A/N: Thank you so much to all who sent me reviews and encouragement during the long wait for the next chapter! And thanks to everyone for waiting, following, and reading. I apologize (again) for the delay - I've had plenty of distractions from my writing so far this year, most of them good. But now I've played the new South Park video game and I feel really reinvigorated and ready to write as much as my schedule allows. Thanks to julads for giving me feedback, as always. I'm hoping to get the next chapter up soon, after writing some short things inspired by The Stick of Truth!
That night, Kyle lies awake in bed, staring at the cabin ceiling. It didn't take the others long to drift off, exhausted by their first full day at camp. Clyde is a loud mouth breather, Butters snores in piglet-like grunts, and Eric whimpers intermittently. Kyle is kept awake mostly by his heart, which hasn't stopped pounding since he ran from the laundry room, and his inability to stop mentally replaying and attempting to analyze what he saw there.
The hardest thing to get his head around is the idea that Stan is gay, though at the same time it kind of makes sense. Kyle never would have guessed it, but there was something bashfully secretive about Stan that he couldn't put his finger on from the start, especially when he grumbled about Craig. He's been hiding, all this time, like Kyle has. He just knows that Stan isn't out, maybe because a cute guy Stan's age would have a boyfriend if he was, instead of weird laundry machine sex with his co-worker.
Either way, Kyle must accept what he saw with his own eyes: Stan and Craig are lovers. They have sex. Stan bends over for a guy who must be at least ten years older than him. Kyle cringes under his blankets, hovering in an uncomfortable grey area between arousal and horror. He didn't think real life butt sex would look quite like that. In his fantasies it's more rosy and tasteful, at least visually. Craig and Stan were both sweating while the dryers around them made that clunking noise, factory-like. They were breathing so hard, and Stan's face was bright red even before he saw Kyle in the doorway. Then there was Craig's cock, which looked wet, and Stan's, which Kyle wishes he'd gotten a better glimpse of, though that's terrible. It was definitely hard, sticking out from under the hem of Stan's t-shirt. Kyle isn't sure if he feels more mortified for himself or for Stan, but he's certain that tomorrow morning's insulin injection will be unbearable for both of them, if Stan hasn't run away from camp entirely after being seen like that, with his pants around his ankles and a dick in his ass.
There's a kind of nauseous giddiness flowing through Kyle as he finally drifts to sleep. It's a sense of possibility, he thinks, only half-consciously. It's not as if Stan is going to leave his adult boyfriend and take some kind of sexual interest in Kyle as a fellow gay person, but they share this secret now. They're connected, in a way.
When Kyle wakes up he feels much less confident that what he witnessed will lead to an increasingly special relationship with Stan. Blistering anxiety floods back in as he dresses for the morning work out, his hands shaking. What if Stan isn't able to look him in the eye? What if they both pretend it never happened? And what will Craig do, now that Kyle knows he's fucking Stan?
"Earth to Jew boy," Eric says, and he throws a balled up sock at Kyle. It bounces off of Kyle's shoulder and rolls into the middle of the room. Eric is glowering at him as if insulted. "I asked you a question," he says.
"Huh? What?"
"We're taking bets," Eric says. "What manner of torture do they have in store for us this morning? My guess is ultimate frisbee. Clyde thinks it's more yoga."
"Ah, Eric," Butters says. "That wasn't torture."
"Shut up, Butters, nobody's talking to you!"
"I don't know," Kyle says, unable to anticipate anything except his next meeting with Stan. He looks down at what he's dressed himself in: a Mackey t-shirt and shorts. "I hope it's not swimming," he says.
Wendy raps on their door as Kyle is tying his sneakers. His heart beats harder when she walks into their cabin, again carrying her lantern. Will Stan have confided in her about what happened last night? Her expression is mild, probably not the kind of look she'd have on if she knew that one of the boys in this cabin witnessed her friend's sexual humiliation. Kyle wonders if she even knows that Stan is gay, and is briefly thrilled by the idea that he might know something about Stan that Wendy doesn't.
"I don't want you guys to be intimidated when you hear this," Wendy says, which instantly intimidates Kyle. "But this morning we're going to have a nice, slow jog around the property."
"I have knee problems," Eric says. "I can't run. You guys have fun, though." He flops back onto his bed.
"Eric, you have no such thing," Wendy says. "I've read your medical file. You can't fool me. Let's go, guys! It'll be great. The girls are waiting outside," she adds, as if this is some kind of incentive.
"Sometimes I vomit when I run," Clyde tries, but Wendy breezes out of the cabin as if she didn't hear that.
Outside, the girls are standing at the end of the stone path that leads to the boys' cabin. They're all wearing sweatpants, with the exception of Rebecca, who has stubby legs and fat knees. Kyle looks down at his own legs, which are twiggy and covered in red hair. He wishes he'd worn sweatpants.
"So!" Wendy says, clapping her hands together. "I don't want you guys to feel like you need to keep pace with me or anybody else - it's not a race, and this just what I like to call a 'test run.' Just to show you guys that it's not as hard as it looks. We're only going to jog for ten minutes, okay? And if you need to stop and walk, that's just fine, but I want to see you all trying your best to keep jogging. Maybe walk for sixty seconds, then jog for sixty seconds. You'll be amazed how rewarding it is to push yourselves a little!"
"Your sense of what's rewarding may not be universal," Rebecca says. She doesn't even sound annoyed, just as if she wants to gently enlighten a dumb jock. Wendy stares at her for a moment.
"Fair enough," she says. "But let's give it a try and find out. It'll be like a science experiment, Rebecca - but it won't work if you don't really try! C'mon, guys. Here we go!"
Kyle is so preoccupied with thoughts of Stan and Craig and their laundry room fucking that he doesn't have space in his mind to fret about running. He just does it, slowly, thinking about how good it felt to bolt at full speed last night, away from the sight of Stan being penetrated. Violated? No, he didn't seem to be resisting. But there was something very resigned about the way he had his elbows on the laundry machine and his ass thrust back, on offer. Kyle starts breathing hard, only twenty paces or so into his jog.
"This is bullshit," Eric says, and Kyle looks over at him. Eric's big tits are bouncing under his t-shirt, and Kyle thinks that must be very uncomfortable. Kyle's chest bounces, too, but it almost feels good, at least on his nipples when they rub against the inside of his t-shirt. It's chilly outside, the sun not quite up yet. Wendy is a good ways ahead of them already, with Bebe and Butters follow her most closely. Kyle glances behind him and sees that Henrietta is bringing up the rear. She's walking, which makes him sad in a way that he couldn't have expected. "Seriously," Eric says, panting already. "Who does this? What kind of primitive, ape-like person does this voluntarily?"
"Hot people," Kyle says. "Don't you want to be hot?"
This seems to take Eric off guard, and Kyle smirks at him. He runs a little faster, wondering if Eric will try to keep up. He does, huffing.
"I could be," Eric says. "My mom was-"
"A beauty queen, I know. You told me. Plus, I saw her. What does your dad look like?"
"Why are you so obsessed with my dad, Jesus Christ?" Eric says this so loudly that Clyde turns back to see what the commotion is. Kyle hopes he won't come over to try to talk to them, then wonders why, because it's not like he wants to talk to Eric, especially.
"Oh, yeah, I'm so obsessed with your dad," Kyle says, sarcastically, though he is beginning to get kind of curious about Eric's defensive stance on the subject. "It just follows, doesn't it, asking what your dad looks like if we're talking about your genes? Your potential for hotness?"
"You so want to blow me," Eric says, but when he smiles at Kyle he doesn't really look convinced. Kyle rolls his eyes.
"Maybe if you were a little more forthcoming about yourself we could at least have a negotiation," Kyle says, quietly.
He's as shocked as Eric once the words are out. Where the hell did that come from? He thinks of what he saw last night and feels emboldened, as if some gay sex expertise or confidence transferred to him via osmosis.
"You serious?" Eric mutters, staring at him.
"I don't know," Kyle says, honestly.
For a few paces they run in silence. Kyle is beginning to get tired, and his windpipe feels as if it's narrowing. They can't have been running for more than a few minutes. For a second there he'd thought it would be as easy as Wendy promised, fooled by her optimism.
"He doesn't live with us," Eric says, mumbling.
"What?" Kyle says, not sure he heard that correctly. He's beginning to pant pretty loudly himself. The breathing part is even harder than keeping his legs moving.
"My dad," Eric says, almost growling, possibly because he's so short of breath. "He lives in St. Louis. With his wife and his other kid."
"Oh. Shit, I'm sorry. He left you guys?"
Eric just grunts, and Kyle lets the subject drop. It explains some things, he thinks. He slows his pace when Eric does, partly because he's getting tired and partly to show support, or appreciation for that sudden moment of what seems like honesty. It occurs to him with an unexpected thrill that he could be a kind of camp counselor himself, in a sense. He could help show this sad fat kid how to be a better person, and he would have that in common with Stan, too: helping gently, without Wendy's style of strident demands for enlightenment.
"Fuck this," Eric breathes out after another minute or so of running. Kyle is suffering, too, and glad for the excuse to slow to a walk alongside him. He didn't want to be the one who quit running first.
"I'm more of a sprinter," Kyle says, panting. "Running slow over a long distance - ah. It's not - not in my nature to, um. Do things inefficiently."
"Humans weren't designed for this shit," Eric says. "This is cheetah level bullshit. Look at them, trying to act like they're all cool."
He's referring to the only two who are still running: Bebe and Butters, who are nearly keeping pace with Wendy. Clyde is ahead of them and sort of half jogging, half stumbling. Everyone else is behind Kyle and Eric, walking.
"Listen," Eric says, taking Kyle's elbow, and Kyle rears away a bit, afraid he's going to try to start the blow job negotiations that Kyle foolishly hinted at. He's regretting that already, though he's still a little impressed with his own boldness. "I think those two are plants," Eric says.
"Plants - what?"
"The blonds. You know, like the administration planted them in our cabins to be all 'ooh, exercise is fun! Hooray for health food!' and also to spy on us, probably. I'd be careful what you reveal to Butters, is all I'm saying."
"I wasn't exactly planning on revealing things to that kid," Kyle says. "And you sound paranoid, but. That's actually not the craziest concept, really."
Eric grins, and Kyle feels a little weird about smiling back. He tells himself this friendliness is part of his new mission: Eric needs some authentic insider encouragement. Kyle can't wait to tell Stan about his efforts, if Stan is still willing to talk to him, post-laundry room.
Once they've made a full circle around the perimeter of the cabin area, they're allowed to return to their cabins for showers before breakfast. Kyle is glad to be allowed to go first, though the reasoning for it has his stomach churning. He'll head to the nurse's station to get his injection before joining the others for breakfast. He's too tense to even get an erection as he cleans himself, and he lingers under the water for longer than necessary, until the bathroom door bangs open. Kyle puts his hands over his dick and balls instinctively, though there's a heavy blue shower curtain shielding him from whoever's out there.
"Are you douching in there or what?" Eric barks. "We need to shower, too, and I'm fucking hungry!"
"I'm done, Jesus, get out!" Kyle turns off the water, his already agitated heart slamming now. He shouldn't have egged Eric on in exchange for information about his father. Eric has been pushing at Kyle's boundaries since he arrived at camp, and being intruded upon in the shower is not something he intended to invite. He peeks around the curtain to make sure that Eric shut the door, then steps out to hurriedly dry off, trying to convince himself that Stan won't be mad when he reaches the nurse's station. It might be worse if he's not mad but so mortified that his hands shake. Kyle doesn't want Stan to be embarrassed; he wants to communicate his acceptance, somehow, right away, and he's afraid there's really only one way he can do that. He takes a deep breath and tries to make his hair look decent.
On the walk to the nurse's station, Kyle's legs begin to feel leaden. The run might have intensified this, but it's his dread of facing Stan that's weighing him down. Half of him is desperate to see Stan and reassure him that he has an ally in Kyle, and the other half is sweating profusely at the thought of looking into the eyes of someone he's seen in that position. Stan was so vulnerable, and to Craig, of all people. Kyle is in a state by the time he's reaching for the handle on the nurse's station door, his vision tunneled and his fresh t-shirt already stuck to his back.
As he opens the door, he realizes that he's most afraid that the nurse's station will be empty, though he's not exactly relieved when he sees Stan inside, alone, seated on the examining table. He looks wan and tired, and Kyle lingers in the doorway when Stan meets his eyes.
"Oh, dude," Stan says. His voice is scratchy and low, shaking. He pinches his eyes shut and shakes his head slowly. "I am so, so. I'm so sorry. Are you okay?" He opens his eyes and hops off the examining table, as if he's ready to spring into action on Kyle's behalf if needed.
"I'm fine." Kyle shuts the door and checks the alcove where the nurse sat at her desk yesterday. It's empty, dark. Kyle's heart is thudding, and for a moment he actually feels faint, but it's mostly the sudden change in light and temperature. The overhead lights are off, as usual, and Kyle is glad for the shadows, his hands trembling as he struggles not to picture Stan's face when Craig was in him. "Um," he says. Stan has his hands on his back pockets, and he looks like he wants to die, or vomit, or both. "Are you okay?" Kyle asks.
Stan makes an indecipherable sound and turns away, putting his hands over his face. Kyle wants to go to him and hug him, but he's afraid to move.
"I don't know what the fuck I'm doing," Stan says. He braces his hands on the examining table, his back to Kyle. "I'm not even. I mean. Nobody knows. Only him, and, uh. You, now."
"Do you want to talk about it?" Kyle asks, gently. On the way over he'd been planning to blurt something about his own gayness so that Stan would know he can be trusted, but now that seems outlandish.
"Talk - oh." Stan turns back to Kyle, looking broken. "You're so - that's so - no, this isn't your problem. God, I'm sorry you saw that. Shit, you must - if you want to tell Mackey, that's cool. I shouldn't have, um. I let you down, I know."
He sounds like he'll cry, and Kyle can't wait any longer. He crosses the space between them and goes in for a hug, but Stan steps back, evading him.
"It's okay," Kyle says, his own eyes stinging from a sense of rejection. "I mean. I understand."
"Kyle." Stan takes another step backward. "You don't have to, uh. Listen, I shouldn't touch you."
"Why not?" Kyle is quickly overheating, despite the air conditioning in the room; he wants to peel his skin off to get some relief.
"Because I'm fucked up! You saw."
"It's not fucked up to be gay," Kyle says, and he almost snorts when he hears himself and his counselor-like tone. "Not to me, anyway."
"That's not what I mean. I'm here, supposed to be setting an example, and, ah. I've known that guy two weeks. He's such an asshole, too, he - I don't know what I'm doing. Shit, here." Stan goes to the medicine cabinet, his hands shaking visibly when he opens it. "You don't need to hear all this. Just know that you can tell Mackey if I disturbed you. I should be arrested, probably."
"I'm the one who burst in on you," Kyle says. "You're both adults. Is he - he's not, like. Making you, is he?"
Kyle's face is on fire, and so is Stan's when he turns from the cabinet. Despite the horrendous awkwardness, Kyle feels okay. This is a safe place, and Stan doesn't hate him.
"God, no," Stan says. "He's, just - I've just never had a guy come on to me before. And, I. I've known for a while that I wanted one to, I just didn't know how to, uh. Make it all happen. He swept in on me like he had a script. So."
"Do you even like him a little?" Kyle says, hoping the answer is no, though Stan must see something in Craig if he's willing to bare his ass for him.
"I don't know," Stan says. He sighs and brings the lancet kit to Kyle, who hops up on the examining table. "The truth is, I don't really know how to do any of this. It's scary. But then I like it, too. A little, yeah."
"Maybe a little's not enough," Kyle says, and he hunches his shoulders apologetically when he hears himself trying to give this grown man advice on his gay sex life. "Sorry, I. It's not like I know anything."
"It's okay." Stan scratches at his elbow. "This is fucked up, but I've been wanting to talk about it with someone."
"Why not Wendy?"
"Are you kidding me? She got me this job, and this is her, you know. Arena. She takes it real seriously. So if she finds out that I'm fucking one of our bosses she'll scalp me."
"Craig - he's your boss?" Kyle winces. He supposes he knew this, but he wasn't thinking of it that way, before. Stan shrugs.
"More or less," he says. "He tells us what to do. I kind of-" Stan trails off and looks at the window. "Like that," he says, muttering. "But then I hate it, too. It's complicated. Fuck, sorry. I can't believe I'm telling you this. I can't believe you saw that, us, last night, Jesus - I feel like a sex offender."
"Dude," Kyle says, and he's glad when Stan meets his eyes again. "You're not doing anything wrong. I actually, uh. I've been wanting to talk about this with somebody, too."
"This?" Stan says. Kyle waits, kicking his legs a little. He looks down at his blood sugar meter when it beeps.
"I need insulin," Kyle says, and Stan goes to the cabinet. "And, you know," Kyle says when Stan's back is turned. "I'm gay, too."
"Oh." Stan lingers at the cabinet, and Kyle waits to experience the internal apocalypse he's always anticipated at the thought of confessing. It doesn't come, maybe because Stan is somehow the more vulnerable one here. He turns from the cabinet and gives Kyle a sheepish smile. "I wish I had been able to say that when I was your age," Stan says. "I still can't say it."
"That's the first time I have," Kyle says, and then there's a sudden threat of tears, but it passes. "I didn't even tell Mackey." He puts his hand out and Stan brings the insulin to him. They're both quiet when Kyle injects himself. As usual, it's nice.
"It's not like I don't want to be gay," Stan says, mumbling. "It's just. It's more like I don't know how to be, when everyone assumes I'm not. And Craig, um. It's like he knows how."
"Well, he's older," Kyle says, jealously. "And I don't know how, either, but I guess by the time I'm your age I'll have to start figuring it out."
"That's the thing." Stan takes the insulin from him, and when their fingers brush Kyle wants badly to hug him, though he's afraid Stan would jump backward again. "I thought, when I went off to college, this new gay life would just happen. I didn't want to be out in high school, 'cause there was nobody there I wanted to hook up with anyway, but in college I figured it would all start, like, actually happening. It didn't, though. I even slept with two girls."
"Ew," Kyle says, as gently as possible. Stan snorts and smiles at him.
"Girls aren't that bad," he says. "Maybe I'm bi. I used to beat off to regular porn. Shit, see - Craig is always calling me on stuff like that. I'm stuck thinking other people are regular and I'm a freak, sort of."
"I don't think it's offensive to call it 'regular' porn," Kyle says, because fuck Craig. "I mean, that's just the kind of porn that's more common. Most people are straight." He takes a moment to try to gauge if he sounds mature and reasoned or like a very small child who only thinks he sounds grown up. "Can I tell you something in confidence?" he asks, and Stan smiles again.
"Yeah," he says. "I feel like you're the first person I've really talked to all summer."
"Ha, well. You must talk to Craig."
"Uhh, yeah. It's usually brief. Anyway. What's up?"
"There's another gay boy here at camp," Kyle says, quietly. He wonders if he'll be late for breakfast, then doesn't care. "He's confided in me, I guess because he could tell I was gay, too." Kyle pauses there and searches Stan's eyes. He appears to be listening intently, and Kyle feels for a moment like they're in a tree fort together, whispering secrets. "Could you tell about me?" he asks.
"That you were - nah, no. But then." Stan narrows his eyes and nods a few times, slowly. "When you said it, just now? Then it did felt like I knew, kinda. Even though I wasn't thinking it, really, before."
"That's how it felt for me!" Kyle says, brightening. "When, um. Last night."
Stan winces at the reminder and goes to put Kyle's medicine away. "You could tell about me?" he says when he's got his back to Kyle.
"No, no," Kyle says. "But there was just - something. It was part of why I liked you. Like you, I mean."
"You still like me, huh?" Stan gives him a kind of joking smile, but Kyle can see that he's sincerely relieved. Kyle beams and nods, probably too enthusiastically.
"And what I was saying, about this other gay boy at camp - he's a mess. You can probably, uh, guess who I'm talking about, but I'd rather not say his name. Because I want to help him. I think he's really sad, and I - this probably sounds dumb."
"Doesn't sound dumb," Stan says. "But, you know. Don't get too distracted by him. You're here for you, right?"
"Right, but I like the idea of - helping someone else, too." Kyle's voice trails off toward the end of this statement. Maybe he's being stupid. He's certainly not going to broach the subject of Eric's lame attempts at seduction. Not yet, anyway. It would be good to have a trusted ally if that gets out of hand.
"We should probably get you to breakfast," Stan says.
"Right," Kyle says, disappointed, though he is very hungry. He reminds himself that he'll see Stan again this afternoon, and this evening. When he considers the fact that they've got the whole summer to have talks like this together he practically floats off the examining table.
"Hey," Stan says, and he reaches toward Kyle, then stops himself just short of touching his arm. "Um. Am I really the first person you've ever told?"
"You really are," Kyle says, though maybe Eric counts.
"That's awesome, man. Congratulations. And you were so cool about it."
"What was I supposed to do, cry or something?" Kyle asks, as if he hasn't always pictured himself in floods of tears while coming out, his head in his mother's lap. He shrugs like it's no big deal. "I'm okay with it," he says. It's never really been true before this moment, but now he's gay in the company of Stan's fellow gayness, which feels like a privilege.
"Well," Stan says. "If you ever do need to cry or something, you can talk to me."
"Thanks," Kyle says, and then he feels it again, the pressure of potential tears, heavy at the corners of his eyes. He heads for the door and manages to hold it in. He's not sad, just a little overwhelmed, but mostly in a good way. So much has happened already.
Breakfast is an egg white omelette with a side of fruit salad, and Kyle feels sophisticated, eating this, though he'd prefer some pancakes and real bacon. He's feeling so newly adult that it seems as if he should have coffee and the newspaper along with his breakfast. Eric is studying him suspiciously as he takes dainty bites of his omelette.
"What the hell are you so chipper about?" Eric asks when they're walking to the game room for their free hour. They have the option of returning to the cabin, but Kyle doesn't want Eric to follow him there and start questioning him about blow jobs again. He's in too good a mood for that, and apparently it's obvious.
"I just feel lighter," Kyle says.
"After one run? That you mostly walked?"
Kyle shrugs. He wasn't talking about his physical weight. Part of him wants to gush about coming out and spread the word, but it's still scary to think of anyone else knowing, so he leaves Eric to wonder why he can't stop smiling. It's not just the coming out; it's that he came out to Stan, which is something he never could have anticipated. It's like they're really friends now, or they're going to be, anyway. Kyle has already thought of at least twenty questions he wants to ask Stan, some of them probably too intimate to actually voice, like what it feels like to have a thrusting penis in your ass. He starts laughing under his breath at the thought of calmly asking this in the nurse's station, and Eric glowers at him.
"I think that hippie counselor fucked up your medication," he says. "You're, like, high."
"I did the injection myself," Kyle says. "But I so appreciate your concern."
After the free gaming hour there's badminton in the indoor gym, and Kyle is still too ebullient to care that he has such horrible hand-eye coordination. His mood dampens when he realizes that nutrition class will follow. He'll have to face Craig, and wonder what Craig is thinking every time he slices his gaze in Kyle's direction. Craig probably wants to wring Kyle's neck for intruding on his enjoyment of a young, impressionable gay boy. Kyle sort of wants to kill Craig, too, but he's not feeling particularly confrontational as they head into the kitchen lab. He takes a seat beside Eric at their work station, though he supposes he could have changed partners. There's something about Eric's hulking largeness that's making Kyle feel more secure as he awaits Craig's arrival.
"Should I ask this bitch about protein shakes?" Eric asks.
"What bitch?" Kyle says.
"The teacher! You said, remember. He might let me have extra calories. Probably not, though. Why did they have to put some stick-looking fucker in charge of our food? Figures."
"It's worth asking," Kyle says, though he doubts Craig will allow anyone to deviate from his diet plan, considering his speech about the dangers of Altoids.
When Craig enters the classroom, Kyle goes stiff and keeps his eyes on the board. He's having flashbacks to last night, despite his attempts to suppress them. Craig's cock had been long and thin, like him. Elegant, even, like some of the expensive silicone dildos Kyle has researched online. He wills these thoughts away, trying to focus on the ingredients for lunch that have been laid out today: dry whole wheat pasta, a small red onion, a red bell pepper, and a head of broccoli, along with some oils and spices. Kyle isn't optimistic about this being delicious, but he doesn't have much of an appetite, anyway, with Craig standing at the front of the room. He keeps his eyes down on his desk.
"Before we begin our hands on lesson," Craig says. "I want to talk to you all about the deadly pitfalls of sugar consumption. It can lead to Type 2 diabetes, which is becoming frighteningly common in overweight children."
Kyle begins to sweat. That's not his type of diabetes, of course, but he feels singled out nonetheless, and he doubts that this is an accident. Craig is letting him know, without saying so exactly, that his trespass has not been forgotten.
"In fact," Craig says, "Kyle, why don't you come up here and share some insights on managing your disease with the class? I know you're Type 1 and it's not the same treatment, but I think it would be worthwhile to have you explain how difficult it is to manage your diet when you have a tendency to be overweight and issues with insulin. You might have some valuable insights - many of your classmates here are in danger of developing Type 2 diabetes."
Kyle is frozen on the stool behind his workstation, staring at Craig, waiting for him to relent. Craig just stares back, seemingly impassive. Kyle can feel something boiling in the air between them: a threat. He slides off his stool, feeling naked, as if Craig has exposed him in revenge.
He's pissed off by the time he makes his way to the front of the classroom. He's not the one who's done something wrong. Craig is the person who has something to lose here, and he's got some goddamn nerve, punishing Kyle for inadvertently walking in on him. Kyle turns to face the class and focuses on Butters, who appears to be taking notes.
"I have to take insulin to control my blood sugar," Kyle says. He hopes Craig can hear how pissed off he is, though he's also afraid to look Craig in the eye. "As far as I know, Type 2 people don't have to do that. They just have to avoid certain foods and change their diet. But I'm not really an expert on that."
He hopes that comes out as a sharp volley in Craig's direction, but when he turns to look at Craig he seems unfazed. Then he smiles, a little shit eating grin that makes his gray eyes appear even more impenetrable.
"Of course you're not an expert. Go sit down, Kyle."
This order is given as if it was Kyle's idea to lecture the class on diabetes. Kyle is fuming with so much buried rage by the time he returns to his workstation that he can feel Eric noticing it, but he ignores Eric's questioning looks.
"Diabetes, Type 2, is not an inability to produce insulin, but a resistance to the effects of the insulin that your body produces," Craig says. He turns to write on the dry erase board. Kyle stills perfectly still, back straight, and concentrates on hating everything about Craig, including his inhumanely precise handwriting. "It is brought on by a poor diet, lack of exercise, and the resulting obesity. Unlike Kyle, who was unlucky enough to be born with an insulin disorder, Type 2 diabetes is brought on by an unhealthy lifestyle and is therefore often preventable for those who are willing to change."
Kyle can't concentrate on the rest of the lesson, and the pasta salad that he makes with Eric turns out too vinegary. Eric eats most of it, jabbing Kyle in the shoulder intermittently.
"What's wrong with you all of a sudden?" Eric asks, speaking with his mouth full. "You pouting because the teacher made you talk about your disability?"
"It's not a disability. And no. You have broccoli stuck between your teeth."
"Shit, where?"
"Right there." Kyle points to his own teeth. Eric fails to extract the broccoli using his tongue, and Kyle turns away, disgusted, when he starts picking at his teeth with his fingernail.
"How long have you been shooting up insulin?" Eric asks.
"Since I was seven."
"Whoa, that's hardcore."
"Well." Kyle is almost flattered. "My mom did it for me, the first few years. So that was. Not great."
"How come?"
"Because - ah! She had to be hovering around me all the time, checking me, rechecking me, and I barely had any personal space at all until I was ten. I barely do now, Jesus."
"Yeah, my mom's pretty fucking annoying." Eric is dragging his fork through the last of the olive oil at the bottom of the pasta bowl, licking it off before collecting more. "She's like, 'Eric, come watch The Bachelor with me.' All the other chicks her age hate her because she's still hot and they're all cottage cheesy in their sweatpants and mom jeans."
"Cottage cheesy?" Kyle snorts. "I bet you have cellulite, too, so maybe don't judge." Kyle has some. His mother recently pointed it out, in an attempt to caution him off his path to a life of blubbery shame, though she's got plenty herself.
"I'll judge all I want," Eric says. "I don't have that shit. Only chicks get that."
"No, actually, wrong again."
"What, do you have some?" Eric grins, and Kyle turns away from him, his face getting hot. He shouldn't have said anything. He really feels like punching someone, and Eric is an excellent candidate, but Kyle is supposed to be rising above Eric's idiocy and helping him achieve enlightenment, or some crap. He's not sure why he thought that was a good idea, except that he wanted to bond with Stan over it. He supposes they have more profound things in common. "Nah, don't feel bad," Eric says, poking Kyle's muffin top. "You've got a cute ass," he says, more quietly, and he laughs when Kyle snarls at him.
"Don't touch me," Kyle says.
"You're feisty today. I like it."
"I don't give a shit what you like!"
"Boys," Craig says, suddenly appearing over Kyle's shoulder. He peers down at Kyle, who struggles not to flinch. Craig smells like something that reminds Kyle of his mother's expensive salon in Denver, and also a bit like laundry detergent. "How did your pasta salad turn out?" Craig manages to make even this question seem menacing.
"It was okay," Eric says. "Do we get fruit or something for dessert?"
"Lunch does not necessitate dessert, Mr. Cartman. A snack will be served near the pool in two hours."
"Listen, uh," Eric says when Craig begins to drift toward the next workstation. Craig turns back, and Eric seems to shrink a bit. "Um, I was thinking, since I'm big and I need more calories than some of these shrimps, maybe I could have, like, a protein shake?"
Craig smiles faintly in a way that makes Kyle want to throw his fork at Craig's smug face, and which also makes him feel surprisingly defensive of Eric, a fellow fat kid who has found himself in this man's nutritional prison.
"Eric, if I offered you extras, everyone would ask for them. Wouldn't you like extra food, Kyle?"
"No," Kyle says, humiliated by the implication that of course he would, and by the fact that it's not entirely untrue. His face is getting red again; goddammit. "But Eric has a point. Bigger people need more calories, even if they're losing weight."
"Are you really lecturing me on caloric intake?" Craig is still smiling, though he no longer seems amused. "I have a PhD in Nutrition from Johns Hopkins. Where did you earn your advanced degree on the subject, Mr. Broflovski?"
Something about the fact that he knows Kyle's last name is both surprising and upsetting. Kyle shrugs as dismissively as he can.
"I'm not wrong," he says. His face is blazing now, but this guy doesn't scare him. Or, he does, but Kyle doesn't want him knowing that. Kyle could blackmail the shit out of him, after all.
"How about this," Craig says. "We'll hold our next lesson on why Kyle is wrong, actually." He's speaking to the whole class now; everyone seems to be listening. "I understand what you're trying to articulate, Kyle, but in Eric's case, you are quite wrong. We'll talk about it soon. Looks like we're nearly out of time - everyone, please begin washing up your stations."
Kyle is in a blind rage by the time they leave the classroom. He'd planned to go the game room after class, to avoid inviting Eric to follow him back to the cabin, but he needs to hit something and he might get in bad trouble if he takes this energy to the game room. He hurries back to the cabin, feeling his skin start to burn under the glare of the afternoon sunlight. He keeps forgetting sunscreen.
"Where are you going in such a hurry?" Eric asks, barely keeping up with him. "Ready to talk blow jobs?"
"You'd better not piss me off right now," Kyle says. "You wouldn't like me when I'm angry."
"Ha! Right, I'm sure you could throw me clear across the room."
"I might. It's called an adrenaline rush. Don't fuck with me."
"Ooh, I'm so scared. You're cute when you're mad. Like a kitten trying to roar."
Kyle can't even make it into the cabin: it's too late, he's going to explode. He's had fits of rage before, but something about being physically overheated by the sun is making the blistering heat inside his chest boil more rapidly than ever. In lieu of tearing Eric to shreds, he grabs a shrub near the front door of their cabin and growls as he yanks it clear out of the mulch and sandy dirt it was planted in. Once its roots are exposed he starts tearing it apart, breaking as many brittle branches as he can before ripping off its leaves in violent handfuls. He's making noise but he has no idea what he sounds like: cursing, grunting, maybe hissing. Only when the shrub is almost completely annihilated does he start to regain full consciousness. His hands hurt; there's blood. Drawing a few heaving breaths as his vision becomes less tunneled, he looks over at Eric, who is keeping his distance. He's gone white, his eyes wide and lips parted in some kind of protest that seems to have died on his tongue.
"Jesus fucking Christ," Eric says when Kyle drops what's left of the shrub. He looks down at his hands and groans when he sees the damage he's done to them. His palms and fingers are covered in cuts and scratches, blood mixing with dirt and sand.
"Fuck," Kyle says. As always, he feels weak as his rage drains away, his legs beginning to shake and his breath shortening. He glances at Eric again, embarrassed. "I, um. Don't tell anyone I did that, okay?"
"What the fucking hell is wrong with you?" Eric asks. "Are you some kind of half-demon? Is this a Jew thing?"
"It's not a Jew thing, you piece of shit! Open the fucking door for me, okay? I need to get out of the sun."
Eric obeys, and Kyle hurries inside, his hands stinging badly. He knows he has to get the dirt out of his fresh cuts, and he's glad when Eric follows him into the bathroom and turns the sink on for him. Kyle thrusts his hands under the water and hisses at the pain.
"Seriously, Kyle," Eric says. Kyle glances up at him in the mirror; he looks pretty freaked out. "That was some fucked up shit right there."
"I have have anger issues," Kyle says, grumbling this. He doesn't want to talk about it. "Make it hotter."
"The water? Won't that hurt worse?"
"Just do it, okay! I need to get these things clean."
"These things?" Eric scoffs and adjusts the water temperature for him. "They're your hands, man."
"I meant the cuts. Shit, ow!" Kyle hisses again and pinches his eyes shut, feeling faint from the pain and the sight of his blood dripping into the sink and mixing with the water. He really hopes there aren't any splinters lodged into his cuts. The soap is going to fucking kill, but he holds his shaking hands under the dispenser. "Do it," he says when Eric just stands there looking lost.
Eric sighs as if a lot is being asked of him and squirts a couple of fat dollops of soap onto Kyle's hands. It hurts immediately, the anti-bacterial burn seeping into his wounds, and Kyle growls in pain when he puts his hands under the hot water again. He closes his eyes and sort of sways, his forehead landing against Eric's meaty shoulder.
"Goddammit, goddammit," Kyle says, washing his hands with his eyes still closed and his face pressed to Eric, which is helping for some reason, though not much. "Why did the fuck did I do that?"
"That's what I'd like to know," Eric says. He's staring down at Kyle with something like concern when Kyle lifts his face to grimace at him. "Are you really that pissed off about that stupid nutrition teacher?"
"Yes. He's a fucking prick. And he knows I'm right about the protein shake. I bet he's not going to let you have one just because you're my partner in class. Just to spite me."
"Huh? Why?"
"I can't tell you," Kyle mumbles. He shouldn't have even said that much. "Turn the water off, please. Is there a first aid kit under the sink?"
There isn't, but they find one in the toiletries cabinet on the opposite wall. Kyle takes a towel out into the main room and sits on his bed, drying his hands and taking deep breaths. His parents have been threatening to send him to therapy for his anger issues since he was eight. It's possibly part of why they sent him here. Eric sits across from him on his own bed and watches him struggle to get the first aid kit for a moment before getting up and opening it himself.
"Let me fucking do it, you invalid," Eric says, and he sits on the bed beside Kyle. "Goddamn. You weren't kidding. You went totally Super Saiyan."
"I - what?"
"You never watched Dragon Ball Z?" Eric gives him a betrayed look and shakes his head. "It's like a mega power up. Only that was some dark shit. Here, put out your hands. Damn," he says when Kyle extends them toward him, palms up. "Look at those mangled fuckers."
"Yeah, yeah. Put the ointment on. Is it the pain relief kind, or just regular?"
"Regular, I think." Eric squirts Neosporin onto Kyle's right hand, then his left. "Maybe they'll give you some painkillers. Ask that douche who's always taking you to the nurse's office."
"He's not a douche." Kyle moans when he thinks of what Stan will say at the sight of his fucked up hands. He would really prefer not to let Stan know that he turns into a brainless human tantrum when he gets mad enough. "Ow," says when Eric rubs the Neosporin in for him, spreading it around on his left palm. "Careful."
"Don't be such a pussy," Eric says, but he's more gentle after that. He's breathing kind of hard as he rubs the medicine in, and Kyle really hopes this isn't giving him a boner. "Now what?" Eric says when Kyle's hands are covered in shiny goo. "It's not like I can put fifty different band-aids on this shit. It's all sticky."
"Use the gauze," Kyle says, miserably. "We'll tell people - fuck. That I forgot to put sunscreen on my hands and got burned."
"Seems unlikely that you'd forget your hands, seeing as they're what you use to put the shit on, but okay. How come you don't want anyone knowing that you killed a bush?"
"It's not the bush, Eric." Something about saying his name makes Kyle feel like he should make eye contact, and when he does it's kind of weird, possibly because Eric is holding his hand, preparing to wrap a bandage around it. "I just don't want people knowing, okay? Can you keep a secret?"
"Depends," Eric says, and he grins down at Kyle's hand as he winds the gauze around it. "What will you do for me in exchange?"
"Look, I don't want to keep this a secret badly enough to blow you in exchange, so don't even try it. I meant as a friend thing, fuck. Can we be friends?"
"That's the gayest thing I've heard you say. And just this morning-"
"Yeah, yeah. I know what I said this morning. Whatever. You're not exactly a master of seduction, you giant ass. How'd you know I was gay, anyway?" He mumbles that last part, and can feel Eric staring at him afterward, but he keeps his eyes down on his half-bandaged hand. When he finally looks up, uncomfortable with the silence, Eric seems as if he's about to tell him something very profound.
"Your butt," Eric says.
"Excuse me?"
"Your rear end, yo. You've got a gay butt." Eric shrugs and resumes his work on Kyle's bandages. "I took one look at that bubble ass and made a mental note to tap it, that's all."
"That's absurd. God, you are so weird."
"Yeah, okay. Maybe don't insult me while I'm nursing you back to health."
"You're not!" Kyle fights the urge to rip his hand free from Eric's ministrations, not at all okay with applying the word 'nursing' to this situation. "I refuse to believe that my ass announces to the world that I'm gay." He's sort of stunned when he realizes that he just said it without cringing or pausing or even thinking about it. He's gay: it's a thing he can say now, to the right people. It's a bit alarming that Eric falls into that category, but he does have a disarming quality about him, despite or maybe because of his total lack of charm.
"Believe it or not, doesn't matter," Eric says. "Your butt says it all. Maybe it's more like, the way you walk, I don't know. Like, you're sort of sassy or something. But anyway. Yes."
"Yes?"
"We can be friends." Eric snips the first bandage and secures it, avoiding Kyle's disbelieving stare. "With benefits," he adds, and Kyle snorts.
"How the hell am I going to eat?" he asks as Eric encloses his other hand in gauze. Eric gives him a shark-like grin, flashing his left canine.
"Aww, don't worry. I'll feed you."
"Like hell you will." Kyle thinks of Stan and feels all fluttery, considering the fact that Stan might need to be his full time aide until his hands heal. The idea is embarrassing, but also amazing.
He's disappointed when his blood sugar meter tells him that he doesn't require an injection prior to his mid-day snack, and he wonders where Stan is during their afternoon workshops. He hurries to the nurse's station before dinner, feeling a bit stupid with his hands wrapped into useless mittens of gauze. So far everyone has bought his dumb sunburn story, and Eric hasn't told them otherwise. Kyle has to knock on the door of the nurse's station with his elbow.
After a few clumsy knocks, Stan pulls the door open. He smiles when he sees Kyle, and his face falls when he notices the bandages.
"Dude!" He takes hold of Kyle's left arm and pulls him into the nurse's station as if it's not safe to be outside. "What the hell happened?"
"Sunburn," Kyle says, and he groans, because he doesn't want to lie to Stan. "I mean. I also may have, uh. Destroyed a shrub with my bare hands."
"You - what now?" Stan shuts the door and brings Kyle over to the examining table. Something about the bandages seems to have erased his reluctance to touch Kyle, which is a very good thing. He seems agitated, his eyes wide and frantic, and Kyle realizes that having bandages so close to his wrists after coming out doesn't exactly look like a good sign.
"I pulled up a shrub," Kyle says. He eyes the examining table, not sure if he'll be able to hop up onto it without the use of his hands. Stan notices this and brings a chair over. "Thanks," Kyle says, and he sits.
"You pulled up a shrub?" Stan says, slowly, as if he's still trying to make sense of that statement. "Um, well. What?"
"It was Craig's fault! He was being a total jerk to me in class. What is his problem - he's the one - I mean - I didn't do anything wrong!"
"Shh, okay, calm down." Stan sighs and kneels in front of Kyle, shaking his head. "I knew seeing that would screw you up. Shit, I'm so-"
"You don't have to be sorry! It's fine, really, except that Craig has it out for me now. Have you talked to him, uh - what did he say to you about all this?" Kyle wonders if they continued fucking after he ran off.
"Craig? Oh." Stan seems dazed; he keeps looking at Kyle's hands. "He basically just said that. Well."
"What?"
"He said I'd better keep you on my good side." Stan rolls his eyes, and Kyle's heart drops ten stories. How had he not even considered that Stan was being nice to him for insurance purposes? But he was nice before. "Craig's such a fucking - oh, hey." Stan sees Kyle's face and pats his knee. "He didn't know we were already buddies. But what the hell - a shrub? I don't get it."
"Sometimes when I get angry, I destroy things."
"Oh. That's cool."
"It's not really that cool." Kyle fidgets, checking Stan's eyes for signs that he's faking this friendliness. All he finds there is the same earnest sweetness Stan has shown him since he arrived.
"I guess cool isn't the right word," Stan says. He gets up and goes to the fridge for Kyle's insulin. "But when I get angry I just, like, shut down. Maybe it's better to let it out, as long as you don't hurt anyone."
"Well. I hurt an innocent shrub. And myself, I guess."
"Mhmm." Stan comes back to the chair and kneels down again, peering up into Kyle's face. He's looking for something, too: pain, damage, signs for concern. "Is it, um. Something you think you should talk to Mackey about? Something to do with what you told me this morning?"
"No. Craig just made me feel stupid in front of everyone. I kind of lose it when that happens."
"Gotcha." Stan looks down at the syringe and uncaps it. His hands look a little unsteady. "I'm really sorry Craig made you feel bad. I'll tell him to knock it off. Not sure he'll listen to me, but. Maybe I'm done with that asshole, anyway." He's rambling, staring at the needle. "I guess I've got to do this for you, huh?"
"Seems that way," Kyle says, holding up his bandaged hands. He's been nervously anticipating this moment all day, wanting Stan to touch him, even if it's with a syringe full of insulin. "You'll do fine," Kyle says. "I'll talk you through it."
"Ha, yeah." Stan swallows, and he's close enough that Kyle can hear it. Kyle wants to peck his cheeks; Stan is very cute when he's nervous, not surprisingly. He lifts up Kyle's shirt, and suddenly the whole moment is less adorable and more terrifying: Kyle could possibly get an erection from this. Stan's hands are touching his pudgy stomach, then squeezing it.
"Deeper," Kyle says when Stan manages to prick him, Kyle's flab pinched between two fingers.
"What - huh?" Stan's face is red. Kyle grins, feeling like the more mature one here, suddenly.
"Push it in deeper."
"Oh - how-"
"I'll tell you when to stop. Good, yeah. Now stop pinching. You can inject it now, slow and steady. That's good, like that. Uh-huh, good. Leave it there for five seconds."
They're both red in the face when Stan has extracted the needle. Kyle gives him an appreciative smile, and Stan lets his breath out before smiling back.
"Sorry I'm such a pussy," Stan says. "I just really - really don't want to hurt you."
"You didn't. You did great." For a second it almost seems like it would be appropriate to give Stan's cheek a friendly kiss. Fortunately, he stands and goes back to the fridge before Kyle can do anything so insane.
"So, um," Stan says, lingering at the fridge. "You're okay?"
"Yeah, totally. You did it perfect."
"No, I mean - generally?"
"Uh-huh. Are you?" Kyle asks, for the second time that day. Stan laughs and rubs a hand over his face.
"Just starting to feel like it's going to be a weird summer," he says. Kyle isn't sure how to interpret this, but he likes the fact that Stan is still blushing.
Dinner is a salmon burger on a whole wheat bun. Kyle finds it fairly disgusting, and it's embarrassing to be fed bite size pieces of his burger by Bebe, but he's in a good mood.
"Lucky," Clyde says as Kyle accepts a bite of the accompanying coleslaw from Bebe's fork. He allows her to dab at his lips with a napkin as he chews.
"Hmm?" Kyle says, still chewing. This coleslaw is gross. Clyde just shrugs and watches longingly as Bebe feeds Kyle another bite of the burger. She seems to be enjoying this, and hasn't eaten much of her own dinner.
"I have some really good aloe lotion if you want to put it on your hands," Bebe says.
"Uh, that's okay. Thanks, though. " Kyle glances at Eric, but he's looking at Bebe, sort of snarling in her direction. Kyle supposes Eric is jealous of her and longing to feed Kyle himself. He's mostly repulsed by the idea of opening his mouth for Eric for any reason, but he is enjoying the thought that someone is longing for him, even if that person is a friendless oaf who claims to have given a lot of head in juvenile detention. Kyle has to start somewhere, in terms of being admired.
After dinner there's a camp-wide gathering around a bonfire. The bonfire area is large and circled by low benches made from what appear to be the trunks of fallen desert trees, and the night is cool enough to make Kyle wish he'd brought his windbreaker. He takes a seat between Eric and Bebe, who seems slightly attached to him now that he's lost the use of his hands.
"Welcome!" Wendy says as the last of the campers file in. The youngest ones are chatty and loud, and the middle group is rowdy, the boys trying to flirt with the girls in an immature way that gives Kyle secondhand embarrassment. He thinks he's done pretty well today, flirting-wise. He's maintained a sophisticated approach, even with Eric, the destruction of the shrub notwithstanding. "Guys, quiet down!" Wendy shouts, and the younger campers respond to the authoritative volume of her voice for the most part, a few still whispering and giggling. "We have a special treat for you tonight," Wendy says.
"Every piss we take is a 'special treat' according to this bitch," Eric mutters.
"She's not a bitch," Bebe says, giving him a disdainful look.
"Yeah, c'mon," Kyle says, and he smirks when Eric glares at him. He turns back to the bonfire and is glad to see Stan coming up the lit path they took from the center of camp. When Kyle sees that Stan is carrying an acoustic guitar he feels that secondhand embarrassment again.
"Oh boy," Eric says. "Here we fuckin' go with this asshole."
"Shh!" Kyle says. Something about Stan seems off once he reaches the circle. He keeps hiking up his pants and grinning at Wendy in a way that seems to be annoying her. She's having a muted discussion with him, frowning.
"S'fine, c'mon," Stan says, brushing her off. "Hey, guys!" He hoists the guitar, gesturing to it theatrically with his other hand. "How about some music, huh? A sing-a-long? Whatta'ya say?"
A couple of the younger kids cheer, and some of the pre-adolescents snicker and cough into their fists. At least one of them coughs the word 'gay.' Kyle is mortified on Stan's behalf, but he doesn't seem to have noticed. He sits down with his guitar near the younger kids and starts humming to himself as he strums it.
"Oh, Jesus Christ," Eric says. "Look, Kyle. Your hippie friend is drunk off his ass."
"He is not." Kyle gets hot through his chest and up the back of his neck, his fingers flexing inside their bandages.
"Like hell he's not. I know drunk people, okay? That douche is hammered. And now we get to listen to him warble for god knows how long. Oh joyous day."
"What should we start out with?" Stan asks. "Any requests?"
Silence. Kyle can hear the bonfire crackling, and he feels like he's roasting within it. Is this his fault? Did he drive Stan to drink by barging in on his tryst with Craig and forcing him to talk about his sexuality?
"How about 'Climb Every Mountain'?" Wendy says, and Kyle knows Eric must be right. Stan is drunk, and Wendy looks ready to kill him for it.
"Nah, that's lame," Stan says, and when a couple of the kids laugh, he laughs along with them. "How about some Paul Simon. Do you guys like him?"
Without waiting for an answer, he starts playing "You Can Call Me Al." He's actually pretty good, and seems less drunk when singing. Still, Kyle is very uncomfortable, reeling. Stan seems so different like this, jocular and slightly arrogant. He hasn't looked at Kyle once.
He's not sure why this should feel so personally hurtful, but he feels increasingly rejected as Stan cycles through Paul Simon songs, performing this weird version of himself for everyone else. Kyle tells himself to stop being so ridiculous: it's not as if he ever had any claim on Stan, really, even as a friend. The guy was just doing his job. Kyle rests his elbow against Eric's arm, hoping it will seem accidental. Eric clears his throat and presses his arm more firmly against Kyle's. Eric's skin feels overheated and soft, like a half-baked loaf of bread. That's how Kyle feels, too: half formed. Maybe he can get to the end of this summer with a crusty exterior in place of his old dough boy self. That would be okay with him. He doesn't have much use for how raw he feels right now.