Stan had forgotten how hot Kyle got during cold October nights, under blankets. When they were kids their backs had sometimes touched in bed, Kyle's curved one way and Stan's the other. Stan would wake up sweating and move away, but as soon as he scooted free of Kyle's human furnace of a body he'd feel cold again, and would wiggle back into place against him. This was still true, he found.

"You fidget too much," Kyle murmured when Stan moved against him in the morning, both of them only partially awake. "I forgot about that."

"Did you really forget?" Stan asked. Kyle smiled and closed his eyes again. The light through his mostly-closed blinds was gray, and Stan assumed it was close to dawn, but he couldn't get back to sleep after opening his eyes to find Kyle still in his bed.

"I can smell your sweat," Kyle said, whispering it like a secret.

"Sorry."

"No, it's good. Because you showered before bed, then you ejaculated. That's, like, the perfect recipe for some good-smelling, early morning sweat."

Stan didn't love the fact that Kyle had experience with this combination of scents when waking up with other men on lazy mornings, though it would have been more awkward if he never had. Stan felt like he never had, except in the most technical sense. He tried to remember if he'd ever noticed the sweat-smell of the Kevins after a night of sex. Kevin McCormick sometimes smelled like pot-laced Fritos, and Stan had once pretended to get a call from work in order to avoid blowing him without hurting his feelings.

"You smell good, too," Stan said.

"I put cologne on before I came over," Kyle said. "But I didn't brush my teeth. I've got stale beer breath."

"Well, so do I."

"Mixed with come. It's not so bad."

They kissed as if to agree upon this, with tongues. Kyle's breath was indeed stale, and his tongue was tinged with a sour Stan's-jizz aftertaste, but Stan didn't care. He loved it, this: waking up with Kyle and knowing what to do with him.

"How did you sleep?" Kyle asked when Stan pulled back to nuzzle at him. He definitely hadn't nuzzled anyone's cheek since his kids were babies.

"I slept fine," Stan said. He decided not to mention how rare this had become. "You?"

"Very well. Oh, you went to bed with wet hair." Kyle tried to straighten it for him by stroking his fingers through it. "Now it's all messy."

"It doesn't matter," Stan said. "It's my day off."

As soon as he heard himself say this he rolled over to check the clock, his heart lurching. It was almost ten. Stan cursed, untangled himself from Kyle and bolted out of bed.

"What the hell?" Kyle said.

"My kids," Stan said, stumbling into his boxers. "It's- their day- I have to-"

"Oh, shit, Stan!" Kyle flung the blankets off of himself, and Stan paused in his frantic attempt to dress in order to observe Kyle's ass in only boxer briefs. "Why didn't you tell me?" Kyle asked, and he snatched his pants from the armchair in the corner of the room.

"I forgot, okay, lots of shit was happening- oh. Fuck."

"What? What!"

Stan could see from the look on Kyle's face that he had heard it, too: the front door opening. Wayne had a key. It was fifteen minutes past the time that Lola typically brought them over on Stan's days off. Stan usually had the pancake batter mixed up by now.

"Dad?"

That was Evan, calling for him. Stan could hear Lola's footsteps in his kitchen, and Wayne asking his mother if they had the wrong day.

"I'm here!" Stan called back. "Just coming out of the bathroom- hang on!"

"Jesus Christ, Stan!" Kyle said, whispering. His face was bright red and his hands were shaking as he attempted to get his pants fastened. "This is so- fucking- unprofessional!"

"Unprofessional?" Stan boggled at this as he pulled a rumpled, unlaundered sweater on. "What does that make me, a hooker?"

"That's not the word I meant to use!" Kyle shrugged on his wrinkled work shirt, leaving his undershirt on the floor. "This is so- so- it's so you, Stan! The fact that this is happening to me. It's so you, getting me into a situation where I'm uncomfortable, without thinking-"

"You just showed up here! This wasn't my idea!"

"Shut up, shut up! They'll hear you. What am I supposed to do now? Crawl out the window? Oh, Jesus I don't even have a car!"

"Just stay in here," Stan said. "I'll- I'll figure it out."

"Like hell you will. Christ, I feel like I've got blood on my hands. Those are your children out there! Fuck!"

"Be quiet," Stan hissed. Out in the kitchen, the kids' and Lola's voices had gone silent. "Goddammit." Stan pulled a hand through his messy hair. He wanted to stuff Kyle under the bed and also to fuck him over the side of it; he'd never imagined how arousing it would be to snap back at Kyle like this. They'd been so careful with each other as teenagers, when maybe they should have been shouting and pushing each other onto beds.

"So I'm supposed to just hide in here?" Kyle whispered when Stan reached for the doorknob. "Like your shameful secret? Like always?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Just go," Kyle said, shaking his head. "Pretend I'm not here."

Stan opened his mouth to respond to that, but he left the room without coming up with anything. He felt sixteen again, hiding liquor or deleting his browsing history, trying to keep his cool while he concealed an illicit substance in an otherwise sterile environment. As soon as he saw his kids he straightened his shoulders and forced himself to put on a smile.

"Hey!" Stan said. "Sorry, I was just, um. In the bathroom."

"Is your tummy upset?" Evan asked, and she dashed over to hug him. Lola and Wayne remained near the fridge, both of them staring at Stan like they suspected foul play.

"I'm okay," Stan said. "Just running a little behind. Um, damn, and I don't think I have milk, for pancakes-"

"They haven't had breakfast yet," Lola said. "They usually eat here, so."

"I know, dang, well, um. We'll go out. How's that? As a special treat."

There was a noise from the bedroom: something crashing into Stan's dresser, and one of the drawer pulls clanging. Lola's eyes widened with alarm, and he could feel the kids staring at him, waiting to be told that everything was okay.

"My friend Kyle is here," Stan said. His heart began to pound as if this admission alone was equivalent to coming out. "He came over last night, um." Stan nodded to the empty beer bottles on the counter. "And he had a little too much to drive, so he slept on the couch."

Stan could see Lola's gaze shift to the couch. Wayne was looking at it, too. There were no pillows, blankets, or any other indication that it had been slept on. There was also no additional car in the driveway that Stan could claim as Kyle's, left there after a night of drinking too much.

"He was just using my shower," Stan said, pointing his thumb back at the bedroom door. He couldn't make himself stop talking, or think of any other explanation for the fact that Kyle was lingering in his bedroom. "The FBI has him staying at that crummy motel out by the highway, and, uh."

"The FBI?" Evan said. She sounded incredulous, as if this was a thing that existed only in television shows.

"Yeah, he works for them," Stan said. He tried to force a casual grin, and felt himself failing to look like he was anything but panicked. "Anyway, he's waiting for his partner to come pick him up. His FBI partner."

"What's going on?" Lola asked, and Stan braced himself to explain why Kyle couldn't drive home last night if he was also waiting to be picked up this morning. "Did something happen with the investigation?"

"What- no, no, nothing to do with the case. Kyle and I were good friends as kids, um. You remember."

"Of course I remember."

Stan realized that the shower wasn't running, and that his previous excuse for lingering in the bedroom while he dressed had involved being in the master bathroom himself. Every lie was knitting together into a web of incriminating evidence that something else was clearly going on. Lola seemed concerned, Wayne confused, and Evan slightly hurt, probably by the lack of pancakes cooking on the stove top. Stan was furious with Kyle for being clumsy enough to make noise back there, but he was also feeling desperately protective of him, as if Kyle had more at stake from being caught in Stan's bed than Stan did.

"Kyle was just over last night to catch up, as a friend," Stan said, aware that he was both repeating himself and protesting too much. He went for the beer bottles on the counter and tossed them in the recycling bin. "It got late, you know, old friends, talking- so he's here, he just crashed here, he's, uh. Where do you guys want to go to breakfast?"

"Is your friend coming with us?" Wayne asked, and Stan tried not to read an accusation into the question.

"I don't think so," Stan said. "He'll probably need to get to work."

"He's trying to solve the murders?"

"Yep, yeah. That's why he's in town."

"I want him to come!" Evan said, tugging on the hem of Stan's shirt. "He can tell us how they're going to find the killer." Her eyes bugged out a little when she said killer, as if South Park's serial murderer was the bad guy in one of her cartoons. Stan supposed he should be glad she wasn't capable of grasping what was actually going on.

"No," Lola said. "Sweetie, that's. Confidential, and not suitable for you to hear." She glanced at Stan like maybe he needed to be told this, too, and he gave her his best 'no shit' look in return.

"You don't need to be hearing about that," Stan said, touching her head. "Anyway, Kyle is busy." He lifted his hand in a wave that was directed at Lola, wanting to be free from her scrutinizing gaze. "Thanks for dropping these guys off," he said. "I'll bring them back tomorrow around noon, on the way to my shift." He hated the way that sounded, like he'd be returning some rented equipment. Lola sighed and peered at the hallway that led to Stan's bedroom.

"I guess Kyle is still—showering?" she said. Stan shrugged.

"He's moving kind of slow," Stan said. "Too much beer. He was always a lightweight."

"Wayne drank beer," Evan said, tugging at Stan's shirt again.

"What?" Stan narrowed his eyes at Wayne. "When?"

"She means that night- you know." Lola waved her hand through the air. "Evan, stop. We all remember that. You don't have to bring it up."

"Well, he did," she muttered, pressing her face to Stan's leg.

"Oh, sure," Wayne said, and Stan could see that he was furious about the accusing look Stan had given him. "I get trashed every night. That's totally my style, you know, that's exactly who I am."

"Stop." Lola touched Wayne's arm, and the way his shoulders dropped, the calming effect she had on him, made Stan's heart sink. He had the opposite effect on his son, lately. Lola pulled him to her and pecked him on the cheek. "Be nice," she said, quietly enough that Stan felt insulted. She turned to him and sighed. "I guess I won't get to say hi to Kyle?"

"Nah, he's. You know how he is."

"Yes, I remember our wedding day. He's not exactly warm." She said so loudly enough that Stan was afraid that Kyle would hear. He imagined Kyle sulking in the bedroom with his ear pressed to the door. Either that or he'd climbed out the window and bolted through the neighbors' backyards like a fugitive.

Lola gave Evan a kiss goodbye and left. Stan got the kids settled in front of the TV, promising that they would leave for breakfast soon. When he slipped back into his bedroom he braced himself for an attack, still wounded by Kyle's comment about Stan lacking "professionalism" when nearly caught in bed with a man by his ex-wife and kids.

Kyle was standing near the window in the back corner of the room like a cornered animal, and he looked like he was ready to lash out at Stan in a feral rage as soon as he came through the door.

"You told them I'm here!" Kyle said when the door was shut, whispering. "What the fuck!"

"What was I supposed to do when you started crashing around in here like a buffalo? Was it that hard not to throw yourself against my furniture?"

As soon as he'd spoken, Stan was enveloped in the kind of energy that had propelled him onto Kyle in the motel room the other night, recklessly aroused by their new ability to withstand conflict. He couldn't give in to that now, and Kyle would likely throttle him if he tried, but it was amazing, again, how good it felt not to mumble and turn away rather than confront each other. Kyle huffed and straightened his tie, then his belt.

"I'm not good with kids," he said. "And your story was terrible."

"I know. I'm sorry. I'm not a good liar."

"Says the guy who spent eleven years of marriage closeted and then went on to sleep with a married man."

"Being closeted- it wasn't a lie, okay, it was a process. And Kevin was the one lying to Clyde. Jesus, why are we talking about this now? Come out and meet my kids before this gets even weirder."

"I don't see how it could. Fuck, and Wayne is a teenager now? He'll melt me with his hatred."

"Why would he hate you?"

"Because I'm fucking his dad!"

"He doesn't know that! And you're not going to tell him!"

"No shit, do you think I want to make the announcement? God, this is a nightmare. What was I thinking? Bringing you beers? Sucking your dick? Of course it's come to this. Nothing can be simple with you. With us."

"I'm going out there," Stan said, pointing to the door. "And you're coming with me. Splash some water on your face, fuck. You're all red."

"I knew this would happen if I came back here," Kyle said, speaking under his breath as he pushed past Stan, toward the bathroom. "One week back in South Park and you're ruining my life."

"Stop acting like my kids are out there waiting to eat you. They're children. They're nice."

"Children are not nice! You and I certainly weren't!"

"Shhhh!"

Stan walked out into the living room, a combination of rage and protectiveness toward Kyle persisting in his chest. It felt like a physical thing that had lodged there, occupying space and constricting his lung function. Like feeling overly full after a good meal, it wasn't entirely unpleasant.

Wayne went on staring at the television when Stan loomed over the couch, waiting for the kids to give him a clue about how to proceed. Evan looked up at him with a smile.

"Where's your friend?" she asked.

"He's coming," Stan said.

"Hello!" Kyle said, appearing behind Stan as if he'd been called to the stage. His jacket was buttoned, hiding the wrinkles in his shirt, and his tie was neatly in place. Stan wanted to tell him to tone down the cheerfulness when he beamed at the kids, and he tried to imagine the last time Kyle would have had reason to be around children. "Wow, hi, look at you guys," Kyle said. "It's nice to finally meet you."

"This is Evan," Stan said, indicating her with a two-fingered point, which was department protocol for crime scene reporting. "And Wayne."

"Hi," Evan said, resting her chin on the arm of the couch. Wayne waved, then looked at Stan like he was owed a better explanation for this, or everything.

"Sorry to keep you waiting on your breakfast," Kyle said. "I was just heading out. Your dad and I are old friends-"

"I explained," Stan said, and Kyle cut him a look, as if Stan had stepped on his line. "How are you going to get to the motel?" Stan asked. "Is Mac on his way?"

"He didn't answer his phone," Kyle said. "I'll walk."

"What? It's like fifteen miles to that motel, what are you talking about? We'll give you a ride."

"Dad said you're solving the murders," Evan said.

"Trying to," Kyle said, and he looked back to Stan. "I suppose a ride would be fine," he said. "I'm so sorry to intrude on your- morning."

"It's fine. In fact." Stan wasn't sure if this was insane or brilliant, only that he liked having Kyle in the same room with his kids more than he'd expected to. "Why don't you come to breakfast with us? We'll probably hit up Blueberry Junction. Remember when you ordered bacon and pancakes and they brought you bacon pancakes?"

"That was so weird," Kyle said. He glanced at the kids. "It was like, bacon bits," he explained. "Cooked into the pancakes."

"That sounds good," Wayne says.

"It was extremely good. I ordered my pancakes that way every time, after that."

"So did I," Stan said. "Until I had to start watching my weight," he said, patting his stomach. Kyle rolled his eyes.

"God, you still go there?" he said. "Blueberry Junction? With the crayons and everything?"

"The crayons?" Stan said.

"At the table, you know, and the balloons on the hostess stand." Kyle laughed and started to turn red again.

"You're too cool for Blueberry Junction now?" Stan said.

"That place is pretty lame," Wayne said.

"No, it's not," Evan said. "Dad, can we go?"

"Of course we can go. And Kyle should come with us. Right?"

"If he wants," Evan said, shrugging. She seemed less impressed with Kyle than she had expected to be when she heard he was in the FBI. Stan was shocked to see Kyle looking as if he was actually considering breakfast at Blueberry Junction.

"I am hungry," Kyle said. "And my first meeting isn't until after lunch."

"Who are you meeting with?" Wayne asked. "FBI people? About the murders?"

"Well, yes," Kyle said. Evan stood, and soon they were all putting on their coats, preparing to head out for breakfast like some kind of family-ish unit. Stan couldn't believe Kyle was going along with this, but he had always liked Blueberry Junction, even if he wanted to belittle its crayon-strewn tables now.

"Why do you never have a coat anymore?" Stan asked Kyle when they walked out into the chill of the morning. "Is that out of style in Denver, being prepared for the weather?"

"It's October," Kyle said. "It's not coat weather yet. It's not even Halloween."

"But it's cold," Stan said. He didn't press, because he remembered the old rule, which had started around middle school and persisted through high school: any guy who wore a real coat before October, in the event of anything less dramatic than a freakishly early blizzard, was a pansy-ass excuse for a real Colorado mountain-bred boy. Stan was charmed, a little, by Kyle's adherence to this.

They piled into Stan's old Taurus, which only got used on his off days and sometimes had trouble starting in early winter. When the car started on Stan's first try, he was tempted to see this as something important and fated, or just some good luck that had been brought on by Kyle, who was explaining to the kids why he couldn't talk about the case while it was ongoing.

"But we have some promising leads, I assure you," he said. That was news to Stan, and he planned to ask about it later, maybe when they were in bed. He felt confident, and had even when they were whisper-fighting in his bedroom, that he would be in bed with Kyle again soon.

The restaurant was crowded, but the hostess brought them to a table for four after just a five minute wait in the noisy lobby. Being back in Blueberry Junction seemed to renew Kyle's twitchiness, and he held his menu with both hands, glancing around the place like he was looking for suspects here, too.

"Do you guys have plans for Halloween?" Kyle asked. Stan was surprised that he was taking the initiative to start conversation, and grateful. He turned to give Kyle what he hoped was a surreptitious smile, but Kyle was watching the kids like he truly wanted to know the answer. Wayne shrugged.

"Mom says I'm too old to trick-or-treat," he said.

"What?" Stan said. "No, you're not. Me and Kyle trick-or-treated all through high school. Right?" he said, desperate for a second opinion that would confirm his son didn't need to grow up any faster than he already was.

"Right," Kyle said. "But maybe that's not done anymore."

"Not done?" Stan turned back to Wayne. "Do you want to trick-or-treat?"

"I mean, I want the candy," Wayne said, fidgeting. "But I guess it's kinda babyish and gay to dress up and knock on doors and stuff."

"Don't say gay like that," Stan snapped, louder than he'd intended to. "You know not to say that."

"Oh. Sorry." Wayne slumped behind his menu. Stan gave Kyle an apologetic look, and didn't appreciate Kyle staring him down like he'd overreacted.

"Well, I'm gonna be Anna," Evan announced.

"What does that mean?" Kyle asked, and Wayne snorted.

"From Frozen," Evan said. "Anna." She stared at Kyle like he was slow.

"It's a Disney movie," Stan said, and Kyle gave him that look again.

"Stan," he said. "I live in Denver, not on Mars. I know what Frozen is. It's the ice princess, right?" he said, looking at Evan.

"That's her sister," Evan said. "Anna is the regular girl."

"Oh, you like the regular girl better?" Kyle said. "That's cool, actually. That's a very mature preference."

Evan glanced at Stan as if she wasn't sure if Kyle was being nice or mean. Stan wasn't sure either. Their food arrived, and Evan talked about the Anna costume that Lola was making for her while everyone else busied themselves with eating.

"Hey, question," Wayne said when their plates were taken away. He was looking at Kyle, and Stan had a bad feeling about what was forthcoming. "Did you and my dad ever drink beers?" Wayne asked. "When you were underage?"

"Do we have to drag all that up again?" Stan asked. "You're forgiven, okay? Just don't do it again."

"So, in other words, yes," Wayne said, and he smiled when Kyle did.

"I never really drank in high school," Kyle said. "I won't speak for Stan."

"Great," Stan said. He was too fuzzy from the ease of the whole meal to really be mad, but it was so like Kyle to throw him under the bus at a moment like this. "Thanks for that."

"I knew it," Wayne said.

"You want to repeat all my mistakes?" Stan asked. He wasn't sure if Wayne could tell that he'd been thinking of his biggest teenage screw-up, impregnating a girl while still in high school, and he desperately hoped not when he considered what that would mean to Wayne: that he was a mistake. It wasn't a secret that he was unplanned, but it also wasn't something they ever talked about.

"Anyway," Kyle said. "Stan was a good kid. So was I. Mostly."

"You were good," Stan said, and he grabbed for his nearly empty-coffee cup, feeling again like he had said something incriminating.

After breakfast, Stan dropped Kyle off at the motel and took the kids shopping for Halloween decorations. He missed having paper ghosts and skeletons hanging from the light fixtures at his place, and Lola had of course kept all of the holiday stuff. At the urging of the kids, Stan went a little crazy at Michael's, and the three of them spent the rest of the day decorating the house. Evan was beside herself, allowed to put things wherever she wanted since Stan had no real décor to clash with. Wayne seemed to have fun with it, too, and didn't seem concerned with whether or not he was acting 'gay' in the process. They got pizza for dinner and watched Halloween-themed movies that were tame enough for Evan, featuring cartoonish witches. Wayne was on his phone a lot by that point, but he at least remained in the living room until the movies were over. Stan considered it a very successful evening, and he called Kyle as soon as the kids were asleep.

"Hey," Kyle said when he picked up. Stan grinned against his phone, wanting to interpret Kyle's pronunciation of that greeting as seductive.

"How was your day?" Stan asked. He'd been desperate to have someone around to answer this question since the end of his marriage. The Kevins had never really made him wonder, and if he asked them it was out of polite obligation more than really wanting to know.

"Busy, tiring," Kyle said. "Do you still have the kids with you?"

"Yeah, we put up Halloween decorations. It was fun. They're asleep now."

"Oh, well. I was going to ask you to come over here, but I guess it will have to wait."

"Come over to your motel room?"

"Yes, Stan."

The idea of motel sex with Kyle was riveting enough to make Stan a little hard. He got in bed and rolled onto his side, clamping the pillow Kyle had used the night before between his legs.

"You were actually great with the kids today," Stan said.

"What, you're surprised that I can conduct myself appropriately for a PG audience?"

"No. Well, yeah, but you're the one who said you're not good with kids."

"Well, I'm adequate. I don't know about good. They're cute, though, Stan. Wayne looks like you. It's kind of jarring, actually, since I knew you at that age."

Stan tried to imagine a thirteen-year-old who looked like Kyle peering up at him with Kyle-like judgment. It was jarring, even as only a mental image.

"Get anything done today?" Stan asked. "At your meetings?"

"We issued warrants for Marc Nelson's phone, computer, all of that. Hopefully we can figure out why he returned to South Park. We're trying to determine if he he still had friends here, and we'll interview them if so. Patty was called, about that. I didn't speak to her personally, but of course she's a wreck. She thought he was safe, you know, since he didn't live here. I ended up calling Ike after we finished up for the day."

"Oh, good. He's still in Europe, right? No plans to come back here?"

"Yes, he's there, and no, he's not coming back to the States anytime soon. I told him not to set foot anywhere near Colorado under any circumstances. He laughed, like the idea of coming back to South Park was ludicrous. Which, I guess, for him, it is."

"Well, good." Stan tried not to be hurt by the idea that it was ludicrous for any members of the Broflovski family to return to South Park unless they were assigned to investigate serial killings in the area. "I got a text from Kenny," Stan said. "The safe house arrangements have been made. Karen, Kevin and Patrick are there, and another officer will take over watching them when Patrick sleeps or needs a break."

"Aw, well, there goes half of your regular action, huh?"

"What?" Stan said, though he knew what Kyle meant.

"Kevin McCormick, cloistered in a safe house! Will you survive without his raw sexual magnetism until the coast is clear?"

"Fine, make fun of me," Stan said. "I'm sure your Denver boyfriends are of a caliber Kevin McCormick could only dream of aspiring to." Stan was kind of worried about this, actually, and glad when Kyle snorted.

"Allow me a little childish jealousy, please," Kyle said. "Though I do stand by my opinion that the least of the lesser McCormick siblings is not worth your dick. Or, you know. Any other part of your anatomy."

"Ha."

"Well, I don't know how you do gay."

"How I do gay, Kyle?"

"You know what I mean, Stan."

He did, actually: it was kind of a sly way of asking if Stan liked getting fucked or preferred to be the one doing the fucking. At least, that was what Stan thought; he wasn't as sophisticated as Kyle when it came to these types of negotiations, certainly.

"I'm flexible," Stan said, squeezing the pillow with this thighs. "That's how I do gay, I guess."

"I knew it," Kyle said. "Well, I'm very rigid."

"I'll bet you are," Stan said, reaching down to cup his erection.

"Phone sex in a motel room!" Kyle said. "Now I really feel like a special agent."

"It's very Fox Mulder," Stan said. "But, wait. Are we doing phone sex?"

"You'll laugh, but I have to confess that I have no idea how you do phone sex, and I'm not sure I want to know."

"Yeah, agreed," Stan said, though he was still rubbing himself through his jeans, and he had the feeling Kyle was, too. Kyle's breathing had gotten a little choppy over the phone line.

They talked for another hour, and Stan heard some information about Kyle's trysts in D.C. and Denver that pleased him. There hadn't been as many as Stan had imagined, and Kyle's satisfaction level was reportedly low. Kyle had gone through a period of wondering if he was 'tired of sex,' apparently. Stan liked the idea that he had jump-started Kyle's sex drive himself, but he wasn't presumptuous enough to ask if this was true.

"Could you make time to see me tomorrow?" Stan asked. "I can come to the motel if that's easiest."

"Don't worry," Kyle said. "I'll make time. We'll see each other. It's a thing now. A full-on thing."

"A thing?" Stan said, grinning.

"Yeah. I need it, you, this- the investigation is very stressful. And the killer is so clean with his crime scenes that it's making me feel incompetent. We should have at least gotten a heel print from behind Skeeter's. It's like he planned for that one to look messy, Stan. It's just- anyway. It's a lot, and. Having you here helps."

"Good," Stan said. He hadn't been expecting that kind of admission at this hour of the night, over the phone, and he wasn't sure that he should indicate how deeply it had flooded him with warmth. "Same here," he said. "My nerves have been shot since the first murder, I can't sleep, but. Last night I slept great, with you here."

"I always did sleep well in your bed," Kyle said. There was something a little bitter in that, just an edge, or maybe Stan was imagining things. Kyle sighed. "Goodnight," he said. "Be safe. Text me tomorrow."

Stan slept well again that night, holding onto his pillow and burying his nose in it when he needed the scent of Kyle's hair to pull him back under. It wasn't as nice, waking to find a pillow instead of Kyle within arm's reach, but the promise of an indefinite continuation of their 'thing' was good enough to keep that warm feeling bundled in his chest until sunrise.

In the week that followed there were no additional murders, but with the increasingly cold weather there seemed to be a frost settling over South Park that wasn't purely literal, and as more days passed without a murder everyone in town seemed to be holding their breath, afraid to hope that it was over. Stan took a few shifts at the safe house and endured Patrick's polite but obvious dislike of his presence there. During his regular shifts, the calls Stan went out on with Bebe were for the typical, mundane South Park things: dragging Cartman into the drunk tank after he showed up at Bennigan's demanding a table at five minutes until closing, arresting hunters who were unwilling to wait for the official start of deer season, and taking an inventory of damaged property and stolen goods when the barn at Carl Denkins' ranch was vandalized. The worst call they got was about Linda Stotch refusing to leave the public park after scaring some children there. She'd been hounding them about where her son Butters was, shouting that she knew they were covering for him, that he was supposed to be grounded. She seemed to think he was still ten years old.

"This can't go on," Bebe said when they'd secured Linda at her house and seen that she'd calmed back into her other mode of existence, which was near-catatonic. "I thought Butters was coming back to look after her?"

"Maybe he's afraid to," Stan said. "Butters was never the courageous type, and I can't blame anybody for avoiding South Park right now."

"Well, I can," Bebe said. "It's cruel to leave her alone like that. She needs to be in a facility. Can we do anything without his approval, for the sake of the community?"

"I doubt it," Stan said. "Has Kenny been able to get in touch with Butters?"

"I don't think so," Bebe said. Her mouth got tight, and Stan could see that she still didn't want to talk about Kenny. He had been preoccupied with his siblings and their wellbeing since they were brought to the safe house, and Kenny's friends with benefits arrangement with Bebe seemed to have been put on hold in the meantime. "I'll ask him," Bebe said when Stan stared at her. "How's Kyle?" she asked, as if returning his vaguely defined relationship volley.

"Great," Stan said, and he tried not to smile like a kid with a crush. It was stupid to think of what was going on between him and Kyle with that kind of rosy naiveté, considering their past and their undiscussed future, but he had never had so much fun with another person in bed, and so far all they had done there was blow jobs, frantic rutting and lots of making out. It felt a bit like a teenage thing that they were reenacting now because they didn't have it then, and Stan was trying not to see this as a bad thing.

"I guess you'll see him tonight?" Bebe said. "Again?"

Stan opened his mouth to confirm that yes, of course, he would fling himself into Kyle's motel room again that night and grab him by those suspenders, but before he could speak he realized that Bebe was probably lonely. Stan normally hung out with her after their shifts at least a few times a week, and when he wasn't there, Kenny would show up for another sort of recreation. Now Stan and Kenny had both been overtaken by more pressing concerns, and Bebe was left to deal with the stress of the unsolved murders by herself.

"Why don't you come over?" Stan said. "To my place, and Kyle could come, too. We'll get a pizza or something."

"Stan." Bebe laughed. "No, c'mon. I don't want to intrude."

"You wouldn't be, it's-"

"I mean," she said. "Who knows how long you two even have together, right? The FBI could find this killer any day now, or reassign the case if Kyle and Mac take too long to make any breakthroughs, and then Kyle goes back to Denver, and then what? So just enjoy it. I don't want to step all over your time with him. I know this is some kind of closure-type situation for you guys."

Stan was fuming by the end of her little speech, sure that she'd been trying to hurt him with that, but he couldn't deny that she was probably right. Even if he maintained some kind of long distance relationship with Kyle after his return to Denver, it wouldn't be what Stan was really beginning to crave from him: a full-on return to South Park, for good, and regular breakfasts with Stan and the kids at Blueberry Junction. Their work schedules would make anything more long-distance than that almost impossible to negotiate, and Kyle didn't even like phone sex.

"Sorry," Bebe said, speaking softly. "That was presumptuous. I just don't want him to live out his little high school boyfriend fantasy with you and then break your heart when he skips off back to the city."

"I'm not just a high school boyfriend fantasy to him." Stan wished he was as confident of this as he was attempting to sound.

"I know," Bebe said. "But that doesn't mean he's going to treat you like more than that now. I like Kyle, but he's self-important. Can't you see it when he interacts with the Chief? He gets what he wants, seems like. I don't want him thinking he can just have you and then go."

"You don't know him as well as I do," Stan said. "You don't see this other side of him." Stan wanted to believe that nobody else did, maybe not even Kyle's brother and parents, and he worried that Mac might have seen not only Kyle's secret, guarded self but also some additional stuff that Stan had never been privy to. He was no longer worried that Mac was secretly in love with Kyle, but the close friendship envy was almost worse.

"I'm sure you're right," Bebe said. Stan scoffed, not wanting to be placated. "And I know I'm not super qualified to give relationship advice," she said. "But I hate the thought of something vaguely traumatic being your first real romance with a guy, something all wrapped up in latent childhood shit, and in the midst of everything that's going on and how stressed out you already are. You deserve better than that."

Stan didn't know how to explain that Kyle already felt like his only real chance for a real romance with a guy, so he stared out the window and let her assume he was pissed off at her for trying to tell him some things that he already knew: that there was a big, empty place in him that had sat vacant for eleven years, and the fact that Kyle fit perfectly into that spot wasn't necessarily a good thing.

"You could come with us tonight," he said, because he knew she wouldn't. "We're going to Brown Burro." Stan and Kyle would probably get each other off in the motel room first, but she could theoretically meet them afterward. Kyle had texted Stan saying he wanted Mexican food, and he had reluctantly agreed to try this place, despite the name. He'd said in a further text that naming conventions in South Park had deteriorated since high school. He hadn't yet made any comments on the names of Stan's children, but Stan knew Kyle well enough to feel certain that he had some opinions on the matter.

"Nah," Bebe said. "I'm serious, I want you guys to have time together. I know you've missed him, and not just, uh. The sex part."

"We never had sex in high school. You know that."

"I know, but there was always this predatory thing that came out in you when he was around. Like you had your eye on everybody, anybody who might want to hurt him."

"That's crazy," Stan said, though he knew she was right. He felt ashamed of what a poor job he'd done, despite giving off that impression. He hadn't been able to protect Kyle from Cartman. Stan had never taken him seriously back then. "Do you think there will be another murder?" he asked, staring out the passenger side window as Bebe turned onto the road that lead back to the station. "Or will it stop at three?"

"You're the one seeing numbers in the chest wounds," Bebe said.

Stan had eventually come to see the ugly gash that split Marc Nelson from gut to chest as the number one, following the two on David Harrison and the three parallel slash marks on Ruby Tucker. He'd shared this with Kyle, who promised to pass it along to Mac and the others. It hadn't resulted in any breakthroughs so far, but Stan felt a little victorious as the week progressed and no further victims were discovered, as if this proved his countdown theory correct. Kyle had mentioned that the three deaths might be the countdown to something much more ominous, but Stan couldn't imagine what that might be. The killer didn't fit the profile of the kind of sociopath who blew up bridges or fired wildly into stadium crowds. Every murder had seemed so personal, and each crime scene carefully crafted.

After finishing up his work at the station, Stan headed directly to the motel to pick up Kyle. It was quarter after ten, and Stan was too hyped up about the idea of introducing Kyle to his favorite weird Mexican diner to let his conversation with Bebe get him down very much. It was true that Kyle represented a kind of emotional time bomb that had been waiting to go off since they both hit puberty, but he was also the only guy whose dick Stan had ever enjoyed sucking, and the only person Stan really liked talking on the phone with, and something about putting his arms around this particular time bomb made Stan feel more secure than he had in years.

When he knocked on Kyle's motel room door he thought he heard voices from within, and he assumed it was the television until Kyle opened up and Stan saw Mac inside, sitting at the little table that had once hosted a wine and cheese spread. Now it was covered with papers, and Kyle's laptop was open amid them.

"Sorry," Kyle said, stepping aside to let Stan in. "We're just finishing up for the night."

Stan didn't want to be ridiculous, but he couldn't deny that he didn't like seeing Mac here, in the dingy motel room that Stan had come to see as his and Kyle's secret sex space. He gave Mac the most convincing smile he could muster, wishing that he'd gone home to change out of his uniform before showing up at the motel. Kyle usually liked to suck him off while he was still wearing it, but with that off the table Stan felt like an awkward grunt, his gun belt clunky and obvious while theirs were concealed neatly under their jackets.

"It's been a paperwork heavy-day," Mac said. "Sometimes that's more draining than a crime scene. I'm sure you know what I mean."

"Yep," Stan said, glancing around the room. Kyle had neatened it up since the last time Stan had showed up to rub him off and kiss him. "Um, well, I'll come back later-"

"No, no," Kyle said. "I'm starving, please. I've been fantasizing about tortilla chips and salsa all day." He gave Stan a look that suggested he'd been fantasizing about other things as well, and Stan appreciated it. "Let me just send two emails," he said, walking over to retrieve his laptop from the table. "Then we'll go."

"Where are you getting dinner?" Mac asked.

"What was it called?" Kyle asked. "The Brown Bean?"

"Brown Burro," Stan said. "It's off 285, on the way to Fairplay. Worth the drive, I think. Good green chile sauce, and they serve breakfast all day. All night, I mean, uh, 'cause they open at eight and close at six in the morning. It's a quirky little place."

Stan made himself stop talking. He sat beside Kyle on the bed, though not close enough to read what he was typing into an email. He wondered if Mac knew they'd been fooling around, and wasn't sure if he hoped Kyle had told him or not.

"Jesus," Mac said. "Mexican food. That sounds really good. Can I come?"

"Of course," Kyle said, still typing. "It's about time you two got to know each other." He gave Stan a quick smile. It was a little bit devious, or maybe Stan just wanted it to be, as if he was in on some joke that Mac wasn't.

"So how's it going with the case?" Stan asked, directing this to Mac. He was organizing papers and closing them into manila folders, straightening up their workspace. To Stan it seemed a little like he was getting the evidence away from prying eyes.

"It's tedious at this point," Mac said. "We're combing through the last victim's personal correspondence, looking for anything that would explain why he came to South Park, who lured him here, that sort of thing. So far it's just a lot of mundane bullshit, but we've got to look at everything."

Stan nodded, appreciating the straight-forward answer. Kyle's fingers were still flying over his keyboard.

"I'm just updating Denver on what we did today," Kyle said. "I do the field reports on even numbered days. Mac does the odd ones."

"Cool," Stan said, jealous again.

They left the motel ten minutes later. Stan didn't want to leave his cruiser parked there, so they piled into it for the drive to the restaurant. Kyle and Mac sat in back, behind the armored partition. Stan felt like an idiot, driving them around like they were off-duty collars, but it was protocol. He was annoyed with Kyle for inviting Mac to dinner, even though he had done the same thing with Bebe earlier. Maybe Kyle had expected Mac to decline, too.

The diner was crowded as usual. Word had gotten out about the strange but charming atmosphere, which featured low ceilings, chintzy décor, and a lively buzz that was rare for a Park County restaurant. Mac got beers from the bar while they waited for a table, and Stan sighed as soon as he was out of earshot. Kyle elbowed him.

"Be nice," he said.

"I should have brought Bebe," Stan said, feeling outnumbered. "Maybe they would have hit it off. I think she's run into the brick wall that is Kenny, again."

"Yeah, what's Kenny's deal?" Kyle asked. "He's an enigma. All dark with his creepy mortician shit, and then sunny and bro-like at the same time. Why has he never settled down with her? Bebe's way out of his league, don't you think?"

"I don't know about that. I think they'd be good together, but. She says he disappears."

"Interesting."

Mac returned with the beers just as the hostess was telling them their table was ready, and he refused to accept five dollars from Stan to cover his.

"My treat," Mac said. Stan tried not to take this as a reminder that Mac's salary was probably far higher than his own. He had so far resisted the urge to look up Mac and Kyle's yearly earnings on any of the websites that listed government payroll, but he was pretty sure they were in a higher tax bracket than him.

The hostess led them to a booth in the center of the crowded dining room. Mac sat on one side and Stan took the other. Stan felt like he'd won a pissing contest when Kyle slid in to sit beside him. Mac seemed more interested in the basket of chips and dish of salsa than their seating arrangements, and Stan hoped he wasn't giving off that aggro vibe that Bebe had noticed in high school. Sometimes he really was the only one in the room who cared about sitting next to Kyle.

"Is there good Mexican food in Denver?" Stan asked, really wanting to ask how often they had dinner together. If they were anything like him and Bebe, they probably shared a meal almost every night, family-like.

"We have a couple of decent places," Kyle said.

"When was the last time you made it up to Denver?" Mac asked. There was something a bit pointed in the question.

"Last year," Stan said, not wanting to mention that he'd gone there with Kenny to celebrate and mourn his divorce. "Just with a friend, for the weekend."

"It's gradually becoming more livable," Kyle said. "But of course we have pot tourism now, which makes it feel even more like some kind of college town, as opposed to a real city."

"Kyle misses D.C.," Mac said. "He talks about it like it's his holy land."

"I do not!" Kyle said. "But of course I miss it. Some things, anyway."

"Like what?" Stan asked, a little offended on behalf of their home state.

"The sense of urgency," Kyle said. "It permeates everything, and I liked that, even when it stressed me out. It inspired me, too. And if you went out, the bars were packed with grown-ups talking business and politics after work, not stoned twenty-somethings. Denver makes me feel old."

"You are old," Mac said.

"Talk to me in two years, asshole," Kyle said, and he turned to Stan. "Mac is twenty-eight."

"Ah," Stan said. Even the guy's age was slightly humiliating to Stan, for reasons couldn't pinpoint. "I guess South Park makes me feel like a little of both," he said. "Young, because we have a lot of geezers. And old, because I was a kid here, and I'm not anymore."

"I feel ancient, being back here," Kyle said. "And everything seems smaller than I remember it."

"That so?" Stan gave Kyle a look, thinking of one thing that was bigger than the last time Kyle had crossed its path in South Park, but Kyle just gave him a mild look in return, as if Stan's cock had not sprung to mind.

Their meal was mostly enjoyable, though Stan got the sense that Mac was giving him an informal interview as they ate. His questions about Denver and causal inferences into Stan's aspirations with the South Park police department seemed designed to make points for Kyle to consider. Stan would have been offended if he didn't get the sense that Mac was doing the same thing Bebe had been trying to do earlier: looking out for a friend who was susceptible to heartbreak. Stan felt like he held up to Mac's scrutiny fairly well, at least until Clyde Donovan came stomping across the dining room and threw a frozen margarita in Stan's face.

"What the fuck!" Kyle said. He stood, wiping at the spot on his pants where the margarita had splashed. "You just assaulted a police officer, dumb ass! Stan! Get him!"

Stan wiped at his eyes, which were stinging with lime and salt. Clyde was standing at the end of their table, shuddering with rage, his hand still wrapped around the stem of the dripping margarita glass. Mac had started to get up when the drink went flying, and he remained in a sort of pre-action crouch, looking from Clyde to Stan.

"You motherfucker," Clyde said. He was in tears, his chest heaving.

"Clyde," Stan said, and then he just wanted to send up a white flag, guilt and shame that he'd been swallowing for months lurching up like bile in his throat. He knew he deserved this, but he really didn't want this scene to play out here, now. "Look, let's-"

"You're not even gay!" Clyde said. Everyone in the dining room was staring. "You're just a disaster. You're just a sad, selfish drunk like your dad was. Can I get you another margarita, Mr. Marsh? How about some straight tequila? Kevin's sitting right over there. You can do body shots off him, I don't give a shit!"

Stan turned, though he really didn't want to see the expression on Kevin Stoley-Donovan's face at the moment. Kevin had his elbows on the table and was staring straight ahead, at the empty chair where Clyde had been sitting. His shoulders lifted and dropped with a put-upon sigh. He seemed a little bored.

"Hey!" Kyle said, pulling Clyde away from the table. "You don't talk about someone's late father that way. What the hell is wrong with you? Pull yourself together, Clyde. Have some goddamn dignity for once in your life."

"Dignity?" Clyde roared. Stan winced. Mac seemed to be considering whether or not he should draw his weapon. "I haven't got any left, thanks to your best friend butt buddy. You took it from me, Stan! You took my balls! Are you happy? Do you like them? Does it make you feel like a big man, having my balls, rolling them around in your hand like some- fuzzy dice?" Clyde was unraveling further as Kyle continued to ease him away from the table, his rant deteriorating into a pained whine.

A manager intervened, and Kevin walked out with Clyde as he was escorted from the building. Kevin did not make eye contact with Stan, Kyle, the manager, or with Clyde, so far as Stan could tell. Stan had begun to shiver with a kind of bone-deep humiliation, and also because of the icy margarita that had drenched his hair and shirt, leaving him cold. He was already aware that he would be haunted by Clyde's tear-stricken face for the rest of his life. Clyde had never seemed quite like a real person to him until that moment.

"Wow," Mac said. He sounded angry, possibly on Clyde's behalf. Stan couldn't blame him. "What was that all about?"

"I slept with his husband," Stan said. He deserved to be judged for it, and Kyle might have told Mac all about it already. Mac nodded slowly and looked over at Kyle, who was speaking with the restaurant manager, possibly trying to argue that they shouldn't be asked to leave, too.

"That's cold, man," Mac said. "That guy was really upset."

"Yeah. He was."

Kyle returned to the table looking flustered, and he ate a few chips heaped with salsa before speaking.

"Stan," he said. "You're dripping."

"I'll live," Stan said.

"I asked for our check," Kyle said.

"Did you know that guy?" Mac asked Kyle. "The crying guy?"

"Oh, yeah, that's Clyde Donovan. He's a famous children's book author, but he's also an idiot. And his husband is a creepy little prick. Why did Kevin confess to Clyde?" Kyle was looking at Stan as if he knew.

"I have no idea," Stan said. "Shit. I'm so embarrassed. I'm sorry you guys, uh. Had to see that."

"He didn't have to bring your father into it," Kyle said. "And he should really be screaming at Kevin, not you. Why on earth were they over there having a calm dinner, drinking fucking margaritas? Did Kevin just spot you across the room and decide it would a good time to point out the dude he was cheating with?"

"I don't know," Stan said. His stomach felt like a fist that was squeezing him tighter and tighter. It was entirely possible that Kevin had seen him with Kyle and dropped that bomb on Clyde out of jealousy. "He's a vindictive little shit. Kevin, I mean."

"Was that part of the attraction?" Mac asked. He was back to being openly smug, the olive branch he'd almost extended yanked miles backward now.

"The dating pool in South Park is very limited," Kyle said, and he touched Stan's leg under the table. It was almost enough to lift Stan's spirits out of the gutter, but he couldn't stop thinking about Clyde calling him a disaster. Stan mostly agreed with that sentiment, at least in a romantic sense. The other stuff, about Randy, about being a drunk? That was new. Stan was not aware that people went around town thinking of him that way.

"Let me pay," Stan said when the check came, and he grabbed for it.

"But you barely ate," Kyle said. He sounded sad. Stan was surprised Kyle wasn't more amused by Clyde's misery, or by his own, since he'd gotten himself into this mess with his dick. Maybe they would all laugh about it someday.

"I'm paying," Stan said. "My bullshit ruined the evening, so. Just let me do this."

The mood in the squad car was grim on the way back to town. Kyle was chattering nervously about whatever Ike was doing in Europe. Stan was struggling to listen, and Mac occasionally grunted. By the time they got to the motel, Stan felt like he was the late night collar locked in a cage and on his way to jail, and like Kyle and Mac had been good cop, bad copping him all the way there.

"Well," Mac said when they were standing between the door to his motel room and the door to Kyle's. "Thanks for having me along."

"Sorry again," Stan said. He felt sticky, reeked of sugary margarita mix, and badly needed a shower. "That doesn't happen to me every time I go there." The joke fell pretty flat, but Mac laughed.

"I'll come get you in the morning," Kyle said to Mac, edging Stan toward his door. "We have that meeting with the guy who did the Nelson autopsy."

"Right." Mac did a kind of salute for Kyle, then raised his eyebrows at Stan before unlocking his motel room door. Stan trailed Kyle into his room, not even bothering to pretend that he wasn't going in there to have his self-inflicted wounds licked.

"What a night," Kyle said, and he bolted the door behind him. "Take your clothes off, you're a mess. Oh, god, but what will you wear? I might be able to get you into one of my shirts, but I wear my pants pretty tight."

"I noticed," Stan said. He stood in the middle of the room, defeated, and let Kyle undo the buttons on his uniform shirt. "Goddamn," Stan said, under his breath. "Did that just happen?"

"Yes," Kyle said. "It was very Clyde. That's his destiny, to be throwing frozen drinks at people and crying about his missing balls, making horrible metaphors about fuzzy dice. Some writer he must be, jesus. I just never thought you'd be on the receiving end of a Clyde meltdown. It's beneath you."

"Do people think I'm an alcoholic?" Stan asked when Kyle began unbuckling his pants. He'd never even been able to come down on one side or the other about Randy's drinking. It had sometimes been bad, but never truly awful. Stan didn't want to be that kind of father, either way: ambiguous, open to interpretation, the kind his kids would later wonder about. Was he abusive, technically? In a minor way? Did he neglect us, did he have some kind of disorder? Do we now have some kind of disorder, because of him? Were we born with the disorder, because of him?

"Hey," Kyle said. "Are you even listening?"

"What? No. Sorry."

Kyle tapped his fingers against Stan's cheek in a kind of playful slapping motion. It didn't hurt, but Kyle looked worried about him while doing it, and that hurt.

"Clyde is an idiot," Kyle said. "He wants to use the fact that you were having a beer with dinner to excuse his inability to sexually satisfy his husband. Or something. He doesn't even know you."

"He does. Clyde has known me since I was four."

"Not really. Not like I have."

Stan wanted to kiss Kyle for saying so, and it nearly knocked him over to remember that he could, finally: this was fully a thing, Kyle had said so, and that meant Stan could kiss Kyle whenever he wanted. It still seemed unreal, and kept hitting him with delayed-release adrenaline bursts that made the actual kissing so much better than anything he'd done with anyone else. He cupped Kyle's face in his hands, closed his eyes, and tasted corn chips when Kyle opened his lips for the kiss, his tongue sliding against Stan's.

"It's just South Park," Kyle said when he pulled back to stroke Stan's cheeks. "Everybody thinks they know everything about everyone else, but for the most part they don't know shit. You know?"

"I know."

The murders were a particularly stark example of this truth. Stan was still hoping that the killer was an outsider, but he had a bad, persisting, gut feeling that it was somebody who had been inside their houses and copied off their homework, someone who waitresses and store clerks knew on a first name basis. Somebody who went to church, volunteered to oversee the Easter egg hunt. Stan shook his head. His knees felt weak, and his bangs were stuck to his forehead. Kyle was still stroking his cheeks.

"You had a hard road here," Kyle said. "Like all of us. I guess Clyde did, too. We're all just doing the best we can."

"I'm so glad you're here," Stan said, and he pinched his eyes shut tight when his voice broke. Kyle stood up onto his toes and kissed Stan's left eyebrow, then the right one.

"Sometimes I hate that you feel like the only real person I ever knew," Kyle said when Stan opened his eyes again. "And then sometimes I love it. It feels like this bubble, and only me and you can breathe the air inside. Anybody else would choke on it."

"Well, I can't breathe when you're not here," Stan said. "It's like breathing through a straw."

"You're just saying that because I'm standing here in front of you, and because someone threw a drink on you."

"What? No, I'm not."

"Stan, go. Get in the shower. The water pressure here sucks, but I hate that Clyde's gunk is in your hair. I can't stand it for another second, really."

Stan did as he was told. Standing under the hot water, he felt not just defeated but beaten. Kyle had basically rescued him at Brown Burro, which was embarrassing. By tomorrow everyone in town would know that Clyde had screamed accusations about Stan making a cuckold of him with Kevin. When Stan considered how long these rumors would take to reach Wayne's ears, he had to exit the shower and get sick into the toilet.

"Jesus," Kyle said, entering the bathroom. He was naked, and partially hard. "Stan, it's not the end of the world."

"You don't understand," Stan said. He was crouching on the floor in front of the toilet, dripping everywhere. The shower was still running. "I've been avoiding this for eleven years. Now it's happening, and for the worst reasons."

"I see," Kyle said.

"I don't mean you," Stan said when he heard how that sounded. He peeked over his shoulder at Kyle. "I meant because of my idiotic mistake with Kevin. I never should have done that. I've messed everything up."

"It was pretty stupid," Kyle said. "I won't pretend I wasn't surprised to hear that you'd finally left your marriage just to break up another one. But, just. Come here, please. That floor is filthy."

Kyle helped Stan up and back into the shower, moving slowly, as if Stan had physical injuries. Once they were under the water again, Stan waited for permission to collapse, searching Kyle's eyes. Kyle seemed angry, tired, but also as if he was getting off on his own sense of moral superiority, at least a bit, like old times. He was still hard.

"How am I going to explain this to my kids?" Stan asked. "I'm not my dad. I care what they think. I don't want them to be embarrassed."

"Everybody embarrasses their kids sooner or later," Kyle said. "And you're not like Randy, for god's sake. Clyde was just trying to hurt you, because you'd hurt him. It was a low blow, but so was fucking Clyde's husband. I liked seeing you with your kids that morning, by the way. Going to stupid Blueberry Junction, the whole thing. I didn't think I would want to do any of that, but it was nice. It seems like you all basically make each other happy."

Stan pulled Kyle to him, trying to hug him hard enough to communicate how much he'd needed to hear that, and how much he just needed Kyle, period, always. Kyle rubbed Stan's back, kissed his neck, and it felt like maybe he knew. Stan wanted to stay in there for a long time: until the hot water ran out, until the sun came up, until Kyle decided to move back to South Park for good. He'd washed his hair twice and could still smell that margarita.

"But how will I explain it to them?" Stan asked when Kyle turned the water off. "The kids, I mean. About me."

"I can't tell you that," Kyle said, and Stan nodded. He'd known that before asking. "I'm sorry," Kyle said. "It's a big thing, and it's just not in my wheelhouse. I wish I could help."

"It helps that you're here."

"Good." Kyle kissed Stan's cheek and gave him a seductive look that was pretty bizarre, considering Stan had recently vomited and nothing else about the evening so far as been less awful than that. "Want your dick sucked?" Kyle asked.

"It seems wrong," Stan said, though he was getting hard from Kyle subtle but persistent thigh bumps against his cock.

"True," Kyle said. "Maybe you could take me into that motel room and fuck me instead. If you'd like."

"Are you serious?" Stan hadn't expected their first time together to launch from such a precarious platform. "Right now?"

"Sure. I hate that Kevin has had you. Either of them- both of them. And I've just been wanting it. I've been wanting it, Stan."

There was something perfect about the way Kyle said so, despite everything else: he'd been wanting it, and Stan had the power to give it to him. Stan grabbed some towels and made drying Kyle off until a kind of ritual, doing it slowly and methodically, until he could see Kyle chewing his lip to hold in nervous laughter. When he was done he picked Kyle up and carried him to the bed.

"We have to be quiet," Kyle said as Stan lowered him to the pillows. "The walls are thin, and Mac knows too much about me already."

"He doesn't know we're- together?" Stan was afraid he'd overstepped a boundary with that word, but Kyle didn't seem bothered. He shook his head.

"Mac called this as soon as we got the assignment," Kyle said. "He told me I'd be in bed with you within a week. I think that was pretty accurate."

"He- how would he know?"

"Because I told him about you. He's my best friend."

"Don't say that," Stan said, pinning Kyle's shoulders. "Jesus, please, you can't say that."

"Shh," Kyle said. "Don't get all broken up. You're more. You've always been more than that to me."

Based on the past week of half-clothed blow jobs and desperate rutting, Stan had assumed his first time with Kyle would be frantic, featuring bitten kisses and shameless grunting that would be heard three rooms down. It was so quiet that Stan's eyes leaked a little, toward the end, mostly because he knew this was how it would have been back then: senior year, nearing summer, every noise they made a careful whisper that couldn't be overheard by their parents, their overheated nakedness half-hidden under the blankets in one of their childhood bedrooms, and both of them asking the other in the softest voices they'd ever used with each other: are you okay?

Stan nodded when it was Kyle's turn to ask the question, and he let Kyle wipe his cheeks dry. He felt like he was lying, though he was okay. He was something else, too. It was less secure than okay but also better, bigger, and worth the risk.