A/N: Chapter 8 is finally done! I wanted to finish this AU before summer started, but I'm happy with this chapter and ultimately not too bothered that it's taking some time. I think I've been comparing it unfairly to the experience of writing Nothing Sacred in one month last summer. Thanks again to all who've stuck with this - I'd love to hear your thoughts if you have comments! One more chapter after this, then the epilogue, which I'm hoping will make sense, though it may be divisive. I think my impatience to share the conclusion is part of why I wish this was writing more quickly, but I'm glad I took my time with this chapter, because my plans changed, as usual with this story, the more I thought about how it should work.
Toward the end of July, Eric fills Kyle in on Operation Cheese Dip, and at first it mostly seems like a joke. So much has happened since they initially talked about sneaking out and going to the Mexican restaurant in town, and Kyle had never really believed it was a serious plan and not just Eric boasting, attempting to impress him. He's surprised, therefore, when Eric digs out his Mackey Youth Center personal diary and shows Kyle the extensive plans he's composed there.
"We're supposed to write our innermost feelings here," Kyle says. He hasn't done so in his own diary, though he has been using it to make notes about how much he can lift and how far he can run as both numbers slowly but steadily increase.
"I am," Eric says, pointing to the intricate map of camp that he's drawn up and labeled in boyish penmanship that Kyle finds adorable. "My innermost thought is that the best time to sneak out and eat some delicious cheese dip and salsa with endless baskets of chips will be this Sunday, during the counselors' staff meeting."
"Eric, I don't think-"
"Don't 'Eric, I don't think' me, Kyle. This is the one thing you don't get veto power on. I'm taking you on a date and we're eating real food. Period."
Kyle snorts, flushing with secret glee at Eric's determination to wine and dine him over a basket of fried tortilla chips. He flips through the pages of the diary, hoping to come across some passages about him, or at least about the sex they've been having, or maybe a page full of Mr. Eric Broflovski cursive signatures, but there's only page after page of notes about the counselor's schedules and routines.
"This is sort of diabolical," Kyle says, impressed, though he's worried that Eric's notes on Stan's whereabouts mean he might have spied on Stan and Kyle together once or twice.
"I want to join the Air Force and be a double agent who spies for America," Eric says, and Kyle laughs, because that's the first he's heard of this plan, but when he looks up from the diary Eric seems serious. "What?" he says, frowning. "You don't think I can? I'm crafty, Kyle. Did I not get you into bed in less than a week?"
"Not to undersell myself, but I'm not sure seducing me means you're qualified to spy internationally for the military. But that's an awesome goal to have, actually. I do think you could get into the Air Force Academy. It's, um. In Colorado, not too far from where I live."
"I know." Eric reaches over and hooks his pinkie finger around Kyle's. They're lying beside each other in Eric's bed, still overheated and undressed after their first orgasmic emissions of the day. Eric is wearing only his t-shirt, his spent cock flopped onto his thigh, and Kyle is naked under the bed sheet, hot but still unwilling to be completely exposed when they're not in the act. Kyle made Eric wash his hands thoroughly after he'd worked two fingers into Kyle's ass, so he has no qualms about hand-holding. "I was going to join the Navy," Eric says. "Because, you know, gay sex on boats, but now I'm thinking Air Force."
"Because - gay sex on planes?" Kyle says. Eric huffs.
"No. Gay - things - with you - maybe. I think they're pretty strict about leaving campus and having visitors freshman year, but I figure if you join as a freshman the year after me, I'll be in, like, a position of authority over you, and I can be all like 'ey, cadet, come shine my boots!' and then we could have sex in a broom closet or something."
Kyle isn't even sure how to begin to parse all the elements of that monologue. He sits up on his elbow and kisses Eric's cheeks, charmed by his sudden plans for their Air Force Academy future, if also slightly alarmed by how determined he sounds. If the secret planning notebook for Operation Cheese Dip is any indication, he's not easily dissuaded once he gets his heart set on some insane idea.
"Honestly, I can't see myself in the Air Force," Kyle says. "I want to go to college in California." He's had this fantasy since meeting Stan and picturing him on a surf board. "Near the ocean."
"Oh."
"But who knows, I mean, anything could happen! I think the Air Force Academy has great engineering programs. They send recruiters to my high school every year for career day. They seem pretty cool, I mean, they're usually these hot guys." Kyle hears himself rambling and stops. He touches Eric's jaw, turning his face until Kyle can see his freckles in the muted light through the curtains. "I've been there," he says, more quietly. "On a tour, in middle school. Already I was thinking about how it would be to have a roommate who might want to kiss me in secret, in our bunk at night."
"Kind of like now," Eric says. He's smiling a little, at the specter of Kyle's boyhood yearning for the kind of twin bed cuddling they're doing now.
"Exactly. It's like a dream come true, really. With being forced to get in shape and everything. Air Force Academy Lite."
They kiss some more, and Kyle starts to get hard again when Eric pushes the sheet away and reaches down to squeeze his ass. Their ejaculation record for one afternoon free hour was four times each, which was kind of painful by the end, both of their cocks slightly chafed and only spurting weakly. Three is nice but two is ideal, Kyle finds, because that leaves time for talking and idle kissing, and sometimes a light nap. He's always loved the feeling of falling right to sleep after a good, tiring orgasm, and doing so with the person who brought him off beside him is ten times better.
"Why do you want to spy for the U.S.?" Kyle asks after they've both gone off a second time. "You don't strike me as particularly patriotic."
"It's not that. But I am! I like this country. Mostly 'cause everyplace else is worse, either poor as shit or full of hippies. I just think it would be cool, like. Convincing some dumbass enemies of the state that I'm selling them secrets, only to turn around and be like, 'joke's on you, motherfuckers, I was a good guy all along.'"
"Aw," Kyle says, stroking Eric's cheek. Eric frowns.
"It's not cute, Kyle. It's fucking bad ass."
"Okay. What if they sent you to war, though? Wouldn't you have to do basic combat stuff before you were hired as a super spy?"
"Yeah, but I'd be up in a plane, so who cares?"
"They shoot at planes, Eric. And they might stick you in a helicopter. Seems like those are always crashing."
"As if I'd end up in some pussy helicopter. Nah, I'd be flying, like, an ... F ... two, or whatever they call them. I need to do some research. Sucks not having the internet."
"I haven't missed it as much as I thought I would," Kyle says, and he hooks his leg around Eric's side, which is now possible without major discomfort, though still quite a stretch. "This is better than looking at porn, after all," he says.
Over the past two months Kyle has begun to feel like he's living in the real world, whereas previously he was in some kind of pre-reality cave, confined to his bedroom and various classrooms, the family dinner table and the couch in front of the living room TV. Actual things seemed to happen to other people, and to characters in movies and novels, whereas Kyle was in a non-person stasis, holding onto to the vague hope that someday his life would involve actual 'events' and 'friends' and maybe even the outlandish concept of a 'boyfriend' if his fate changed dramatically enough.
Now every color he encounters seems brighter, and his body feels different, less like a bloated burden carting his mind around and more like something he actually owns. The daily exercise is a big part of this, but so is the sex, and his sudden ability to be physically, actively gay and not feel bad about it at all. He knows he has Eric to credit for that, for saying on day one that he wanted to suck some dick as if it was his favorite flavor of ice cream. Kyle is increasingly grateful for this, and at moments he catches himself imagining what it would be like if he did join the Air Force Academy. What if he and Eric were cadets who had hot, uniformed sex in secret corners of that place that had vaguely aroused Kyle at thirteen? The campus had seemed like the well-fortified compound of polished, serious boys who were on the verge of being men, and the dorms Kyle's class had toured resembled the sets of the cheaply made porn movies he'd watched online, everything sort of dated and cramped in a lurid and mysterious way. He knows it's ridiculous, that the last thing he'd enjoy is a military education, but it's still fun to fantasize about, and he's a bit worried that Eric is thinking along those lines more seriously.
"Have you ever thought about joining the military?" Kyle asks Stan one evening after his injection, needing his opinion on this and all matters.
"No," Stan says. He seems perturbed by Kyle's question, lingering with the syringe in his hand and frowning a little. "Why - have you?"
"Not really, but this whole experience has made me wonder if it would be good for me."
"This whole experience?"
"Like, having rigid order, strict meal times and required physical exercise, structure, all that."
"It's different," Stan says, looking queasy, as if picturing Kyle in a military uniform is unappetizing, or upsetting. "Mackey lets you older kids have your own space every day. It's not like that in the military. The establishment crowds into every aspect of your life."
"How do you know?"
"It's just - a known thing! And you might have to go to war and kill people."
"Not if I became an officer and got some desk job. No, but, never mind. Forget it."
"I mean, I know where you're coming from," Stan says when he goes to put Kyle's supplies away. "Sometimes I think it would be nice to just have someone tell me what to do all the time."
Kyle thinks of Craig telling Stan to Come here and prompting him to admit that he needs taking care of. The thought of Stan being controlled by someone like that isn't a good one, and he seems kind of stifled already, corralled into a post-childhood but pre-adulthood space that Wendy and Token don't seem to occupy. Kyle hops down from examining table and heads for the door.
"Hold up, I'll walk with you," Stan says. He's writing in his notebook, marking down the amount of insulin Kyle just injected. Kyle knows he should leave now or risk saying something dumb about Stan's last comment, but of course he waits.
"You're right," Kyle says when they're walking the main building, where Kyle will have dinner and Stan will perhaps do the laundry, hopefully without company. "I don't think I'd like being in the military, being told what to do all the time, what to think and how to feel about my superiors. God, actually – that basically sounds like my worst nightmare."
"Exactly," Stan says, and he seems pleased. "People in power who tell you not to question their command? That leads to all sorts of bad shit."
"Yeah, and I like being the one giving orders, if you know what I mean."
"I'm not sure I do." Stan gives Kyle a look like he's wondering if he should be amused or disturbed by this remark.
"In a relationship," Kyle says more quietly, his heart starting to beat faster. Stan studies him for a minute, incredulous, then looks away.
"Ohh," he says. "I see. Mhm. How's your relationship going?"
"Don't make fun of me."
"I'm not! I'm really not, Kyle. Actually, you seem happy. So it's none of my business."
"I seem happy?" Kyle grins, realizing he's never been paid that particular compliment before. He's not sure it is a compliment, technically, but it feels even better than that, like a medal that he's won. "Well. I am happy."
"Good. And you're - I can tell you're working really hard. You were awesome at pull ups the other day."
"I could barely do five!"
"Well, you couldn't do any at the start of camp. It doesn't matter how many pull ups you can do, it just cool to see you guys finding out that you can do all kinds of stuff that you thought you couldn't. Like, look. You're fifteen and super smart. The world is yours for the taking."
"You're nineteen and super hot," Kyle says without thinking. He blushes and shrugs as if that was a mild, objective observation. "So, uh. It's yours for taking, too."
"I'm not super hot." Stan seems unaffected by the comment, but he's looking ahead at the path, not at Kyle. "And even if I was, I'd rather be smart. Like Craig. Guys like that know how to get what they want. They don't have to hope people will think they're hot. Shit, sorry." He looks at Kyle then, but only briefly. "Sometimes I forget you're not, like, my friend who's my age."
"Ha." Kyle wants to shout that Stan is actually much smarter than Craig, that he's sure of it, and that Craig is only getting what he wants because Stan is so meekly giving it to him, but that would hurt Stan's feelings and it might not be true. "You can talk to me that way," he says. "If you want. Like we're friends."
"Well, we are friends." Stan moves closer and elbows him. "Obviously. But sometimes I just feel like such a stunted shithead for being honest with you and not with Wendy."
"It's only because I saw you in the laundry room that time."
"It's not only because of that, Kyle. I don't know what it's 'because of.' I guess you're my first gay friend, and that means a lot. Thanks for not telling anyone about me."
"Of course I haven't! I know what it's like. I'm not going to out someone before they're ready. And anyway, what - wasn't Craig your first gay friend?"
Stan snorts. "He was plenty of first gay things for me, but not that. Nah, you're different. This is lame, but, like. You know the real me."
"So who does Craig know?"
"This kind of clueless surfer kid who's trying to act mature, I guess."
Kyle considers what he overheard in Craig's office, not sure this is true, though also not surprised that it's the impression Stan has based on the way Craig talks to him. He elbows Stan and grins when Stan shoulders him. Kyle pushes back, laughing as they begin to try to earnestly shove each other off the path.
"No horseplay," Stan says, still pushing against Kyle's attempts to unsteady him. He's laughing until Kyle trips for real and stumbles into the sand, headed for a prickly-looking sage bush. Stan catches him by the arm and pulls him upright. Kyle is mortified by his immediate and intense arousal: he felt it, just then, how strong Stan is. He lifted Kyle's weight with one arm, easy. "Sorry," Stan says, and he gives Kyle two hard pats on the back. "That was stupid."
"Fuck Craig," Kyle says, and Stan laughs, then gives him a confused look.
"Wait, what? He's not that bad, I just - you're the only person I can vent to. Do you ever want to vent about, ah. Eric?"
"Uhh, maybe?"
"Okay, well. I'm sorry I was judgmental before. I see the way that kid looks at you during workouts. It's not just predatory. He's all lovestruck."
"Sure." Kyle snorts as if he hasn't noticed this, too. "Does Craig ever look at you that way?"
"You tell me."
"I never see you two together!"
"I think Craig probably looks at my ass that way. Not me, though, person-wise."
"I don't know," Kyle says, remembering the way Craig's voice had softened when Stan moved closer to him in his office. "He's probably just holding back a little because he can't believe he gets to have someone like you."
Kyle hears what he's said and stops walking, ten feet from the building's front doors. He can feel Stan sensing the seriousness of that statement, and he doesn't know where to look or what to say.
"That's-" Stan says when Kyle has been silent for a few long seconds, getting increasingly red. "That's really nice of you to say-"
"See ya!" Kyle says, and he sprints for the door, feeling twelve years old and horribly transparent.
He collects his tray from Kenny in mortified silence, mumbling a nebulous response when Kenny asks to be informed if the broccoli is too soggy. Eric has saved him a seat, as always, and Kyle falls into it without looking at anyone, not wanting them to notice his glaring red cheeks.
"You got sunburned," Rebecca says, of course.
"I - yeah." Kyle tears into his black bean burger with salsa and no cheese, served on a whole wheat bun. It's become one of his favorite meals. "Did Eric tell you guys about our plan?" he asks before he's swallowed, desperate to change the subject.
"Ey, c'mon," Eric says, elbowing him. It makes Kyle think of Stan, and the heat on his cheeks renews. "That's our thing, me and you."
"Oh, is this the Mexican restaurant?" Clyde says. "I want to come."
"Clyde, what the fuck?" Eric throws the last of his own burger down. "Have you been reading my diary?"
"You have a diary?" Henrietta says, laughing.
"It's not a diary, it's a fucking top secret mission book, and apparently Clyde thinks he's welcome to put his hands on my shit."
"I do not! We all talked about this back at the start of camp. I've been looking forward to it."
"He's right, Eric," Kyle says. "We discussed this publicly, so I think everyone is welcome to come."
"But-" Eric says, looking hurt. "It was supposed to be us, our-"
"If we get caught with four or five others," Kyle says, leaning over to whisper this very softly into Eric's ear. As usual, this tactic makes Eric melt against him, his shoulders relaxing. "We'll be less likely to get thrown out of camp."
"We're not gonna get caught," Eric says, muttering, but his cheeks are pink and he's giving Kyle his slavish love stare. "But - fucking - fine, we can accommodate two or three others. We'll probably need help with some of the plan elements, anyway."
"Like what?" Rebecca asks. "I'd like to come. How can I help?"
Kyle tunes out most of the discussion that follows, replaying the walk from the nurse's station in his mind. It was bad enough that he described Stan as 'hot,' but what he said about Craig probably being in awe of Stan's general amazingness was downright obvious. He supposes it doesn't matter if Stan knows that he has a crush on him. He's long assumed that Stan must have guessed, or at least that he suspects it from time to time. But there's something about his near admission that's bothering him anyway.
On Sunday, Operation Cheese Dip goes into effect a few minutes after noon, as soon as the counselors' meeting begins. Henrietta has joined Clyde and Rebecca as a member of the 'team,' and while Tammy waffled for a while she ultimately elected to stay behind with Butters and Bebe. There is no gate surrounding the camp, so there's nothing to break out of precisely, but the town within the valley is very small and entirely open, with one main road that leads into the small strip of stores that comprise the town. The Mexican restaurant is across from the gas station and the biker bar, part of a dated and dusty development that includes a grocery store, a laundromat, and a few abandoned store fronts. As they approach the front entrance to the camp at the designated time, Kyle begins to feel very nervous. There's no way someone won't spot them as they walk along the open road outside camp, and though they've lost weight it would be obvious to anyone remotely familiar with the town residents that they are escapees from the fat kid camp.
"Shouldn't we split up?" Kyle asks when they're all crouching behind the stucco MACKEY YOUTH CENTER sign out front, making sure that the coast is clear. "Aren't we more conspicuous in a group?"
"You'd think so, normally," Eric says. "But since we're three boys and two girls, I've determined based on sociological reasoning that we're the least likely to attract unwanted attention, once we're clear of the view from camp, if we all stick together."
"Goodness," Rebecca says, smiling a little. "I can't wait to hear why."
"The reason," Eric says, and he gives her a withering look, "Is that if we split up into two groups, no matter how you slice it you're going to end up with a group of three boys, a group of two girls with a boy, or a group with one girl and two boys."
"There are other potential combinations-" Rebecca starts to say, but Eric speaks over her.
"Three boys," he says, loudly, "Looks suspicious because, c'mon. Three teenage boys wandering around together? One of them a muscular manbeast who appears to be the ringleader?" He points his thumb at himself, as if anyone doubted that was who he was referring to. "Obviously we'd look like a gang that's up to no good. Now if you have two girls and a guy, what the average passerby will assume is that the girls are being stalked and in danger of being raped. One girl and two guys, we're talking gang rape."
"Jesus Christ," Clyde says. "Nobody thinks like that."
"Clyde, okay? They do, actually, but if we're a group of five kids with a relatively equal gender spread they'll just be like, oh, some kids, they're probably going swimming, those three nice boys are escorting those girls so they don't get raped by bikers, et cetera."
"Can we just go?" Henrietta says. "It's fucking hot and I can't stand listening to him talk."
"Maybe you're uninvited, then!" Eric says, but he calms down when Kyle places a hand on his shoulder.
"We should get going," Kyle says. "The counselor meeting has been in session for five minutes now, and it will take us at least fifteen minutes each way to get to and from the restaurant."
"Kyle, please," Eric says. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a stopwatch. "I've got this very carefully timed out. Don't worry your pretty little head over it. We move out in-" He checks the watch. "Forty-three seconds."
"This is so exciting," Rebecca says. "And not just for the prospect of eating a chalupa. I'm very curious to see whether or not we'll be discovered."
"Well, I can tell you right now," Eric says. "We won't be."
"Where'd you get that watch thing?" Kyle asks.
"Stole it from Wendy. Don't look at me like that, I'll return it after the mission! She'll never miss it. Alright, everybody, brace yourselves. We're going to run until we hit that stop sign. Then we walk the rest of the way, calmly. Acting natural."
"Do we seriously have to run?" Henrietta asks.
"Absolutely," Kyle says. "The faster we get away from camp the better."
Kyle has begun to consider himself something of a runner, having pushed himself to run ten full minutes in the past week during group workouts, but running under the high desert sun in mid-afternoon is another story entirely. He's giddy for the first hundred yards or so, then he starts to wear down, the heat making his shortened breath feel suffocated. He's starting to drag by the time he reaches the stop sign, and he collapses against it alongside Clyde, who beat him by a few paces. They're both panting, soaked in sweat, and Eric and the girls are in a similar state when they arrive, Henrietta's eye makeup melting at the corners.
"Now," Eric says, grabbing onto the stop sign while he catches his breath. "We, ah, Jesus - we walk at a leisurely pace to the restaurant. The counselors will be in their meeting for an hour and a half. That should give us time to eat, you know. A lot."
"I'm afraid this might make us sick," Rebecca says. "But my taste buds are deprived enough that I don't care."
"They should have given us more real treats," Henrietta says. "None of this frozen pineapple crap."
"Frozen pineapple actually sounds better than cheese right now," Kyle says. "I kind of feel like I'm gonna hurl already."
"None of that talk!" Eric swats Kyle on the ass, and Kyle punches his shoulder in retaliation. "We'll be ready to eat once we smell the delicious Mexican-style aromas. Plus, the place has air conditioning. I think."
The walk into town is somewhat nerve-wracking, though the whole place seems to be in the midst of an afternoon siesta and no cars containing people who might make assumptions about the group's gender configuration pass by on the road. It's at least easy to find their way, since the whole town is flat and its layout is plainly visible from any direction. By the time they reach the strip of stores where the restaurant is located, Kyle can smell grilled meat and exotic spices, and when the others start laughing with guilty anticipation he can't help but join them.
"My god," Rebecca says. "I just realized I haven't got any money."
"Don't worry," Eric says. "I've got enough to cover everyone."
"How did you get money?" Clyde asks. It's part of camp policy that they're not allowed to have any.
"My accountant secured it for me," Eric says, clapping Kyle on the shoulder.
"Fuck off, I'm not your accountant." Kyle shoves Eric's hand away, annoyed by how pompous he's being so far on this excursion. "I borrowed it from Kenny," Kyle says to Clyde, who looks very confused.
"That lunch lady weirdo? He didn't ask what you wanted it for?"
"No. We're friends. He let me drive his golf cart."
"He did?" Eric says, frowning. Kyle shrugs and walks ahead to open the door of the restaurant.
It's immediately not what he expected, though the smells are even better inside. He'd been picturing a scaled-down version of the Mexican restaurant back in South Park: booths with high wood backs and brightly painted walls, accordion music playing overheard and tables crowded with families eating chips and salsa. This place is empty, and little more than a lunch counter with six sticky-looking plastic booths against the walls, three on each side.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Eric says as they approach the counter, where a man in an apron waits at the register, stoic. "Where's the - where's the cheese dip?" Eric is studying the menu, which is laid out on the wall above the counter in eight pictures of combo plates, plus some a la carte items listed in Spanish.
"I'm not seeing any cheese dip," Rebecca says. "But the steak tacos look excellent, and they're not altogether unhealthy, I'd think, aside from the fried tortilla."
"Where's the cheese?" Eric asks, scanning the pictured items. "I don't see piles of white shredded deliciousness on any of this shit!"
"Shh," Kyle says, tugging Eric's elbow. "Don't be rude. Look, they've got - I think those are chimichangas?"
"They're tamales," Rebecca says. "If anyone needs help translating-"
"Of course you're fluent in every language." Henrietta rolls her eyes. "We're so impressed. Just order me a fucking burrito and a Coke, please. With rice on the side."
"I just want three chicken tacos," Clyde says.
"Of course you fucking do," Eric says. "Goddammit. What - what kind of janked up Mexican is this?"
"The authentic kind, I think," Kyle says. "Calm down. It smells delicious. Just get a burrito and a taco. Craig would probably smell the cheese on you if you had it, anyway." Kyle is disappointed, too; he really wanted that cheese dip. At the same time, he's a little relieved. He's been afraid he'd end up with all of his Day One flab renewed if he helped himself to too many chips. He orders a carnitas burrito and a steak taco with rice and beans on the side. Eric orders the same thing plus a tamale and a large side of guacamole.
"Guacamole is like the health food version of cheese," he says as the carries his tray to the booth where the five of them barely fit, Clyde jammed between Henrietta and Rebecca, all three of them already chowing down. "But it's still pretty good," Eric says when he sits beside Kyle, his dark mood seeming to have lifted somewhat. Kyle grabs for his taco as soon as his ass hits the seat, his mouth watering at the smell of meat cooked in full-fat oil. The others are already moaning in appreciation at the taste. Kyle's first bite is almost alarmingly flavorful, and he doesn't even miss the piles of cheese he was envisioning.
"I should have got five of these," Clyde says, having already inhaled two chicken tacos.
"Have some guacamole," Kyle says, pushing the bowl toward the center of the table. Eric grunts in protest, his mouth full of burrito. "We can order more," Kyle says, patting Eric's thigh under the table. "If we're still hungry. We still have seven dollars."
Kyle appreciates that nobody tries to make conversation while they eat. He doesn't personally have anything to say, and isn't sure he could put into words how good the food tastes, though he also realizes that it's not actually the best Mexican food he's ever had. The meat is kind of greasy and the salsa is just okay, but it's still a transcendent experience, shoveling it in while everyone at the table similarly devours the food on their trays.
"I'd like to say something," Eric announces after they've finished, the remains of the meal sitting on the table amid crumpled napkins and beginning to seem rather unappetizing, at least to Kyle, whose stomach feels strange. Eric picks up his Dr. Pepper and raises it as if he's going to make a toast. "You assholes should feel proud of yourselves. Everyone here represents the few and proud among us who weren't totally brainwashed by Craig's health food bullshit. We can still eat good stuff. Just maybe not all the time or whatever."
"I'm personally going to go back to my old ways as soon as I can," Rebecca says. "This meal certainly confirms that."
On the walk back to camp, Kyle can already feel the first rumblings of discomfort in his stomach, and he knows what this portent means. He's not sure the food was worth it, but the sense of escape from the rigidity of their camp schedule was, and the fleeting feeling of independence. He's feeling pretty positive about the entire afternoon until they reach the front entrance of camp, walking now, and Craig steps out from behind the MACKEY YOUTH CENTER sign.
"Whoa," Clyde says, as if he's impressed by Craig's stick-like stealth. To Kyle his appearance is almost comical for a moment, but this quickly dissolves into horror.
"We were jogging," Eric blurts. This has been his backup plan all along, in the event Operation Cheese Dip was uncovered at this stage. Kyle never believed it would fly, but he also didn't think they would actually get caught. "We wanted extra exercise, so-"
"Quiet," Craig says. "I observed your walk from town."
"What's the big deal?" Henrietta says. She sounds uncharacteristically panicked, her voice trembling a little. "I mean, it's not like - we were just-"
"Perhaps this could qualify as a simple warning resulting from the group's first real offense," Rebecca says. "I'm sure I speak for all of us when I say that we'd be willing to promise not to do anything against the rules again."
"One of you already has." Craig's gaze slides to Kyle, who wants to be defiant and brave but can't muster up anything other than powerfully building nausea and growing certainty that his mother will be called to retrieve him this very afternoon. "Mr. Broflovski. Come with me. The rest of you return to your cabins at once."
"What?" Eric says. "Why him? Huh? Why's Kyle in trouble? It was my-"
"Shh!" Kyle shoots Eric a look that silences him. "I got in trouble before."
"What? When? Why didn't you-"
"Mr. Cartman," Craig says, his voice growing louder. "Return to your cabin. You may interview your friend when he returns to pack his things."
Kyle expects Eric to have a tantrum and start kicking sand, but instead his eyes go cold in a way that seems to suggest he's begun a mental rough draft of Operation Murder Mr. Tucker. The others have already started walking back to the cabins, casting nervous looks behind them as they go, and Kyle walks toward Craig mostly so Eric won't pick up a nearby rock and bash his head in unnecessarily. Kyle got himself into this situation, and should have known that Craig has been watching him like a hawk since that night in the laundry room, waiting for him to screw up enough to justify his dismissal from camp. He's numb with dreadful shock and feels like an idiot for not having expected their little adventure to end exactly like this.
The walk to Craig's office feels like the most laborious physical exercise Kyle has done all summer. His stomach is heavy, lurching, and his stiff neck and tight shoulders are making it feel like he's walking through sand instead of over it. He wants to be angry at Craig, but he's too furious with himself, and it's not like the blinding rage he experiences when he wants to lash out at external forces. He didn't need that Mexican food, it wasn't even that great, and now his dumb risk has spoiled everything. He'll lose his afternoons with Eric, won't get to say goodbye to Stan, and will go home a half-fat failure, doomed to regain every ounce.
"Sit," Craig says when they reach the cool interior of his office. It's much smaller than Mackey's and is on the inside of the building, no window. Kyle takes a seat across from Craig's desk, hoping he can get through whatever humiliating dismissal speech Craig has in store without farting audibly, though maybe forcing Craig to deal with his parting flatulence would be a kind of small and sad victory. Kyle is sweating, staring at Craig as he takes his seat. He can't help picturing Stan there, in Craig's lap, being stroked like a Persian cat.
"You're kicking me out," Kyle says. It doesn't feel real. Craig closes his eyes for a moment and presses his fingertips together, his elbows on the arms of his chair. He sighs very quietly and turns to look at something in the corner of his office: a small refrigerator.
"Are you impressed with yourself, Mr. Broflovski?" Craig asks. "Do you suppose you're actually the biggest pain in the ass I've ever dealt with in the five years I've worked here?"
"No. What? I don't know."
"Were you coerced into going off camp property?"
"Coerced? No. What do you mean?"
"Stanley is quite concerned about you." Craig doesn't bother to conceal his delight when he sees Kyle's cheeks start to turn red. He smiles and leans back fully into his chair. "He thinks Eric Cartman is impressing his will upon you in some way. I told him that's ridiculous, that you're obviously the brains of the operation."
"What operation? What do you want from me? I'm not a bad kid!"
Kyle remembers the unsent letter to his mother and flushes harder, sinking into his chair.
"Good, bad," Craig says. "It's relative." He stands and walks to the mini fridge. "I have two vices," he says, pulling it open. Inside is what Kyle would expect: four plastic bottles containing what appears to be freshly squeezed juice. Craig moves an orange one aside and reaches into the back of the fridge. He pulls out another bottle, this one factory made with a branded label: Snapple. "This is one of them," he says, presenting the Snapple to Kyle as if it's the bottle of wine he's selected for the evening. "Iced tea with real sugar. At home, I make it myself. Usually late at night and very guiltily. Even purchasing a bag of refined sugar gives me hives of shame, but it's something I cannot do without, it seems."
"Oh," Kyle says, not sure if he's being invited to reach for the Snapple or what kind of expression he should have on his face. Craig turns the bottle around and observes it himself for a moment before crouching down and placing it back in the fridge. He moves the orange juice bottle just so, hiding the Snapple.
"My other vice," he says as he stands from the fridge, "Is risk. Inadvisable but exciting situations. Scandalous behavior that takes place just out of sight of those who might judge or even punish me for it. Such as you witnessed in the laundry room that evening."
Kyle didn't think his face could get any hotter. He stares at Craig's bare desktop as Craig returns to his chair. The name plate on the desk reads CRAIG B. TUCKER. That middle initial seems wrong for him.
"What's the B stand for?" Kyle asks, muttering.
"Are you listening to me, Mr. Broflovski?"
"Yes! Just, sorry, but. What the hell are you saying?"
"I'm saying that we share a proclivity. No, not that," he says when Kyle's eyes snap up to his. Craig smiles in a way that seems to communicate that he's aware of their shared interest in men, too, though Kyle highly doubts Stan told him and doesn't know else he might have guessed. Maybe Craig is more observant than Mackey when it comes to Kyle and Eric's afternoons alone together. "We're both risk takers," Craig says. "And maybe that's why I want to give you permission to stay here, despite the fact that this is your third strike."
"Third - what? It's only my second! I mean, the insulin-"
"You also destroyed camp property."
"What - that shrub?"
"Yes, the shrub. And I saw you in the presence of contraband, as well, but I commend you for the fact that you made Mr. Cartman pitch it into the dumpster. An admirable use of your influence over him."
"You - what, you saw us? Jesus, are you fucking omniscient? Are you watching every move I make?"
"No, but you're not the only one who sneaks about this place at night."
Kyle thinks of Craig slipping into Stan's quiet little bunk, easing the guitar from his hands and pressing him down to the bed. He's scowling, he realizes, and he tries to stop, since Craig mentioned potential leniency. Craig sighs again, more forcefully this time, and says nothing.
"Are you kicking me out or what?" Kyle asks when he can't take Craig's unblinking stare any longer.
"Can you guess how much I weighed at your age?" Craig asks.
"What - I don't know. Three hundred pounds."
"Ha. No. One hundred and twenty seven. Which doesn't sound so remarkable until you factor in that I shot up to six foot one that same summer. Are you picturing this?"
"Trying to." Kyle is not that impressed by the fact that Craig was super skinny at fifteen.
"They called me Creature Craig," he says. "My face was bonier then, too. People used to hiss at me in the hallways at school. I was sometimes referred to as The Vampire."
Kyle almost laughs at that, mostly because it was unexpected. He bites his tongue hard and tries to look sympathetic. Craig shrugs.
"Adolescence is difficult," he says. "I was also increasingly aware of my homosexuality, and my parents were not fans of such. Not a great time to be alive, if you were me."
"I'm sorry your childhood sucked, dude. Seriously. Mine wasn't great either."
"It's interesting that you use the past tense when referring to your unpleasant childhood. This is what I want to speak to you about, Kyle. You've done well here at camp. You look much healthier already. I, too, had a surge in attractiveness around your age. I tried everything to gain weight, and finally my body seemed to give its permission. At seventeen I filled out more and became the sort of proto-version of who I am now. The sudden confidence was intoxicating, and dangerously so. I took some risks I should not have."
"Like what?"
"I'm not going to discuss it specifically, but it involved an older person, a man. I was very quickly in over my head."
"God!" Kyle says, the rage starting to build. He wants to grab that Snapple from the fridge and smash it, so tired of this. "Stan is wrong, okay? You said so yourself! Eric isn't making me do anything-"
"I'm not speaking about Eric Cartman. He's a smitten child and Stan is ridiculous to worry about him. What I'm talking about is flying too close to the sun, generally. Don't mistake your new confidence for invincibility. Leaving campus with your friends to eat forbidden food is a serious risk, and I'm not talking about whatever godawful amount of calories you consumed. It's self-sabotaging behavior."
"Okay." Kyle is still mad, but confusion is starting to overtake his rage. "I'm sorry, like. I just. You're right, okay? It wasn't worth it."
"Be more careful with the choices you make. And stop looking at me like we're always in the midst of a knife fight. I'm not as good with people as Mackey, but I am here because I care about kids like you. I know that it's hell to go through adolescence in a body that invites ridicule."
This renders Kyle speechless, and he feels bad for shouting and wanting to break Craig's Snapple. He looks down at his hands and takes a deep breath, letting it slowly as the last of his anger recedes.
"So you're not kicking me out?" he mutters.
"No. I said that in front of the group to communicate the gravity of this transgression. You can tell them that you remain here only by the skin of your teeth, which is true at this point. Furthermore, you may require insulin after that meal. Go to the nurse's station. I'll tell Stan to meet you there."
"Oh - um, okay. Craig?"
"Yes?"
"Can I use the bathroom first?"
"For god's sake - yes. You should have privacy in the hallway boys' room. I'm sure Donovan and Cartman are fighting over the one in your cabin, the idiots."
"See, you say you care about us," Kyle says, standing. "Then you call us idiots."
"It's possible to care about people who engage in idiotic behavior. As you seem to be involved in some sort of romantic entanglement with Eric Cartman, I'd think you were aware of that. Go to the restroom, please. I can tell by the look on your face that you're in agony. That restaurant was the worst choice you kids could have made, really."
"Thanks," Kyle says, nearly forgetting this as he hurries for the door. He turns back to meet Craig's eyes. "I mean, just. Thank you."
"Yes, yes - go to the toilet, I don't want you having an accident in my office."
Annoyed by the suggestion that he would, Kyle leaves. Ten minutes later he leaves the boys' bathroom feeling tired and ill but much lighter in his steps. He washed his hands three times and still feels like he needs a full shower when he reaches the nurse's station, where Stan is waiting for him in the chair across from the exam table, watching the door with an anxious look on his face.
"Dude, are you okay?" Stan asks, hopping up. "You look kinda green."
"I'm - yeah. I'm okay." Kyle experiences a renewed wave of exhaustion and wants to slump forward against Stan's chest, to hide there for a few minutes and feel sorry for himself, though he's actually incredibly lucky that Craig went easy on him and the worst of his stomach's reaction that food has probably passed. "We - did Craig tell you?"
"He said you guys snuck off. That was dumb, man, don't do that. The desert is dangerous, and people in town are weird-"
"Okay, I know. I won't do it again."
They're both quiet while Kyle does his injection, as always. When Stan puts the supplies away Kyle braces himself for a lecture about Eric being a bad influence. Instead, Stan walks back to the examining table and puts his hand on Kyle's damp forehead. Kyle stays completely still, though he wants to sit up straighter, to press into the touch, to pull Stan against him and take comfort in another long hug.
"You're overheated," Stan says.
"We walked a long time in the sun, coming back from town."
"Mhmm. Go to your cabin and rest, okay? Lie down and cool off. Drink some water."
"Can't I do that in your room?" Kyle asks, and as soon as the words are out he knows it was the wrong thing to say. Stan's eyebrows pinch in just slightly, but Kyle feels this implicit rejection like a slap. Craig was right: Kyle is flying too close to the sun, saying things like that to Stan. "Just - never mind," he says. "I only asked 'cause Eric and Clyde are going to be stinking up our cabin, uh. We ate Mexican food."
"Oh, Jesus, from that place across from the bar? Well, look. Dealing with the aftermath is your punishment for joining them, I guess. You can't just - you can't-"
"I know. I don't know why I said that, sorry."
"It's not - I've got things to do, I can't just leave you in my room-"
"I know!" Kyle didn't mean for that to come out so forcefully. He smiles and shrugs. "I'll, uh. I'll go."
Stan doesn't stop him, and Kyle feels unbalanced on the walk back to the cabin, grateful for how things played out but not quite comfortable with being in Craig's debt. He opens the cabin door and is barely able to walk through it before Eric rushes him, wide-eyed.
"What happened?" Eric asks, grabbing Kyle's shoulders. "What'd he do to you? We'll go to Mackey, that nutritionist asshole can't-"
"Hey, calm down!" Kyle says. "Nothing happened. I got a lecture, that's all."
"A lecture? You were gone for almost an hour!" Eric is breathing heavily, his fingers digging into Kyle's shoulders. Clyde is audibly using the bathroom and Butters is elsewhere, probably doing crafts with Bebe and Tammy like a good little camper. "Kyle," Eric says, lowering his face to Kyle's and speaking more quietly. "You can tell me the truth, okay? Did that bastard do something to you?"
"Who - what? What are you talking about?"
"Craig! He's been obsessed with you from day one, and now I finally gave him his fucking chance with my stupid Mexican restaurant bullshit crap idea-"
"Eric-"
"Did he rape you?" Eric asks, whispering this. At first it seems like a joke, and Kyle can't help but laugh when he realizes Eric is serious.
"Rape me? Of course not, Jesus Christ! What the hell is wrong with you?"
He never would have said that if he'd taken half a second to think about how it would sound to Eric, but he didn't, and the way Eric's eyes change confirms the fact that Kyle is now the world's biggest asshole, since he's maybe the only person alive who knows exactly what's 'wrong' with Eric that provoked this reaction.
"No, I mean-" Kyle says when Eric's fingers uncurl from his shoulders. "Just. Sorry, I know you were worried-"
"Fuck it, fine, whatever," Eric mutters as he turns away. "Excuse the shit out of me for caring."
"Eric, no, I didn't mean-"
Clyde comes out of the bathroom looking winded. He closes the door quickly behind him and stumbles over to his bed, which he collapses onto face first.
"Oh my god," he says, his voice muffled against the mattress. "That was the worst thing that ever happened to me."
"Clyde's shit bag burst," Eric announces, dropping onto his own bed.
"Shut up!" Clyde shouts, still muffled. "That's not true."
"Well, you had some kind of malfunction, and you were in the bathroom for half an hour."
"Shut up," Clyde says again, more weakly. Kyle is still standing near the door, not sure what to do when Eric picks up Old Yeller and pretends to read it, his hand shaking visibly when he turns a page. He wants to comfort Eric, to hug him and kiss him and whisper apologies, but it would be weird with Clyde here, though he's not looking.
"Hey," Kyle says, walking over to Eric's bed. Eric keeps his eyes on the book. Kyle can see that his lip is shaking, too, just a little. "Sorry you were worried," Kyle says, touching Eric's hair. He checks on Clyde, who still has his face buried miserably against his bed. "I didn't mean to - you just took me off guard, um-"
"I'm gonna take a shower," Eric says, leaning away from Kyle's hand. "Guess I have to do it in the middle of whatever crime scene Clyde left in the bathroom."
Clyde says nothing this time, and Kyle feels awful for him. Eric should be taking his hurt feelings out on Kyle, if anybody. Eric tosses Old Yeller down and goes into the bathroom, shutting the door hard behind him.
"Clyde?" Kyle says when he hears the shower turn on at full blast. "Are you okay? Do you need me to call the nurse or something?"
"I'm fine." Clyde crawls more completely onto the bed, up toward his pillow. "Eric is insane, by the way. The whole time I was in there he was out here ranting about how we needed to storm Craig's office and rescue you."
"He's just dramatic. I hope you feel better."
Kyle stretches out in his bed, wanting to go to Eric but also to give him space if he's actually crying in there. He'll have a talk with Eric later and cuddle him appropriately, hopefully in some place that doesn't smell like a recently used bathroom.
He ends up falling asleep on his back in bed, so tired from the trek to and from town that he doesn't wake up until Butters comes over to shake him and tell him he's going to be late for their evening work out. Kyle wakes grumpily, hating the feeling of having slept longer than he meant to, and assesses the Eric situation: he's dressing for the pool, tying the drawstring on his board shorts.
"It's a swimming one?" Kyle says, mumbling and not yet fully awake. Butters nods. That means it will be a Stan workout. Kyle isn't sure he wants to see Stan this evening, after Stan's reaction to Kyle's embarrassing request to recover in his room. It also occurs to him, more slowly than it should have, that Stan is regularly discussing him - and Eric - with Craig. He's annoyed about this by the time he finishes dressing for the pool. As they head out to meet the girls he tries to fall into step with Eric, who is pointedly avoiding his pleading stares.
"Sure glad you guys didn't get in too much trouble today," Butters says. "Please don't do that again! I don't want ya'll getting kicked out and me ending up in the cabin alone, that'd be scary."
"What the hell are you afraid of?" Eric asks. His tone is more earnestly aggressive than usual, instantly setting Kyle on edge. "You think some pervert's going to break in and kidnap you from your fat camp bunk?" Eric says, and Kyle's heart sinks. It's like Eric is bleeding everywhere and there's nothing to plug the wound that Kyle thoughtlessly knifed into him. He wants to at least take Eric's hand, but Stan is looking at them. He's standing with the girls, near their cabin.
"Mostly I'm afraid of scorpions," Butters says, oblivious.
"Feeling better?" Stan asks as they approach the group, and Kyle nods.
"Were you sick?" Eric asks, frowning.
"No. I took insulin, you know. Craig made me. Or, I mean, I needed it-"
Eric walks away from Kyle, toward Rebecca and Henrietta, who are headed for the pool. Kyle senses Stan noticing this, staring at him, but he ignores it and walks with Butters.
"Was the food real good?" Butters asks, whispering. "At the restaurant?"
"It was okay, just average. Not enough cheese."
"Oh, that's a shame. You guys sure stunk up the bathroom after!"
"Butters, please."
They warm up with laps and then play a game of Shark and Minnows, which is Kyle's least favorite pool activity. He's in a bad mood and not trying very hard, which means he keeps getting turned into a Shark. He highly prefers being a Minnow. Eric goes out of his way to tag Kyle first when he's the Shark, when normally he lets him sneak past for at least three turns. It's so childish and small that Kyle decides he doesn't want to talk to Eric either, even though this passive aggressive fight is his fault. He tried to apologize but Eric wouldn't let him, and on the walk back to the cabins to change for dinner they're both silent.
"Everything okay?" Stan asks as soon as Kyle walks through the door of the nurse's station for his pre-dinner injection.
"Yeah, fine. Why?"
"At the pool, uh. Never mind."
Kyle does his injection in the customary silence, boiling with growing anger the whole time. It's strange to feel the rage pointing itself in Stan's direction, but he can't seem to stop it any more than he can when he's angry with Craig or his mother.
"Do you talk to Craig about me?" he asks when Stan is putting his things away. "I mean, I know you do," he says when Stan turns. "Craig told me you have, like, concerns."
"Dude," Stan says, and the hurt in his voice pricks Kyle's rage balloon like a gentle needle, letting out some of the pressure but not popping it entirely. "He shouldn't - I'm sorry if he threw that in your face or something. He said he was nice."
"So you talked about me with him again, today, already."
"Well, yeah. Me and you talk about Craig, don't we? I don't say anything bad about you, or anything that I don't say to your face. What - what did he say I said?"
"That you still don't believe me about Eric, that you think he's the ringleader and I'm this poor sap following him around."
"Craig said that?" Stan raises his eyebrows incredulously.
"Well. Not in so many words."
"Kyle, dude - he was just talking about before, you know, when you were asking me how to give a blow job or whatever."
"You told him I asked about that!" Kyle hops off the table, livid, and Stan actually takes a step backward.
"No!" he says. "I didn't, I just mean that's when I was worried, so that's when I mentioned that I was concerned about you and Eric to Craig, and that was a while ago. Don't get all pissed off before I can even explain myself."
"Don't tell me when to get pissed off!" Kyle says. He turns with a growl and punches the exam table as hard as he can, his fist bouncing hard off its cushy plastic surface.
"Hey!" Stan says, and the tone of his voice shocks Kyle out of his rage for a moment. It's replaced with a flare of arousal that sends goosebumps prickling down the back of his neck. He didn't know Stan was capable of sounding so confidently authoritative. Stan looks surprised by it himself, but he frowns after Kyle meets his eyes. "You need to cool it," he says, and he scoffs when Kyle smiles. "What?"
"Just. You said 'cool it.' I, um. Say that, too, sometimes. Sorry."
"Sit here," Stan says, pointing to the chair by the medical cabinet. "Take some deep breaths and calm down."
Kyle does as Stan asked, his arousal intensifying with the pleasure of obeying Stan's command. It's never felt good to submit to authority before, or to be told that he's overreacting, but this is different somehow. Kyle puts his elbows on his knees and dips his head down while he takes deep breaths. His breathing stops entirely when he feels Stan's hand in his hair.
"There you go," Stan says. He pats Kyle's head a few times, then leaves his hand there. "Keep breathing," he says, and Kyle exhales in a choppy rush. It feels good, and the weight of Stan's hand on his head is incredible; he might as well be touching Kyle's cock, which has begun to stiffen. Kyle should get up and leave before that can happen, but he's unwilling to move, especially when Stan's thumb strokes softly through Kyle's curls, then again, again.
"I'm sorry," Kyle says, and the cowed sound of his own voice makes him shiver. He wants to drop even lower, all the way to the floor, and rub his cock against Stan's leg while he begs forgiveness, clutching at him.
"It's okay." Stan clears his throat and takes his hand from Kyle's hair. Kyle leans back in the chair and looks up at him, making no attempt to hide the fact that he's at Stan's mercy and that surrendering to it has made his cock hard. Stan holds Kyle's gaze, and Kyle sees his throat bob when he swallows. There's something pulled tight between them, like an invisible rope that's about to snap. "Go to dinner," Stan says, speaking sharply again.
"I'm not hungry," Kyle says. He moves his knees apart, just a little. Stan hasn't looked down, but he must have noticed Kyle's erection. To Kyle it feels like the most obvious thing in the room, singing at full volume. He knows he's much too close to the sun now, can feel heat prickling over every inch of his skin, and though he's just a fraction away from being burned by his own boldness he only wants to get closer to the source of the fire, to Stan.
"Go," Stan says, and he turns his back on Kyle. It's as if he's let go of his end of that tightly pulled rope; the connection is broken, and Kyle stands up feeling stupid, his dick aching and making his steps awkward on the way to the door. When he gets there he pauses with his hand on the knob and listens to Stan breathing. He's agitated, mad at himself or Kyle, maybe both.
"Sorry," Kyle says, though he doesn't mean it this time. Stan makes a soft noise, somewhere between a grunt and the sound he might make if he was punched in the gut. It goes right to Kyle's dick, and he hurries out of the nurse's station before he can do anything even stupider. He's in a daze on the walk to the cafeteria, and before going into the dining hall he slips into the boys' bathroom. It's not easy for him to jerk off standing up, or in the same bathroom where he got sick earlier, but he manages it, gasping as quietly as he can when he shoots into the toilet bowl, imagining Stan's hand closed tightly in his curls, his hard cock thrusting into Kyle's mouth while Kyle sits obediently in that chair, their eyes locking as Kyle swallows spurt after spurt of Stan's hot come.
He has to splash cold water on his face afterward, the dizzy haze that overtook him on the walk from the nurse's station persisting. At dinner, he's almost glad that Eric is still giving him the cold shoulder so he won't have to talk much. By the time they're heading back to the cabin it's bothering him again, and he pokes at Eric's arm until he finally consents to glower at Kyle.
"Stop it," Eric says.
"No," Kyle says, though he already has. He moves closer to Eric, his shoulder bumping against Eric's arm as they walk. Eric stares straight ahead, looking annoyed but allowing Kyle to hover. "Long fucking day," Kyle says, mumbling. Eric grunts.
"It was supposed to be our date," he says, mumbling this very quietly, his jaw clenched.
"Oh. Eric—"
"It doesn't fucking matter. I've done all this stuff with you, but when I go home I'll still never have been on a stupid date. Everything will be just like it was before."
They reach the cabin before Kyle can come up with a response to that. He wants to say something comforting, but he's devastated by the thought himself. In a matter of weeks camp will be over, and he won't have Eric to cuddle with after bad days at school or kiss in the dark of the South Park movie theater. A kind of delicate yoke at the center of Kyle's heart seems pierced when he thinks of it this way, gooey feelings that he'd contained until now spilling out everywhere. Eric goes to bed early and Kyle lies in his own bed listening to Clyde and Butters playing Go Fish. Clyde doesn't last long, tired from the day's ordeal, and soon they're both asleep, the cabin dark and quiet except for Clyde's intermittent snoring.
Kyle sits up in bed and looks at Eric. He's turned away from Kyle, which was probably deliberate at one point, but it's clear that he's actually asleep now, his blanket pulled up to his ear. The mound that his body makes under the sheets isn't as big as it was when they first got to camp, but he still fills most of the bed. Kyle slips out from under his own sheets and moves toward Eric as quietly as he can.
He doesn't want to scare Eric, and it's quite possible that waking to the feeling of someone sliding into his bed might bring back some of his worst memories. Kyle hovers in the space between their beds, wondering how he should do this and trying not to think too precisely about what Eric has been through. Was it only blow jobs? How old was he when it happened, how long did it go on? Did he gain the weight afterward or did it make him vulnerable in the first place, advertising his friendless isolation to his abuser? Kyle doesn't really need or even want the answers to any of these questions, but he feels suddenly desperate not to hold himself apart from Eric anymore. Even if they manage to visit each other in the future, they'll never have a time together like this again. Not at the Air Force Academy, certainly, and probably not even at a normal college if they both held on to their determination to attend the same one. This summer has been sacred, and their time here at camp has belonged to them so completely, in a way that nothing in their lonely lives ever had before. He wants to spend his last weeks here knowing that and appreciating every irreplaceable moment of it.
"Hey," he whispers as he sits on Eric's bed, and he remembers how Stan said that word so differently earlier, powerfully enough to make it burrow under Kyle's skin like a fever. "Hey," Kyle whispers again, leaning down to kiss Eric's cheek. Though it's cool in the aggressively air-conditioned cabin, Eric's face is warm. He smells faintly of soap but mostly like himself, and like all the afternoons they've passed together in this bed, exhausting each other with orgasms. When Eric blinks awake Kyle leans back a little, not wanting to loom like a threat. Eric frowns at him and rolls onto his back.
"Are you insane?" Eric says. "I'm not sneaking out tonight."
"I'm not asking you to. Can I get in?"
"Get – oh." Eric opens his eyes fully and moves over so that Kyle has room to climb in beside him, slipping his legs under the blankets. It's only awkward until Kyle loops his arms around Eric's neck and brings their faces together, and then it's like it always is, except that it's nighttime and Clyde and Butters are sleeping nearby. Eric huffs a little as he gets comfortable, pushing his still massive thigh up between Kyle's legs.
"I can't sleep," Kyle whispers.
"So? You want me to jerk you off or something?" Eric casts a wary look over at Clyde and Butters' side of the room.
"No. Just—" Kyle is too embarrassed to ask to be kissed, even after everything else he's asked Eric to do to him, but he doesn't really need to. He kisses Eric to show him what he wants right now, and what he thinks they both probably need more than anything, more than the sex and the weight loss and elaborately far-fetched plans to someday make out in a supply closet at the Air Force Academy in Colorado. It's an untethered closeness, secret in the dark with the other two nearby but also very far away from their little boyfriend bubble. Kyle hopes Eric can taste it on him, because he doesn't have the words to describe what changed in him when Eric talked glumly about the fact that they'll probably never have a real date. Eric seems to sense something is different. His kisses are softer than usual, and he keeps pulling back to give Kyle questioning looks before submitting to more kissing.
"Will you get in trouble if you sleep here?" Eric asks. "Do you think?"
"Probably. I'm on thin ice, Craig said. Hanging on by the skin of my teeth."
"I thought he was going to throw you out." Eric's grip tightens on Kyle under the blankets, one hand squeezed around Kyle's waist and the other on his shoulder.
"You thought worse than that, apparently."
"Yeah, well. I just don't trust, uh. Guys like that."
"He's not as bad as he seems. Look, like. Thanks for worrying about me. I was worried, too. About being thrown out, I mean. Not the other thing."
"Sometimes I get kind of crazy about – stuff," Eric says, mumbling. Kyle kisses his face all over, nodding.
"Me, too. You saw me with the shrub."
Eric snickers at he memory and they kiss again, until Kyle starts to fall asleep. He knows he should get up, sneak back to his own bed, but he wants to wait just a little longer. Eric is stroking his hair, breathing warmly against his forehead, and there's no telling when either of them will be held in the dark like this again, taking comfort after a long and confusing day. When the moment comes and he has to choose, Kyle lets himself fall asleep, too tired and comfortable to care about the consequences.
In the morning he's only slightly disoriented when he finds himself in his own bed, amazed that he didn't wake up when Eric carried him there.