Ten Years Prior

Kyle knew everything. Kyle could do anything. Kyle's time was taken up by basketball, by debate team, by year book. By extra classes that filled up spare periods and his lunch break. Kyle volunteered at the homeless shelter. Kyle took violin lessons. Took dance classes. Kyle spent every waking moment studying, volunteering, learning. Filling his academic resume with everything he possibly could to better his chances at leaving their stupid, shitty little town to go Ivy League.

Stan couldn't help but feel resentful of it. They rarely saw each other, and when they did they studied. Or they're fought.

Not that Stan himself wasn't entirely to blame. He had quit the football and hockey teams to free up more time in his schedule, opting instead to work part time at the grocery store in town. When he wasn't working, Stan was flying. When he wasn't doing either, he was studying for his written exam or attending the mandatory ground school classes. Everything had cost him so much, and it was a battle with his parents to dip into his college fund to pay for the flying hours for his PPL.

Kyle always agreed with them, insisting that this obsession with flying was better spent focused on school. Even go study mechanical aviation, or go to Florida and learn through an academy.

Stan didn't want that.

Stan had every intention of doing this himself, at the accelerated pace he was going. His hours were almost complete, clocking in at just over fifty. He needed one more cross country, and to complete his written and practical exam to be finished and granted his PPL. From there, it was more flying, more classes, more exams and ratings until he could complete his CPL. Stan had everything budgeted out, provided he could convince his parents this was serious. That this was the career path meant for him. Not spend every penny that would ever come to his name to study to become a surgeon like Kyle.

Stan and Kyle were going on different paths, ones that took up every ounce of patience they had.

Which left them nothing for each other. And it chipped away at them. In the beginning, there was nothing but love and support. Kyle was there for his first take off and landing. Stan pulled all nighters to help Kyle maintain the highest marks on every test and exam. Now, Stan dreaded the planned nights where he'd have to hold cue cards, listen to Kyle's absolutely insufferable speeches, read through his essays to make sure they were error free and getting scolded if he missed one. Kyle no longer bothered coming to the airfield, waiting in the lounge for an hour or more for Stan to finish. Better suited studying at home, apparently.

They fought all the time. But this one... this one was going to be a doozy. Stan could feel the tension getting thicker every time Stan focused less on Kyle's notes and more on his own. They were supposed to be studying for finals. But Stan's written exam was the same week, and took priority.

Not to Kyle, though.

"Put that shit away, dude, you can't afford to fail chemistry," Kyle snapped, reaching across the bed to yank away Stan's textbook, replacing it with a stack of his own notes instead. No, Stan couldn't. But Stan couldn't afford to fail his written, either. Literally. Not unless he wanted to into overdraft. "Fuck off, Kyle," Stan hissed back, picking up the chemistry notebook and tossing it onto the pile of shit Kyle had on his bed. "I know you're stressing out, but get off my back. It doesn't even matter," Stan said, breathing deeply to keep his temper in check. Kyle was already testy, and the last thing he wanted was to get his little fireball ass going.

"Of course it matters," Kyle said, eyes narrowing as Stan picked up his text again, popping the cap of a blue highlighter off with his teeth. "This shit," Kyle waved his hands around at the various charts and maps surrounding Stan. "Can wait. You can take that stupid exam again, you can't do these again."

Stan didn't speak for a few moments, highlighting a few key definitions that were a shoe-in for questions on the exam. "I have to wait, and get my instructors approval that I'm worth reexamining. And I have to pay again, Kyle. I'd have to work an extra weekend to just pay for the redo." Time was precious. A weekend offered more hours in his log book. A few hours in the sim. Retaking the test itself was a couple hours worth of flying GDLH.

Kyle didn't answer for a few moments, and Stan decided now was time to let out a small secret he'd been holding in. "Besides," Stan looked up, swallowing. "I didn't get in anywhere." Kyle's mouth fell a little, in shock or sympathy or maybe something else. Stan didn't know. But Kyle said nothing but a small "oh".

"I didn't apply anywhere," Stan clarified. He couldn't get in if he didn't apply, and he had no interest. Stan thought that maybe, if he never bothered to apply anywhere for college or university, everyone would get off his back and accept that this, that flying, was what he wanted. That it was a viable career with a whole slew of options. By the time he'd be able to fly commercially, many existing pilots would be at retirement age. Air travel always becoming cheaper, more economical and affordable. It wasn't a dying industry, and Stan had done his research to make sure that this wasn't just some stupid pipe dream he'd had since he was a kid.

Kyle still said nothing, eyes narrowing into slits as he gripped a pen tightly. "What?" The redhead asked, and Stan winced at the tone. But he wasn't backing down. "I didn't apply anywhere. It's not worth my fucking time. It's not what I want to do, and I'm not going to lie to everyone to make them happy when I don't fucking want it, Kyle. This!" Stan picked up a map of the western United States, colored with lines and circles at all sorts of angles. "This is what I want to do, and if you really had my best interests at heart, you'd stop pushing me into whatever stupid degree you're aiming for."

His boyfriend looked offended, as if Stan was out of his damn mind for daring to call Kyle's future stupid. How'd it feel, Stan wondered, because every fucking day of his teenage life he'd heard that. "It's my future," Kyle hissed, "and it's far from fucking stupid. Do you have any idea how hard I've been working?!"

Stan threw his hands up, before waving them wildly at all the shit surrounding them. "No shit, Kyle, look at all this fucking stuff? For what?! To get into university? Spend twelve years studying and another god knows how long before you're even allowed to work?! But I'm the idiot because I'm far more fucking advanced in my career path than you are?" Stan's voice rose, gathering up his things and stuffing them all into the backpack he'd snatched off the floor beside the bed. Kyle was about to retort, but Stan beat him to the punch. "No, shut up, I'm sick of you justifying your own future while putting mine down. I'll be flying for a major airline before you're even licensed. You'll be in debt, and I'll be paying off my own loans within a few years with a decent enough salary!"

Stan stood up off the bed, staring down at the mop of curly hair. Kyle's face was flushed with anger, and Stan was rather surprised he hadn't blown up yet. "Where are you going to be in ten years, Kyle? Still studying. Still working your ass off and digging yourself deeper into debt to become some stupid fucking surgeon." Yeah, it was admirable. Kyle wanted to save lives. But Kyle also wanted to make enough money to support himself, and to be able to correct everyone when they called him Mr. Broflovski, to say 'No, it's doctor Broflovski.' or some stupid bullshit.

"Fuck you, Stan," Kyle spat. "At least I've got something reasonable. You think you're going to be some high flying sky god? Don't fucking kid yourself. It's nothing more than a fucking sky taxi. You'll be lucky if you can get a damn job shipping cargo up to Alaska or dusting crops, for fucks sake." Stan gripped the handle of his backpack, ready to turn to the door and walk out. "You're wasting your potential, Stan!" Kyle's voice was matching his own in terms of volume. "Imagine if you put this effort and time into anything else. You quit football, you quit hockey, and you were the best. Could have gotten a full scholarship from that alone, no doubt. Focused on something, anything else, Stan. And now you've wasted your fucking time, not even bothering to apply?! How could you be so stupid?! Not even as something to fucking fall back on!"

Stan turned, back to Kyle as he yanked open the bedroom door. "I'm not fucking stupid," Stan turned to say, before slamming the door behind him and trotting downstairs. Kyle's mother stood at the base of them, and Stan muttered a small apology to Mrs. Broflovski before leaving her home and crossing the lawns to his house next door.

Stan and Kyle hadn't spoken more than a few passing words to each other since that day. They'd elected to ignore each other, both too stubborn to come apologizing with their tail between their legs. Of course, neither of them had thought they were wrong. So Stan had spent that summer working, got his private license in July. From there he stayed at home for a few years, moving from the grocery store to working at the airfield. It was more than minimum, and he was allowed to take one of the planes up for only the cost of fuel. Over the course of several years, Stan had saved enough to pay for his ratings, his exams, his hours and rent for an apartment. He'd convinced his parents to let him use the couple thousand they'd saved for college. When his grandfather died and left him a small sum, it went instantly into the costs. By twenty five, he had his commercial license. Stan had nothing else to his name but that, but it was all he'd wanted.

Stan hadn't a clue where Kyle was, how he was doing, and he rarely thought of him. It wasn't as if Stan had any social media to check up, even if Kyle had crossed his mind. He'd instructed at the airfield himself for a couple years, seeing one of the mechanics on and off during that time. Nothing serious, and Stan wasn't too bummed about it when he'd left for the current job he had now; working for a small charter company with a fleet of three aircraft. His boss was a stingy old man, cutting costs wherever he could. Which lead him to the offer he gave Stan; for half the salary, he could be commanding officer of the older Challenger 604 in his fleet. Mr. Donahue said it was worth the resume experience, and Stan figured he'd do just fine with twenty thousand a year. It wasn't worth turning it down.

So he'd met Eric Cartman, an over confident, ignorant asshole who challenged Stan at every moment he possibly could. But they became friends nonetheless. Impossible to do so otherwise, spending upwards of ten hours together in the flight deck. Then along came Kenny a few months later, kicked off Mr. Donahue's Falcon 2000s for pissing off the two female pilots he had installed there. To their defense, he pissed off Stan and Cartman himself. But he fit with them, and over the last year and a half they became like family. Stan had learned that Eric didn't have a father, that his mother thought lovely, had spent most of his childhood with drugs and various boyfriends that more often than not led to some form of abuse or disruption of the household until Cartman had been old enough to move in with a friend. Stan had learned, as well, that Kenny had a brother and sister living at home with him. He'd taken them out of his parents the first chance he got. Kenny had said they were good people who put them in questionable situations. Stan didn't ask further.

In the first few months, working for Mr. Donahue at his airfield, he also learned that Kenny could be sucked into an engine and come back the next morning. Stan didn't ask, and no one offered no explanation. At first, Stan had thought he'd imagined it, going into a full panic and wondering why no one else bothered to do anything. They'd all just said that he'd be fine. And he was. At least once a month, Kenny would meet death only to be back to work the next day.

Working for Mr. Donahue wasn't perfect, but Stan had been the happiest he had been for a long while. A steady job, a decent income, a couple of friends to go out for drinks or shoot the shit with. It felt normal, aside from the days in which Kenny was run over by a landing vessel.

All was well. Until, of course, he'd crashed the GCOF into the Atlantic.