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About thirty seconds after the last blush of their first time cools and Stan starts snoring softly, Kyle panics. It was all wrong! He's dreamed of this since he was a child, not the dick and asshole mechanics but the ultimate closeness, the secrecy and irreproducibility of the moment, the wanting to disappear into Stan. It wasn't like that, not spiritual at all. Stan was very patient, careful, almost too careful, and too slow, and there was too much talking, too many questions, and at one point Kyle's dick started to get soft, because he was just so overwhelmed, and what if Stan had taken it the wrong way, was that why it had taken him so long to finish? Stan kept asking if Kyle was okay, and Kyle was on the verge of sobbing in his efforts to prove that, yes, he was okay. Stan was a little drunk. Kyle lies there worrying that Stan might wake up like an amnesia victim and scream in horror when he finds Kyle naked in his arms.
They're eighteen, it's July, they're leaving for college in a month. Separate colleges, both in Colorado – Kyle will be in Fort Collins and Stan will be in Denver. Just a little over an hour, depending on traffic. And yet, worlds away, Kyle thinks, staring at the crumpled clothes that were thrown onto the floor hours ago. Hours – had it really taken them hours? There had been an interval where Stan had to search Shelly's room for condoms, and he'd found some, and then Kyle had gotten upset, because he'd never had anyone else, and it seemed Stan had. Wendy, he assumed, and Bebe, he was told. Bebe! But Stan said he'd gotten checked and so forth and said they didn't have to use the condoms if Kyle didn't want to. Oh, Kyle had said everything wrong. He covers his face with his hand and Stan moans softly, clutching at him from behind.
"Stan?" Kyle whispers, but Stan is asleep. It's good, but then again, Kyle really needs to talk. No, or not – he'll say more wrong things if he does.
Bebe – Bebe? Kyle still can't get over that. He was tense after hearing that it had happened, and he thinks that's why Stan asked him ten thousand times if he was okay, more so than referring to the readiness of his asshole for Stan's cock and so forth. Bebe is – she's fine. She's fine, too, of course, looks-wise. Kyle has never been attracted to a girl in terms of actually wanting to grab tits – he's been attracted to them intellectually, of course – but he can see that Bebe is beautiful. Stan said the sex wasn't great. He claims it was part of his journey toward recognizing his feelings for Kyle, ultimately. Which Kyle finds kind of insulting, really, to both himself and Bebe. And – women, and—
Kyle has kissed one other boy. Kenny, because he was high and Kyle was lonely. Now Stan is drunk and they've had sex, and is this who Kyle is for his friends? The one to fuck around with when they're too messed up to make an effort? Oh, God. He should just leave. He eyes the door, imagines the cool night breeze on the walk back to his house and burrows back against Stan, who sighs in his sleep, his hand twitching over Kyle's wrist.
So Stan had been drunk – it was the fourth of July. Fireworks, stolen beers, too many grilled meats. Kyle feels fat, reaches down to touch his stomach. His mother laughs when he talks about how fat his stomach is, because it's, admittedly, just a little pudge, but he knows it will grow into something more like hers as he ages, he just knows it. And her unsympathetic laughter doesn't help.
He can't sleep – it's almost two o'clock in the morning. He doesn't want to sleep, actually, because he needs to be prepared for Stan's shock and regret. Yes, he needs to start thinking about that, because it's going to hurt. What happened was, Stan was drinking more beer than anybody, stealthily, and the adults were drinking so much that they didn't notice. And it was hot, and Kyle got disoriented. He sat too close to Stan on the tacky plastic porch swing thing in the Marshes' backyard, under the shade of the back porch. Stan put his cold beer bottle on Kyle's bare leg, just under the hem of his shorts, grinned at him, and said, 'dude, those shorts.'
Kyle was insulted, naturally, so Stan did a lot of back-pedalling and claiming to love those shorts, his apologies ultimately resulting in bringing Kyle inside and grabbing his crotch while he pressed Kyle to the wall in the dining room, kissing him.
"I love those shorts," he'd said, sounding like he was on the verge of becoming emotional about them. Kyle, who had been masturbating to thoughts of Stan since they were thirteen and Stan kicked Cartman in the balls for insulting Wendy, spread his knees and yanked Stan down for a second kiss.
Sluttily! Had he been slutty? Well, yes, Stan hadn't even taken him on a date, and Kyle had thought, okay, we'll make out, and they did so in secret stages throughout the remainder of the barbecue, sneaking away to rub their persisting boners together in dark corners, and Kyle thought, tomorrow we'll have this great talk about what this means. And then he ended up on his hands and knees in Stan's bed, bucking back against Stan's fingers while Stan opened him. And then there was Stan's cock, and his nervous questions. It was as if he'd sobered, physically and spiritually, as soon as he was inside Kyle.
Disappointing: it had certainly been disappointing for Stan. Halfway through he probably thought, what on earth? How do I get myself into these wacky situations? Fucking Kyle's ass? Crazy! But because he was such a good friend, and a good guy generally, he'd gone on with it, determined to – what, not ruin their friendship? Well, certainly it's ruined. Kyle knows he should leave. He stares at his shoes, scattered near the door, and feels like he weighs eight thousand pounds. Stan is warm at his back, overly warm, and Kyle can't move. He likes the sound of Stan's breathing too much, and the push of Stan's stomach against the small of his back.
"Stan?" he says again, knowing Stan won't respond. He doesn't, deep asleep.
Kyle looks at the clock. It's 2:12 AM. Even the numbers on the clock feel insulting. He shifts backward, remembering how good things were when it was Stan's fingers in there, before the disaster of actual fucking. Maybe Kyle isn't gay. He's always hungered for Stan's cock, specifically wanted it in his mouth, resting regally on the welcoming pillow of his tongue, and didn't even manage that tonight. But maybe he's not gay. Maybe his mother's fierceness just made him afraid of vaginas, or something.
Kyle plays with Stan's fingers, hoping to wake him, though he knows Stan is a deep sleeper. Kyle used to sniff Stan's hair as a kid, even before he knew about or wanted sex. He'd stick his face in that soft, wild, mess of black hair and just breathe as deeply as he could, rolling away dizzily as that scent rocketed up to fuzz his brain. He once had a habit of doing the same thing with the air conditioning vent on the floor in his bedroom, but the Stan's hair thing persisted longer.
Three o'clock in the morning comes, then four. Kyle doesn't sleep, but doesn't feel quite awake. He flexes his ass a lot, trying to decide if he feels differently. He does, a little sore and open and wet, but he's more interested in his emotional development, post-sex. He wishes that he felt accomplished, or stronger, more impenetrable – ironic, but he'd expected that, as if sex with Stan would be some protective spell, like a snake's sperm plug, keeping out rival impregnators. What a thing to think of; he rolls onto his back and sneaks a look at Stan. Did Bebe think of that horrible Biology class video of snakes and that awful narration about sperm plugs when she was basking in post-sex bliss with Stan? Definitely not, because Bebe was not in honors Biology sophomore year. Nor was Stan. Regardless, that video: the indifference of nature, the cruel rape culture of so many species! The necessity of sperm plugs to further a genetic line when seven others are lined up to savage the random creature you've just impregnated: horrible. Kyle is becoming delirious; he rolls against Stan, nudging his nose against Stan's forehead. Stan smells slightly greasy, probably from the burgers and hot dogs. Kyle licks him, softly. Stan sleeps through it, not even sighing, limp in Kyle's arms.
Kyle's thoughts become more limber and less linear, and he tries to grab hold of them like ribbons that are flapping in a strong breeze, but they evade him and slide together in ways that he's just conscious enough to know don't make sense, like Stan and a cheeseburger and Bebe being a reptile – he snaps awake! But no, they used a condom, so Kyle won't turn into a lizard, but no, then again, they only got the condom and talked about using it, because Stan said he'd used one with Bebe or had been tested, there was some awkward dialogue that was fuzzy now, and Kyle can't get married right before college, but Stan hasn't asked, okay, he's going on a diet, starting tomorrow. Stan wants a Bebe, and Kyle can manage a bikini if he tries hard enough.
He wakes feeling like he hasn't slept, and it's unfair that he has, because it wasn't restful, just disorienting. Stan is moving, yawning, shifting Kyle toward him. Kyle is so hot, sweaty and feverish under the blankets, and he's just barely blinked his eyes open when Stan gives him a sweltering, open-mouthed kiss, licking at Kyle's tongue like it's an oyster he wants to ease out of its shell.
"Stan," Kyle says, but it comes out sounding like 'fuck me,' so Stan moans and slides his hand down over Kyle's chest, past his stomach, finding his cock.
Stan doesn't say anything, barely opens his eyes, just plays with Kyle until he's hard and arching, twitching under Stan's lazy hand. He's afraid Stan is sleepwalking and that he'll scream FUCK! when he wakes fully and sees that this isn't Bebe he's fondling, that she hasn't just grown a convenient dick, but then Stan smiles at him, eyelashes fluttering, and Kyle sees that Stan is recognizing him, smiling at him specifically.
"Thought I dreamed that for a minute," Stan says, mumbling, and he kisses Kyle again. Kyle is tired, so confused, but his hand is in Stan's hair, holding on hard. They're both too hot to press against anything, particularly each other's sweaty bodies, but they do, Kyle's leg sliding up between Stan's. He's hard, too, huffing into Kyle's mouth until he rolls on top of him and finds Kyle's hip, humps it. "Mhmm," Stan says, biting at Kyle's neck, making him shout, and then, "Shh."
"Stan," Kyle says. He had so many questions! He feels like he's high, though he hasn't taken drugs since he was nine and lived in San Francisco, and he doesn't remember anything about that except that Cartman claims to have saved him, which Kyle doesn't believe. Stan saved him with his hybrid cars song, or tried to, or – Kyle doesn't remember, but this is just where he wants to be, and it's got to be too good to be true, but now that Stan is moving over him, touching him, he can't think of why.
"Are you – mhm," Stan says, reaching between Kyle's legs. "Shh," he says, grinning when Kyle cries out. "Damn," Stan says, feeling him, dipping his fingers in. "You're still all – uh. Are you sore?"
"No," Kyle says, though maybe he is. It's distant, if so, just an itch that needs scratching. "Stan—"
"Shh." Stan keeps saying that, and Kyle doesn't know why he loves it, but he does, wants more, wants so many orders from Stan, no questions, not even patience. They kiss, and Kyle hooks his leg around the small of Stan's back, rubs his calf through the sweat that's gathering there. "Dude," Stan says, breathing the word into his mouth. "Want you, again, I want you—"
"Yeah," Kyle says, nodding. It wasn't like this last time. Stan wasn't heavy like an immovable force on top of him, didn't talk about what he wanted, just asked what Kyle wanted. "Yeah, me too, please."
"God," Stan says, feeling him, and Kyle arches into it, wants to push down greedily. "My come's still – here, oh." He kisses Kyle deeply, sweeping his tongue over Kyle's like he wants it to know something. "Do I still taste like yours?" he asks when he pulls back, breathless. He grins when Kyle looks up at him with confusion. "Your come, dude," he says, and he licks the tip of Kyle's nose. "Do I still taste like your come?"
"Oh – yeah, you do." Stan's breath is horrible, some combination of hot dog and hamburger and yellow mustard, all faintly out of date, plus Kyle's sour come. And it's amazing, and Kyle wants to taste it again, so he does, lapping at Stan's mouth hungrily. Stan's fingers are inside him while they kiss, and it is sort of incredible, how open Kyle still is, and how much globby come is still inside him, slicking Stan's fingers.
Even so, Stan reaches for the lube. Kyle is so grateful that they don't have to talk about the lube again, or condoms. He knows Stan is clean – knew. Stan would never lie to him about something like that. Kyle trusts him so much, so much that he opens his legs wide enough to look like a wanton whore, showing Stan how much he wants it, throwing his head back when Stan fingers him.
"Dude, I can't believe I slept," Stan says, biting these words out against Kyle's neck. "I wanted – all night. I always thought that if we did it, we'd do it all night."
"We could do it all day," Kyle says, grinding down onto his fingers, wanting his cock. "You – ah. Thought about, what. What it would be like?"
"Kyle." Stan nudges Kyle's nose with his. "Everyone I fucked, wished it was you. Which is, like. Bebe and my hand. And the back of a stuffed animal, once, but I felt bad about that."
"You don't feel bad about this?" Kyle asks, going still.
"About what?"
"Uh! This. Your – me. This thing we're doing."
"Why would I?" Stan kisses him on the lips, chastely. "Kyle, you – you know this was like, the point, right?"
"The point?"
"What we were working toward. This. Do you want me to—"
"No, no!" Kyle claps his hands to Stan's cheeks. "Keep going like you were. No talking. Flip me over, or pull my legs up, or, just – do it, do me, Stan."
Things are easy after that, less talking and more sighing of each other's names, Stan's dick sliding in hotly, and Kyle likes it even better for the slight soreness that Stan rubs against. Stan comes quickly this time, and buries his face against Kyle's neck while he jerks him to completion.
"I should I have sucked you off again," Stan says as he rolls free, panting and pushing his bangs off his forehead. "I was just – I woke up and I couldn't think. I just thought, Kyle, Kyle's here, and I got all up on you."
"I liked that," Kyle says. He clutches at Stan, licks the crease of his armpit, where he tastes like sweat and deodorant. "I – I trust you, okay? You can jump me. I'll tell you if I don't want it, and until then, just. Have me."
"I like how we have rules," Stan says, turning toward Kyle, grinning against his lips. "Tell me more."
"No girls," Kyle says. "Unless, are you—"
"I'm okay with that," Stan says. "And, actually, no anyone. But me. If that's okay?"
"That's okay," Kyle says. "That's perfect, Stan, that's what I want—"
"Okay, good." Stan kisses him, and he sucks on Kyle's tongue gently, politely. "Me too."
"I thought you were drunk," Kyle says, looking up into Stan's eyes, searching there. He doesn't see any haziness, any hesitation. "Last night."
"Oh." Stan puts his forehead against Kyle's. "I was just brave. Because of, you know. Some beers. Sorry."
"So you remember all of it?" Kyle asks, heart pounding.
"Yeah," Stan says. "I even remember falling asleep. I was like, fuck! Don't fall asleep! This is the best part."
"No, okay," Kyle says, and he sits up, straddling Stan's hips. "This is the best part. This is the – all day, instead of the all night."
"I know," Stan says. He's grinning, toothy. "I didn't know that then."
"Now you know," Kyle says. He leans down to kiss Stan, trying to remember what he worried about last night. Snakes? It was middle of the night stuff, long gone now. This is the day time, a different world, and maybe the best day of his life. So far, anyway, it holds the title.