South Park © Matt & Trey.

Oh Stan and his drinking problems. Part of me wonders if his cynicism just went away, of if he's constantly just a tiny tiny tiny bit drunk.

Stan's POV

It's nine in the morning. Kyle stayed over last night after Ken and Cartman left.

He is sleeping beside me. I'm not going to wake him. He's not a morning person. He never was.

His head is resting against my shoulder and each time he shifts I find myself looking over at the mess of red hair, satisfied with such simple contact.

And maybe that means something.

I haven't spoken to Wendy yet. She won't hear anything I have to say. I can't blame her for that. She's too angry, betrayed, upset… and she has every right to be.

I hurt her. I hurt her worse than I've probably hurt anyone in my life and that says something considering the things we did in our childhood.

I don't know what made me try to get into Kyle's pants. I wasn't even sure he was interested in me… but I always had a feeling – a small feeling – that he was. At times, I thought it was vain of me to think he liked me like that, but I suppose in the end I was right about it.

Kyle loves me. He told me. He cried, and said, "I love you."

All I could say was, "I know."

Am I an asshole? Yeah, maybe.

I used him. I used Kyle, my best friend in the entire world.

I was always a little selfish when it came to Kyle. I dragged him into a lot of trouble when we were kids, but this time it was different. This time it's worse.

I was above him, inside of him, and I couldn't even look at him. I couldn't face him knowing what I was doing. Often, he moaned into the pillows and the long sounds were like a sobs, but I kept it up. I think he was crying at times, and I knew I was hurting him in more ways than one. I took advantage of the feelings he had for me, knowing he probably wouldn't protest.

And I think I was right. He sounded like he was in pain, but he didn't once resist… Then again, maybe he did and I just wasn't paying enough attention. Maybe I was too busy pretending he was Wendy.

However… as it began to happen more frequently, I became well aware that it was not Wendy. It was Kyle.

And I found that I didn't mind.

So what does that mean?

Am I in love with Kyle, or do I still love Wendy?

Kenny gave me a lot to think about. I keep repeating the questions in my head, trying to come up with answers, but it's a lot harder than it sounds.

It should be simple, shouldn't it?

Do I love Wendy? Yes or no.

Do I love Kyle? Yes or no.

I loved Wendy, yeah. But maybe I don't love her now.

I've always loved Kyle, but more recently I've been questioning what kind of love I have for him. Is it friend-love, or is it love-love?

I feel so fucking gay contemplating all of this, no pun intended. I feel like I'm a confused kid again.

Kyle shifts beside me again, and I turn around and face him as he opens his eyes.

"Hey," I say.

"Hi," he mumbles back in a voice laced in fatigue.

"Sleep okay?"

"Fine."

I've been trying to make things as comfortable and normal between us as possible. I think we're both recovering from what happened.

Is recovering even the right word? Probably not.

Moving on? Maybe… But do I want that to happen? I'm still not sure. I guess I should probably talk to Kyle about all of this at some point. I'm just not sure how to bring it up. I also need to talk with Wendy, tell her that I'm sorry. Maybe I should also talk to Kenny about all of this before speaking with Kyle or Wendy. It's always easy talking things out with him. He helps you put your thoughts together without even trying.

The more I think about it, the more I realize that yes, I am sorry. I'm sorry for hurting Wendy, but I'm not sorry for sleeping with Kyle. Maybe it was a mistake, but not in the way I had first thought it was. The only regret I have about the experience is that it wasn't more pleasant. I know that each time, it hurt him. I hurt him when I said Wendy's name, when I told him he was easy, and when all I said was "I know" after he told me he loved me. I suppose I did a lot of fucking stupid things.

It reminds me of something Chef always used to say.

"There's a time and place for everything, and it's called college."

I miss him. He always had the best advice, and right about now I could really use some of it.

I knew I would inevitably make a few mistakes in college, but I didn't think they'd be this big.

I'm not condoning or justifying what I did, but I'm recognizing it for what it was. I suppose that's all I really can do for now.

"I can practically hear the gears in your head turning. What are you thinking about?" Kyle asks, sitting up and giving me a look.

"Nothing," I say dismissively.

"I doubt that," he mumbles. "You keep spacing out."

"Sorry, dude, just one of those days I guess."

I get out of the bed and stretch my limbs. Kyle watches me with a somewhat unsure expression.

"We doing anything today?" I ask, opening the top drawer to my dresser and grabbing a bottle of rum.

He shrugs, eying the bottle. "It's fucking early, don't drink…"

"It's fine, dude."

"No, dude, it isn't fine," he hisses, jumping out of the bed and grabbing the bottle from me.

"Give it back."

He shakes his head angrily, "No, I really don't think this is how you should solve your Wendy problem. You aren't a reckless, stupid ten year old anymore. Drinking isn't the way to fix your shitty mood."

"Wendy isn't the problem!" I find myself yelling. "You are!"

He softens, "What do you mean…?"

I sigh, sitting on the edge of the bed and sandwiching my head between my legs.

"Stan?" his voice cracks, and I feel him sit down next to me. God, I hate it when he says my name like that. It reminds me of when we were kids, and I'd do something that upset him or scare him. Though, I guess this whole situation is a little worse than anything I did to him when we were kids. But hell, I was pretty fucking awful to him at times. I'm still surprised he stuck around this long.

I don't speak for a while. I'm trying to figure out what it is I want to say. I'm trying to pick out the right words.

"Kyle…" I look up at him.

"Yeah?" he asks.

"…Never mind."

He raises an eyebrow, "Never mind?"

"It's nothing."

Kyle sighs, sounding exasperated and frustrated, and generally annoyed with me. I guess he has a right to be. "I'm going home," he says, standing up. "Maybe I'll see you later on."

"Okay," I mumble.

"And before I go," he pauses at the door, "do not fucking touch that bottle of alcohol."

I wave him off, but as soon as he is gone I find myself reaching for the bottle.

Many long and brutal hours later, I am still locked away in my now dim room in an attempt to chase away my hangover.

I'm lying naked under a blanket with a pillow over my face. I feel too hot and too cold, both at the same time.

"Stanley?" my mom had asked minutes later after opening my door. She sounded timid, like she knew I was doing something I shouldn't be.

I pretended I was asleep, and she didn't pry. She didn't pull the pillow off my face. Instead, she sent my dad up to check on me.

"Stan," he says after waltzing right inside.

I push the pillow off my face and peer up at him. The dim light in the room causes me to squint.

"Stanley, are you drunk?"

"No."

"Hung-over?"

"No," I say, putting the pillow back on my face.

"You're too young to drink," he scolds.

"I wasn't drinking."

"I know the signs of a fresh hangover when I see them, son."

"You would," I mumble.

He dismisses the comment, "Why don't you tell your old man what this is all about?"

I groan. This is not what I want to be doing. It's always been damn near impossible talking to my dad because he's such a moron.

"Nothing, Dad," I say, "It's nothing."

"It doesn't seem like it's nothing," he pauses, "Just answer me this: You didn't get anyone pregnant, did you? Is Wendy –"

"Jesus Christ…" I hiss. "No."

"Then what else could it be about?" he continues to pry, "or who?"

Try two who's…

"It's complicated," I say.

"Aren't most things, though?"

"I fucked a friend," I say bluntly, squinting as I sit up. I might as well just admit it since he isn't going to leave unless I do. "I cheated on Wendy."

He doesn't look as shocked at my admittance as I thought he would have. He also doesn't scold me for cussing. He just looks thoughtful. "With Kyle?" he asks.

I almost choke on my spit, "How did you know that?"

"Well, Stan," he laughs, "I may be an idiot, but I'm not that much of an idiot. You two were always a little… funny… with each other. There has been many occasions where your mother and I have walked in on you two sleeping a little too closely together."

"You don't care?"

"Well, as you may know, I've experimented in the past…"

"Gross, Dad!" I shout, causing my head to ache even worse, "I don't need to know that!"

"It's your life, Stan. Do what you want with it, who am I to tell you any different, considering the things I've done in the past? It's hardly my business what, or who, you do in the bedroom."

"Thanks, Dad…" I say somewhat awkwardly.

I lay back down after he leaves, covering my face with the pillow again.

I'm not going to think about anything yet, it'll only make my headache worse. I'll sleep off my hangover, and then I'll decide what to do.