will think they're telling jokes about him, or plotting to rob the place.

"Sort of," Stan says. "I mean, she cheated on me with Cartman. My trust in her wasn't at an all time high."

"If she'd given you something I would have killed her lying ass so hard," Kyle says, his face heating with rage at the very thought that she might have. "Cartman, too."

"Dude, calm down," Stan says, patting the top of Kyle's ushanka. "We always used something anyway, me and her. I don't think she trusted me either."

"She thought you were fucking another girl?"

Stan snorts. "No, dude. She thought I was fucking you."

"And - what - I'm chock full of STDs or something?" Kyle says, pretending to be offended. He's actually elated that Wendy gave him that much credit, and that she very well may have spent as much time fretting over Kyle as he did over her.

"She had this crazy theory that you and Kenny were fuck buddies," Stan says, examining a jar of baby corn.

"What?"

"Shh! I know, it was crazy." Stan is blushing, and Kyle wants to start breaking glass jars. Wendy is no less than diabolical, planting ideas like that in Stan's head. She and Cartman deserve each other.

"You never thought that, did you?" Kyle asks, following Stan as he moves toward the frozen foods.

"Heck no," Stan says, his cheeks still burning. "But I would have killed Kenny's lying ass so hard if I did. Just saying."

"Well, it wouldn't have been a lie, exactly," Kyle says, beginning to appreciate the fact that Stan was concerned about this.

"Yeah, it would have."

"How?"

"Because I asked him!"

"You what?"

"Kyle, quit shouting. That guy's going to throw us out."

"You asked Kenny if we were fuck buddies? Are you serious? Jesus, I can't believe he didn't tell me!"

"He probably didn't remember. I was drunk, and he was blasted."

"Where the hell was I?"

"I don't know, studying? I was always careful not to get drunk about you. Maybe you can guess why. Anyway, he laughed really hard. Kenny. At that idea."

"As well he should have!"

Kyle is silent for the rest of the shopping trip, watching Stan buy Cheesy Poofs and a bottle of champagne, showing a fake California ID at the counter. This annoys Kyle, too, but the clerk barely glances at it and takes Stan's money without hesitation.

"I can't believe you thought I would have Kenny as a fuck buddy," Kyle says as they walk back toward his dorm.

"Don't be mad, dude," Stan says. He puts his arm around Kyle and pulls him close. "I never really thought that, I was just being a drunk shithead when I asked. I wanted Kenny to ask me, you know. If I wanted to be yours."

"Yeah?" Kyle tries to shrug Stan's arm off of him, but it's too heavy. "Is that what you wanted? Is that what we are now, fuck buddies?"

"Kyle." Stan stops walking, and Kyle turns back to him, slowly, afraid to look at him. When he does, Stan is staring at him with such laser beam intensity that it actually scares him, and he wants to laugh the question off.

"What?" Kyle says, mumbling. Stan drops the bag of groceries into the snow and grabs Kyle by the shoulders, staring down into his face.

"I love you," Stan says. "I'm in love with you." He's blushing hard, or maybe it's just the cold wind.

"So?" Kyle says, his voice not as strong as he'd like it to be. "You're going to leave again. There will always be a Fiesta Bowl, Stan."

"Oh, my God," Stan says, closing his eyes.

"What?"

"Nothing, uh. I just pictured this moment a lot of different ways? Over the last five months? And 'there will always be a Fiesta Bowl, Stan' was never your response."

"Well, I love you too, obviously!" Kyle says, getting worked up, not sure if he's angry or about to cry, probably both. "Just - like - I'm gonna have to live without you, right? One way or another?"

"You're so all or nothing!" Stan says, the volume of his voice amplified by the emptiness around them. "It's like - I don't know, Kyle, I don't know. I could bring you the fucking moon and you'd be like, 'thanks, but where the hell are the stars?'"

"Fuck you, I am not like that!"

"Yes, you are, and I love that about you! I love everything about you, and I don't want to leave you, either. Not for the Fiesta Bowl, not for fucking anything, ever."

"So what we are fighting about?" Kyle asks, unwilling to be the one who stops shouting first.

"I don't know!" Stan says, and he deflates, letting go of Kyle. He looks away and holds his arms out as if to appeal to the pity of some imaginary audience. The snow-heavy trees stare back at him indifferently, and he looks back to Kyle, his arms falling to his sides. "What's it going to take for you to accept that I've spent my whole life thinking you're the greatest thing in the fucking universe?"

Kyle could answer that in a lot of ways. He was captain of the debate team, and he's almost enjoying this argument, or he would be if Stan wasn't required in Arizona in three days and in California for the next three and a half years. If they were normal boyfriends having a normal fight in the courtyard of the college that they both attend, Kyle would say that he's got every right to feel insecure after what Stan put him through, all the mixed signals and doubt, and he might point out that it doesn't make sense that Stan could appreciate this demanding aspect of Kyle's personality when it drove him crazy while he was dating Wendy, could also say that Stan is failing to address the main problem here, which is that he'll have to leave and Kyle will die without him, but Kyle doesn't take up any of these points. He hurries to Stan and kisses him, holding his face, warming his lips with his tongue, sighing into his mouth.

"I'm sorry," Kyle says as Stan's arms slide around him. "I don't mean to be difficult."

"I love it when you're difficult," Stan says, squeezing him. "I love you 'cause you're difficult. I just want you to know, Kyle, I need you to know - that wherever I am, I wish I was with you. That was always true, and it'll always be true. I was hurting, too, all those times we were apart. I was looking at my watch. Wendy was striking me about the head. And who could blame her. I was such a coward, running away from her, avoiding what I really wanted from you. I'm getting braver, though, I think. I really came here thinking you'd slam that door in my face."

"You did not." Kyle kisses Stan's cheeks, hating that he was afraid that might happen, though just this morning he would have delighted at the idea that Stan was capable of worrying about being rejected by him.

"I really did," Stan says. "You don't even know how many sick scenarios I came up with. I thought you might have stayed on campus during the break because of some guy, and that he'd be in there with you, naked, laughing at me -"

"Oh, God! Poor Stan." Kyle pets him, just wants to take care of him now, for as long as he can. "I thought terrible things about you, too. I thought you were going to buy a house for a cheerleader."

Stan snorts. "Is that a euphemism?"

"Sort of. Better get your bag before it gets buried in the snow."

It's only three o'clock, but it's already getting darker as they head back toward Kyle's dorm. When he scans his key card he has a brief fear that some kind of holiday glitch will have locked them out, that the cozy little cave he wants so badly to return to will be barred from them, but the door opens as usual and the heat is still blasting in the building's empty lobby, a sign posted at the front desk that warns students who are staying over the holiday that security will be limited until classes resume.

"Good thing I have my jock boyfriend around," Kyle says, nodding to the sign. He feels dumb for calling Stan his boyfriend, but Stan loves him, is in love with him, so maybe Kyle can call him whatever he wants.

"I can't believe you were going to stay here alone," Stan says. They're taking the stairs slowly, both of them tired after walking around in deep snow all afternoon.

"It's funny, now I don't feel like that was really the plan," Kyle says.

"Some part of you knew I would come for you?"

"I knew something was coming. I think I assumed it was my icy death."

"Kyle!" Stan stops on the landing to hug him. "Don't even joke about that. Remember that time we went camping -"

"Yes, Stan," Kyle says, still getting hugged, ready to return to the bed. The stairwell isn't heated and he wants some of that champagne. "Why didn't you kiss me that morning? There were a few seconds when I was sure you were going to."

"I wanted to," Stan says. "But it seemed inappropriate. And I thought you might hate me if I tried it."

"Oh, please. Everyone in South Park knew I loved you. I might as well have taken a billboard out."

"Everyone knew eventually. I was the last one to figure it out."

"When did you know?"

"Um," Stan says. "In Vegas, I think?"

"Not until Vegas? Jesus, what did it take to convince you? Me drunkenly holding your hand?"

"Did you -? No, it was in the pool. That was before I was totally trashed, when I was just, you know, the highest point of drunkenness, when everything seems perfect and you could forgive all the faults of the world? You were so, just. Warm, and sweet, and you trusted me so much. And your nipples were like ice picks on my back."

"Shit. I remember being self-conscious about that. So that's how you knew I was into you? My aroused nipples?"

Stan moans and pulls Kyle up the stairs, just one flight left now.

"The nipples were a side-issue," he says. "They made me hard, by the way - well, the whole, you being half-naked and clinging to me thing did, but. Did you notice?"

"No. For a guy with such a big dick you sure hide it easily when it's hard. Tell me every time you got hard for me and I didn't notice. I want a list."

"Uh, maybe later. But, listen, okay - this moment when I knew, or I thought I knew, that you were, you know. Wanting me, too. It was in the pool, it was the way you didn't need anything. You always have to be doing something, Kyle, even when you're drunk, you're either talking your head off or asking what we're gonna do next. That night, I wanted to stay where we were for as long as I could get away with it, and I realized that you did, too. We didn't even need to talk. It was so fucking nice. God, and then you almost died."

"Except not really."

"Well, I was drunk enough to think you might. I barely even remember that whole thing. Like, I blinked and we were in the hospital, and Kenny was shaking me and asking me what the hell happened. I didn't know what to tell him. I thought it was my fault, with that stupid ice cream, and Kenny thought it was his, with the booze. I'm sure Butters found a way to blame himself, too."

"This will be the first alcohol I've had since then," Kyle says, nodding to the champagne as he unlocks his door.

"Are you kidding me?" Stan says. "I feel like all I do at college is drink."

"That's always a good sign."

"Well, not literally. Fine, if you're going to be so snobby about booze, I'll drink this myself."

"Uh! No! I like champagne! And anyway, we're celebrating."

"Yeah, we are," Stan says. He grins and pulls the champagne from the plastic bag, setting it beside Kyle's bed. He's getting snow everywhere, but Kyle doesn't care too much, though the puddles will irritate him later. They're pulling off their wet clothes, Stan throwing everything into a heap beside his overnight bag, Kyle hanging his things neatly in strategic locations.

"I'm gonna take a shower," Kyle says. "I reek of sex sweat."

"Sex sweat?"

"You know, that sweat smell that gets under the sheets when you beat off? That shit is all up in my coat and stuff."

"Let me smell," Stan says, walking to him. Kyle allows himself to be sniffed, arms at his sides. Stan grins down at him. "I'm coming with you," he says.

"To the shower?"

"Yeah, if that's okay. I want to see the full Kyle Broflovski cleaning regimen. I bet it takes hours." He pokes at Kyle's nipples through his shirt. "And you'll get all soapy."

"God," Kyle says, backing toward the door, pulling Stan with him. "This is - I've thought about this." He swallows and ducks under Stan's arm, remembering that he needs supplies for his shower, like soap. "Let me just get my stuff. You can use some of my flip flops. Your feet are so big, though."

"I'll make it work," Stan says.

It feels weird sneaking a non-resident boy into the shower with him, but there's no one around to see. This bathroom is never clean enough for Kyle's standards and often horrifies him, but it's been scrubbed, post-exodus, and Kyle is hardly thinking about the cleanliness of the tile as he watches Stan undress. They're behind the privacy curtain in one of the stalls, a second curtain separating this area from the shower itself. Kyle has seen Stan naked, but he's yet to be standing in front of him like this while taking it in, naked himself.

"After you," Stan says, drawing the second curtain back. Kyle nods, feeling disoriented as he climbs in first, not sure what he's supposed to do now. Right, turn the water on. He's shivering, and he jumps out of the way to let the water warm up, Stan still hiding behind the curtain.

"Do guys stare at your dick in the locker room?" Kyle asks. Stan snorts. The water begins to steam a bit, and Kyle tests it with his hand.

"They don't stare," Stan says. "I've had comments, though." He walks under the water, and Kyle does, too. They take hold of each other cautiously, like suddenly they're eighth graders at a school dance.

"Comments?" Kyle feels a surge of possessiveness, not liking the idea that anyone thinks they have the right to comment on what belongs to him.

"Yeah, like, they rag on me like I'm bragging just for having it." Stan pulls Kyle closer, until their erections brush together, then their thighs. Stan's are god-like and golden compared to Kyle's, but their skin tones look good together in the shadowy light inside the stall. Stan's is almost olive, tanned darker than Kyle has ever seen it. Kyle's skin is pale, and it's turning pink under the hot water.

"They rag on you?" Kyle says. "How so?"

"They say, like. Is that why you're not fucking your groupies, Marsh? 'Cause they all ran screaming when they saw that thing?"

"You have groupies?"

"No! That's just what the guys say."

"Mhm." Kyle doesn't believe that. He wasn't cut out for having a famous boyfriend. He presses himself to Stan, hiding his face against his shoulder and moaning as his skin seems to seal itself to Stan's under the hot water. Stan's hands slide across Kyle's back, and he reaches behind Kyle to get the soap. Kyle just leans against Stan and closes his eyes as Stan rubs the soap worshipfully over his shoulders, his other hand kneading the back of Kyle's neck, soap bubbles slipping down between Kyle's shoulder blades like heavy things that he's shedding.

"Can I wash your hair for you?" Stan asks when the bar of soap is resting against Kyle's left ass cheek.

"Yeah," Kyle says. "That's really, super gay, though."

"You got a problem with me being really, super gay?"

"Nah. Knock yourself out."

Kyle keeps his eyes closed and a dopey smile on his face while Stan massages shampoo into his hair, taking his time, his fingers digging in with a kind of gentle clumsiness, which is the best way to describe Stan in general, now that Kyle thinks about it.

"I think my scalp is my second most erogenous zone," Kyle says. "The first being my dick of course."

"What about your nipples?" Stan asks, sounding sad on their behalf.

"Oh, yeah, I forgot about them. So what's up with you being obsessed with them? Not that I don't like it. Is this some kind of transitional thing, like they remind you of when you were with girls?"

"Girl, singular," Stan says. He pulls Kyle under the water and tips his head back to rinse the suds from his hair. "And I think I like yours because I didn't like hers."

"You didn't?"

"No, they were, like - girl nipples? Which are bigger? Yours are all tiny and cute, and - c'mere."

He turns Kyle around and ducks down to lick his nipples in demonstration, making Kyle wish they were back in bed, where he could recline while watching this. He uses the opportunity to put some shampoo in Stan's hair, its usual silkiness bordering on greasiness as Kyle works the shampoo in with his fingers. It's a good feeling, getting Stan clean again, though they'll be more sex sweat under the sheets soon. Stan stands up to rinse his hair and Kyle admires him, hard as hell but not especially anxious to get off, three orgasms into the day.

"This is what it would be like if we lived together," Kyle says, maybe stupidly. Stan rubs the water from his eyes and blinks at him.

"My shower's nicer," he says. "You should see the athlete dorms. It's sick, dude."

"I bet it is," Kyle says, thinking of all those massive meatheads in the same house. "Is it shared? The shower area?"

"Only in the locker room. We all have our own rooms, our own bathrooms, and I've got this little kitchen thing that I never use. You could move in there and no one would know."

"Oh, right." This dampens Kyle's arousal considerably. He gets the soap and washes in the places that Stan missed or didn't clean thoroughly enough. "I'm sure the gay sex would fly right under everybody's radar."

Stan lets the subject drop, and Kyle isn't sure if he's glad for this or annoyed. He keeps floundering between wanting to talk about it - Stan will return to that world, Kyle will stay snowed into this one - and wanting to pretend that neither of them are thinking about it. He tries to avoid Stan's eyes, but Stan pulls him close, and it would be more incriminating not to look up at him. Kyle does, laying his hands on Stan's chest.

"Are you ready to get out?" Kyle asks, pretending to be fine. He wants to be fine; he needs these five days, these six nights. Surely Stan will leave first thing on the morning after Thanksgiving. He might even have to leave on Thanksgiving night, if the airport runways are clear enough. They'll be wanting him for practice before the big game.

"Just let me look at you for a second," Stan says. He puts his hands on Kyle's shoulders and takes a deep breath. There's a combination of admiration and seriousness in his expression that makes Kyle afraid he might be about to propose marriage, or suggest that they should run away from their lives together.

"Kyle," Stan says. The pause is worrying. Kyle braces himself.

"Yes?"

"Everything's such bullshit without you. It's like I'm in a movie and I have to keep acting like it's all real or I'll lose my part. But it's a boring ass movie and I never get a break."

Kyle doesn't know what to say. He can't encourage Stan to quit playing football; it's obvious that he loves it when he talks about it, even if he loves Kyle more. Kyle remembers what it was like to watch him play. He never had any interest in football until he realized how good Stan was, and noticed the way grown men would suck in their breath and hold it while they watched him run, the way his throws arced like fine art, the whole world on pause until the ball was caught. Kyle has only experienced it from the stands, hasn't played football since he was eight, but he's tried to imagine what it must be like for Stan: breathing hard inside that helmet, being able to hold a strategy in his head while he reacts to the chaos around him, no time to rethink things after that first leap into action, just moving as fast as he can, and then the sudden knowing that he should throw, the other, bigger guys knocking him to the ground as soon as the ball is gone, all of them listening for the crowd's reaction. Kyle has never wanted Stan to lose himself to this, because he's so much more than what he can do on a football field, but he doesn't want Stan to turn his back on it, either.

"You know what I haven't seen yet?" Kyle asks.

"What?"

"The pictures from the road trip."

He's pretty sure it's the wrong thing to say, that Stan wants to talk, or to hear something equally heartbroken from Kyle, about how he doesn't even feel like he's in a movie when he's not with Stan, how he just feels hollow and strange to himself, like a person he doesn't really know yet. Stan's eyes sink at little at the corners, but he smiles.

"I brought my camera," he says. "They're still loaded on there. I got some pretty good ones."

They get out of the shower and go back to Kyle's room still dripping, adding more water to the already soggy carpet that stretches from Kyle's bed to Jacob's. When they're dry they put on fresh underwear and climb under the blankets, Kyle's cock still a little on the heavy side but not in dire need of attention. They prop up pillows against the bed's short headboard, and Kyle slides under Stan's arm, pulling his laptop over so that Stan can plug his camera into it. They both laugh at the first picture, which is of Cartman's giant piles of food.

"I forgot you took that," Kyle says.

"It had to be documented."

Their concerns about the future are put on hold as they look at the pictures, laughing hard at most of them: sparrows eating french fries right out of Kenny's hand, Cartman flicking off the WELCOME TO UTAH sign, Kyle glowering up at the camera after having just woken up, his head on Stan's leg. Kyle's chest fills with embarrassed contentment as they flip through the pictures, because there are more of him than anything else: Kyle sleeping, sitting in a booth at Denny's, laughing at something Kenny said, eating ice cream in his boxer shorts, and plenty of him just smiling for the camera, for Stan.

"I feel like I look five years older than I did in these pictures," Kyle says.

"You don't, dude. You were just more tan. And curlier."

"There aren't enough of you," Kyle says as Stan scrolls past scenic shots taken from the car window. "I should have taken more of you."

"You could take some now," Stan says, faking a pose. "Just don't let them end up on Deadspin."

"Ha." Now Kyle is back to thinking about the football thing, the future. He wants to stay in the past for a little longer, especially now that he knows how this particular story ended. He lost Stan, or tried to throw him away, but he got him back, and he's so warm against Kyle under the blankets that he's already sweating again, just a little.

Kyle's phone rings, and he wants to ignore it, but it might be his mother and she knows perfectly well that he's not in class or studying at the library, his usual excuses for blowing off her calls not viable. He picks up his phone and laughs when he sees that it's not his mother calling.

"Hey, Kenny," he says, looking to Stan, who smiles.

"Did you get my email?" Kenny asks.

"Yeah, I got it. Sorry, I -"

"So when are you flying out? Tonight? Tomorrow? Let's make this happen, Kyle. I'm not letting you stay there alone. It's not an option."

"I'm not alone," Kyle says. He settles under Stan's arm again, scooting against him.

"Oh," Kenny says. "Did you end up going home?"

"No, I'm in my dorm."

"Okay." Kenny sounds alarmed. Kyle is enjoying it, tracing his finger around Stan's belly button with his free hand. "Who's with you?" Kenny asks.

"A big, naked guy who's been in bed with me all day," Kyle says.

"Hilarious, Kyle. Seriously, though, I -" He hears Stan laughing and pauses. "Wait, who - what -"

"Hi, Kenny," Stan says, pulling the phone over to speak into it. Kyle cracks up, and holds the phone between him and Stan so they can both hear Kenny's reaction. He's silent for awhile, though Kyle can hear his huffing disbelief.

"Was the naked part serious?" Of course this is Kenny's first concern. "Is the pointless torture over? Did you guys finally fuck?"

"We're doing it right now," Stan says. "Nice timing, Kenny."

"Way to ruin the moment," Kyle says, beaming at Stan. He loves this, sharing a phone call, being discovered together, having an inside joke that involves being naked with Stan.

Kenny sputters for awhile, then laughs. Kyle can hear him calling Butters over to the phone.

"They did it!" Kenny shouts. "Stan and Kyle! It's happened! Oh, Christ, Jesus Lord, it's a Thanksgiving miracle. I'm putting you on speaker."

"Hey, guys!" Butters says. He sounds elated to be alive, as usual, but it doesn't seem forced like it did in South Park. "Congratulations!"

"You need to send us pictures," Kenny says. "I've been banging my head against a wall over this since grade school. I require proof."

"Alright," Stan says. "Hang on a sec."

He holds the phone back far enough to capture his face and Kyle's, together on the propped up pillows. Kyle pulls the blankets up higher and rests his head on Stan's shoulder, smiling. Stan sends the picture to Kenny, and after a few seconds Butters squeals, or maybe, actually, that was Kenny.

"Jesus, you guys look happy." Kenny sounds like he'll cry. "Okay, I've got it. Come here for Thanksgiving. Butters is going to make this amazing rosemary turkey thing, we're doing a whole Thanksgiving special on our site, it's gonna be great -"

"Sorry, there's a blizzard," Kyle says, not wanting these days with Stan overwhelmed by Kenny and Butters and their whole new world. "But thanks for the invite."

"Oh, fine. You guys should be alone for awhile, anyway, I guess. Jesus, Kyle, can you admit that I was right now? That you should have stopped ignoring him months ago?"

"Yeah, Kyle," Stan says.

"I don't know," Kyle says. "This has been pretty -" He looks at Stan. "Perfect. Just how - he showed up and -" He drops the phone down so that Kenny won't hear him kiss Stan. Kenny is shouting something, probably asking for another picture.

"Fine, don't admit it, but I was right," Kenny says when Kyle brings the phone back up. "Goddamn, I don't even know how to live in a world where you two are actually honest with each other. What will I worry about?"

"Global warming," Stan suggests. "Or, you know, not letting this porn situation get out of hand."

"Porn situation? Really, Stan? It's a cultural revolution. Tell 'em, Butters."

"Oh, it's been a lot of fun," Butters says. "And we bought a car!"

"A 1970 Cadillac Deville, mint," Kenny says.

"How much did that cost?" Stan asks.

"Don't worry your pretty little head over it," Kenny says. "Everything is well in hand, really. We're thinking of putting up a personal message to our parents on the site, now that we're getting kind of famous."

"What would the message say?" Kyle asks, exchanging a wary look with Stan.

"'Go fuck yourselves.' All caps, huge font, black letters flashing on a white background. What do you think?"

"Um," Stan says.

"As your surrogate parents, that hurts us," Kyle says.

"Oh, you know that's not directed at you guys. God, what am I going to do with myself? Mom and Dad are back together! It's every kid's dream!"

"This is getting creepy," Stan says.

"Says the guy who told me he was in the middle of sex when I called."

"Are you two gonna be okay in that blizzard?" Butters asks. Kyle had almost forgotten he was there. The whole idea of Kenny and Butters living together as boyfriends in sunny California is almost as hard to grasp as the fact that they're an internet porn sensation.

"We'll be okay," Kyle says. "We're from Colorado, dude. We can handle blizzards."

"You'd be surprised how fast you get used to being warm all the time," Kenny says.

"Yeah," Kyle says. He reaches under the blankets to put his hand on Stan's thigh. He's already used to it, can't imagine going days, weeks, months without this.

"Well, I'll let you two get back to business," Kenny says. "Call me tomorrow and tell me how it went."

"Right," Kyle says. "That will totally happen."

"Tomorrow, hell, we'll call you immediately afterward," Stan says.

"We'll do a teleconference," Kenny says.

There's a silence then, and Kyle gets the feeling Butters has wandered off, because if he were still present he would make some helpful comment about the weather or his turkey recipe, just to be polite. There's no need for politeness between the three of them, even when they're speaking to each other from opposite sides of the country. Kyle can feel Kenny smiling, warm afternoon sunlight spilling in from the window of his studio apartment, Butters humming from the kitchen, Stan and Kyle sheltered together against the storm. Kenny is happy. Kyle can feel it, and he knows Stan can, too.

"Well," Kenny says. "You should at least think about coming out here for New Year's Eve. We're gonna have a great party."

"Yeah, you should," Stan says to Kyle. "I could show you my, like. Life."

"Okay," Kyle says. The idea of little touristic glimpses of Stan's life is so depressing, their romance reduced to visits that begin and end at airport baggage claims.

"Alright, I'll let you go," Kenny says, and suddenly Kyle feels like he was Kenny's egg all along.

They say their goodbyes and hang up, the sky outside beginning to darken properly now, snowflakes fattening up as the temperature drops. Kyle rolls against Stan and they kiss for awhile, the blankets pulled up to their chins, their legs sliding together.

"You think they're gonna be okay?" Kyle asks.

"Butters and Kenny?"

"Yeah."

"I don't know, man, but I bet Kenny asked Butters the same thing about us as soon as he hung up."

"You think?" Kyle sits up and grabs the champagne, twisting off the little cage around the cork.

"Yeah, I'm pretty positive." Stan rubs his fingers over Kyle's back. "You and Kenny are funny. You're so worried about each other all the time."

"We are not. Or - you are, too. About Kenny, you've been worried about this porn thing."

"Yeah, I worry about him, but not about his love life."

"Are you accusing me of being over-invested?" Kyle can't tell if Stan is jealous or charmed.

"No," Stan sits up and kisses Kyle's cheek. "I think it's sweet. You know how to open that?"

"Yes." Kyle doesn't actually. He tugs at it, grunting, and elbows Stan when he snickers.

"Let me," Stan says, taking the bottle from him. "See, you've got to angle it, preferably away from windows, and then use a towel - a blanket, in this case - and you turn, see?"

Kyle jumps when it pops. Stan smirks and blows smoke from the tip of the bottle. They drink it in bed, out of mismatched cups, watching crap on TV. The glow from the screen starts to feel like a fire they're warming themselves by as the darkness thickens outside, and Kyle begins to feel a little drunk after his second plastic cup full of champagne. At six o'clock, they watch a report about the blizzard on the news. From beneath the blankets, pressed against Stan, the storm seems like harmless entertainment, a dragon that they've already slain.

"Are you hungry?" Kyle asks as Stan pours him a third cup of champagne.

"Yeah," Stan says. He settles against the pillows again, drawing Kyle to him. They sip from their cups and watch a commercial for sub sandwiches.

"Do you want to fuck me?" Kyle asks. He's not sure why the question seemed to follow, but now that he's asked it he's scared, clutching at Stan, his face hidden against Stan's neck.

"I – are you – you want me to?" Stan says. He looks down at Kyle, and it should be a comfort to realize that Stan is scared, too, but Kyle doesn't want him to hesitate. "I mean," Stan says. "Are you, like. Ready for that?"

"Yeah," Kyle says. He's not scared about having Stan inside him, just about the process of getting him in there. It's going to hurt, and neither of them really knows what they're doing. He watches Stan's pulse pound for a few beats, then looks up to meet his eyes again. There's less fear in them now, more interest.

"We should eat dinner first," Stan says. Kyle laughs, and Stan smiles queasily, pulling Kyle on top of him. "Your stomach's growling," he says. He covers Kyle's ass with his hands, and Kyle stiffens, thinking about how intimate those parts of their bodies are going to have to get before Stan's dick can fit inside him. He sits up, straddling Stan's hips, showing him his tented boxers.

"Do you want Easy Mac or instant noodles?" Kyle asks. Stan just stares up at him for awhile, like this is a very serious question, or like he's still thinking about the last one Kyle asked.

"I want a picture of you," Stan says. "Like this. Just like this."

"Don't," Kyle says, covering himself. "Don't make me think about – you know."

"About what?"

"How you'll have to look at pictures of me when you're gone."

He climbs off of Stan and goes to wash his hands in the little sink on his side of the room. Stan watches him, his head tipped back over the pillows. He looks cute, confused and a little drunk, and Kyle wants a picture of him, too. He gets Stan's camera and takes one.

"Sorry," Kyle says.

"For what? You can take my picture, I don't care."

"No, I mean – for bringing it up. Let's just not think about it."

"What, the Fiesta Bowl?"

"Yeah," Kyle says, because that thing has come to represent any and all future separations from Stan. "So? Mac and cheese or noodles?"

"Mac and cheese is noodles."

"Okay, smart ass, you want me to pick for you?"

"Yeah, I do."

"Are you getting off on me making you dinner?" Kyle asks, going for the noodle boxes.

"Maybe." Stan lifts the camera and Kyle flicks him off. "It's only because everything you do gets me off," he says, taking the picture once Kyle's back is turned. "I get off on the way you tie your shoes. Man, you should have heard me at that camp this summer, I couldn't shut my stupid mouth, everything was 'my friend Kyle does this thing,' and, 'this one time, my friend Kyle,' and, 'my friend Kyle says.'"

"Oh, Jesus," Kyle says. He turns from the microwave, beaming. "Did they accuse you of being in love with me?"

"Of course. And my nickname was 'My Friend Kyle.' They wrote it on my locker. Then, when it had been like a month and you still wouldn't talk to me, I made this, like, resolution to stop talking about you, and they'd all ask me how my friend Kyle was doing lately. I'd laugh or whatever, but goddamn, that question was, like. Getting stabbed. 'Cause I didn't know. Or I did, but only through vague reports from Kenny."

"You understand, though, right?" Kyle says. The microwave is heating their noodles, and he's standing beside it in his boxer shorts, not sure if he feels guilty or vindicated. "I mean, you get why I couldn't talk to you."

"I guess," Stan says. "Kenny said you needed time. He said we needed time, both of us. I was like, time? I need Kyle. And Kenny would try to get me to admit why, and I'd tell him to fuck off, and then he wouldn't talk to me, either, but he'd break down after a week or so."

"We were both stubborn," Kyle says. He'd imagined they would need to discuss this at length when and if they talked again, but now it seems irrelevant.

"I'm getting kind of drunk," Stan says, pouring himself more champagne. "I guess 'cause I haven't eaten much."

"Here," Kyle says. He serves Stan his noodles, the plastic bowl wrapped in paper towels so it won't burn his hands. Stan sits up to take it from him, and Kyle kisses his forehead before going back to the microwave for his own bowl.

"Kyle?" Stan says.

"Yeah?" He's stirring his noodle bowl with chopsticks, hoping that Stan will be impressed that he's learned how to eat noodles authentically.

"I want you to transfer to UCLA," Stan says. His voice is pinched, afraid. "No, I. Need you to. I know it's a lot to ask –"

"Please, can we not do this?" Kyle says, keeping his back to Stan. "It's just gonna make it harder. They wouldn't let me transfer in the middle of the year, and even if they did, I can't afford the tuition, I couldn't even afford a plane ticket right now –"

"We could drive." Stan sounds desperate, and he looks so lost when Kyle turns to him, the bowl of noodles cupped in his hands. "And I'd pay for everything. Your tuition. I could afford it, Kyle, they give me money all the time, it's sick –"

"That's insane," Kyle says. "That's your money, that's your future, you've got no guarantee that it's going to keep coming in like this, you could be hurt or just –"

"You're my future," Stan says. "And I can't – I can't have this and walk away from it. I can't go back without you, I won't."

"Eat something," Kyle says, shaking his head. "You're drunk, like you said."

"So? I've been thinking about this all day. Goddammit, Kyle, I knew you'd say no."

"Yeah? That's probably why you actually offered. I'm not letting you pay for my college, Stan. Christ. It's too much."

They eat their noodles in angry silence, staring at the TV. Kyle can't pay attention to it, and he knows Stan isn't really watching, either. Stan is an idiot if he thinks Kyle could actually accept what he's offering. That money would disappear so fast, and Kyle would have to live up to what Stan had paid for. He would have to hide while he was doing it, too, or risk scaring away the source of any future money.

"Guess what?" Stan says when he's finished the noodles, setting them on the shelf that runs along the side of Kyle's bed.

"What?" Kyle asks, annoyed by his tone.

"I'm not gonna fuck you unless you agree to at least think about coming to California."

Kyle rolls his eyes. "What are you, five? I'm not doing it, Stan. I want to be with you, but that's too high a price, it would create so much tension –"

"Why? Why would it create tension? You're my family, Kyle, and the only reason you couldn't get a loan and come out there with me in the first place is because you bailed my parents out of debt."

"Don't you think paying for my tuition might throw up a few red flags with the administration?" Kyle says. "And we couldn't live together, not without people getting suspicious. You – you'd have to get a fake girlfriend. God, I'd hate you for it–"

"What are you talking about?" Stan asks, frowning. "Why would I need a fake girlfriend?"

"You're only a freshman and you're already getting all this attention! It's only going to get worse, and no one is going to want you to be gay, least of all you, not publicly."

"You don't know that," Stan says, but his face is coloring, his shoulders slumped.

"Let's just call this what it is, since you're bound and fucking determined to ruin the mood by talking about it," Kyle says. "It's an interlude. A little gay interlude that no one on the west coast will find out about. When it's over, you can go back and be superman again, and you won't even have to feel bad about it, because you offered to pay my tuition, knowing I wouldn't let you."

"Fine." Stan gets out of the bed. "Offer rescinded."

"Good! What are you doing?"

"Getting dressed."

"Why?" Kyle's heart starts slamming, and he wants to choke his self of three seconds ago for saying what he said, though he knows it's true, and that it's going to hurt so bad when Stan goes back to being normal and beloved.

"I don't know," Stan says. "I think I'm going for a walk."

"No, you're not! Stan, stop. It's dangerous out there, you don't even know your way around."

"It's fine," Stan says. "I grew up in Colorado, remember? I can handle some fucking snow."

"Stan, no! Please, I'm sorry, I was being an asshole, but you can't –"

"I would quit football for you!" Stan shouts, throwing his boot down before he can get it on his foot. "I would, if you asked, and you don't even care, everything I do is so unimpressive – see, I knew this shit would happen, this is why I never made a move on you."

"Because you'd have to give up football?" Kyle says, starting to cry.

"No! Because I knew I'd fuck it up!"

"You haven't fucked anything up – stop, you can't go outside!"

"I need some air," Stan says, sitting down to tie his boots.

"I don't know what you want me to say," Kyle says. His voice is trembling but not quite wrecked. "I keep trying not to think about it, but it's all I can think about, how you're going to leave, how I can't come with you –"

"I just told you, you can come with me!" Stan gets up and throws his arms out. "Why don't you just admit to me that you don't even want to?"

"What? Of course I do, but I can't just –"

"If you wanted to, you'd do it," Stan says, grabbing his coat. "It's not that complicated."

"It is complicated! How can you not see that? It's complicated by the money, by football, by – by –"

"By you, Kyle! You're complicating it. Trust me, I'd know. I spent all those years doing the same fucking thing, exactly what you're doing now, because I was scared. There was always some reason why I couldn't just be with you. I wasted all that time when we lived two minutes away from each other, and maybe we did need to be apart, maybe we did need time, but I've had time, and I know what I want now." Stan is at the door, zipped into his coat, and Kyle should run after him, but he can't move.

"What do you want?" Kyle asks. He feels so small and defenseless, wearing only his boxers while Stan is dressed in two layers of armor.

"I told you what I want," Stan says. "If it comes down to you or football, I pick you. If it comes down to you or the money, I pick you. Fuck, if I could get into this school, I'd transfer here. If that's what you want, I'll do it. So figure out what the fuck you want, alright?"

Before Kyle can even get his mouth working, Stan has walked out of the room and slammed the door behind him. Kyle listens to his footsteps moving down the hall, then down the stairwell. He feels like the world is rewinding, like what happened this morning is being erased. He wipes his eyes clear and grabs the champagne, drinking from the bottle. Stan is wrong; he's not inventing problems, he's not just scared. The fact that they would have to hide what they were to each other if Kyle moved to California is reality, and it would be hard, painful, dangerous. Kyle can't move out there, anyway, can't take Stan's money and answer to an irate Randy Marsh when it's gone. Then there's Kyle's parents, who would be humiliated if they found out Stan was paying for Kyle's education because they couldn't. He could ask Stan to transfer here, but that would be the end of his football career, and Stan would end up hating Kyle for it somewhere down the line. Kyle would hate himself, in any of these scenarios, but he hates himself most for letting Stan walk out of the room.

He finishes the champagne and watches the clock, waiting for Stan to return. It's dark outside, and the muted television is showing a weather report that says a second wave of snow is coming tonight, that residents might wake up to another ten inches. Kyle falls asleep, pulled under by the weight of the alcohol, and has terrible nightmares about Stan getting lost in the snow, buried under an avalanche, gone forever. He wakes up thinking the bed is collapsing, and he gasps, flails, going still when Stan puts a hand against his back and whispers shhh.

"It's okay," he says, still whispering. "It's just me." His hand is cold; he smells like snow and pine needles. Kyle rolls onto his back and rubs his eyes, disoriented enough to think that they're back in high school, that Stan is returning from a date with Wendy. Stan climbs under the blankets like he always did back then, but this time he pulls Kyle to him, into his arms. They kiss, and Kyle lets himself stay in the past for a few seconds longer, pretending this is the night that Stan finally wanted more from him and took it, without words, without hesitation. He's wearing a t-shirt and his boxer shorts, and he lets Kyle push the shirt off, squirming out of the boxers before sliding Kyle's down, too. They sigh into each other's mouths when they're pressed together, ankle to shoulder, wearing nothing.

"I'm sorry," Kyle whispers, looking up at Stan when he pauses to touch Kyle's face, his hair. The room is dark, and Stan must have turned the television off. Kyle's eyes adjust in the moonlight through the window, and he takes stock of Stan, still shaken from his nightmares as his hands find their way across Stan's back, down to his legs, back up to his shoulders. He's shivering a little. It must have been so cold out there.

"Don't be sorry," Stan says. "It's a lot to lay on you."

"I don't want to lose you," Kyle says, the words bringing the threat of tears back into his voice. Stan shakes his head.

"You can't lose me," he says. "I'm yours. Whatever you decide, no matter what, always."

Kyle kisses him, wrapping his legs around Stan's waist, his arms around Stan's back. There's nothing Stan can say that will make Kyle confident enough to believe that he'll be able to keep him, that something bigger and stronger and better won't take him away. But there is one thing, maybe, that he can do.

"Please," Kyle says, shifting so that his ass rubs against Stan's cock, which is quickly growing hard. "I need it, please, I want you inside me."

Stan stares down at him, looking so sad for a moment that Kyle thinks he'll deny him this, but then Stan kisses him, his breath shuddering from him, and when he takes hold of Kyle's shoulders Kyle knows that he'll get what he asked for.

"I've wanted this," Stan says, whispering into Kyle's ear, "So much. So much, Kyle. God, I hated myself for it. I thought that – even if, even if you wanted me to kiss you, you wouldn't want this."

"Why?" Kyle strokes his hair.

"I don't know." Stan rubs his hands down over Kyle's chest, then up again, thumbing his nipples gently. "Because nothing I could do to you would do it justice."

"It?"

"How much I want to know what it's like," Stan says. He leans down, lowering his face to Kyle's, nudging Kyle's nose with his. "To be in you. To have that from you, to – to have you let me in."

Kyle groans and kisses him, rubbing his cock against Stan's stomach at the thought of letting him in, little by little, getting opened. He's seen porn and has read gay sex guides, has poked around down there a few times himself, but nothing could prepare him for how much he wants it now, his whole body begging to be stripped of its innocence by Stan.

They use Kyle's Cetaphil lotion for lube, the same bottle that Kyle used last night when he jerked himself off to Stan's pictures. That seems so long ago already, and so impossibly small, Kyle's fantasies such a poor approximation of what it really feels like to have Stan all around him, parting Kyle's legs with one hand under the blankets, feeling him with a slick finger.

"You're tight," Stan whispers when he starts to push inside. Kyle nods, sweating, trying to stay relaxed. It helps that this feels like a waking dream, the snow falling like soft music past the window. He's read that you're supposed to bear down, so he does, and Stan's finger slides in deeply, both of them groaning.

"Goddamn," Kyle says. He can't believe this is finally happening, and can't imagine a world where he doesn't have this, how he ever lived without trusting Stan this much.

"Is it okay?" Stan asks, kissing Kyle's cheeks. Kyle nods.

"Feels good," he says, heat spreading across his face. "How - uh. Do you like it?"

"Yeah." Stan lets out a choppy breath. He pulls his finger almost all the way out and pushes it in again, slow. Kyle's eyes flutter shut, and when his head tips back Stan bends down to lick his neck. "You're so fucking hot," he says. Kyle laughs, squeezing around Stan's finger when he does.

"Like, temperature-wise, or -?"

"Both," Stan says. "It's so – warm, Kyle, God, so tight."

"Ngh. Yeah. Keep doing that. Feels good."

They roll onto their sides, Kyle's leg hooked around Stan to allow him access to his ass, Stan's other arm snug around Kyle's shoulders. Kyle thought this part would be the most embarrassing of all, but he feels so safe, kissing Stan while his finger sinks in and pulls out, pressing back for more and whining happily when he gets it.

"Kyle," Stan says, breathing Kyle's name into his mouth.

"Hmm?"

"You – ah. I don't know. I can't believe it's you. It's finally you."

Kyle wraps his hand around his cock and Stan's, jerking them together, matching the pace of Stan's finger. Stan picks up on this, and when Kyle moves his hand faster, Stan does the same with his finger.

"I want your dick," Kyle says, biting at Stan's lip. Stan moans.

"Nuh-uh. Not yet. Shit, you're so little. So tight. Don't want to hurt you."

"It won't hurt," Kyle says, though he's pretty sure it will, at first. "Just – just think about how good that's gonna feel around your cock."

"I am thinking about it," Stan says, groaning. "Trying not to come."

"You can't come yet." Kyle is playing with Stan's lip, rolling his hips back as Stan's finger pushes into him faster, deeper, but not deep enough. "Not until you're in me."

"You've thought about it?" They're so close, so connected, and Kyle can hear it when Stan swallows. "About my come in you?"

"In me, on me, dripping out of me when I'm all used up–"

"Fuck, Kyle, Jesus."

Stan removes his finger slowly, and Kyle flexes when it's gone, feeling the stretch, the way he stays open even without Stan's finger, just a little. He rolls onto his back and watches Stan pour lotion into his palm.

"Are you sure you're ready?" Stan asks as he slicks himself.

No. "Yes," Kyle says. There's only one way to find out. Kyle takes hold of the backs of his knees and pulls himself open, lifting his legs the way he does when he needs to come, just like all those times when he's been deeply afraid that someone might see him like this, spread and defenseless. Stan curses under his breath and rubs his hands over Kyle's legs.

"Should I put a pillow under you?" Stan asks. "I've heard, um, I mean. I've read that it helps."

"Okay," Kyle says, allowing this mostly to make Stan feel better. Tilted at this angle, Kyle is even more vulnerable, more obviously available, open to what's about to happen to him. He takes a deep breath and lets it out, staring up at Stan.

"Tell me to stop if it hurts," Stan says. He's stroking himself sort of anxiously, as if he's taking in the dimensions of his cock and wondering how this is going to work.

"Just go slow," Kyle says. He's beginning to feel awake enough to worry, but his cock is dribbling onto his stomach and he wants this, needs it. "Really slow."

Stan rearranges the blankets over them before lining himself up, and Kyle is glad for the shelter, though his skin is sweltering already. He grows exponentially hotter when he feels Stan's cockhead bumping against him, timid and too big, way too big. Kyle takes two handfuls of the blankets and tries to keep breathing normally.

"Hey," Stan says, not missing Kyle's panic. He leans down to kiss him, stroking his face with his thumb. "Want me to stretch you more?"

"Yes," Kyle says, feigning annoyance. "With your dick. Come on, please. I'm ready, just. Do it."

It's a long, slow burn, and Kyle feels every inch of it, Stan's cock reforming his body as it pushes into him, making him acutely aware of his previously untouched places, his nerves screaming with agony one second and interest the next, everything inside him tumbling over like dominoes. Stan is touching his cock, stroking his belly, but Kyle can barely register either sensation, all of his thought processes concentrated on taking Stan in, sweat rolling down his sides now.

"I'm about halfway in," Stan says, watching him. Kyle laughs deliriously and touches Stan's chest with shaking hands.

"Half?" he says in disbelief.

"Want me to stop? Or we could –"

"No, God, we've come this far. Keep – keep going."

Kyle isn't sure how long it takes to get Stan all the way inside him, but when he's fully seated they both let out long breaths of relief, Kyle's body throbbing around the intrusion as Stan drops down to kiss him. He wraps his legs around Stan's back, gasping at the feeling of moving while Stan is in him, so deep. They kiss for a long time, and Kyle can't decide which of them is shaking harder.

"Are you okay?" Stan asks, whispering the words against Kyle's bottom lip. Kyle nods slowly, and it's true, he's okay.

"So full," he says, and Stan groans.

"Jesus, you feel like heaven," he says.

"My name's Kyle, but thanks."

Stan grins. "Don't make me laugh," he says.

"Why not?"

"'Cause I'm gonna come as soon as I move, and laughing might do it."

They kiss again, softly now, both of them trying to keep still. Kyle has his hands on Stan's waist, holding him loosely, his fingers moving through the fine layer of sweat that's coating Stan's skin.

"Was it like this with her?" Kyle asks, because he can't stop wondering, even if now is not the time. Stan shakes his head, dropping down to lick some sweat from Kyle's jaw.

"No," he says. "It wasn't like this."

"What's different? Other than the obvious."

"I didn't love her like I love you," Stan says, lifting up to meet Kyle's eyes.

"Which is how?" Kyle says. He gives Stan a little squeeze, watching his eyes change with the pressure.

"More than anything," Stan says. "Most of all."

With Stan inside him, all around him, as close as he'll ever get, Kyle believes this is true. He knows it's true for him, that he'll never measure anything he cares about on the same scale he uses for his feelings for Stan. He moves his hips in a tiny twitch, and Stan groans.

"You can move, too," Kyle says.

"I don't want it to be over," Stan says, sounding like he'll cry.

"We could do it again," Kyle says, because he wants to learn how to take it hard, to try everything.

"Yeah, but." Stan kisses him, and Kyle notices how wet his mouth has gotten, his tongue slow and heavy against Kyle's. "But this is our first time," Stan says when he pulls back, nudging Kyle with his nose.

"Do you want to take a picture?" Kyle asks, and Stan laughs. He doesn't come, but he starts moving his hips soon after, fucking Kyle in shallow strokes until he's asking for more, begging, pulling on Stan's ass, and then Stan does come, shoving in hard. Kyle jerks himself off while he watches Stan's face, his eyes pinching shut and opening slow as he pants through the last of his orgasm, pupils blown, lids heavy. When Kyle comes he crushes his mouth to Stan's, making him swallow his moans.

Kyle isn't irrevocably changed until Stan slides free, slow and careful. He feels Stan leave him with a heart wrenching sense of loss, though there's relief, too, come spilling from his stretched-out body. He rolls into Stan's arms and tucks himself to his chest, letting Stan pet him like he's newly fragile. He is, it's true, and he doesn't mind Stan knowing.

"You came," Stan says softly, his fingers trailing down Kyle's spine, then back up again.

"Of course I came," Kyle says. He lifts his face and kisses the underside of Stan's chin. "You felt so good."

"Really?" Stan scoots down so that they're face to face. "Not just – too big?"

"No. I mean, is your cock a little overwhelming at first? Yes. But I want to, like. Learn it. I want to get really good at taking it."

"Kyle, goddamn." Stan is grinning. "You'll make me hard again."

They kiss for awhile, both of them sleepy but unwilling to close their eyes. Kyle's eyelids get heavy, and he yawns against Stan's lips, making him laugh.

"You're so cute," Stan says. "The way you squeak when you yawn."

"Shut up," Kyle says, smiling. He rolls over, tucking his back against Stan's chest. He can still feel Stan's come leaking out of him, and it's the kind of thing that would normally freak him out – bodily fluids, going to bed unclean, the sensation of anything dripping from anywhere. He loves this, though, weirdly, and he's flooded with a sense of accomplishment. He made Stan feel good and got filled up with the evidence. Maybe it's a dumb thing to be proud of, but he can't help it. He's smug, smiling to himself, warm in Stan's arms.

"I had a pretty good walk, before," Stan says. "It was nice out there, really quiet. Kind of eerie, though."

"I was worried about you," Kyle says. "How long were you gone?"

"I don't know, an hour? I had to think."

"Mm. What'd you think about?"

"You. How much I love you."

"Jesus, Stan." Kyle rolls over to kiss him. "I love you, too. I don't deserve you, though. I'm such an ungrateful asshole."

"No, you're not. It wasn't fair, what I was saying. I'm putting all the pressure on you, asking you to make the decision. I just want you with me all the time." He wraps Kyle up more tightly, his lips coming to rest against Kyle's forehead. "That's all I want."

"That's all I want, too," Kyle says. "But I wouldn't want to wreck everything for you, with football. What if they found out you're gay?"

"I was thinking about that, too," Stan says. "I was thinking maybe I should just tell them."

"What?" Kyle is suddenly wide awake, sitting up on his elbow. "No! No way. You'd have death threats. You remember those guys at the gas station? Cartman won't always be there with his gun."

"Yeah, well, maybe I don't need Cartman to take care of me. I could handle it. I would have allies, too, you know, if I came out. Not just enemies."

"Okay, and your allies would be there to pat your back, while your enemies would be firing at you from the stands."

"I think you're being a little dramatic."

"Your teammates would reject you! They would accuse you of staring at them in the locker room!"

"I bet some of them would be cool with it," Stan says uncertainly, mumbling.

"Yeah, maybe one or two. And how about the coaches? You'd have tobacco spittle in your locker every day, and they wouldn't let you start at quarterback. They'd make up some bullshit excuse about why an upperclassman should do it instead."

"Fine, forget it," Stan says. "You make valid points, Counselor Broflovski."

"I'm not being a lawyer, I'm being your concerned –" He stops there, not sure if he should say it.

"Boyfriend," Stan supplies. He draws Kyle back to him, tucking him against his chest. "You're my concerned boyfriend. Or hysterical boyfriend, to be more accurate."

"So, yeah," Kyle says, so happy that he wants to squirm like a four year old in footie pajamas, because it's finally Christmas morning. "Don't tell anyone. Except, maybe, you know. Your parents?"

"It won't be news to my mom," Stan says. "When she found out we hadn't talked since June she said, 'Stanley, what did you do?' I think she thought I scared you away by, you know."

"By randomly trying to kiss me? I'm flattered that she thought it was you and not me."

"My dad probably won't be surprised, either. Do your parents know about you?"

"Stan, everyone in South Park has known that I'm in love with you since middle school. Yes, my parents know. Ike, too. They were there, you know, when I got home from California. When I was a mess."

"I was a mess, too," Stan says, squeezing him. "That day. God, I was so worried, and then Kenny texted you and you said you'd left, and I was furious. I still had so much to say to you. I thought we'd have time."

"Time," Kyle says, feeling sleepy again. "Five days. Unless you have to fly out there on Thanksgiving?"

"No, we're all flying in on Friday," Stan says. "Everybody's going to be with their families for Thanksgiving."

"So, five days." Kyle sighs and presses his face to Stan's chest. "It's gonna go by so fast. Just like that road trip."

"Yeah, but this time we won't have to listen to Cartman's crap, or get chased by hillbillies, or rush you to the hospital –"

"God willing. Don't jinx it."

Kyle sleeps very deeply, warm and exhausted, distantly aware that he's in bed with Stan again, and that they're closer than they've ever been under the blankets. Some part of Stan is still inside him and always will be, no matter how far away he is. He wakes at dawn and rolls over, pressing back against Stan as he gets comfortable again. Stan sighs in his sleep and readjusts himself around Kyle, tucking him to his chest like he's a stuffed toy. Neither of them ever slept with stuffed animals, and in Kyle's case it was because he wouldn't want to appear babyish in front of Stan. It's funny, now, because Stan has seen him at his softest, lying on his back with his legs spread, and Stan was the one who looked scared. When Kyle falls asleep again he dreams that he's in the stands at South Park High, watching the players on the football field and searching for Stan, who appears at his side, wearing his jersey but no pads or helmet.

"What are you doing here?" Kyle asks, confused. "You're supposed to be playing."

"No, I'm not," Stan says. He puts his arm around Kyle and kisses him, letting everyone around them see, unafraid. When he pulls back he's smiling, calm in the face of Kyle's disbelief.

"Did Kenny tell you to do that?" Kyle asks, because in the dream this question makes sense. Stan laughs and shakes his head.

"No one told me to, dude," he says. "I just wanted to."

"But, Stan, the game –"

"Fuck the game, Kyle. This is where I want to be."

They kiss again, and Kyle is elated, because this is a resolution to all of their problems: Stan wants to be with him. This is what he's been trying to drill into Kyle's head, and in the dream Kyle finally gets it, opening his mouth for Stan's tongue, letting everyone stare.

When he wakes up Stan is still sleeping, snoring a little and drooling on his neck. Kyle shifts and Stan moans as if to warn him against moving again, but he sits up anyway and looks out the window. The snow has stopped, but it must have been falling all night. Kyle can see the building's front entrance from his window, and it's almost completely blocked off by the snow.

"Kyle?" Stan says, groping for him, his eyes still closed.

"I'm here," Kyle says. He gets back under the blankets and wraps around Stan, kissing his messy hair. "I think we're snowed in," he says. Stan grunts.

"Good," he says.

The days blur together, a languid combination of sex and junk food, warm blankets that smell like their come, laughing at porn on Kyle's laptop and trying new things on each other after night fall, Stan fucking Kyle a little harder every night, until that feels like the only word Kyle knows, until he's grabbing Stan's ass and growling it out, harder, harder, harder. When Stan has finished, pulled out, when he's petting Kyle in the aftermath, both of them still breathing hard, Kyle feels bodiless with satisfaction, perfectly tired, well-used and buzzing. He wants a picture of himself like this, an invisible one, or maybe one that only Stan could see. He can feel Stan wanting it, too, and trying to memorize the way Kyle looks when he's softened and sleepy, separate from Stan again.

They venture outside, tunneling through the snow, and Kyle talks Stan out of breaking into the football stadium, but consents to tossing a ball that Stan found in the rec room around, letting Stan work out imaginary scenarios and tackle him into the snow. It's more fun than Kyle expected, and he's laughing hard every time Stan barrels into him, getting kissed when he's pinned. When they've had enough of the snow they romp through the mostly empty dorms, holding their laughter in when they cross paths with one of the other boys who stayed during the holiday. He's small and spectacled and looks relieved when he realizes they're not going to beat him up. Back up in Kyle's room, pulling each other's clothes off as soon as they're in the door, Kyle wonders if he should be quiet this time, just in case. He decides he probably should, but when he's bent over the bed with Stan's cock pounding into him, he doesn't really care about being discreet, and he screams Stan's name when he comes.

Sleep happens at weird intervals, and they stay up talking all night, keeping their voices low like their parents might knock on the wall if they get too loud. Sometimes they're serious, holding each other's hands and talking about the future, but most of the time they're giggling like potheads, asking each other if they remember this or that from their childhoods and telling all the stories that accumulated during their time apart. Kyle plays music for Stan, rediscovering all the songs that will always be about him. They all sound different now, even "The Rainbow Connection," which Stan sings along to in a Kermit voice. Kyle laughs until he's crying, sitting between Stan's legs and wearing only his underwear and the ushanka, which Stan seems to have some kind of fetish for. He likes Kyle to wear it during sex, and since they're having sex every couple of hours, Kyle just leaves it on.

On Thanksgiving morning, they both resist waking, though they're restless as soon as grayish light comes through the window. They stayed up late the night before, Stan fucking Kyle slow, trying to see how long he could draw it out. They'll do it again tonight, their last night, not wanting to let go, but in the morning they won't be able to linger in bed like this, because Stan has a flight to catch. The roads have mostly cleared, the airports are open, and soon the world won't be on pause anymore.

"I should call my mom," Kyle says when they've lain together for a long time in silence, Stan with his fingers pushed under the flap of Kyle's hat, his thumb stroking across his cheek.

"Me too," Stan says, but he doesn't reach for his phone. He scoots closer, moving in for a kiss. Kyle can taste it on Stan's lips: he's so sad, already thinking about how little time they have left. He wants to make Stan feel better, feel good, so he rolls him onto his back and crawls down his body, kissing his chest, his stomach, the head of his cock. Yesterday they had to take a break from sex, because Kyle was getting sore, but he feels fine now, wants more.

"Are you sure you don't want to do it to me?" Stan asks when Kyle reaches for the Cetaphil.

"Not yet," Kyle says. "Someday, maybe." He's way more nervous at the thought of doing this to Stan than he ever was about having it done to him. He likes being the one who gets to lie back and get worked over, and he likes this, too, sliding down onto Stan's cock while he lies there watching, his hands on Kyle's spread-open thighs.

"Goddamn," Stan says, his fingers tightening as Kyle sinks down lower. "Are you – ah. S-sure you're okay?"

"Mhm-hmm," Kyle says, letting his head fall back, his eyes closing as he seats himself, Stan's cock all the way in now. He's still a little raw, but not enough to make him want to stop, or go a full day without having this. He looks down at Stan, who is touching him absently, watching Kyle's face as his hands move over his chest and down to his cock.

"You look so good right now," Stan says. He sounds like he might cry, and Kyle doesn't want that, not yet.

"It's the hat," he says, adjusting it. Stan smiles, but his eyes are still sad, so Kyle moves on him, and everything but hazy pleasure is wiped from Stan's face.

They sleep again, then shower. Kyle calls his mother, who grills him until he admits that he's not alone, that Stan came to stay with him. She's suspicious about this development, and Kyle gets increasingly angry as she not very subtly implies that Stan is going to hurt him again. He's in a bad mood when he hangs up, and he walks back into the room, where Stan is stretched out on his bed, talking to his own mother.

"Yeah," he says into the phone, lifting his arm so Kyle can slip beneath it. "Mom, God. It's not an issue. Because it's just not, okay, can you trust me? Look, I gotta go. Yeah, okay. I'll see you Friday. What time are you getting in? Okay. Yeah, I'll be there at noon. Uh-huh. I'll tell him. Alright, Mom! God. Bye. Love you, too. Bye."

"She's coming to the Fiesta Bowl?" Kyle says, teasing one of Stan's nipples through his t-shirt.

"Yeah," he says. "She says hi, by the way."

"You told her about me?" Kyle smiles up at him.

"Of course. Didn't you tell your mom?"

"Yeah. I didn't really want to get into it over the phone, but she dragged it out of me."

"Was she happy?" Stan asks. "My mom was really happy. She actually said, 'say hi to my future son-in-law.'"

"Ha," Kyle says, flushing. "Yeah, um. She was happy."

They walk into town to find food, and end up having an early dinner at a Thai restaurant where they're the only patrons. The wait staff treats them like royalty, for lack of anything better to do, and they have a proper Thanksgiving feast, candles on the table and plates piled high with food. Kyle is impressed by how much Stan is able to eat, working his way through spring rolls, chicken satay, pot stickers, coconut soup and a big pile of massamun curry. The waiter keeps bringing more rice, and Stan keeps eating it.

"What?" Stan says when he notices Kyle staring, his fork poised over his ginger prawns.

"Nothing," Kyle says. He lowers his voice, leaning closer. "This is just kind of giving me a boner."

"What is?" Stan asks, shoveling more rice into his mouth.

"Watching you eat."

"Wow, really?" Stan sits up a little straighter, looking proud of himself. "I've gained fifteen pounds. Can you tell?"

"Uh-huh. Man, it's no fair. I've only gained five."

"I like you how you are," Stan says, reaching over to squeeze his waist. Kyle could refute that with some smart ass remark about how Stan likes his size because it makes Kyle feel more like a girl. He kisses Stan's cheek instead. He's afraid Stan will flush and check for onlookers, but he doesn't even look up from his rice, just finds Kyle's hand under the table and holds it.

The light is disappearing as they make their way back to Kyle's dorm, and Kyle is starting to feel panicked, beginning to count the hours. Stan will have to get up early for the long trip into Philadelphia. His flight leaves at one o'clock.

"You should come with me," Stan says when Kyle is quiet as they tromp through the hardened snow.

"Huh?"

"To the game. Come with me, I'll get you a hotel room and everything. We could have one more night together."

"No, I – I'm afraid it would be weird. We'd have to be so careful about – well, everything. I wouldn't be able to touch you." They're holding hands now, pressing close to each other as the wind whips around them. "And your mom will be there, anyway – it'd just end up being her interviewing us about how we're going to make this work, long distance –"

"My mom isn't worried about that," Stan says sharply. "And I'm not worried, either. I guess you are."

"You're not worried, really?" Kyle gives him a look of angry disbelief. "I get lonely when you get out of bed to go to the bathroom. I'm – when you're gone – it's gonna kill me."

"That's why I want you to come with me. To this game, I mean – even if it's not the most romantic trip ever, at least you won't be by yourself. You can sit with my mom at the game, and we can all go out to dinner together –"

"Then what, Stan? I'm still going to have to leave you!"

"No shit, Kyle, but what do you want me to do about it? I told you, I want you to move there. I know it's selfish and a lot to ask, but I don't think you get to bitch at me for having to go back there when you know I want you to come with me, and that I could make it happen."

"God, stop!" Kyle lets go of Stan's hand and puts his fists over his face. "You're making me crazy with this."

"You'd get to see Kenny all the time," Stan says.

"Really, Stan? You think that's going to sway me?"

"He's your best friend!"

"You're my best friend," Kyle says, stopping under the glow of a street lamp.

"I thought you didn't want to be called that anymore," Stan says. He takes Kyle's hands. "You're my boyfriend now. I want to – fuck, I want to tell people. I don't like this hiding shit."

"I don't like it, either," Kyle says. "As soon as you're done with football, we'll be out to everybody. We can buy tiny matching dogs and wear mesh tank tops if you want. But until then – I'm just thinking of you! Of protecting you."

"I don't need to be protected," Stan says. "I wouldn't fall apart if people found out."

"Yeah, but it would become your thing, you know? You'd be that out college athlete. People would focus more on that than how you played, and the pressure would get to you – I just don't think it's a good idea, okay?"

"Okay, fine." Stan drops Kyle's hands and starts walking again, leaving the glow from the street lamp. Kyle follows, and they walk the rest of the way in silence. Up in the room, they undress in the dark, and Kyle gets into bed wearing his sweater and boxer shorts, taking off his ushanka and putting it on the shelf near the bed. He pulls his laptop over, watching Stan from the corner of his eye. He's still in his jeans, looking at his cell phone.

"I'm going to Kenny and Butters' site," Kyle announces. "I've got to see this Thanksgiving special shit. Hopefully it's just food."

"Yeah," Stan says, not really listening.

"Did you get a text or something?" Kyle asks, irritated.

"Yep."

"From who?"

"Wendy."

"Oh. What's she want?"

"She's asking me how it's going."

"How it's going?" Kyle frowns, turning to look at him. "You've been in touch with her all this time?"

"I told her I was going here," Stan says. "On the bus, when I was freaking out. I had to talk to someone."

"So, what are you telling her?" Kyle asks. He turns back to his computer, too angry to really comprehend what he's looking at: Butters hugging Kenny's shoulders in front of a table loaded with food, wearing only a little white apron and a hat shaped like a turkey, its orange bird legs hanging down over his ears like a tribal headdress.

"I'm telling her that it's going well but that you're being a pain in the ass," Stan says.

"Do you want to fucking die?" Kyle says, glaring at him. "Why would you tell me that?"

"'Cause you asked."

"How am I being a pain in the ass, exactly?"

"By not coming back to California with me." Stan finally puts his phone down then, and he pulls off his shirt, then his jeans.

"Maybe I like it here," Kyle says.

"Then I'll transfer here," Stan says, walking to the bed.

"You will not! I'm not going to be the reason you quit your team. No fucking way."

"Kyle?" Stan says, crawling onto the bed, hovering over him and the laptop.

"What?"

Stan stares at him for a few beats, as if he's changed his mind about what he intended to say. He reaches down to close the lid of the laptop.

"If you want me to stop asking, I will," Stan says. "You should know, though, that you're breaking my heart."

"Don't say that." Kyle puts the laptop on the shelf and pulls Stan down to him. "I'm not trying to hurt you, I'm just being realistic." He holds Stan against his chest, petting him, sighing.

"I need you," Stan says, softly. Kyle moans and holds tighter.

"I need you, too," he says. "Oh, fuck, maybe I'll just drop out of college."

Stan snorts. "Yeah, me too. We can get in on the ground floor of this porn cooking show phenomenon. I hope you don't mind being the one who wears the frilly little aprons."

"And what would you wear?" Kyle asks, resting his cheek on top of Stan's head. "A jock strap?"

"Sure. Whatever brings in the bucks."

They spend most of the evening lazily making out, and Kyle finds himself praying for another blizzard, Fiesta Bowl be damned. The omnipresent clouds don't produce a single snow flake, and his plan to stay up all night long is foiled by ten o'clock, when Stan starts rubbing his back, melting him into an exhausted puddle. He wakes up to a dark room, Stan sleeping beside him. When he checks the clock, tears sting his eyes. It's three in the morning, and in another two hours the alarm will go off. Stan's taxi will be here at six.

"Hey," Kyle whispers, shaking Stan's shoulder. He knows he should let him rest, that he's got a long day tomorrow, but he can't lie here in silence and watch the minutes tick by. Stan wakes up with a moan, pulling Kyle to him.

"We fell asleep," Kyle says, crying properly now.

"It's okay," Stan says. He's still mostly asleep, petting Kyle's hair with one heavy hand.

"I should be wearing my hat," Kyle says, groping for it. "You – you like my hat."

"I like your hair, too," Stan says. "Just, here, lie down. It's okay. Don't cry."

"Don't cry?" Kyle hiccups a sob. "Stan. You'll be gone in three hours."

"You can still come with me if you want."

"No, I can't! I mean, I guess I could, but – but –"

"Kyle, shut up," Stan says. "I want you there. In the taxi, on the plane, at the game. As your boyfriend, I think you should respect my wishes."

Kyle snorts, wiping tears. "Oh, yeah? Is that how it works?"

"I think so, yeah. Enough of this shit, alright? You're still my best friend. If people see us together and think we're fucking, that's fine. I'm not gonna come out – you're right, now is not the time. It would be distracting. But I'm not going to worry about people wondering about me, either. I'm not going to have a fake girlfriend. So you can come to California. If you even want to."

"Of course I want to!" Kyle says, crying hard now, because there's no way it can be this easy. Stan can't just make these decisions for him, half asleep. Everything can't suddenly become clear in the middle of the night, but it's happening, and he's sobbing with relief now, because he can go with Stan tomorrow, and he wants to, he will.

"Shh, you're so worked up," Stan says, speaking softly, wiping Kyle's cheeks with his thumbs. Kyle can't stop crying, but he needs to, because he has to tell Stan that he's right, they can't be apart. The past five months were so hard, without him.

"I'm sorry," Kyle says, choking the words out, gasping his breath back in. "I'm sorry, I'm so stupid."

"You're not stupid," Stan says. He kisses Kyle's cheeks, leaning up on his elbows now. "You're the smartest guy I know."

"I'm coming with you," Kyle manages to sob out, nodding. "I'm coming with you, tomorrow, and then, a-after the semester ends –"

"Good," Stan says, whispering the word against Kyle's lips. They kiss, Kyle's chest still bouncing with sobs as he lets Stan lick into him, his breath stale and his mouth so hot. He wraps his arms around Stan's neck and hooks a leg over his side, holds on tight.

"I'm never letting you go again," Kyle says, sniffling and shaking his head. "It's too hard. I can't do it, I can't even be who I am without you. It doesn't work."

"I know," Stan says. His voice is shaking now. He kisses Kyle again, climbing on top of him. "I know, Kyle, God, I know exactly what you mean. Everything's a joke when you're not with me."

They fall asleep like that, mid-kiss, Stan still on top of Kyle. The alarm scares them both when it goes off, and Stan scrambles to turn it off. The room is dark. Kyle is afraid that he'll lose his grip on his epiphany, but it's still there when Stan looks down at him, obviously nervous.

"Did I dream it?" Stan asks. "Or did you –"

"I said yes," Kyle says. He grins and blushes when he realizes how that sounds, like Stan asked to marry him. Stan's smile comes slowly, as if it's taking some time to accept that this is real. He leans down to Kyle and kisses him, his arms sliding under Kyle's arching back.

"Then let's go," Stan says, beaming now.

Kyle brushes his teeth, packs a bag, and leaves a note for Jacob. Will be back Sunday. Ate all your oatmeal, sorry. It was actually Stan who ate the oatmeal, two bowls a day until it was gone, but Kyle can explain about that later.

The taxi meets them out front, and Kyle feels like the driver is their personal angel, though he's just a stubby older man with a hands free phone strapped to his ear. As they're pulling away, Kyle looks back at his dorm, his chest aching when he thinks about what it would have been like to sit up in his room and watch from the window as this taxi took Stan away from him.

"I can't believe I was thinking about staying," he says, scooting closer to Stan, who smiles.

"It's gonna be fun," he says. "You guys will have really good seats. My mom's gonna be so happy to see you."

"And then?" Kyle says. He puts his hand on Stan's knee, the driver distracted by a phone call that he's conducting in a language Kyle doesn't recognize.

"Here's what I'm thinking," Stan says.

"Okay."

"Road trip."

"Road trip?" Kyle grins, thinking of last summer, Kenny and Butters snuggled up in the backseat, Cartman crunching Cheesy Poofs, Stan singing along with the radio, dry desert air blowing in through the open windows.

"When we move your stuff to California," Stan says. "We'll both fly to South Park to do the whole family thing and get your car, 'cause you're gonna need one in L.A., and we'll be on break anyway so we can take a week and drive that same route we took this summer, only we'll stay in hotels this time, 'cause it'll be too cold for camping. What do you think?"

"God, Stan, this is crazy – what if they won't let me transfer?"

"They'll do it as a personal favor to me," Stan says. "As long as we win the Fiesta Bowl."

"Well, goddammit, you'd better win, then!"

"I will! So? Do you like my road trip idea or not? Just me and you this time?"

"Just me and you," Kyle says, grinning. "Yeah. I like that idea."

It's a long drive to the airport, and Kyle falls asleep on Stan's shoulder on the way there, dreaming of the desert where they'll be landing in just four hours, clear skies and bright sun, the screaming thrill of a college bowl crowd. He wakes up thinking he's hearing another alarm, afraid that his happy ending will evaporate when he opens his eyes, but it's just his phone buzzing with a new text message, and Stan is still at his side, asleep with his head resting against Kyle's.

Kyle is careful not to wake him as he digs out his phone. He opens the message, which is from Kenny.

you okay?

It's the first time Kyle has ever seen Kenny use actual punctuation in a text; he must be really worried. Kyle is grinning as he composes his response, and he wishes he could see Kenny's face when he reads it.

I'm good. Headed out west with Stan. For good, I think, pretty soon.

Kenny's response comes quickly, and it makes Kyle grin harder:

bout time brofloski

Sixteen years of friendship and Kenny still can't spell his last name. It's a comfort somehow, one of those things that will never change. Kyle puts the phone down and turns toward the window, his cheek pressed to Stan's forehead as he watches the frosted landscape pass by. This is what the country will look like when he drives toward California with Stan next month, if all goes according to plan, but eventually the cold with be behind them, and the day when they cross the border into California won't be the end of their adventure together, it will be the beginning.