A/N: WARNING - in this chapter there is some discussion of past childhood abuse. What's coming will probably be obvious by the time that scene gets going, so please feel free so skim if you need to; the basic context will be communicated either way. Sorry this chapter came a little later than I intended, and thanks to all who are reading. After the new year I should be able to settle into my chapter-a-week plan for real.
Stan woke up feeling optimistic on his thirty-first birthday, possibly only because it was already a huge improvement over his thirtieth. Last year, he had just finalized his divorce, and had allowed Kenny to convince him to go to Denver for a bar crawl. Stan couldn't remember past the third bar and woke up feeling shipwrecked in some fancy hotel room that Kenny told him he had agreed to pay for the night before. Kenny ended up chipping in for half. He was plenty hungover himself, but he remembered more of their drunken conversation than Stan did.
"Last night I told you that I'm pretty sure Kevin is gay," Kenny said they were at Denny's, halfway back to South Park. Stan was miserably hugging a cup of coffee while Kenny shoveled scrambled eggs into his mouth. "And last night," Kenny said, sheepish and peering at Stan apologetically from over his plate of eggs. "You said 'me too.'"
Stan was too miserably ill to muster the energy to deny it. He grunted and nodded.
"Bisexual," he mumbled, and he burned his mouth when he drank from his coffee, that word still tasting strange on his tongue.
The morning of his thirty-first birthday was already far better than that one. He wasn't suffering with a hangover, saying 'bisexual' didn't make him turn red anymore, and he had actual plans to hang out with Kyle soon, for the first time since the nauseating weeks prior to Stan's wedding. Stan was humming in the shower before his shift, and by the time he dressed in his uniform he was feeling a bit guilty about his good mood. There was still a killer at large, and the whole town was on edge, waiting to see what would happen next. Stan remembered Kyle's smug instruction to be extra vigilant, and he grinned to himself as he headed to his patrol car, no longer annoyed by the fact that Kyle had stated the obvious. He had always done so when they were kids, and it wasn't because he thought Stan was stupid. He just liked to make sure they were on the same page.
At the station, Bebe had brought two boxes of fancy donuts to mark the occasion of Stan's birthday. Stan selected a fluffy, powdered sugar-dusted one filled with cream and sliced strawberries. He headed to his desk to get started on the morning's paperwork, glad that Bebe hadn't tied a balloon to the back of his chair this year.
"Feel older?" Bebe asked when she sat on the corner of Stan's desk, holding a half-eaten chocolate donut. Stan was going to say no, like he always had in response to this question, but that response wasn't accurate this year.
"I actually do," he said. "It's been a good year, mostly. Not easy, but good."
"Is Kyle going to join us tonight?"
"Nah, he's not. He, um. I think it would be weird for him to meet the kids, I guess?"
Bebe rolled her eyes.
"But we're hanging out tomorrow," Stan said, defensively. "After my shift, so. It'll be good to catch up for real. Outside of the investigation."
"Outside of the investigation is right," Bebe said, and she scoffed. "Now that the FBI got brought in, I'm having a hard time getting any information about how they're progressing. That Mac guy told the Chief they'd brief us weekly. Weekly? Are they fucking kidding?"
"Kyle will tell me what's going on," Stan said, and Bebe seemed to consider disputing this, her eyebrows twitching and her mouth dropping open. She took another bite of her donut instead, maybe because it was Stan's birthday.
Their patrol felt like an average workday before the murders: a few traffic stops, some kids trying to mess with a fire hydrant, and a minor scuffle at Skeeter's to finish out the day. In the past, Stan had been comforted by the manageable scale of these small town incidents while he was on duty, but they felt like busy work in light of the unsolved murders, and he was a little on edge by the end of his shift. He could tell that Bebe was feeling it, too. She seemed to be having a hard time sitting still, and she kept checking and rechecking the radio whenever it went silent.
"It'll be fun tonight," she said when Stan dropped her off at the station."Me and Kenny will bring a box of wine."
"You're coming together?" Stan said.
"I'm giving him a ride. He's getting ready for this big Mormon funeral." Bebe leaned into the open passenger side door and looked back into the car, at Stan. "He's weird about this," she said. "The deaths. He hasn't been that upset about it, not the way most people are. I guess because he sees dead bodies all the time?"
"Probably. What's the other explanation, he's our suspect?"
"Oh, shut up," Bebe said. "See you later."
Driving to pick up the kids, Stan thought about what Wayne had said the day before. It's got to be someone we know. It wasn't necessarily true, and didn't feel as if it possibly could be, but Stan couldn't rule it out. The idea that it could be Kenny was purely a joke, but there were other South Park citizens he'd known since boyhood who he didn't really 'know' at all, beyond a polite familiarity. He thought of Cartman, who had arrived at Skeeter's with his dealership cronies as Stan and Bebe were packing off the drunk and disorderly scuffle-instigator. Cartman seemed more likely to kill without remorse in a crime of passion than in some kind of carefully planned scheme involving the removal of tongues, but Stan had to admit that Kyle was right: they couldn't overlook the people in the community who had a record of criminal pathology.
He tried to come up with anybody else who still lived in town and had a serious criminal record, and he could only think of Linda Stotch trying to drown Butters in the family car. Since Butters escaped, there wasn't enough evidence to prove that he had actually been in the car when she drove it into the lake. Butters wasn't willing to testify that he had been after Linda recanted her original, televised statement and characterized it as a hysterical delusion, but everybody knew. It was one of those sick, open South Park secrets that nobody talked about even back then, and certainly not now. Though he had protected her as a child, Stan couldn't blame Butters for not wanting to drop everything and return to the town where he grew up miserable, abused, and in denial about his mother's attempted murder of him, only to be asked to care for her as she deteriorated again.
At Lola's house, Evan ran out to meet Stan on the front walk and threw her arms around him, the birthday card she'd made for him flapping in her hand. Stan lifted her up into a hug and held on a little longer than he normally did, unable to fathom how any amount of grief could make a parent hurt their child. Wayne came out next, carrying both of their overnight bags, and Stan grinned at the sight of Wayne holding Evan's little backpack, which was festooned with Frozen characters.
"Mom says to tell you happy birthday," Wayne said. "From her, I mean."
"Right," Stan said, setting Evan down. "Well, thanks to Mom."
"She's inside on the phone," Wayne said. "Also. Happy birthday from me, too."
"He didn't make a card," Evan said, smoothing hers out against her chest.
"That's okay," Stan said. He stepped forward to hug Wayne, hoping that he wouldn't rear away. Wayne relented and even hugged Stan back, patting his shoulder. "Let me see this card," Stan said, one arm still hugged around Wayne. Evan beamed and presented it to him. She'd painted the Broncos logo on front, and inside there was a drawing of a cop car and a birthday cake, the words HAPPY BIRTHDAY DADDY sandwiched between them. "This is awesome!" Stan said, truly kind of thrilled. "Wow, look, you did my car just right."
"I used a picture of it," Evan said. "But I didn't trace!"
They picked up a pizza on the way to Stan's house, and Bebe arrived with Kenny and the promised box of wine as Stan was setting out paper plates. Kevin McCormick showed up an hour later with a cake. Karen was with him, probably for purposes of security rather than any desire to spend the evening celebrating her brothers' friend's birthday. Stan was glad to see her, though also embarrassed about scaring her earlier in the week. There were no candles for the cake, but Bebe led everyone in the birthday song before she sliced it up. It felt like a proper party, much more celebratory than last year's post-divorce bar crawl, but Stan kept catching himself feeling like something was missing. He tried to convince himself that it was the absence of Lola, not Kyle, that felt unfamiliar, then had another glass of box wine and decided that was stupid. He'd spent too much time already trying to talk himself out of wanting Kyle around all the time. It was a relief, finally, to realize that it was still true.
Karen and Kevin went home after the kids went to bed, Kevin without so much as a wink to indicate that Stan might cash in on some birthday sex later in the week. Sometimes it seemed like Kevin regularly forgot what went on between them in his foggy little apartment. Though it was a little disorienting, Stan preferred this selective amnesia to Kevin Stoley-Donovan's pointed stares in public.
"So I've got the Mormon funeral tomorrow," Kenny said when it was just him, Stan and Bebe sitting in the glow of the cheap chandelier over the kitchen table, the rest of the house dark and quiet.
"Let's not talk about funerals," Bebe said. "It's Stan's birthday."
"What do you want from me?" Kenny said. "Death is my life."
"I'm jumpy every time we get radioed, past few days," Stan said. He would only admit this to the two of them, and he craned his neck to check the back hallway and make sure that Wayne wasn't passing through on his way to the bathroom. "Afraid we're going to have another dead person with no tongue any day now," Stan said.
"I know," Bebe said. "I feel like everybody's sort of holding their breath."
"No pun intended," Kenny said. "I assume."
"Will you stop?" Bebe said, slamming her wine glass down. "People are dying. I'd think you, of all people, would know to show some respect."
"We're not among the grieving here, Bebe," Kenny said. "I'm just talking with my friends. Lighten up."
"It's not light for me and Stan!" Bebe said, her voice rising until Stan worried Evan would wake up to flashbacks of fights she overheard between him and Lola. "Me and Stan found Ruby, who was your sister's best friend, by the way."
"I know that," Kenny said. "I know more about grief and dying than I could ever explain, okay?"
"You're always saying shit like that," Bebe said. She had lowered her voice, but had simultaneously infused it with real anger. "No one forced you to become a mortician. If you hate it so much, why don't you-"
"Who says I hate it? I actually love it."
"Well, that's a little fucked up, honestly!"
"Guys," Stan said. "Stop. It's my birthday."
"Sorry," Bebe said, pushing her wine glass away. "I had one too many. This cheap stuff gives me the worst buzz." She glanced over at Kenny, and raised her shoulder when he reached for her.
"Let me drive you home," he said, so softly that Stan got up from the table, gathering frosting-smeared plates.
"I'm just gonna crash on Stan's couch," she said. "My shift doesn't start until noon tomorrow. Stan, do you mind?"
"Of course not," he said. His recent policy on company was the more the merrier. "Kenny, you could join her on the couch if you want," Stan said.
"Excuse me," Bebe said. "It might be your couch, but you don't get to give him permission to sleep there with me."
"I didn't mean," Stan said, flustered at the sink. He'd had one too many himself, and was feeling bleary, over-tired. "I didn't mean sex," he said, almost whispering this. "The kids are here. Just, for sleeping."
"Sharing a couch with him is more intimacy than I can deal with right now," Bebe said.
"Now you're talking about me like I'm not here?" Kenny said.
"I was talking to Stan. That doesn't mean I'm pretending you're not here. Though honestly I'm starting to wish you would leave."
"Hey, c'mon," Stan said, but Kenny was already getting up, pushing his chair in hard once he had.
"No, I'll go," Kenny said. "I've got a ton of work to do before tomorrow. I'll be up all night preparing someone's corpse so his loved ones can have one last look at him. Like callous assholes who fetishize death do."
"Whoever said the word 'fetishize?'" Bebe asked, giving him a horrified look.
"Guys, shhh," Stan said. "The kids."
He walked Kenny out to his car, feeling guilty, as if his birthday had caused this fight. It wasn't unusual for Bebe and Kenny to fight publicly, but it had been a while. They were more fiery back in high school, always breaking up and reconnecting in spectacular fits of passion that occasionally threw shrapnel toward their friends.
"She's just blowing off steam," Stan said when they made it to the end of the driveway, where Kenny's car was parked. "We're both stressed."
"She's always riding my ass like I'm this alien who doesn't fully understand how to relate to the human species," Kenny said, turning back to stare at Stan's house. "She doesn't know the first thing about my life." He sounded sad about that part, not angry. Stan was confused.
"Uh, she kinda does, dude," he said. "I mean. You've pretty much known each other all your lives-"
"She said you went up to the old Mephesto lab with Kyle yesterday," Kenny said. "Said you and Kyle wandered off together in the dark. How was that?"
Stan snorted. "How was what? We were looking for some teenagers. Kyle rode along on a call we got about kids making noise up there. You know, it's almost Halloween. Happens every year."
"Stan."
"What?"
"How was Kyle? Bebe said he was nice. She said he had a fancy special agent fountain pen and that he wears suspenders." Kenny grinned at this mental image, and Stan was glad his mood had improved, though offended on behalf of Kyle's suspenders.
"They weren't, like, polka-dotted or anything," Stan said, and Kenny laughed.
"But what was it like, man?" Kenny asked. "Did you guys talk, up there by the creepy lab, in the dark?"
"Yeah, Kenny, and then we boned against the side of the building for old times' sake."
"Were you boning back then?" Kenny asked, narrowing his eyes. "We could never tell."
"Quit being stupid, you know I was with Lola. Go home, okay? Or go to work, I guess."
"Yeah, I've got a lot to do tonight," Kenny said. "I want to tell them all that they're right, during the reception, but maybe they already know that."
"Huh?"
"The Mormons who think David is in heaven. Never mind. Tell Bebe I'm sorry. It's not her fault."
Stan watched Kenny drive away, feeling kind of dazed. He looked up and down the quiet street when Kenny was gone. A few neighbors had Halloween decorations out; Stan wondered if he should get pumpkins for the kids to carve, or if they would do that at Lola's house. He felt a surge of anger, surveying the sleeping houses and hearing nothing in the distance but the wind through the pines. There was a killer out there somewhere, hiding, thinking he had outsmarted those who pursued him. Stan walked back into the house, still angry, and still not sure that he would be able to do anything to stop what was happening to the town.
He put a blanket and pillow on the couch for Bebe. She had helped herself to one of his sweatshirts and was using Evan's bubblegum-flavored dental floss in the hall bathroom. Stan brought her a glass of water, not wanting to hear about her box wine hangover tomorrow during their shift, and went to check on the kids. They were sleeping on twin beds in the guest bedroom, and Stan finally didn't feel guilty for forcing them to temporarily share a room. It seemed safer, in present circumstances. He'd wanted to rent a three-bedroom house, but even this one, closer than he'd like to the bad part of town, was nearly out of his price range. The kids were both sleeping soundly, and Stan resisted the temptation to sneak in and kiss their foreheads. He went to the hall bathroom and leaned in the doorway.
"I don't want to talk about it," Bebe said, still flossing.
"Good," Stan said. "'Cause I'm going to bed." He groaned when he felt his phone vibrate as if to object. "Fuck," he said when he saw who was calling. "Kevin," he said, to Bebe. "Stoley-Donovan."
"You'd better answer," Bebe said. "He looked like he was ready to flay you at Bennigan's that night."
"He can't flay me," Stan said. "Not publicly, anyway."
"I don't know, Stan, he might be looking to embarrass you, and now Kyle's back in town."
"What's Kyle got to do with it?" Stan asked, and he answered the phone to keep from hearing her response to that question. "Hello?" he said, moving toward his bedroom.
"Hey," Kevin said. He didn't sound angry; his voice was soft and low. Clyde was probably asleep somewhere nearby. "How are you, birthday boy?"
"I'm fine. Where's Clyde?"
"Upstairs, asleep. I miss you."
"Really?"
"Yeah. Where are you right now?"
"At home," Stan said.
"In your bedroom?" Kevin asked, breathy.
"Uh, yeah." He shut the door behind him, already sorry that he'd answered.
"Alone?" Kevin said.
"Yes. What's up? It's late, I'm kinda-"
"What are you wearing?" Kevin asked. Stan snorted.
"Are you serious?" he asked.
"Yes," Kevin said, some of the usual bite returning to his voice. "I'm horny, I need you. He passed out after dinner. That fucking banana has totally killed his sex drive, I told you."
This observation always caused Stan to picture Clyde with a frowning banana in place of his cock, which was not a welcome thought. He sat on the bed, not wanting to deal with this.
"I'm wearing jeans and a sweater," Stan said.
"Are you sure you're not wearing your uniform?" Kevin asked. Stan withheld a groan. Kevin got off on being fucked while Stan was in uniform, and Stan typically got off on it, too. He'd been wearing it when Kevin first flirted with him, at that town council meeting.
"Fine, Kevin," Stan said, putting his hand over his dick. "I'm wearing my uniform. Even my gun belt."
"Officer," Kevin says. "I'm all alone in my big house, and I heard a scary noise."
"Don't do that baby voice thing, please."
"It wasn't a baby voice! Jesus, just. I'm a scared, lonely house husband wearing only a silk robe." Kevin was speaking a bit flatly now, as if he knew Stan wasn't going to be able to get into this. Stan held the phone away from his mouth when he yawned.
"I've checked the perimeter, mister," Stan said. They had done this before, though never over the phone. "Seeing my car must have scared the prowler away." He thought of Linda Stotch and let go of his dick, giving up on getting aroused.
"Oh," Kevin said, whining a little. "You saved me. How can I thank you? It's so late, and you came all this way just to check on me."
"Uh," Stan said, and then he just sat there, wishing he was brushing his teeth. Kevin huffed.
"Officer," he said. "What can I possibly do to thank you?"
"Blow me," Stan said, but it came out sounding mean, not sexy.
"Is your cock out?" Kevin asked. He had also started to sound vaguely angry. Stan sighed hard into the phone.
"Yeah," he said. "I guess."
"What's your problem?" Kevin snapped. "This was supposed to be your special birthday treat, which I was going to give you even though you excluded us from your creepy Bennigan's reunion-"
"It wasn't a reunion. I'm not comfortable doing this while I know Clyde is asleep upstairs, okay?"
"Yeah? Really? It's because Clyde is in town? Not because Kyle is?"
"What the fuck?" Stan said, wanting to pitch the phone across the room. "Why does everyone think- What's Kyle got to do with it?"
"Please. Are you kidding? Everyone knows you two gave each other bro jobs back in school."
"The fuck's a bro job?"
"Like you don't know!" Kevin said, and he hung up. Stan dropped the phone onto the bed.
Despite the jarring phone call, it didn't take him long to fall asleep, but his dreams were unsettling and dark, often lit by a single flashlight beam that guided him uncertainly through dense woods. Kyle was in almost all of his dreams but was always out of sight, calling for Stan in the darkness, sounding like he was in danger. Stan woke from these dreams feeling almost desperate enough to text Kyle and make sure he was alright, and at four in the morning he groped for his phone with a half-asleep plan to do so. He had a message from Kyle from an hour earlier:
Happy birthday, dude. Sorry this is late. Looking forward to hanging out tomorrow. Come to my motel room after your shift? It's room 109.
Stan hugged the phone to his chest and went back to sleep. He would respond in the morning, when the urge to send something over the top like I can't wait, I've missed you so much, I've been dreaming about you all night, are you still okay? had passed.
His shift went by slowly the following day, though the mundane routines that he'd known before the murders were a relief. Bebe was tired and in a bad mood, mostly keeping quiet. Stan was grateful for this, not wanting to discuss the forthcoming evening with Kyle. He didn't want to jinx it.
"Are the kids at Lola's tonight?" Bebe asked when they were back at the station after eating dinner in the squad car - City Wok, again. Stan nodded.
"She has them until next weekend, according to the schedule. Last night was just, you know, for my birthday."
"Sure," Bebe said. She smiled in a way that made her seem sad, like it was an effort to do so. "Sorry if I ruined it," she said.
"Hey, no way. I'm not. Uh, I've known you and Kenny forever. It doesn't bother me."
Bebe shrugged. She logged off shift and left the station without another word to Stan, and he wondered if he should be worried. Cheerfully, he realized he could tell Kyle all about this and get his opinion on what to do, like old times.
Stan was jittery with anticipation as he headed to his car. He'd decided to go directly to Kyle's room instead of changing out of his uniform at home first, and he'd made no effort to convince himself he was doing this for any reason other than Kyle's comment about it looking good on him. He'd asked in a text if he should bring Kyle some dinner, and Kyle texted back that he'd already eaten but did have 'provisions' in the room. Stan was partially aroused just by that the Kyle-typical haughtiness of that word, provisions, and he knew he was kind of fucked but couldn't seem to box his excitement in as neatly as he should; it was spilling over everywhere, flooding him with clumsy hope.
He got to the Travelodge a little after ten o'clock and checked his hair in the car's rear view mirror. It was okay, and the bags under his eyes weren't too obvious. As he made his way toward Room 109, a flashback jolted through him unexpectedly: something about approaching Kyle's door, preparing to knock, made him remember going up to Ruby's apartment with Bebe, not knowing what they would find inside. He cursed under his breath and tried to force the thought away before knocking, but his heart was pounding even as he heard the sound of Kyle's footsteps in the room.
"Hey," Stan said, letting out a shaky breath when Kyle opened the door. Kyle had taken off his tie and pushed his suspenders down to hang around his hips. Stan liked them even better this way.
"What's wrong?" Kyle asked, peeking around Stan's shoulders to look at the motel's dingy outdoor hallway, which faced the woods.
"What- nothing, no. Why?"
"You sound like you ran here," Kyle said, stepping back to let him inside.
"Sorry, just." Stan laughed and walked inside, already feeling like he'd spoiled this. "I guess I'm a little, uh." He didn't want to say jumpy, shaken, half-suffering from PTSD.
"I know," Kyle said. He shut the door and locked it. "It's weird, right? Seeing each other again."
"Oh- right."
Stan looked around the room, his heart lifting when he saw that Kyle had tried to fancy it up a bit. There were two lit candles in jars on the room's sad little table, along with an open bottle of red wine and plate with two kinds of cheese and some crackers. Kyle's iPod was plugged into a dock and playing some ambient guitar music at a very low volume.
"I don't know if that cheese is any good," Kyle said. He was fumbling through a pack of mixed plastic silverware. When he came up with a knife he brought it over to the little cheese plate and stuck it into the little mound of soft, white cheese. "I got it from Sooper Foods," Kyle said. "You guys still don't even have, like, a Whole Foods or anything."
"That's so weird," Stan said, shrugging off his jacket.
"Well, I don't know that a Whole Foods would even do very well here-"
"No, I meant hearing you say it like that. 'You guys,' like. We're here, and you're there. Sorry, I- jesus, I don't know why I'm rambling like this." Stan put his hands over his face, embarrassed by all of this; even the cheese was excruciating. He left his hands over his face even as he heard Kyle walking toward him, and was surprised when Kyle drew them away gently, holding Stan's wrists. He was peering up at Stan with that old, accepting look, his dude, it's me expression that always dissolved Stan's anxieties.
"I know," Kyle said, still holding Stan's wrists. "Stan, seriously. Don't apologize- I'm the one who ran away from that Bennigan's dinner in tears like a child, remember? I understand."
"You were in tears?" Stan said, wanting to hold Kyle's face, stroke his cheeks. Kyle shrugged.
"Well," he said, and he released Stan's wrists. "Almost. Here, I can at least vouch for the wine. I was really glad to find this- Sooper's has a surprisingly good wine selection!" Kyle went to the table, where he had two actual wine glasses sitting beside the bottle. Stan wondered where he'd gotten them; did he go to Wall-Mart and buy some just for the occasion? Kyle poured two very shallow glasses and brought one to Stan. "Happy birthday," he said, toasting him when he'd taken it.
"Thanks," Stan said. It was a struggle not to gulp the wine, and a relief to have something to calm his nerves. Kyle sniffed his before drinking it, so Stan did the same. It just smelled like red wine to him, but he nodded in approving agreement when Kyle did.
"I guess it's weird to do this here," Kyle said. "I mean, I'm serving you wine and cheese in a Travelodge motel, what the fuck. But it was too much, that night at Bennigan's. Even Mephesto's lab was too much. I like that it's kind of- neutral, here? And we can talk without interruptions."
"Yeah," Stan said. He sat on the bed, then realized it would be rude to ignore the cheese, though he wasn't really hungry. He got up, cut a few slices and ate them over the table, scattering crumbs with every bite. He poured more wine into his glass before returning to the bed, where Kyle was sitting, cross-legged. Stan noticed then that he was shoeless. Kyle's socks were gray-blue, expensive-looking.
"Do you like it?" Kyle asked when Stan sat beside him.
"What? Oh, the wine, yeah."
"It's one of my favorites," Kyle said. He looked away, swallowing heavily. "Sorry, fuck. I don't know where to start."
"I know. Do you, um. Want to hear about my birthday?"
"Yes, perfect." Kyle grinned and drank from his glass. "I need to drink about half that bottle before we talk about the past," he said. "Maybe you can relate."
"Fuck, yes," Stan said, and Kyle smiled again. "My birthday was pretty good," Stan said. "Just had pizza and cake with the kids and a few friends." He felt bad for saying it like that, talking about his friends like they were one thing and Kyle was another, though of course that was true now, and Kyle had turned down Stan's invitation on account of not wanting to meet his kids. "Bebe and Kenny fought," Stan said.
"Oh, god," Kyle said. "Those two. What set them off this time?"
"Death."
"Huh."
"Yeah, it was weird. And then Kenny was talking about heaven on the driveway- oh, fuck."
"What?" Kyle said, leaning toward him.
"I, nothing. Gary's brother's funereal was today, shit. I said I would go, and I didn't."
"You said- to Kenny?"
"No, to Gary. I talked to him the other day, he called to say he was back in town for the-" Stan almost said 'murder.' "Funeral."
"I see." Kyle drank some wine. "So you guys are still friends," he said, as if Stan had lied about this.
"Sort of. He said he was ready to help in any way he can. I don't know what to tell him- I barely know what to do about all of it myself, other than telling you my dumb theories."
"They're not dumb," Kyle said, frowning. "It's helpful, or anyway, it might be. It's not like Mac and I have made any amazing breakthroughs since we got here. But I really don't want to talk about the murders, or David Harrison's funeral, if you don't mind."
"Sure," Stan said, annoyed. It wasn't like he'd been dying to talk about the Harrisons with Kyle, and he certainly didn't mind avoiding shoptalk. "Anyway, uh. Bebe seemed kind of rattled by the whole thing. I don't know if I should be worried about her, and them, or not."
"What difference is worrying going to make? Those two are grown now, and still doing this dance around each other bullshit. It's so high school."
"Yeah," Stan said, hurt by that, as if it was ridiculous to still be hung up on unfinished high school business. Kyle sighed as if he sensed this and leaned down onto the bed, propping himself on his elbow and twirling the remaining wine in his glass with his free hand. Stan wondered if he should take off his shoes, or at least his gun belt. Kyle's was hanging on the back of one of the little chairs at the table, near the cheese.
"Tell me about your kids," Kyle said when Stan glanced over at him after a moment of semi-brutal silence.
"Wayne is thirteen now," Stan said. "Evan is eight-"
"No, Stan," Kyle said. "I mean, really tell me about them. What are they like? How did they take you and Lola splitting up?"
"Alright, I guess," Stan said, muttering. He didn't think it was fair, Kyle not even letting him finish one glass of wine before they arrived at this subject. "Wayne's been more closed off, since. Especially with me. Evan kind of regressed a little. She clings."
"What's with that name?" Kyle asked. "Was that Lola's idea?"
"Yeah. She thought it was a cute name for a girl. I think so, too, actually."
"Okay, don't get all testy. Well, I'm sure they're very cute."
"I've got pictures on my phone."
"Maybe later," Kyle said. He drank from his wine, and smirked when he saw the look Stan was giving him. "What?" Kyle said. "I don't even know anyone else with kids, just you."
Stan withheld a comment about how well Kyle 'knew' him now and drank some wine instead. Again, Kyle sighed in passive protest as if he'd heard what Stan was thinking.
"I mean, I practically raised Ike," Kyle said. "I guess I just want a little break from all of that, until I decide, whatever. If I'll ever get married or not. Probably not."
"No? Yeah, I'm not getting married again," Stan said, though it didn't feel true. "Not as long as I stay in South Park, anyway. You never, though- nobody, you never got close?"
"To marriage?" Kyle scoffed. "No, Stan, I haven't. I had a long relationship in my mid-twenties, but he was a barista and he couldn't get past my job. He had inadequacy issues."
"Hmm," Stan said, trying to picture Kyle with some pierced, angry barista. "So you've never dated any fellow FBI agents?"
"No," Kyle said, wrinkling his nose. "We're infamously difficult to date. Especially while we're still trying to establish our careers, like I am."
"Police officers are the same way," Stan said. "There's some statistic about divorce, Bebe's always bringing it up. Or she was, before I became part of that statistic."
"Was it hard?" Kyle asked. "Leaving her?"
"No. Leaving the kids was hard. Me and Lola- it was a relief for us both to just call it what it was, finally."
"God," Kyle said. He stood from the bed and walked over to pour himself more wine. "I'll bet," he muttered when Stan said nothing.
"If you want to say 'I told you so,'" Stan said, more sharply than he'd meant to, "Go ahead. Or I guess you already have."
"I just never understood," Kyle said, his back to Stan. "Or maybe I thought I did, and that was worse."
Stan wasn't sure what he meant by that. He wanted Kyle to turn around, to give him an apologetic look. He also wanted to throw down his wine glass, walk to that table, grab Kyle by his suspenders and yank him close, kiss his pale neck. It was all coming back to him too fast, and unconfused now that he'd been with men who'd cost him less.
"Well," Stan said, resenting the fact that he wanted to toss Kyle a bone. "I screwed up my life. You called it."
"It wasn't just you," Kyle said, turning. He picked up the wine bottle and brought it over to refill Stan's glass, his hand shaking a little as he did. "It's this whole town. They were so excited to have somebody to send here, at the Bureau, when we got the assignment to investigate these murders. It was a boon for them to be able to send an agent who grew up here, and who still knows the majority of the population, more or less. And I just. I had no idea how hard it would be."
"Is it me?" Stan asked. Kyle's eyes jerked up to his, and he looked angry for a moment, but his expression softened and he shook his head.
"No," Kyle said. "You're. I think you're the only reason I can stand being back here, actually."
Stan wasn't sure how long he'd stared up at Kyle in speechless gratitude before someone knocked hard on the door; it felt both like a long time and way too short to matter. Kyle put his wine on the table and hurried to the door without casting a look back at Stan, who wanted to tell him not to open it for anybody.
It was Mac, and when Kyle let him in Stan saw the wine and cheese and guitar music as incriminating, ghost-of-high-school garbage. He was more embarrassed for Kyle than for himself, but Kyle seemed not to care that Mac was witnessing this.
"Just wanted to make sure you saw that email from Yeager," Mac said. He nodded at Stan as he crossed the room to help himself to a big glob of the white cheese atop a cracker, as if Kyle always had cheese on hand and he'd come looking for it.
"I saw it," Kyle said. He was rubbing at his face, suddenly looking as if he was ready for bed. "He's treating me like I'm a psychic. Like I was supposed to come here, take one look at the usual suspects and point out the killer before sundown."
Stan thought of Cartman, and Kyle glanced over at him as if he had invoked that name out loud. Stan drank from his wine and waited for Kyle to get rid of this guy.
"Fuck Yeager," Mac said. "He's too hard on you."
"He hates me," Kyle said.
"Nah, he just expects the most out of you. Kyle graduated at the top of his class," Mac said, turning to Stan.
"I know," Stan said, smug, and then he realized Mac wasn't talking about high school.
"Dude," Kyle said, and Stan felt like he'd shelved in a warehouse when he saw that Kyle was talking to Mac, giving him a stern but friendly stare as he continued to consume cheese and crackers. "We're kind of in the middle of something here."
"Oh," Mac said. He turned to look at Stan, his gaze crawling down to Stan's gun belt. "I thought maybe you were on duty," he said when he met Stan's eyes again. "You're just checking on Kyle?"
"It's his birthday," Kyle said, and he gave Mac a look that Stan couldn't interpret, some kind of signal that seemed to mean 'get out of here,' because Mac held up his hands, still chewing.
"Alright," he said. "I'm going. Where'd you get this cheese?"
"Sooper Foods," Kyle said, and he grinned. "You like it?"
"Uh-huh." Mac patted Kyle on his chest as he made his way past him, toward the door. Something about the fact that he didn't even meet Kyle's eyes as he did so made the gesture more intimate than Stan could bear, and he burned inside his uniform, gulping wine now. "G'night," Mac said, not looking back at Stan. "Don't let Yeager's bullshit get to you."
"I won't," Kyle said. "Night." He locked the door when Mac was gone, crossed the room and refilled his wine.
"Me too," Stan said, holding his glass out.
"We're going through this kind of fast," Kyle said, though the bottle hadn't even been drained to the halfway point yet. He poured Stan a stingy refill. "Relax," Kyle said. "Take your shoes off. Unless you need to go soon?"
"I'm free all night," Stan said, not sure if he'd meant for that to sound sexy; it hadn't, anyway. He sighed and unclipped his gun belt, standing to put it over the chair where Kyle's hung.
"Aren't you cold, in short sleeves?" Kyle asked while Stan untied his boots. "You want a sweater?"
"I'm fine," Stan said, imagining Kyle's fitted sweaters, maybe made of cashmere. Stan would look ridiculous in them, and he wasn't cold. He was still fuming about Mac's visit, though nothing had transpired that he could actually complain to Kyle about. "That guy," he said, gesturing to the door with his thumb. "He's your best friend now, I guess."
"He's my partner. You know what it's like, with Bebe. I saw how close you guys are now."
"Sure, yeah. So what's he like? Seems like kind of an asshole."
"I think he's just threatened by you," Kyle said. "He's heard a lot about you."
"Oh, great. Like what?"
"Nothing bad!" Kyle returned to the bed, and Stan counted the number of buttons Kyle had undone on his dress shirt: three. "All of my stories about being a kid are stories about you," Kyle said. "Well, all but one."
"Hmm?" Stan said. His heart started beating fast; Kyle was avoiding his eyes.
"You know, and in high school, too," Kyle said. He seemed to reach for the tie he wasn't wearing, and tugged at his collar instead. "We were still basically kids, then. With our video games and everything."
Stan wanted to ask what Kyle had meant by 'all but one,' but he decided not to press yet. He scooted back against the bed's thin wooden headboard, propping a pillow behind his back. Kyle stretched out on his side again, the suspender on his exposed hip looking like a strap that needed pulling on.
"Who was this barista guy?" Stan asked. "What was his name?"
"Freddy," Kyle said.
"Wha- like the fucking Nightmare on Elm Street?"
"Shut up!" Kyle said, but he was laughing. "He was really cute, and helped me with a lot of my, you know. Mid-twenties gay angst. I suppose the people you're sleeping with have amazing names?" Kyle tipped his chin up and gave Stan a kind of teasing grin. He'd said people a little pointedly, but seemed to share Stan's unwillingness to push at boundaries this early in the evening. Stan was dying to confess, suddenly, but he also didn't see how he could.
"They have the same name," Stan said, heart still pounding.
"Who- what?" Kyle sat up, wine sloshing in his glass. "You're. Right now, you're seeing more than one person? In South Park? With the same name?" He narrowed his eyes. "You're fucking with me."
"Ah," Stan said. "Ha, well. Never mind."
"Never mind?" Kyle raised his eyebrows. "Stan, um. You know, if you're- No, you're right. Forget it. It's none of my business."
"You called that guy 'dude,'" Stan said, looking down into his wine glass. "That Mac guy."
"Well, yeah. Sorry? Just, it's a term of endearment, you know? I got that from you, from us, when we were kids. Obviously. Stan, look. I want to be friends again."
"Me too," Stan said, still staring at his wine. He didn't want to ruin the evening by admitting to fucking the Kevins; Kyle would be horrified at his taste, and hurt. But if it didn't come out, they couldn't really be friends again.
"I mean, I'm back in Denver," Kyle said. "You're single now, so you probably have more free time. Maybe once a month or so we could have a firmly scheduled get-together in the city."
"A firmly scheduled get-together," Stan repeated. "Once a month." It didn't seem like enough. His whole history with Kyle was all or nothing. They were cuddling each other in Stan's bed or not speaking at all.
"I suppose that's not fair," Kyle said, his voice tightening a little. "Expecting you to always come to Denver. I suppose I need explain, like. Why I feel like I can't breathe here, really."
"Why?" Stan asked, still waiting to hear that it was his fault.
"Ah, god." Kyle rolled off the bed and returned to the wine bottle. He lingered there after pouring a glass, helping himself to some cheese. "Do you want more of this?" he asked.
"Okay," Stan said, though his stomach had tightened. He would eat the cheese because doing so might comfort Kyle into confessing that Stan had hurt him back then, had crushed the air from his lungs that morning in Stan's bed when they didn't kiss. Kissing Kyle still seemed impossible, but in the way that leaping off a building and taking flight was impossible: Stan would love to trust that he could do it, but he was too afraid he'd crash to earth as soon as he tried.
"Here," Kyle said, and he brought two crackers to the bed, one of each kind of cheese spread onto them. Stan didn't know the names of these cheeses by the taste, just that they weren't cheddar, mozzarella, or blue. Mac probably knew, probably ate from Kyle's cheese plates without thanking him all the time. Kyle went to the wooden dresser across from the bed, beside the half-open bathroom door. He put his elbow on it and sighed, tugged at his collar.
"Kyle," Stan said. "I know-"
"No," Kyle said. "You don't, so let me say this before I lose my nerve." He drank from his wine and wiped at his mouth, which was stained slightly from the drink, a little purplish. "Ha," he said. "Wow, here we go. This is so humiliating."
"What?" Stan asked, ready to blurt something about the Kevins, though that would probably only make Kyle feel worse.
"Well." Kyle was picking at the top of the dresser, which was dented with little nicks. "Do you remember, when we were kids, ten years old. Cartman, being Cartman, concocted that whole ridiculous plan to get me to be his slave for a week or so? Though it was indefinitely, as far as I knew."
"Yeah." Stan regretted eating more cheese, his stomach tightening up again. Stan had begged Kyle to tell him why he was letting Cartman call him Fart Boy and humiliate him at school. Kyle had bitten back tears when he sent Stan away, refusing to tell him what was really going on. Stan had been angry, had thought Kyle had forged something real with Cartman that excluded him, like the year before, when Stan's depression gave him its first real trampling and he locked Kyle out in a similar fashion.
"That really fucked me up, dude," Kyle said. He was still picking at the dresser, looking down at his fingers as he worried away more bits of chipped wood. "I mean." He swallowed, shrugged. "I didn't even lose my virginity until I was twenty-five."
"What does that have to do with Cartman?" Stan closed his fist around the comforter on the bed, tensing all over.
"Well, you know." Kyle tried to laugh, but it was mirthless and small. Stan wanted to leap up and go to him, rub his back, something, but he stayed perfectly still, frozen with dread. "He would sit on my face, like. Fart in my mouth, ha ha. That was the joke. He didn't just do it in front of people, though. He did it when it was just me and him, sometimes. And he would miss his- mark, like. I guess I didn't get what was happening, at first. I would just lie there, I would go limp and die inside and just lie there, and that true was for the farts, too. And when he made me say I'd liked it, after. But yeah, he would. I know he was just a kid, alright, I know, and I was never sure he even knew what was he was doing, really, but he would basically, like, rut against my mouth, sometimes, if no one else was there, when I'd opened up for him to fart on me. I mean, with his- he was still wearing clothes."
Kyle glanced at Stan. He'd gone very pale, his hand shaking on the dresser, fingernails tapping against it.
"But," Kyle said, and he looked away again. He cursed when he saw how hard he was trembling and shoved his hand into his pocket, almost spilling the wine he held in his other hand. "But it was bad," Kyle said, his jaw clenched. "It was really bad, for me. Worse than I even realized at the time. I think it got even worse in my memory, just. Knowing that happened to me and that I just lay there and let it happen."
Stan slid off the bed slowly, mustering all the strength he had to keep from pitching the wine glass against the opposite wall. Hearing this, he was ready to accuse Cartman of everything: the murders, the fact that everyone from South Park seemed to be leading a life that had slipped sideways, all the evil in the fucking world. He set the wine glass on the table and turned to Kyle.
"You don't have to tell me that it wasn't actually my fault," Kyle said when Stan walked toward him. "I know that. I've been to therapy, okay, I've dealt with this. Freddy actually helped a lot. He was the first person I ever told."
Stan didn't trust himself to speak yet; he didn't want to say something stupid like 'why didn't you tell me' or 'I'll kill him, you can watch.' He sucked in his breath and let it out like he'd been punched, unable to make his lungs fill wholly with air. Kyle was still at the dresser, staring at Stan's chest, at his badge. Stan eased the wine glass from Kyle's tensed hand and set it on the dresser. He didn't blame Kyle for looking a little furious when he finally met Stan's eyes, waiting to hear what he would say.
There were no words that seemed right, not even 'dude,' so Stan didn't bother with them. He put his hands on Kyle's shoulders, not sure if he would want to be held right now. Kyle was jittery, pressing his lips together and looking up into Stan's eyes, then away, unable to settle his gaze on anything. He made a kind of irritable, exhausted little noise and collapsed against Stan's chest as soon as Stan took another step toward him, Stan's arms circling him and holding him there. Kyle's embrace was tentative at first, but his arms tightened around Stan with every second that passed, Kyle's face still hidden against his shoulder. Eventually, Stan could take full breaths again, and he felt Kyle's chest expanding against his, matching the pace of his exhales.
"Even when I told Freddy," Kyle said, turning his head so he could speak. "I knew he wouldn't hear it like you would. Nobody would understand how bad that had hurt me, nobody but you."
"I'm so sorry," Stan said, putting his face in Kyle's hair. "Fuck, that night at dinner. Fuck."
"You didn't know," Kyle said, shaking his head. "It's okay."
"It's not okay. I knew all the other shit he did to you. He's sick. He's a fucking psychopath, and I knew that. Shit, I was just being contrary, acting like a child because Mac was there."
"But you're probably right," Kyle said, lifting his head. He stepped back a little and looked up at Stan. Kyle was blushing now, which was an improvement over paling as if he might vomit. "Just because Cartman is a disgusting sexual predator, that doesn't mean he's a serial killer. I know that. It just hurt to hear you- not defend him, but-"
"Kyle, oh, god, I'm so sorry-"
"No, it hurt mostly because all I could think was, 'Stan doesn't know, he'll never know.' Because I didn't want you- god, back then I think I convinced myself you would kill him if you found out. But I think what really bothered me, why I kept it in until it seemed like it was too late to talk about it, was this inkling that I liked boys, too. Even back then. And I thought I had invited what he did, somehow, by being like him."
"Jesus Christ, Kyle, no-"
"Well, of course I actually didn't! But I was a scared little boy, and. You know. It's strange, because I could be around him after that, and most of the time it was like this episode in my life that had begun and ended, and it was all neatly wrapped up once I was free of being his 'slave.' But then sometimes he would say something, or just look at me in a certain way, and it was like he was reminding me. He'd done that, and I'd let him, and there were no take backs. It was almost worse that he never said anything about it out loud, because then I always had to wonder, was it just me? Am I remembering wrong? Did he never know what he was doing, when he did that? But the thing is, and I guess I uncovered this in therapy, ha, but. I knew, when I was underneath him, after I'd figured out what that stiff feeling was on my fucking mouth, in his pants. Whether or not he knew he was gay or attracted to me or whatever, he knew exactly what he was doing to me, that particular level of degradation, because he never did it in front of the others. If we'd been older, Stan, I think he would have done much worse. Or tried to, and then I always had to wonder, would I have let him?"
"He never tried anything after that?" Stan asked, trying to force himself to breathe normally enough to make his voice halfway steady. Kyle shook his head.
"I made sure not to be alone with him after that. Remember how clingy I got, the year after that happened?"
"I liked it when you clung," Stan said, rubbing Kyle's back. Kyle leaned against his chest again, hugging him hard.
"I felt so fucking bad about it, though," Kyle said. He wiggled in Stan's arms until they unwound, and he moved away, going for his wine glass. "Eventually," Kyle said. "Especially that last summer, when I was always inching a little bit closer. When I finally accepted that you weren't going to turn gay for me, I felt like such a creep. Just like him, like I'd been rubbing on you because I knew you wouldn't shove me away."
"Kyle, no," Stan said, his voice finally breaking. It was a relief, even when his eyes burned. "I loved that. I loved having you that close, like. Couldn't you tell?"
"I thought I could," Kyle said. He tipped his head back, draining his wine glass and showing Stan his bared throat. "But that wasn't your fault," he said, when the wine was gone. "Or maybe it was. I do feel like you led me on, so."
Kyle pushed around Stan's attempt to hug him again, going for the wine. Stan was teetering between blurting out everything and knowing that he shouldn't, because it would be like trying to steal the thunder from Kyle's secret. He watched Kyle pour more wine for both of them, his mouth hanging open stupidly until Kyle brought him his glass. "It's okay," Kyle said, waving his hand through the air. "Hey, look. Having a crush on you was like living on the blade of a knife for about ten years, but you were also the reason I used to think, 'maybe I'm not a huge screw-up. Because Stan likes me.'"
"I loved you," Stan said, hoarsely. He wanted to drain his wine glass, but he was already afraid he might puke.
"Oh, I know," Kyle said. "That's what I meant. We were so close. I'm sorry, I just. Couldn't help how I felt, eventually. And then I was so angry, as if you were straight just to spite me."
"I'm not sure what I was back then," Stan said. "Stunted, mostly. Stupid. Straight, not really. I think you know. You must know, Kyle."
"Well, it's neither here nor there if it was never me you wanted, so." Kyle's eyes were unfocused, his thumb tapping on the stem of his wine glass.
"It's only been for the past year," Stan said, hurrying this out. "Me doing stuff, I mean. With men. Since the divorce. Before that it was just thinking about it, and I thought about you-"
"Don't tell me that!" Kyle pinched his eyes shut, and for a moment Stan was sure he was going to get a glass of wine thrown in his face. "Don't lie to spare my feelings, you could have had me if you'd wanted-"
"It wasn't that simple, Kyle! I was having a hard time, too, and it was like I just woke up in a new body after I quit my meds that year, I didn't trust it. I wanted to stay where we were you and wanted to jump off a cliff, and when I hesitated instead of grabbing your hand you shut me out, you just turned us off like it was easy, like you'd flipped a goddamn switch."
Stan had barely known that was in him and had not expected it to come out like a poison that he'd finally purged, nothing but relief in the saying of it until he'd stopped talking and had to listen to the echo of those words, his own ragged breath. Kyle was staring at him, his mouth hanging open.
"Hesitated?" Kyle said. He licked his purplish lips and jerked his head to the side, as if the sight of Stan had suddenly become a slap in the face. "Hesitated? You went out and got that bitch pregnant!"
"And that was all about you, huh?" Stan said, regretting this before he'd even finished saying it. Kyle sniffed and straightened his shoulders. His pink cheeks had turned red.
"Admit it," Kyle said. "Just act like a fucking adult and admit you did that to show me how wrong I was about you."
Stan slammed his wine glass on the dresser and went to Kyle, wanting to tell him he was wrong. He knew Kyle was right, and that he'd known it all along: on Stan's wedding day, all those years they spent apart, and on that morning when Stan wouldn't kiss him. Stan grabbed the wine glass out of Kyle hand and tossed it onto the floor, just short of breaking it. Kyle gasped when angry purple spilled across the carpet, staining it.
"You're paying for that," he said, still glowering when Stan's face was hovering over his.
"I know," Stan said, letting his shoulders sink. "Jesus, dude, you're telling me? I've been paying for how I fucked things up with you for the past eleven years. I know, alright, you told me so, you're right, congratulations, I know."
"Asshole," Kyle said, shaking his head. "Too late, you're too fucking late."
He was opening for Stan's kiss even as he said so, and he moaned when Stan grabbed his suspenders and yanked, bringing their hips together. Kyle bucked his hips and bit Stan's bottom lip, hard enough to make Stan hiss and pull back.
"What are you going to do?" Kyle asked. He looked angry but also amused, his hips still flush against Stan's and his blush bleeding down to his throat. "Just because you've been dry humping some townies for the past year, you think you know how to fuck me now? Did you come here in uniform because you think I'm going to get down on my knees and suck your cock while you're still wearing your gun? Ha."
"Kyle," Stan said. He didn't want to do it like this, rough and fast with their defenses up. He touched Kyle's cheek, twisting the suspenders around his other hand and keeping him close. Kyle's eyes were still evasive, something in them flickering even as he held Stan's gaze. He was getting hard; Stan could feel it against the inside of his thigh. Stan's cock had started filling as soon as his hands found the suspenders.
There was a buzzing noise that startled them both, and they turned to see Kyle's cell phone on the table, near the cheese, vibrating across the cheap wood like a robotic mouse. When Kyle moved away from him, Stan's fingers were still tangled in the suspenders at his left hip, and he ended up getting dragged across the room along with Kyle as he went to check his phone, both of them still breathing hard.
"Fuck," Kyle said, and Stan saw Mac's name before he answered. "What?" Kyle said.
"Everything okay?"
Stan was close enough to hear Mac clearly. He huffed and stayed pressed against Kyle, gripping his suspenders, waiting to be pushed away.
"Huh?" Kyle said.
"I heard shouting over there," Mac said. "Walls are thin."
"Oh- jesus, it's fine. I'm okay."
"You sure?"
"Yes! Stan was just leaving."
Stan freed his hand when he heard this implicit dismissal, stepping backward and attempting to clear his throat. It felt clogged up, and he wasn't sure he would be able to speak when Kyle hung up and looked at him. They were both still hard, but Stan didn't want to fuck Kyle in earshot of Mac, or at all if it was going to be like this, snarling and small.
"He acts like I'm his little brother," Kyle said. He sniffled and adjusted his pants, slipped the phone into his pocket. "We moved to Denver at the same time, and we didn't know anyone in the city, so. Sometimes a new partner is like a ready-made family."
"Kyle," Stan said. "I'm sorry. God, what am I even- see, this. This is why I got paralyzed, back then. Get anywhere close to kissing me and I turn into this tornado of bad decisions." He'd actually said this to a therapist, once, and he was disgusted with himself anew for repeating it now. "You trusted me tonight, you needed-"
"Don't tell me what I need," Kyle said, and he grabbed his suit jacket from the back of a chair. "I can't handle Mac hearing half of this through the wall." He pulled his jacket on and stepped into his shiny black shoes. "C'mon. Let's go."
"Where?" Stan asked, his erection wilting. The vague proposition of 'going' with Kyle was frightening.
"Take me for a drive," Kyle said. He bent down to blow out the candles, turned off his iPod. "I feel restless. And I don't want to be alone right now, or with anybody but you. That's the South Park that sits on my chest until I can't breathe, you're right. Part of it, anyway. That old 'only Stan will do' feeling."
Kyle was out the door before Stan could take him aside and kiss him tenderly, or whatever the hell he was supposed to do in this situation. He barely remembered to grab his gun belt and boots as he followed Kyle out, and he sat down in the hallway to put the boots on while Kyle locked up. Kyle headed for the parking lot before Stan finished tying the laces, and Stan ran to catch up, afraid to lose sight of him.
"I'm sorry," Stan said again when they were in his squad car, Stan driving and Kyle riding up front, his arms crossed over his chest and his glazed eyes pointed at the windshield. It was late, a weeknight, and there was already almost no one else on the road. Stan didn't know where he was going; he thought of Stark's Pond and almost laughed, but nowhere else seemed right. "Kyle," Stan said. "I should have kept all that in. Now's not the time. Tonight shouldn't have become about me."
"Don't be an idiot," Kyle said. "I didn't actually want the whole evening to be a long hashing out of my childhood trauma. That's what therapy is for. And anyway, it's your birthday."
"Well, yesterday. You know what I mean. I'm having these affairs, you'd hate me if you knew."
"Ugh," Kyle said. "Probably. I keep trying to think of who has the same name. Are they both men?"
"Yeah," Stan said. He wasn't sure they should go down this road, but every turn seemed to be the wrong one, one way or another.
"Oh, fuck," Kyle said, and he gave Stan a look. "The other night, at Bennigan's. The way Kevin Stoley was looking at you- it's not-?
Stan sighed and looked out at the road. Kyle sort of squawked and burst into laughter.
"Are you kidding me?" he said. "Kevin is cheating on Clyde with you? Oh my god, oh my god!"
"It's not funny," Stan said. "I feel really bad about it!"
Kyle howled with laughter, and at first Stan thought he was doing so to conceal some kind of pain, but when he looked over at Kyle he could tell it was sincere, that Kyle was falling all over himself with hilarity at the thought of Stan making a cuckold of old Clyde and his limp banana dick.
"Wait, wait," Kyle said, gasping for breath. "This means, who- Wait."
"Yeah, yeah," Stan said. "Laugh it up."
"Kevin McCormick? Ew, are you serious? How is he even gay?"
"Well, I don't know, Kyle, how is anyone? The same way that me and you are, I guess. Although I'm actually, you know. Bisexual."
This seemed to take the wind out of Kyle's sails, or maybe the information about Kenny's brother hand. Kyle stared at Stan, frowning.
"I knew that about you," Kyle said. "I could tell, though I guess I wouldn't let myself believe I knew for sure. That's what really killed me when you went after Lola. I couldn't convince myself that you were purely doing it out of internalized homophobia and some twisted need to conform. Part of you wanted that, her. The kids, the wedding, all of it."
"I don't mean to say I regret everything I've done," Stan said. "My kids, god, they're everything, I love them so much. You'd love them, too, if you met them."
"Probably," Kyle said, and Stan was surprised. Kyle shrugged when Stan looked over at him. "They probably have your eyes, or some fucking thing."
They drove for a while in silence, apart from Kyle's tired little sighs. Stan was nowhere near drunk, but it was still weird to be driving this particular car after a few glasses of wine. He wasn't sure what would happen when they got to Stark's Pond, but he would be okay with just sitting quietly with Kyle all night, and he flexed happily in his seat when Kyle reached over to touch his thigh as they passed the Stark's Pond sign.
"This is such an old dream," Kyle said, looking out the window as they pulled around to the far end of the pond, where the gravel road ended. "Coming here with you. In a car, at night, parking."
Stan cut the engine and put his hand over Kyle's on his thigh, then held it. This had been where Wayne was conceived, he was pretty sure, in the backseat of Lola's car. He closed his fingers around Kyle's, not quite wanting to go back in time.
"I wish I had kept all the bad things away from you," Stan said, meaning Cartman.
"I wasn't surprised when you became a cop," Kyle said. "Remember when we made up that game, when you were my knight?"
"Yes." Stan lifted Kyle's hand and kissed his knuckles. Kyle leaned back against the seat and smiled at him. That summer, when they played their elaborate game with all the neighborhood kids, had been the year after Kyle's 'enslavement' to Cartman. Though Kyle hadn't spoken a word about how bad it actually was, Stan had sensed something, maybe, because he'd been obsessed with protecting Kyle once they were reunited. He would lay in his bed late at night or early in the morning, envisioning elaborate scenarios where he saved Kyle, vanquished Cartman.
"Do you love them?" Kyle asked.
"Huh?" Stan thought of his kids, but they'd already covered that. "Who?"
"Kevin. And/or Kevin."
"Oh, god, no, they're just friends. Not even that, in Kevin Stoley's case."
"Just friends," Kyle said. Stan was still kissing his knuckles, carefully, with the respect a loyal knight might show to his king. "Like me, back then," Kyle said.
"No," Stan said. "You were the one I was in love with. That's why I couldn't touch you. I know it's screwed up, but I'm not seventeen anymore."
"Yeah, well," Kyle said. "Neither am I."
Stan let Kyle's hand drop to his thigh again, afraid that this meant Kyle was over it, healed, free of him along with the rest of South Park. Kyle threaded his fingers through Stan's and unfastened his seatbelt.
"Come here," Kyle said, but he was the one who leaned onto Stan until their lips were pressed together. This kiss was different, experimental and soft. Stan could taste the wine on Kyle's tongue when his lips parted and their tongues slid together, and they both laughed when Stan tried to get closer and ended up jerking against his seatbelt, which tightened against his chest as if it was bracing to save him from a crash. He reached for the buckle, but before he could release it his radio crackled with a message from the station operator. His radio had broadcast a few routine calls to the officers on shift since they had gotten in the car, but this one was spoken with a kind of urgency that made Kyle go tense, too.
"Repeat," the officer said. Stan had already started the car, numbed with dread but unwilling to ignore the all units command, even off duty and with red wine on his breath. "We have a 419 in the wooded area behind Skeeter's Bar on Trillby Avenue, being reported as 187, all units report to the scene."
"That's a murder," Stan said when Kyle fell back into his seat and buckled up, nodding.
"I know," Kyle said.
Stan put the sirens on and they peeled away from Stark's Pond. He told himself that it couldn't be Karen McCormick, not really, but the truth was that it could be anyone they knew, anyone in town, which was also still true about the killer.