The Kentucky Fried Chicken in South Park was about a five minute drive away from the suburban hell in which most of the town lived in. It was in the opposite direction of the Liquor Stone, however, and was near the stretch of stores that made up the main street of the small mountain town. Most people who went out there went the normal route: walking down all the sidewalks and hitting the main street to follow it around the town square to the edge of the stucco faced buildings to the isolated fast food shop. The outsider children, though, went the route they went for everything; against the grain. They knew of a shorter, more 'scenic' path that cut out most of the walking down on the main streets. They took the sidewalks to the end of the little houses, then cut to the side and wandered down a flattened pathway through 'the woods', which dropped off pretty much near the middle of town. This was the path the freaky four had constructed in their youth when they grew utterly fed up with walking the whole round about way to go see movies, get ice cream, rob a store, and so on.
This was the path the freaky four took every time they needed to head out to the town for anything. Although it had been forged by the four, mainly Cartman, it was frequently used by only two of them nowadays. Kyle didn't have time to be running down to town to see the latest remade flick with his job messing around with his schedule the way they had been; they had found out the hard way that Kyle Broflovski had a raging temper and now, they only booked him to work when there were sure to be no customers. Cartman was normally the one who was seen walking up and down the side path in the middle of nowhere, his honey eyes staring blankly at the treetops in deranged thought. Every since this summer had extended its fiery grips upon South Park, though, he had all but disappeared. He wasn't in town, that much was for sure, as he was never spotted coming or going from any of his favorite hangouts; namely the KFC, movies, or game store. Where he was, however, was debatable, as Cartman was second best at vanishing acts. The only person any better at it than him was Kenny McCormick. Thus, with Kyle locked up in the lobby of the Liquor Stone, seething, and Cartman playing hide and seek with society, the wooded road was left to the new couple, Stan and Kenny.
The first week of June, they used it to make their way out to the KFC. Stan had slipped through the rotten wasteland of McCormick hell to snatch his tired, yawning boyfriend away for some well deserved breakfast. Despite the vacant stares of the other children of the same cloth as the blond, they had left alone. The walk had been rather quiet, as Kenny was still shaking off a late evening from the night before. Stan, on the other hand, had merely been excited at the prospects of another date with the lovely, little pervert. As they had been officially dating for nearly a dozen days, they had also been on nearly a dozen dates. Nearly a dozen for the simple fact that Kenny had pulled out his bag of tricks and completely disappeared two nights out of the set.
Standing in the waiting area of KFC, Stan glanced over at where Kenny was waiting in the long line. The blond was dressed in his pajamas, which consisted of worn out cotton shorts and a semi tight shirt with the words 'Gag Me Bitch' over the faded image of a bondage style whore, and a scuffed pair of leather hiking boots. As usual, his orange jacket was on, although he had left it unzipped. The hood of it rested lightly on his uncombed and unwashed hair. His sapphires glared venomously at nothing in particular as he rubbed his dirt smeared hands together. There was glitter on his knuckles and the remaining smears of eyeliner over his pale cheeks.
As he had three days ago, the evening before, Ken had phoned Stan around nine at night. He whispered into the phone in his mildly Southern voice his apologies for having to skip out on coming over for a late night of cuddling. He didn't say where it was he was going. All he said was that he wasn't going out with Cartman and he would see him sometime in the morning 'when it was over'. Then the line had gone dead and Stan had been left staring at his phone while it blinked and faded out to black. The first time, he had been mutely furious. He had cussed and tossed his phone down to cover his jet black hair with the covers. The second time, he hadn't been nearly as dramatic. The activist had merely flipped his phone shut and laid back against the sheets in order to fall asleep. When sleep didn't come, he had called Kyle to complain, to which end, he was screamed at by a raging Jew who had sworn in language so colorful, Stan had, for a second, believed he was on the line with his missing in action boyfriend. Then that line was dead and he had considered calling Cartman to see what the Nazi's reaction would be. He had played with the idea, finally deciding to give it a try. However, Cartman's cell phone had rung and rung before switching to Gaga and Beyonce's 'Telephone'. If Cartman were home, he wasn't picking up.
To be honest, Stan had been horrified.
For one split second, his body had been drowned in a white wash of ice. If Cartman wasn't picking up, if he wasn't at home, if Kenny wasn't picking up, if he wasn't at home, what was to say they weren't together?
Before he had really entertained the sickening thought, though, Stan's phone had shivered with the chorus line from 'Poker Face' and he was flipping open the small, thin thing in a frozen mindless action. His ear had been assaulted by the wholly accented voice of Eric Cartman in the most dramatic sense of the word. He heard Cartman talking on and on, his voice a decadent lush of mild intoxication, but he never heard a word. All he heard was that the Nazi didn't sound like he was in his 'right state' and if he wasn't in that, he sure as hell wasn't with Kenny. As good as friends as they were, everyone in South Park knew that Cartman and Kenny didn't mix their liquors with one another. The outcomes were never pretty, even by their own deluded standards. If Cartman had drunk dialed Stan back to bitch in his queenly manner, then he certainly wasn't out with the poor boy. Thus, the activist had been left listening to the Nazi for a minute longer, before a final 'whatevah' was mumbled, an 'aw hamburgers Eric' was uttered, and the line was, yet again, dead. Stan had cradled the phone next to his head throughout the evening, his empty orbs staring a hole in his midnight walls.
When morning had come up, creeping, he had dragged his aching body from the warmth of the sheets. He had crawled out to the McCormick hell, banged his way over to his lover's bedroom, and found Kenny passed out, face down, on the floor. He hadn't been with Cartman. Stan knew that. He didn't know where he had been, but he hadn't been with the heavy set boy. That was what mattered.
Almost out of celebration, Stan had suggested they go to KFC.
Now, he stood there, in his ink stained jeans, and a weathered shirt with holes in the sides by the seams, and he watched his boyfriend yawn into his knuckles. Stan felt his mouth pulling back into a brief, though loving, smile. As far as he was concerned, as long as Kenny was still breathing, and not spending his nights with a certain someone, then all was good. After all, he couldn't say he didn't already know what Kenny's profession was. He knew how he earned what little money he carried in that dirty jacket of his. Thus, Stan rolled his eyes in a castaway action as he pulled out his cell phone.
He had one text from 'Pokah Face', which simply read 'sorry 4 last nite thought u were some1 else heart EC'. Although the apology was in itself shocking, Stan didn't feel anything remotely resembling shock within. He knew he should, as Cartman never apologized for anything. Yet, when the activist reflected on it, he merely felt a cold center within which alluded to many things he wasn't even sure about. Knowing he shouldn't, he ignored it. He sent back a heartless statement of 'ok' before he switched from texting to talking. Without thinking about it, he called the one person he knew he could talk to. He didn't know why he felt the need to talk to someone. A chill was trickling into his blood from the text. He needed to talk. Swallowing down all the words etching out of the frost, however, he redirected himself towards the matter at hand as that softly harsh word spiraled out into the air between the world of the KFC and South Park suburbia.
" Hello?" Kyle drawled out in a thick timbre that spoke volumes to his condition. There was a touch of heat which burned away the lingering ice in the activist's spine. Feeling that cold ease back was enough for Stan to relax the shoulders he had tightened without his knowledge. A light sigh left his lips as he heard his friend groan into something that muffled his voice; more than likely a pillow or the sheets.
" Hey, dude. What's up?" he answered with a bit of optimism. There was no particular reason for it. He knew that the Jew was not nearly awake, and that talking to him like that was asking for a good thrashing. Still, he asked in what would qualify as a happy tone for him. In all actuality, the tone was as flat as it ever was. The point didn't appear to be missed, however, as Kyle's next word was spoken with something close to annoyance.
" Stan?"
" Yeah,"
" What the hell do you want?" Kyle snarled darkly through the muffle. After having been such good friends with the hothead for so long, Stan wasn't even remotely phased. He glanced around the lobby aimlessly as he listened to the biting words. There wasn't even a flicker of emotion within.
" You told me to call you in the morning to make sure you got home okay," the activist reminded him as a matter of fact. The crowd of people within the fast food joint shifted around him. Turning his head, he shrugged, despite knowing that those emeralds couldn't take in the apathetic gesture of nonchalance. He merely stated the facts that had been screamed at him the evening before in a white hot rage that hadn't been directed at him, " Said you had to do inventory and were gonna be there till one or two,"
" Oh. Right. Yeah, I made it home okay," the Jew mumbled groggily into the receiver before he gave a yawn. Stan drew the phone away in order to cast it the quizzical look he normally would have tossed towards Kyle himself. Then, hesitantly, he placed the thing against his ear. He couldn't remember the last time he had heard the redhead yawn into the phone. Especially not since he knew Kyle thought the action to be rude.
" You okay?"
" You just said I was there until two, Stan. I'm tired," came the curt response right in his ear. There was a touch of frustration that was usually reserved for others in those few short words. However, Stan merely shrugged it away as he usually did whenever he caught a bit of those internal flames. Somehow, he knew they weren't intended for him. He knew who they were meant for. Even if he wasn't going to mention it.
" Yeah, okay. Right," Stan muttered dismissively. His head physically turned away from the conversation as his eyes found his boyfriend. There was a vague wondering hanging about his head for how much longer he would have to wait to be together with the hopelessly adorable pervert. As far as the activist could see, it was going to be a moment longer, for the blond stood two people back in line. As depressing as that was, however, Stan felt his mouth move into a rare smile. Kenny was fussing with his jacket strings and hair interchangeably, his dirty fingers twisting and twirling everything about his knuckles. His nose scrunched up every time he got a finger stuck. During one of the fitfully cute motions of freeing a digit, those sapphires caught those aquamarine gems looking. Kenny gave a smile of his own as he wiggled his fingers in the other's direction. Stan returned the gesture as he returned to the conversation absentmindedly, " Sorry. I don't know what time it is,"
" Hmm-mm,"
There was a tired yawn quickly following the utterance. Hearing it, Stan couldn't help but take the impression that Kyle was fast falling to sleep on him. The thought alone made him want to laugh, simply for how out of character it was. Nevertheless, his face remained blank as he joked around for the sake of waking the exhausted Jew up. There was really no reason to it. He just liked the idea of being so cruel.
" Do you want me to pick you up anything from KFC?" Stan teased in a voice that never officially reached the joking timbre of most people. He heard Kyle snort into the phone at the very idea. Chuckling, the activist listened to the almost physical rejection of the notion. He could very well see his best friend rolling his eyes and sitting up in the mild, though unwarranted, agitation.
" Dude, it is ten in the morning. I don't want fried chicken," Kyle answered with a warmth to his voice that most would have taken for anger. It honestly was, but Stan just liked the way the heat warmed over the ice in his blood. Chuckling, he listened to the Jew sigh dismissively. He saw the way his hand flitted to the side in gesture, " Call Cartman. I'm sure he does,"
" Hell no. I don't have enough money for Kenny and Cartman," the activist responded with conviction. There was a chill which overtook his flesh from nowhere. The lightness to the cold, however, made it easy to ignore the unsettling sensation to return his whole attention to that softly vicious tone floating into his ear.
" Make it sound like Kenny's eats a lot," the sediment was trailed with a chuckle almost as sarcastic as the statement. Stan felt his eyes wander through the crowd as he shrugged and scrunched up his nose. For a moment, he was lost in the world of KFC and his own opposition for answering. Then, slowly, he exhaled and hardened an expression he wasn't used to wearing. The mute blush, which hadn't even yet heated his pale cheeks, slowly disappeared as he forced his mind into the depths of frozen waters rather than impassioned thoughts. Still, a trace of ghostly fingers, feeling solid as the ground beneath his feet in their seductive touch, moved about his shoulders.
" Well. . . Sometimes he does. . ." Stan struggled to remain poised as he said it. Hearing a soft chuckle on the other end, he was almost certain he had managed to do so. Yet, the lingering touch of those fingers made it impossible to entirely relax. Not even when he heard the light scoff of his well meaning, though, admittedly, cold hearted best friend.
" I know. I was being sarcastic," Kyle answered unnecessarily. The activist nodded in agreement to something unsaid as he heard sheets shuffling, " You guys are always at my shop and you guys are always going to KFC,"
" You make it sound like a bad thing," he mumbled in defense of a sediment he was defending only to continue the conversation. With his boyfriend idly staring at the opposing wall and still people before him, the last thing Stan Marsh wanted was to be left to his own devices. Considering his recently developed habits within the confines of his own bathroom and magazines borrowed from a perverted lover, he wasn't sure what would happen if he was left alone to stare at the ample curve of Kenny McCormick's backside. Thus, he prodded the easily motivated Kyle into what could prove to be a deeply heated talk or a fairly light hearted jeering session. Either way, the rise of heat rushing to his cheeks was unwelcomed and the snide remarks trickling into his ear were.
" Fried chicken everyday for breakfast, lunch, and dinner is not a good thing," the Jew remarked in jest. Stan could make out the sounds of him fighting with the mirror, which was really just him attempting to straighten his mess of curls. Stan felt his own hand mimicking Kyle's as he nervously ran his fingers throughout his mess of brunette locks, " No matter how much you want it to be,"
Somehow, this conversation had actually turned down the path Stan had literally been trying to avoid by starting it.
" You don't understand," was his half hearted response as he closed his aquamarine eyes to the discussion. This was uncharted territory for the activist. In all his years, he'd never formally talked to anyone about his current relationship. Although he'd had many debates concerning breakups, there'd never been one addressing an ongoing one. More so, this was not about a certain liberal female. This was about Kenny McCormick. As such, Stan felt the tension rise as they strained his voice into a manner of trivial frustrations. The words sounded hollow, unimportant versus the confusion they conveyed concerning his desire to explain. Unfortunately, Stan found himself a lost for words and merely pressed his fingers into his forehead in an effort to gather them.
" I don't understand what?"
" Kenny. . . he. . . he gets this really sweet look whenever I take him out somewhere. It's like. . . " there was a moment of hesitation where Stan physically looked up as if to peer into the staring emeralds he was used to speaking to. Instead, he saw nothing outside the greasy whirlwind world of the KFC. Knowing not what else to do, he gave a shrug, regardless of the obvious fact that the Jew couldn't see him. In emphasis of nothing, he motioned with his free hand as he struggled to express what he meant, " He's just happy he won't be going hungry,"
" Of course he's happy he's not going to go hungry. All he gets is one Poptart a day," Kyle curtly snapped, his voice rolling with the usual measures of aggravation of an average day. Through it, though, Stan caught the tiny trickle of jest at the words. The joke was appreciated, as his redheaded friend wasn't known to be humorous in the face of actuality. To that end, however, there was a still second lost to the hands of time where Stan ceased to exist.
Two aqua orbs found the checkered spaces between him and the perilously angelic Kenny. He saw the way those sapphires disappeared from the face of reality in the most chilling, frightening ways imaginable. A jolt of hot, electric fury engulfed the activist in an abnormal show of fresh, unadulterated, raw emotion. The purity in it was striking as his lip curled, his teeth gritted, his fist tightened around the slim fragile phone. The heat was melted over in quick succession by the pulsing cold of the tundra, leaving his flesh iced and his blood frozen. The whispers in his ears beckoned him across the expanse, although he pursed his lips and fell backwards into the waters of the moonless night; the frozen waters of his darkened soul.
With the turning of his eyes, the vision of his angel vanished and he was plunged back into the reality. The agony which consumed him, the agony which was not his own, slipped down below the surface. Rather, he forced himself into the words he spoke with the softest, lightest voice of the morning. He found them slipping together in nervous groups, in uncertain patterns of pause and reflection. Yet, he knew no other way in which to describe the phenomena he had witnessed in the past several days holding that precious hand with its dirty fingers. The confession was heart wrenching in that Stan had never considered the idea of ever confessing such a thing to anyone, even Kyle Broflovski. He went slowly, the mute embarrassment quenching the other emotions which fluttered in his butterfly filled core. Not a touch showed, but then, on a phone call, all that mattered was the words he spoke. Unfortunately, those words were drenched in his thoughts.
" I know. But the look he gets on his face. It's so sweet. . .So innocent. . I don't know," he tried to express something more before his voice simply caught in his throat. Scrunching up his nose, the activist gave a weak sigh and shake of head as the hum on the other line grew steadily more frustrating. Kyle said nothing to interrupt the floundering, " It must sound so stupid,"
" It does," Kyle responded plainly, without a single expression to the statement. Stan gave the air about him a venomous look, hoping the Jew could feel the pressure of his momentary glare.
" Shut up,"
" Oh, come on, Stan. You know I'm just teasing. I think it's cute that you have a crush on your boyfriend," he cooed out smoothly in a wholly playful manner. It was good natured even while it was horrifically poised in a way that caused the activist to swallow deeply. His hands clenched at his side as he listened to his best friend chuckle over the line in his way, knowing he had struck a nerve and waiting for the strike back. This wasn't a game to Stan, but he had known getting into anything with Kyle would turn into a debate or something similar. Kyle just liked the fight too much for his own good.
As for Stan, he felt the pawn slipping through his outstretched fingers as his body was drawn towards the master of the matter.
" Yeah. . . well. . . " Stan shrugged for absolutely no reason other than the desire to deflect the fires brewing in waiting. He failed to address the Jew's jeering as he traced his eyes down the lines of that gorgeous blond. Kenny stood with one hand on his hip and the other resting fingers lightly on the counter as he leaned slightly forward to order. Watching the little creature, seeing those lines, prompted an explanation. There was no need for one. He sensed already that Kyle either understood what he had been trying to say or he understood that he needn't understand it totally to find it endearing. Regardless, the words were torn from the activist's mouth in a cold desperation to elaborate, " If you saw his face whenever I say we're going out, you'd understand. It's like. . . I'm his hero or something,"
" Haven't you always been his hero?"
The words hung in a suddenly tense, still air lingering between the burning world of the Jew and the frozen realm of the activist. There was something nearly perverse about the sheer audacity at such a seemingly sweet statement. The ill will Stan regarded the question in was unheard of for such an emotionless soul as he usually appeared. Yet, there was an almost instant flare of electric anger which overtook his calm demeanor. His eyes darkened passionately as he jerked his head in a shake at the mere suggestion that he could ever be that forsaken angel's savior. If he hadn't felt so vile about it, he probably would have berated Kyle for mentioning it. Instead, he gritted his teeth as the flare shocked through his blood stream, cutting through the cold in nearly blinding ways.
" What? No," he snapped with definite finality. He discarded his normal habit of controlling his voice to fully express his disapproval at this turn of phrase. There was no doubt in his frosted mind's eye that the point was wholly appreciated. He heard the way Kyle drew in and exhaled that cast away sigh. He understood a line had been crossed.
" If you say so," the Jew muttered offhandedly. Stan nodded to no one as he unclenched his throbbing hand. There was a slight pause in which he chewed on his lower lip while he listened to his best friend fussing with something. The activist listened to the Hebrew swearing, which he was somewhat accustomed to, as he tried to think of a way to steer the conversation to a less devious topic. As if reading his thoughts, Kyle did just that with his slightly absentminded question, " Don't you hate it when your siblings steal your best pair of jeans?"
" I wouldn't know. Shelly doesn't touch my clothes," Stan stated, shifting his weight from one foot to the next. The topic was different from the usual routines of video games and gossip, yet it was also different from the previous. That was all that was really needed to prompt the activist into running with it. Luckily, Kyle seemed to be thinking along the same lines.
" At least she has style in your family. Can't say much about the rest of you," Kyle laughed as he said it. Stan could just see him rolling his eyes in that off collar way of his whenever he was being particularly sarcastic or humorous. It was a bad habit that he had picked up from a certain Nazi back in elementary school. It was also one Stan could almost physically feel in his voice.
" I think it's 'cause I'm a boy, but okay. Sure, we'll go with I have no style," he said, rolling with the jest he could feel in those words. Again, there was a laugh in his ear. Stan felt the beginnings of a grin pulling at his lips as his fingers struggled to run through the length of his bed head hair.
" You don't have style," the redhead informed him with a certain assurance to his tone that was nearly comical. A half laugh was eased from Stan as his eyes rolled in a similar fashion to what he had felt within the timbre of his closest companion.
" And you do?"
" Well, yeah, I do. I care what I look like,"
" You don't have any more style than I do," the activist curtly replied, his voice hitting a more matter of factual tone than he had intended. He heard the joking within the Jew's words, but he couldn't help feeling remotely offended by the teasing. It wasn't full blown offense, though, as he acknowledged, and always had acknowledged, that Kyle's sense of humor bordered heavily on the tactless. Still, some of the jest ran away from his own voice as he scrunched up his nose lightly in a secondary pause, " And I care what I look like,"
" I have style, thank you ," Kyle argued to the rising fluster of the activist. He bit his lower lip again as he looked away, towards nothing really. He shook his head then when he caught the lightly heated chuckle of his best friend. He heard the way the fire rolled along his words and he knew exactly what was going on. Kyle wasn't trying to have conversation. He was baiting for a fight. His words were clearly poised for it, as much as they were dripping with ember, " I actually match my clothes,"
" I'm not having this fight with you. We're both boys. It's weird," Stan instructed, making a harsh stopping motion with his free hand. A jolt struck a nerve as his eyes narrowed in a rising note of frustration. He felt the bait and that was sickening, as he knew what it was the Jew was trying to so. More so, however, he had never engaged in such a debate. This was quickly falling into what the freaky four dubbed 'gay conversation'. This was not something he felt truly comfortable with, even if, at the same time, he didn't feel entirely weird about it.
Nevertheless, Kyle was baiting and Stan wasn't dealing with it.
" I thought you were gay?" the Jew asked despite the fact that it was not a necessary question. Stan squeezed the bridge of his nose with a low sigh at the very mention of this. He could feel Kyle's fire brewing. He wasn't ready to handle a fully ready to go Broflovski bitch fest, especially not if he was actually looking for a fight. He hadn't slept well and that was nothing to couple with what could possibly turn into an ugly tear of colorful language. Besides, he wasn't even sure he knew where Kyle was heading with this strange strain of questioning.
" And?"
" What? Don't you and Kenny have 'gay fights' about fashion and all that good stuff?" Kyle teased lightly, a soft laugh following shortly. Stan felt his head shake while he was pierced by a wave of ice water that cascaded from his head to his toes. There was pressure within from trying not to tell those fires to withdraw, but still, he resisted.
" Uh, yeah, no," he plainly answered, trying to disarm Kyle. This talk of theirs was on the brink of territory Stan didn't want to go. Mostly out of desire not to have to listen to that internal rage, but also, out of the tension arising from the strictly 'gay' topic at hand. Fashion and the activist never had gotten along, after all.
Kyle, on the other hand, clearly wasn't ready to quit.
" Oh right, because Kenny doesn't have a fashion and you don't have style," the redhead continued. Only this time, there was much more malice to the statement. The previously underlining flames roared to the surface with a distinct bite to the timbre used. Almost instantly, a surge of flame flashed through the suddenly scorching waters within the other's mindset. The calm vanished in a haze of steam that came rolling off Stan's tongue with obvious venom before he could calm his words.
" Just because we screw like fags doesn't mean we fight like 'em," the brunette retorted with every remaining ounce of ice left beyond the mind numbing fire of the emerald eyed redheaded creature. His tone was welcomed, as he could see that callous smile. A groan nearly escaped his mouth as he squeezed the bridge of his nose harder in frustration.
" So, you admit, neither of you have any fashion sense," the Jew stated rather than asked. There was no need for questions when the anger had been reciprocated. He had his fight and he was ready to go full throttle into a screaming match. The eager inferno in that assertion was proof enough of that.
" I admit that we don't fight about our fashion sense," Stan answered with a defiant air of nonchalance. If Kyle wanted to hear him snarl, then he wasn't going to. He knew better then to feed those roaring hell fires, especially this early in the morning. Instead, he hardened his voice. Slowly, the lines of his face hardened in his effort not to just hang up the phone with a solemn goodbye. He didn't know why Kyle was trying so hard to fight with him, but he wasn't going to play into that trap. He didn't want that hot headed Jew using him like this.
Stan had dealt with that before. He refused to go through it again.
" Right. Because all you wear is jeans and tees and all he wears is hunter gear. What's to fight about? 'Honey, your orange jacket doesn't go with my jeans?'" Kyle pressured, his fire licking over the melting ice within Stan. There was a shiver which tore down the activist's spine in his refusal. The comforting warmth he sought out now seemed so deadly passionate at bringing about this impending argument. There was even a light chuckle which dripped off the other line.
" We don't have bitch fights about clothes 'cause we don't have a problem with what we wear. And I'm not fighting with you about this," Stan sharply informed him. There was a certain touch of finality to his voice that he forced into every word. Outwardly, he gestured to nothing as he cut his hand to the side. Shaking his head, he said the only thing he would think of that could possibly deter the other from his chosen line of attack, " If you wanna fight about fashion sense and who's got what, call Cartman,"
Checkmate.
" I'm not gonna call Cartman. I don't wanna talk to him right now," the redhead snarled venomously with a searing inferno falling to the sheer ice of the activist's mentioning of said Nazi. Below the surface, Stan heard that screaming building up. He knew how to defuse his darling Kyle's attempts at an argument. He almost felt guilty at presenting this route, but the game was set and the match had to be finished before the first strikes could be made. In Kyle's defense, he would be better off if he didn't viciously tear his closest pal to pieces with those decisively horrendous ways of his.
" Why? You two disagree on the 'in' color for fall?" the brunette grinned as he teased him, his eyes rolling upwards. Something about this felt wrong, close to cheating, but he knew better than to play a bad hand in a game of roulette. The sweeping frost of iced water that overthrew his mind then as he heard his friend growl into the phone.
" No, because he's been a total bitch to me these last couple days," Kyle barked in a stressed tone that spoke volumes to how he was truly feeling about it. Stan didn't address that. Rather, he pushed harder into the problem. He knew doing so could incite a riot he may have to control. Yet, he knew he had to find a way to drench those flames before they claimed anymore lives. Thus, he drew in his courage and he plunged into the lion's den.
He knew better than to ask about Eric Cartman.
" How's that different from any other week?" Stan questioned, some of his own internal curiosity touching his tone. There was a second where he wished he could grab back the words and drown them in their own hideous assumptions. He didn't. He let them play into the molten terror that fueled that little Jew with his pretty green eyes. He let them pull at whatever was driving this frustrating battle for control. And he let Kyle absorb them with a sharp inhale of breath.
This was not a game, but Stan played it like one. He rolled the dice and he counted the cards and he cheated. He heard it in the way Kyle chewed on the words he probably wanted to spit out in an engulfing fire of hatred. He knew Kyle would never speak to him like that, not again, not after that tainted day when they were in middle school. He recalled the way those emeralds had darkened in fury. Somehow, he half expected the sudden click of a phone call ended. He shouldn't of brought Cartman into this. He knew better. Still, he had seen the ace and he knew the bet and he had placed his cards on the table. He knew what the snake pit held. He knew the way they stared topaz and emerald at each other. He shouldn't have, but, dammit, he wasn't doing this dance with Kyle. Not again.
" He's acting like a diva and I don't want to have anything to do with it," Kyle hissed in a low, seething voice trembling with pent up fury. The heat with which he spoke practically personified itself in physical form thanks to the passion he put behind it. The nonchalance lingering on Stan's face cracked a little with the guilt. Nevertheless, he proceeded, knowing that this was going to quickly dispel the Jew's desire to continue baiting.
" Cartman is a diva,"
" I know that. I don't have to deal with it, though. Let's stop talking about Cartman," the Jew suggested with a mild tone of desperate withdrawal. Stan silently nodded in agreement as he listened to his friend fuss with something. Slowly, those aquamarine eyes narrowed in hesitant confusion as he glanced at the cell pressed to his ear.
" What the hell are you doing?" the activist asked in honest bewilderment. He heard a sigh directly in his ear before he knew the redhead was frowning in distaste.
" Getting dressed," he replied plainly, although his attempt at sounding calm was overshadowed by his usual angry timbre. There was a certain level of agitation there that wasn't normal. The cold confusion within Stan heightened as he tilted his head slightly and gave a light shrug of disinterest.
" It sounds like you're fighting with your sheets or something," he offered as observation despite the mute questioning to his statement. He wasn't actually going to directly suggest something like that to Kyle. The Jew was easily offended, and considering his penchant for turning minor details into raging debates, Stan had always thought it simpler to never officially imply anything. Therefore, he offered it and waited for confirmation or rejection.
" Well, I'm not," came Kyle's wholly agitated answer. Stan made out a distinct touch of fiery angry to that voice. The confusion lingered as those aqua eyes glanced at the phone yet again, this time in wonderment of what was really going on across the small town. Grinning just barely, then, he laughed softly in what he assumed was good humor.
" Having some trouble with your jeans?" the activist joked, shrugging out of habit. His eyes began to wander before a snarl in his ear shocked him into stillness.
" And just what the hell makes you say that, huh?" the Jew snapped with an impressive show of defensive hatred. Under normal circumstances, Stan would have recoiled and held up his hands to ward off a total meltdown. Especially in the morning at that hour. However, the sheer shock of his realization rendered him incapable of doing either. Instead, he blinked and glanced at the phone in muted uncertainty.
" Uh. . . Wow. I was just joking, but okay," he said with little change to his voice. Offhandedly, he shrugged again, in order to physically dispel any and all interest. His face slowly melted into apathy, but his mind did not. Only heightening that was Kyle's venomous response, spoken in a harsh, biting, low toned growl.
" You make it sound as though you're correct," he barked, fire rolling through the air between their worlds and melding into the ice shield the other quickly tossed up for protection. Stan shivered absentmindedly as he heard that inferno building to screaming hysteria. He heard the pitch rising as Kyle continued, " You're not. So drop it,"
The words were punctured by a soft echo of a dull thud. The sound of a fist smashing down on wood. The sound of the Jew's uncontrollable rage. The sound of a checkmate poised perfectly, suddenly, and without warning. Just hearing that brought Stan's mind racing through the conversation to the inevitable conclusion. There was never a moment's hesitation in saying it. It wasn't an accusation, but, no he never considered not saying it. Stan never did. Still, his iced words pierced through the fire with a definite chill that swept over his blood in the same manner as before. There was just something so taboo about the question. Of course, the activist knew what the play meant, for he knew the taboo, but, nevertheless, he saw the black square on the proverbial chess board and he placed his queen in place to take down the throne of the conquering little redhead demon.
Fiery taboo be damned.
" Have you gained weight?"
" NO," Kyle outright screamed into the phone, his voice actually loud enough to mildly echo in the confines of the KFC halfway across South Park. The deafening screech smashed into Stan's soul with a tremendous, pulsing roar of fire the likes of which ripped through the ice walls with an unheard fury. Jerking his head to the side, though, the activist merely grinned in slight amusement as a downpour of frozen waters quenched the fires. He felt none of the fire. He merely shook it off as he ran his fingers through his messy hair.
" You've gained weight. Dude," Stan restated, leaving it as a statement rather than pushing it into the boundaries of implication. He heard the unmistakable sound of Kyle slamming his fist down on wood again. The smile on the brunette's face lingered anyways as he turned aqua towards the ground in what might have been an attempt not to break into an all out smile.
" I said NO," the Jew protested with the same bite, but not the same scream, as before. Stan heard him swear in Hebrew before there was a dull thud of another smack followed by the sound of Kyle throwing something either to the ground or into the wall. He wasn't sure. All the same, he knew the answer as well as he knew his own name. Tilting his head, then, he directed addressed the topic at hand without ever accusing him. The question was a question, nothing more, despite its unthinkable reserves.
" How much?"
" I don't wanna talk about it. It's not that bad. It's just not," Kyle absentmindedly answered, his voice trailing off and feeling amazingly distant although he was still speaking into the phone. Stan got a strong impression that the Jew was no longer addressing him. Feeling the conversation drawing away, he found his eyes wandering towards the hunter orange jacket of his boyfriend. He saw that little pervert grabbing up the tray and his blond head looking every which way to find the apathetic activist. Waving his hand, Stan nodded to the phone where he heard a muttering of foreign tongue.
" Okay. Fine. I gotta go. Ken's comin'. Bye," Stan quickly said in the usual deadpan, monotone way he usually spoke. Before he could say anything else, he heard the click in his ear as Kyle hung up without another word in English. The activist rolled his eyes dismissively as he snapped the cell shut and slipped it away into his pocket.
Standing there, watching as the blond walked over, Stan idly ran through the conversation. There was a second where he wanted to hold a finger up to Kenny to call Kyle back and ask a few clarifying questions. If not of the weight, then on the mention of the poor boy. The explanations he had given, in defense, in honor, didn't seem to accurately define the emotions kept locked within his cold exterior. Yet, he also found his hand refusing to move to call the Jew. The pressure beginning to pool within his freezing mind left him speechless, emotionless, motionless as aqua traced the lines of the glitter smeared eyeliner over those pale cheeks. The death within shattered into the pool of moonless water as a warm smile crossed over his lips. The remnants of his phone call drifted away in the shocking thrill of being so close to the intoxicating form of his lover. All of those jolting emotions roared to life, like an electric thunderstorm raging beyond his honestly excited smile. They all trickled through the mask, to show, but he never minded.
" Hey," Stan whispered without his control. There was a fury brewing within that threatened to expose his desperation to kiss those tender lips. Yet, he did his best to remain calm in the face of those sparkling sapphires.
" 'Sup, Lover Boy?" Kenny greeted him in a startling loud voice of Southern tones. His eyes shined as he tilted his hips to the side in a dramatically curved line from his set shoulders to his slender, bare thighs. The activist felt his eyes pulled down to the creamy complexion revealed as the blond shifted his feet from side to side in idle restlessness. The scratches and glitter splashed about those revealed legs, but their appeal was as awe inspiring as they were intriguing, " How's Kyle?"
" He's. . . .Kyle," was all he could think of to offer as an explanation as he gave a mildly discarded shrug on one shoulder. He gestured to no one, to nothing, but there was an underlying meaning within the steady movements of his hands. It was a meaning not lost on the poor boy. Stan felt the assurance of that comfort as a sly Cheshire grin snaked its way over Kenny's mouth.
" Havin' a bad mornin' then?" the blond replied without really needing to. His eyes were shielded momentarily as he turned to look about for a place to sit. The swooping line of the hood to his customary jacket cast his fair features into deep shadow, which only accented their angles. A sudden chill sparked over the blood within Stan's veins, cutting through his flesh and freezing his heart in place for several seconds lost within time. Then, breaking in fragments, he eased into a smile as he ran his fingers through his tangled hair at the memory of his previous conversation.
" Something like that," he offered, restraining the grin he felt on the inside. He couldn't deny the amount of nearly emotionless delight he held for Kyle's unexpected turn of events. However, he refused to showcase such things in front of Kenny. Part of that was out of respect for the Jew, as he feared just how much of his deadpan micro expressions the pervert could pick up on. Part of it, though, was a desire to turn the talk more towards their own personal business.
Or perhaps not talk much at all.
" He's such a diva. Let's sit over here," Kenny motioned with the tray to a free table a couple feet away from them. The two made their way over, to which end, they slipped into the same side of the uncomfortable booth together.
Regardless of how hard and unwelcoming the thing was, Stan couldn't help but relish the fact of being so close to his beloved angel. A splash of ice water collided with the flush rushing over his skin when he draped one arm over those slender shoulders. Carefully, the activist pulled the poor boy into the warmth of his body, pressing them together from shoulder to knee. The rush spiraled into a freezing overthrow of everything within. His heart shuttered as he tried to swallow, failing. Finally, he swallowed hard, rough, as his mouth was dry from the nerves trickling through the ice. Nevertheless, Kenny didn't react. He merely adjusted his hood so that the cascade of his blond locks fell forward, so that some were resting on Stan's shoulder. They were soft as silk as they brushed over his neck when those dirty, little hands swept them backwards, into the folds of that orange hood.
Every move was a well placed card in their game. Stan fell into the calm collection of his chips, counting up the ways to bluff his way through this sparkling water sensation. Instead of anteing the bets, however, he rested his cheek firmly against Kenny's head. He fell into the haze induced warmth radiating off that petite body held so securely in his arms. For every drop of ice melting into his blood, freezing his face, descending his aqua eyes into their persistent death, he was overwhelmed by the presence that was the blond. Frighteningly, he was consumed, overtaken, even erased in that solitary second where he was suspended between the frozen world of his own and the solid heat of the one beside him. Fear poured into his mind, ripping from him the momentary peace, before his eyes turned away. Everything vanished in a jolt of electric fury, piercing through the hollow of the dark waters to illuminate the only thought that mattered.
He was there with Kenny.
For that reason alone, Stan tore himself from the haphazard confusion of mixed emotions. Instead, he turned pools of aquamarine studying down to the table. He saw eight dirty fingers tapping aimlessly on the white wash tabletop. Each one had glitter sprinkled over the broken knuckles. A cold reminder that the two lovers had not spent the previous evening with one another. The chill melded with the ice within, though, and Stan found his eyes wandering to the tray with the greasy chicken and the like. For a minute, he addressed nothing. He simply watched how those fingers pounded out a dance song that played on the radio all the time, all day and all night. He knew Kenny was mouthing the words and maybe, just maybe, the song was actually playing in the background. In that moment, all he heard was the soft crinkle of that jacket and the dull thuds of the beat. A light smile lingered over his lips as he eased the warmth of that precious angel closer. Rather than outwardly concentrate on the music, he offered a generic question in hopes of starting some form of communication.
" What'd you get?" he asked with a heightened air of nonchalance. As he said it, he raised his orbs at long last from those hands to the two crystal eyes turned towards him. A haughty smile was cast in his direction.
" Fried chicken," Kenny answered without a single hint of sarcasm to his voice, regardless of the sneering smile he gave his activist. To which, Stan replied with a sharp look of what could have been anger, although it wasn't. The pervert was utterly unaffected by said stare, smiling all the same, which caused the activist to verbalize his gaze to further his point.
" Not what I meant,"
" I know," Kenny stated, nodding slightly, as if he could hear the silent embarrassment just barely making its way into Stan's timbre. The activist glanced away, wishing his boyfriend wouldn't dare bring attention to the obvious. Unfortunately, Kenny didn't adhere to his unspoken wishes as he snickered and lightly drummed his fingers to his lovely, velvet voice, " But you're the dumbass who asked,"
" Whatever," the brunette answered plainly, fighting the flushed heat trying to slip into his voice. His tone could have been taken as angry, although it wasn't, and the poor boy didn't appear to take it as such. All the years of knowing the apathetic teen allowed the blond the gift of reading through the lines of that deadpan voice. Thus, Kenny didn't address the dismissal. Rather, he began to divide up the pieces of chicken and the sides. As he did, Stan noticed the small, almost unseen pout to those tender lips. Frowning, the activist watched on, rubbing the shoulder he was holding. Two sapphires briefly acknowledged the loving gesture, but that didn't lessen the sadness etched over those forlorn orbs. Stan was overcome with a jolt of icy worry. Still, he could not read that face to see what was going on in that head. Tilting his head against Kenny's, then, he whispered his question, finding his voice impossible to raise higher in pitch. The softness to his words slipped like silk over the air quietly, " What's wrong?"
" What'd you mean, 'what's wrong'?" Kenny mumbled, his eyes raising to meet the aquamarine gaze pouring over him. The gems of the activist ran over those fair lines and he wasn't sure how to address what it was he meant when he asked the question. There were no words, however, to describe what it was he saw lost in the light of those faded eyes. He bet it all on the only expression he thought suited the bluff.
" You don't look happy," he informed the poor boy in what he hoped wasn't an accusing tone. Considering the emotions pooling underneath his cracking mask, though, he couldn't be sure. Regardless, he was informed nothing by the empty expression presented. In a slight hurry, Kenny's face broke into a gentle, meaningless smile best explained as hollow. The void within filled Stan in a cold worse than the depths of death in its all consuming nature, rushing through his blood in an unexpected spark that livened every thought, every emotion, every pulse that followed it.
The queen was moved, the position chosen for the strike.
The most frightening thing, though, was that this was not part of the game.
" I am," Kenny simply said in a voice devoid of emotion. There was not a trace in those two words to allude towards any persuasion. The effect was eerily familiar in a manner Stan wasn't keen to recall in it's entirety. Rather, he hardened his expression to the fierce cold and plunged deep into the lion's den, so to speak.
" Ken," he likened the word to a marble stone cut from nothing to create a spark between the two. The sapphires held his face with trembling regard, much like someone caught at the scene, " What's wrong?"
There was a pause, then, that followed the stiff seriousness of the unadorned question. The activist felt his body leaning into the words, slightly, but still enough that Kenny tilted his head a fraction of an inch down to continue gazing at him without his forehead touching the cheek of his lover. Stan studied him, those eyes, in a vain attempt to discern what lurked beyond those perilously joyous hued orbs. He found no answers. Instead, Kenny turned his eyes away as his tongue wet his plump lips softly and slowly. His fingers drummed away on the table; their music a background noise easily ignored for its familiarity. Still, he did not meet the aquamarine stare which rested on the sleek lines of his face. In time, however, his blue gaze was drawn upwards again, and he looked through his messy tangles of blond to see the stern look fixated so helplessly, so apprehensively on him.
" This is real, right?"
Those words shattered the world about them in a stabbing, thrusting emotion that paralleled horror without ever touching it. Stan felt the ice swallow his mind in a pitch black white oblivion. Still, he was found alive in every sense of the word, for the pulse that raced through his frozen blood was livid, enraged, with an unprecedented fury. He wanted to grab those delicate shoulders, to shake that fragile soul, until he broke those empty eyes and broke them down into crystal tears of raw passion. For all, he felt, however, there was but one word ripped from his mouth in a desperate need to clarify. He knew all that he heard, all that was implied, as he knew how to read the falling and rising emotions not etched on those pale cheeks. Still, the word slipped out as he shivered and allowed the shock to consume him violently.
" What?" Stan breathed out, feeling that the amount of confusion lurking in his voice was highly uncalled for. He didn't retract the word, though. He allowed it play on the forever moving chess board with the pieces cut from stone and devoid of feeling.
" Us. Together. It's real, right?" Kenny repeated in a softer timbre than before. His words spiraled out in a damning crescendo of implication. Nevertheless, he implored the underlying truth behind his formidable questions. Stan merely wished he hadn't said it when he did, for the mild taste of disgust which filled him was enough to make him mutely recoil. The touch of those grounded words, that uncontrollable sentence, was enough to sear fear permanently into the previously unshakeable confidence of the activist concerning their relationship, " It's not just because I'm a whore?"
" It's real," he answered the callous question with as much assertive assurance as he had ever answered a single thing in his life. Slowly, though, the sternness was eaten away by the soft flutter of butterflies. Stan's mouth eased into a smile and his hand raised beyond his control. Gently, moving in small, although still sweeping motions, he tucked a lock of blond behind Kenny's ear. Doing so, he moved the color from that perfect face and, when he had, he moved closer until his lips met those of such tender making. He kissed Kenny with all the sweetness melting the ice and all of the love pulsing the heart within. When he moved away, the glow lingering in those sapphires detailed the extent which his kiss had extended. He stroked that cheek, smiling again, while the poor boy returned the gesture with earnest and the precious scrunching on his button nose. There was more emotion within their blue eyes then that ever before. To which end, Stan's mouth whispered the words to express all he felt as simply, as kindly, as he could, " Very real,"
" Good," the poor boy muttered with a kind of certainty to his voice. Nodding then, his peaceful expression was replaced by a snaky Cheshire smile and a narrowing on his orbs. The snarkiness returned tenfold to his slang voice as he sneered, " 'Cause I wanted to make sure it wasn't just based on my looks,"
" It's not. I don't care what you look like," the activist said without missing a beat. He rolled his shoulders back in a form of shrug, discarding the change of persona in his lover as he did with all his other closest friends. The pervert gave a short, halting laugh as he flipped his hood up and down for the sake of doing something with his hands.
" Well, gee, thanks. Yer a smooth talker, ain't cha?" he joked with substantial bite to his every word. The roughness was ignored as the other sighed with a coupled glance to the side. Stan wet his lips and rubbed his hand over Kenny's arm, as his own arm remained draped over the blond's shoulder. There was a moment of flushed embarrassment for the teasing. However, that was resolved with a cold statement of his own.
" I meant that you'll always be beautiful to me. Inside and out,"
" Yeah, you say that now," Kenny teased further, pressing one dirty finger into Stan's cheek without regard to the pressure. Stan didn't bother with swatting away the digit. He merely rolled his eyes and offhandedly gestured to the food getting cold on the table.
Kenny never once looked anywhere but Stan's face.
" Whatever, Ken. Just eat your goddamn chicken," the brunette motioned again to the food before he flicked a potato wedge at the blond. With every effort to control the deliciously sinful expression, Stan grinned over at those sapphires. Kenny, on the other hand, snorted quite rudely into the back of his hand in an attempt not to laugh. Still, for all his attempts, it was in vain, for shortly thereafter he broke down in hearty, full out laughs. The sound was like music to Stan's ears as he smiled warmly down at the love of his life.
Kenny fell against Stan then, holding his hand to his cheek, as he laughed that beautiful rarity of a true, honest laugh of pleasure. It was in that moment that two things happened within the frozen world of the activist. The first was the breaking, wholly and totally, of the ice which held his blood in mute neutral. The second was the realization that getting to know Kenny for the beautiful creature he was inside might require something much more powerful than love. Stan just couldn't for the life of him figure out how he knew that. He just heard it, in that rolling laugh, the sounds left unsaid, the words left unspoken, from the voids floating beyond the surface.
For the first time, Stan Marsh considered the possibility that he didn't know Kenny McCormick as well as he thought.