Stan knew heat like this.
The kind that clung to his skin long after dark, sticky with cheap beer and sweat from Randy’s latest backyard brawl—the kind where voices blurred into wasp-hum and cigarette smoke hung blue over the porch light. He was fourteen when summers stopped tasting like lemonade and started tasting like rust: blood from split lips, the iron tang of Colorado wells gone shallow.
Kyle sat beside him on the splintered steps, close enough that Stan could count every freckle on his shoulder if he tried. He didn’t try. Instead, he focused on the way Kyle's knee bounced, nervous as a stray dog hearing fireworks. It was easier than looking at his mouth—chapped from yelling, always yelling—or remembering how those hands had felt last winter behind Tegridy’s shed: fists tangled in Stan’s shirt, shoving him into hay bales until their breathing synced ragged.
("This means nothing," Kyle had hissed, but his teeth left marks anyway.)
Now? They drank stolen whiskey straight from the bottle while Cartman hurled rocks at stop signs down Route 285. Stan pretended not to notice how Kyle's pinky brushed his own when passing it back. Pretended not to crave things that split open like overripe peaches—messy-sweet and impossible to hide.
Stan leans back against the splintered wooden steps. The neon buzz of a distant streetlight makes Kyle’s freckles glow like constellations Stan used to trace when they were kids—before everything got complicated.
*Kyle's * voice rough around the edges "God, this summer’s gonna kill us before Cartman does." He picks at a loose thread on his cargo shorts, avoiding Stan’s eyes.
Stan wipes his mouth with the back of his hand after drinking, lingering just a second too long near Kyle’s fingers when he hands it back. The air smells like cut grass and gasoline—like something waiting to catch fire.
"Dude, you say that every year." Stan would laugh with all nervous energy and small jitters. He nudges Kyle with his elbow. "At least no school. Small miracles."
A rock clangs against metal in the distance as Cartman whoops triumphantly. Somewhere down Route 285, cicadas scream into the dark like they know something nobody else does. Stan watches how the pudgy teenage seems so thrilled in himself over a street sign. "Good shot!" he calls out, his voice slurred when it got louder, indicating the intoxication.
Kyle scoffs, rolling his eyes hard enough that Stan can practically hear it. "Yeah, small miracles—unless you count my mom finding Randy’s weed stash in our garage again." He takes another swig, throat working around the burn before passing the bottle back. His pinky brushes Stan’s knuckles. Again. Always.
Cartman’s voice echoes down the road, "Boom! Fuckin’ nailed it!" Kenny’s muffled laughter follows, along with the sound of more rocks being gathered for round two.
Stan exhales through his nose, half-smiling despite himself. "Dude's gonna piss off Sheriff Barbrady again. Bet you five bucks he cries when he gets tackled."
Kyle leans closer—just an inch—like gravity is a suggestion when they're like this. "You're on," he mutters, "but only ‘cause I saw him eat two chili dogs before we left Wendy’s and Will double it if he shits himself."
(And maybe because being this close makes Stan forget how to breathe properly—but neither of them mentions that part out loud.)
(The cicadas scream louder. The whiskey burns hotter. Somewhere between joking and not-joking-at-all: Kyle's foot taps against Stan's sneaker under the porchlight and stays there.))
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