The air in Stan’s bedroom was thick with the kind of heat that clung to skin like guilt. A single oscillating fan shuddered on the dresser, its tired whir doing little to cut through August’s suffocating weight. Outside, cicadas screamed their endless song into the dark—drowning out Randy’s snores from downstairs, Sharon’s muted soaps flickering blue against the hallway walls.
Kyle lay beside him on the mattress—close enough that Stan could count his freckles if he dared. Close enough to matter.
("Don't," some fractured part of him begged.)
The redhead shifted in sleep, a damp curl stuck to his temple from earlier when they'd wrestled over nothing—just touch masquerading as violence. Stan exhaled through his nose and tipped his head back against the wall. His knuckles ached where they'd split punching Craig's house last week ("Faggot," Craig had hissed between bloodied teeth — but Craig didn't know shit). The pain helped; made it easier not to think about how Kyle tasted like stolen peach schnapps and cheap menthols when they fought (when they didn't fight at all) earlier by the creek bed.
A floorboard creaked downstairs—his mom? Jesus? Didn't matter. He swallowed hard and let his knee brush Kyle's under twisted sheets just once before pulling away like it burned.
Kyle's voice was sleep-heavy, a hint of the old lisp clinging to the back of his tongue. It made Stan's hands itch.
Stan looked down at the other, seeing Kyle's face laced with sleep, the hoarseness in his voice creating a pool of heat in his lower abdomen, and the stubble of ginger on the other's chin.
"Yeah, I'm awake." He confirmed in a small voice, his own raspy as he cleared it. He moved to lie back down, looking up at the ceiling.
Kyle shifted beside him, the mattress creaking softly as he turned on his side to face Stan. His green eyes were half-lidded, still drowsy but sharp enough to cut through the dark.
"Dude," he mumbled, "you’re all tense. Like, I can feel you vibrating from here." A lazy smirk tugged at his lips. "You thinkin’ too hard again?"
Stan swallowed thickly and shrugged—too aware of how close Kyle’s fingers were to his own on the crumpled sheet between them. “Just… stuff.”
Kyle snorted quietly, breath warm against Stan’s cheek. “‘Stuff.’ Real descriptive there, Marsh.” He hesitated for a second before nudging Stan’s knee with his own again—like testing water before jumping in. “Was it about today? At the creek?”
Stan tensed immediately. The memory of peach schnapps and Kyle gasping against him flickered behind his ribs like a struck match. He forced out a rough laugh, "Nah. Just… life sucks sometimes."
"Wow," Kyle deadpanned, "deep." But then his voice softened just slightly—just enough that it made Stan's chest ache worse than any punch ever had:* "…Talk anyway?"
Stan turned his head to meet Kyle's gaze, his brown eyes softening on instinct, and he furrowed his eyebrows at how the other pulled on his heartstrings. He nodded for a moment, starting slow before urgently shaking his head.
"I just..I can't help but worry.." he mumbled, glancing to his door like someone was gonna come in. He looked back at Kyle again. "That…hell is waiting for us.."
Kyle's expression softened as he pushed himself up on an elbow to fully face Stan, eyes taking in the way the other's face was twisted with worry. He reached out, his fingers brushing against Stan's wrist—gently, just a light touch at first.
"Hey." His voice was firmer now, more sure. "None of that. Hell won't be waiting for us just because we…" He stopped himself, a flush creeping up his neck. His fingers were still on Stan, warm as a brand. "…just because of today."
Stan wanted to jerk his hand away, to stop Kyle's touch from landing on his skin, but he couldn't, because he had yearned for it long before Kyle was awake. "It's not just today…" he whispered back, the back of his head pressed against the pillow.
"It's not even just the exterior..it's all this interior bullshit..I feel..I feel so.." he paused to find the right words, looking at Kyle's collar bones between his white tank top. "fragile.." he admitted, cringing at his choice of words.
Kyle’s fingers tightened around Stan’s wrist—just slightly, just enough to feel the pulse beneath his thumb. He exhaled through his nose, jaw working as he chewed on what to say next. When he spoke again, it wasn’t laced with sarcasm or irritation for once—just quiet and too honest.
“Dude,” he started, “you think I don’t get it?” A bitter laugh escaped him before he could stop it. “You think I don’t…feel all that same stupid shit every time we—” His voice cracked; he bit down on the rest of the sentence like it might crawl back into his throat if given half a chance.
The silence between them was heavy. Kyle's eyes flicked down to where Stan was staring at his collarbones before darting away again. His fingers loosened—like maybe he should be the one pulling away now—but instead they slid down slowly until their palms were pressed together in some weird half-held mess of contact neither of them knew how to name yet.*
"…Fragile doesn't mean broken," Kyle finally muttered, "and even if you were? So what."
Stan sighed at the other, his hand open to have Kyle's flat against it, neither one wanting to close around the other. He searched the other's face, noting the serious tone and the sentimental way his green eyes looked at Stan, with understanding and zero judgment.
It allowed Stan to take a deep breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "I guess so.." he whispered back, his eyes now on Kyle's chin stubble. "But the guilt.. it's..harsh..dude.." he added, wanting to mention that he had confessed to the priest about his feelings, how he'd clung to a rosary like a lifeline whenever he thought too much about it. He didn't say that, however.
Kyle made a noise—something low in his throat, caught between frustration and something softer. He shifted closer without thinking, their joined hands pressing against the mattress between them as he propped himself up on his other elbow.
“Guilt’s just another kind of lie,” he muttered, staring at the wall past Stan’s shoulder like it was easier than meeting his eyes for this next part. “I mean—fuck, dude. You think God cares more about who we love than whether or not we’re happy with it?” He huffed out a breath through his nose, “Because if He does? Then screw Him.”
A beat. Kyle finally looked back at Stan—really looked at him—and there was no wavering in those green eyes now. "…We're not wrong for this."
Stan could tell the difference between Kyle's eyes; he could still see the other wanting to falter back on his words. The Jewish boy seemed to have more on his mind, more on this subject, and Stan wanted to be enlightened, but not in a pushy way. He instead just gave a nod in return, his brown eyes reflecting the same look Kyle's had. "Okay."
Kyle's jaw worked, the line of it becoming more pronounced as he pressed his mouth flat in thought. He was all pale, freckled skin, flushed red at the cheeks, and stubble and long eyelashes. Stan's fingers twitched in his hand before he could stop himself.
When Kyle spoke again, the words were a little too quick—a little too defensive: "So you agree, then? We're not… doing anything bad. We're not wrong for this." His eyes darted from Stan's to their hands and back again. His next question was quieter. "Right?"
Stan's dark raven hair cascaded across the pillow, his bangs pushed back to expose his soft face, pale skin that easily tanned, and small silver hoops hanging from his ears. "I think…we don't want it to be wrong.." he spoke up honestly, knowing Kyle wasn't going to love that answer, but he didn't want to keep tiptoing around this feeling that kept him awake.
Kyle grimaced, jaw tightening as he frowned. His hand clenched around Stan's involuntarily—his fingers curling. Frustration was written all over his too-sharp features.
"That's not an answer," he muttered, eyes narrowing. "You can't just… play the middle field. You either say you don't think it's wrong or you say you do." Another beat, and his tone shifted again—a little harsher than before as he leaned into Stan's space. "Which is it? Dude."
Stan scoffed at Kyle, tilting his head to the side to look at his Smith's poster hanging above his horizontal dresser. The oscillating fan was blowing it as it rotated around the room. He shrugged, doing everything in his power to look back at Kyle, his hand still not wanting to give in to closing around the others. "It's wrong."
Kyle went still for a moment, caught off guard by the response. His hand loosened around Stan's as he dropped his gaze to the twisted sheets instead of the wall, the muscle in his jaw still tight. His voice was a little too rough as he spoke, but otherwise didn't betray how much he'd wanted a different answer.
"That's it, then?" *he said, almost sounding bored as he forced nonchalance. "Just 'it's wrong.' Nothing else. Jesus, dude."
Stan whipped back to Kyle's face, glancing at the hand that was no longer tight around his, selfishly wanting that feeling back even if he wasn't reciprocating. "What?' he asked, his own tone growing. "You can't beg me to be honest than get upset when you don't like the answer, that's like..fuckin hypocritical.."
"Hypocritical—" Kyle echoed, cutting himself off with a sharp scoff. His eyes narrowed further, flashing with heat that matched the burn starting in Stan's chest. "You're the one being a hypocrite, dumbass!" He was getting loud, and that meant he was getting pissed. "You're the one who's been all—" He waved one hand between them, fingers flexing, "—touchy-feely and acting like there's something between us and then turning around and saying you think it's wrong!"
Stan sat up at Kyle's tone, getting louder, his eyes once more darting to the open door, seeing the flashes from his parents' bedroom TV, and hearing his dad still snoring. "Shut up," he hissed, not wanting to get in trouble for being so loud this late at night. "I got it, you're pissed, but can you tone the whole, raging bit down?" he sighed, getting out of bed, the floorboards creaking as he moved to shut the door to avoid any more noise leaking out.
Kyle made a noise—somewhere between scoffing and growling—but he didn’t argue, just flopped back onto the mattress with an exaggerated huff, arms crossing tight over his chest. He watched Stan stomp toward the door with narrowed eyes.
"Oh, so now I’m the problem?" His voice was still too loud but at least marginally quieter than before, laced with that same self-righteous edge he always got when pissed. "Dude, you can't just say shit like that and expect me not to—!" He cut himself off as Stan shut the door with a soft click. Kyle's jaw clenched so hard it looked painful. "…Whatever."
A tense silence settled between them as Stan stood there by the closed door for a second too long before finally turning back toward him. Kyle wasn't looking at him anymore—just glaring stubbornly at some random spot on Stan’s wall like it personally offended him.
Stan had never hated anything more in his life than this distance suddenly stretched between them.
Stan folded his lips to a thin line, his dimples printing on his cheeks, he rubbed the nape of his neck, his fingers colliding with his soft hair that smelt way too much like Axe body spray and cigarettes. "Kyle..I'm sorry." He sighed, coming back over to the bed, his socks padding against the wooden floor, his grey sweatpants hanging off his hips, and his white shirt clinging to his skin. "Okay?" He asked, when he got closer, frowning at Kyle's expression.
Kyle's jaw twitched again in obvious irritation—Stan was starting to see it was becoming a habit when he was mad and his teeth were grinding together. "You're apologizing for what, man?" he retorted, eyes flickering over Stan's face in a hard once-over that was equal parts pissed off and tired. He propped himself up on an elbow and shoved a hand through his hair, which was even wilder than usual because of the pillow. "For leading me on or for thinking this is wrong? 'Cause you can take your half-assed apologies for both."
Stan pinched the bridge of his nose at the other's stubborn mentaility, he opened his mouth, letting out a small grunt of frustration, before plopping down on the edge of the bed, putting his face in his hands. "God, why do you have to be some self-righteous dick about all this.." he muttered.
"That's rich coming from you, dude." Kyle was sitting up now, legs crossed in front of him on the rumpled sheets. Even in his pissed-off state, he was too aware of how Stan's knee was knocking against his thigh, and he hated how it made his insides twist up. He pushed the feeling down with a sharp breath, eyes narrowing again. "You're the one who's been sending all these mixed signals. One day you're holding my hand and the next you're saying all this feels wrong."
Stan dropped his hands into his lap, looking at the dirty floor. He didn't like being wrong, and Kyle was good at being right. He sighed, trying not to think about how Kyle's voice sounded melodic even when he was being unfair. "I liked it better when you were sleeping." But there was no bite left in it now, just exhaustion and something quieter—something too close to hurt for either of them to acknowledge.
Kyle’s fingers twitched against his own knee, suddenly unsure if he wanted to punch Stan or grab him by the shirt and—he didn’t even know. The anger was still there, simmering under his skin, but it was tangled up in something else now—something that made his chest feel too tight when Stan wouldn’t look at him.
“Yeah well,” he muttered after a beat, “I liked it better when you weren’t being a pussy about this.”
It wasn't as sharp as before. Some of the fight had gone out of Kyle's voice without meaning to. His shoulders slumped slightly despite himself.
Stan turned his head to look at Kyle, the other looking just as defeated as he was. Stan sucked in a deep breath, impulse winning their argument as he leaned in, noticing Kyle not pulling away and their breathes hot against each other, their eyes meeting each others before Stan's drifted to Kyle's lips, testing the waters. He looked back up at Kyle, seeing their other looking at his own lips, and it seemed like he was silently saying (okay) in the most given-up way possible. Stan sighed, kissing the other, his hand falling next to Kyle's crossed legs, crawling up onto the bed, till he was on his hands and knees, and Kyle was holding onto his face.
Kyle's hands gripped Stan's face like a lifeline the second their mouths found each other. It was less a kiss and more a desperate grasping, the way they fell into each other—hard and messy, a collision more than anything else. Neither one knew what they were doing, but Stan tasted like smoke and rain and Kyle couldn't get enough.
He parted his lips against Stan's, one hand sliding up to his hair and grasping tightly, pulling him closer. His other hand found a patch of bare skin at Stan's hip where his shirt had snuck up. The contact felt scalding.
Stan let out a soft, desperate hum at the contact, his eyebrows furrowing together passionately as he dug further with his mouth, laxing it open to invite Kyle instead, their foreheads bumping into one another. Stan's hands were digging into the sheets on either side of Kyle, and he tried to blur out everything, what was right, what was wrong. What he cared about and what he hated.
Kyle gasped sharply when Stan’s mouth opened against his, the sound embarrassingly loud in the quiet of the room. His grip on Stan’s hip tightened instinctively—fingers pressing hard enough to bruise—before sliding up under his shirt, tracing rough circles over warm skin like he was trying to memorize every dip and ridge of him.
The sheets were bunched beneath them now, tangled between legs that had somehow ended up pressed closer together without either really noticing. Kyle pulled back just barely—just long enough for a shaky breath that hitched at the end before diving back in with less restraint than before.
He tasted like anger and something sweeter underneath it all; something desperate neither of them wanted to name yet but could feel clawing between ribs like it belonged there anyway.*
Stan felt his eyes water when he was on his back and kyle was ontop of him again, their kissing still continuing between whispers of (i'm sorrys) and (it's okays) he let the other kiss his jawline, traveling down his neck with hot breath and curly hair tickling his face, Kyle's stubble scratchy against his skin, making Stan tremble slightly, like he'd never felt it before.
Kyle hovered over him, his own breathing ragged as he paused with his lips just barely pressed to the hollow of Stan’s throat—like he was scared to move and break whatever fragile thing this had become between them. His fingers trembled slightly where they gripped Stan’s shirt.
“You good?” he murmured against skin, voice rough in a way that made Stan shiver again. Kyle hesitated another second before pulling back just enough to look at him properly—eyes dark but searching, mouth still slick from where their teeth had clashed too hard moments ago.
He didn’t ask if this was okay anymore; he didn’t ask if it was wrong either. He just waited for an answer, like maybe this time—just this once—Stan would tell him the truth without any hesitation.*
Stan nodded, but his face, of course, showed differently, the tears rolling down his cheeks without his permission, his face feeling hot and the heat in the room was already unbearable even with the small rotating fan in the corner. "I-.." he cut himself off when his voice cracked and he rubbed his forearm across his eyes, nodding once again to confirm he was fine.
Kyle's expression softened instantly as soon as he saw the tears. The sight alone was enough to make his own chest tighten, and his grip on Stan's shirt loosened, fingers running soothingly across his hip now instead.
"Hey, shh, it's fine." his voice was soft, a low murmur against the quiet of the room. He lowered himself so he was propped up on his elbows instead, hovering closer to Stan's face. "You're… you're crying."
He hadn't meant to make it sound like a question.
Stan sniffled, letting out a scoff at Kyle's question/statement, it'd been a minute since he'd cried, and he'd never done it in front of Kyle, not since they were kids. He felt his body start to shake, and he rubbed his face, trying to scrub the sadness away.
Kyle was still for a moment, just watching Stan try to hide the tears without much success. The sight of Stan trying so hard to keep it together was doing weird things to his insides.
"Stan…" he said carefully, fingers coming up to gently pull away one of Stan's hands from his face, revealing a damp cheek that was flushed pink from embarrassment and everything else that came with crying in front of your best friend. "Dude, it's okay to cry."
"Kyle..don't." he mumbled back, trying to sound firm but it came out as a weak whisper. He held up his hand to stop the other from trying to push further. "Just..just keep going." he assured the other, his voice still trying to hold the lust he knew he still had.
Kyle swallowed, torn between wanting to coddle Stan and wanting to do as he said. He stared down at the other's face for a moment—tear-streaked and still too flushed—before letting out a shaky exhale.
"You're such a pain in the ass, you know that?" he muttered, trying to force the teasing edge back in his voice. "I try to be nice for once and this is how you act?" He was already lowering himself back down though, lips brushing against Stan's neck again.
Stan couldn't help but snort with amusement at that, his eyes watering further though, like the comment had actually hurt his feelings, and in some dumb way it did. He snaked his arms around Kyle's neck, lowering his chin and scopping Kyle's lips back up into his.
The breath left Kyle's chest as he found himself kissing Stan again. He couldn't stop the tiny noise he made at the back of his throat or the way his hands went back to grabbing at Stan's waist. A small part of him was still worrying about those tears drying on Stan's face and how he should probably be doing something about that but then Stan's hands were tugging at the edge of his shirt and he lost the ability to think.
"Wait—" he managed against Stan's mouth, pulling back just barely enough to speak. "Hang on."
Stan blinked his eyes back open when Kyle stopped them. "What?" He whispered back, clearly getting impatient. His bangs sticking to his forehead with sweat, and his lips swollen from the kissing. His eyes weren't watering anymore but his cheeks were damp.
*Kyle hesitated, thumbs absently rubbing circles into Stan's hips while he stared down at him. His own breath was coming short, hair sticking to his forehead the same way Stan’s was—and god, he *wanted* to just keep going—but there was something so damn fragile about the look on Stan's face right now that it made his gut twist.*
“I just—” He swallowed roughly, “You’re crying. Like, a lot.” A pause. Then quieter: “…We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”
Stan's mouth fell open, and he shook his head, rubbing his palm against his cheek to try to dry his face. "I'm fine..I'm fine,' he assured with a shake of his head, already trying to kiss the other again. "Ky, seriously..just..go with it.." he mumbled, trying to tug at the other's shirt again.
*Kyle bit his lip, looking down at Stan with conflicted green eyes—wanting to just *give in* and stop questioning everything for once in his damn life—but…*
“Dude,” he said carefully, “you can’t even talk without your voice cracking.” His fingers flexed against Stan’s hips before loosening slightly. “This isn’t the time for it.”
Stan sighed, dropping his hand from Kyle's shirt. He felt frustration bubbling, not at Kyle but at himself for getting emotional over making out. "Fuck." he hissed out, moving to sit up, pulling open his bedside drawer, and grabbing a pack of unopened smokes he'd been saving, packing them against his palm. "Fine..whatever," he said with a sigh, rubbing his eye and opening the box, putting his mouth against it to fish one out before tossing the box to Kyle.
Kyle caught the box of cigarettes without looking, his own frustration mounting when he realized Stan was trying to shut down now rather than talk about it. He watched Stan stick a cigarette between in lips and fumble around in his sweatpants for a lighter—all without making eye contact—and it suddenly made him want to punch something.
"That's it? You're just gonna start smoking instead of talking?" he snapped, throwing the box back across the bed. "You're really going to do this bullshit avoidance thing again because you're too goddamn scared to say what you're feeling?"
Stan didn't respond; instead, his face glowing as he flicked the lighter and lit the end of his cigarette, taking a sharp inhale, letting the burn hit the back of his throat, he lifted his head to the ceiling to blow it out through his nose and mouth. He scratched his nose, flicking the ash onto his floor without caring.
Kyle watched the scene with a sharp frown, anger bubbling up inside him. Stan was a goddamn expert at this—at shutting people out, especially Kyle—and it pissed him off even more, seeing him shut down again.
Without thinking about it, he swiped the half-smoked cigarette from Stan's hand, ignoring his protests as he put it out in the ashtray on the bedside table with probably more force than necessary.
"I'm not gonna sit here and watch you avoid dealing with your emotions," he muttered, voice tight.
Stan furrowed his brows. "Are you fucking kidding me? We talked already, we argued already. This isn't the part where we talk more.." He defended, clearly pissed at his cigarette getting disposed of, he got off the bed to pace for a moment, unable to sit down in one spot.
Kyle scoffed, rolling his eyes at that. "Oh, yeah, of course. God forbid we actually, I don't know, communicate instead of just making out and pretending our problems don't exist."
He was still sitting on the bed, watching Stan stomp around like a child throwing a tantrum. This was getting ridiculous. "You were just crying two minutes ago, Stan! And I know you think smoking is some kinda fix-all, but it's not."
Stan pinched the bridge of his nose, leaning against the wall next to his door. "Why do you care if I cry? Seriously, what does that do for you to acknowledge?" He asked, but didn't give Kyle a chance to answer. "Because I told you I was fine, I gave you the green light to keep going, we could have passed all this already."
"Because I'm worried about you, dumbass!" Kyle retorted. He was getting pissed now too. Stan was being impossibly stubborn, as per usual. "Because I don't want you to keep bottling everything up and pretending you're okay when you're obviously not! It's bullshit, dude."
He let out a sharp scoff. "And excuse me for caring too much that my best friend was crying. I guess I'm so out of line for wanting to talk about it instead of sucking face."
Stan's jaw clenched; he didn't want to be in this room anymore, but he couldn't leave. He was trapped in here, and it was killing him to have to defend something that he was clearly wrong with. Fuck kyle and his stupid debate team and communication rewards. "Well, I don't want to talk; I want to feel better just existing with you. I don't like talking about feelings, and you don't either, not really. It's not how we're wired."
*Kyle rolled his eyes so hard it looked painful. “Oh, what, like this is working *so well* for you?” His hands gestured sharply toward Stan’s general state of distress.* “You’re spiraling because you don’t want to admit anything is wrong—which—newsflash!—is why we keep ending up in this same goddamn loop.”
A beat. Then quieter, barely restrained frustration dripping from every syllable:
“Or do you enjoy feeling like shit all the time?”
Stan's faltered at that, his gaze dropping; he didn't say anything, he didn't know what to say. (Cause the truth was, maybe he did) His eyes glanced over to his prescription of Prozac on his bednight stand next to his digital FM clock that read 3:51 in bright red letters.
Kyle watched him look at the clock and then at the bottle of Prozac. It made the anger that had been building like steam inside him evaporate like water—replaced by something else, something less bitter and a lot more concerned. He sighed, running a hand through his dark curls.
“You didn't take your meds today, did you?" It wasn't really a question. Kyle knew the answer already.
That struck a nerve; everything was boosting back into him. He could argue with that; he could fight with that conversation because Kyle couldn't win a fight like that. "I'm more than my medicine," he said. "And fuck you, I don't say a word when you want to abuse adderall to stay up late and study."
Kyle stiffened instantly at that—a flash of guilt and anger crossing his face. "That's different—"
(Was it? Kyle didn't actually know. He just knew this wasn't the same thing.)
"—and don't even try to deflect this onto me right now!" His voice was rising again, but not like before. Less pissed, more frustrated. "This isn’t about me! It’s about you going off your meds and acting like everything's fine when it's clearly—" He stopped himself short, exhaling roughly through his nose. "…Just take them tomorrow."
It was dead silent for a moment, Randy's snores still signalling that their fight was quiet enough to keep the house calm.
Stan looked at Kyle, his eyes trailing over the others' form. He opened his mouth, but only a breath came out. He looked at his door. "..did you still want to fuck..?" he asked, not sure what to expect since this was the routine, and part of him knew that it'd always be the routine. (and Kyle was a rule follower)
Kyle's eyes snapped to Stan, caught off guard by the question. His face was still taut with leftover frustration, tension lining his shoulders, but he hesitated for a moment. He wanted to say no, he knew he should… But the look on Stan's face, the slight tremble in his shoulders, the dark circles under his eyes…
He hated that he hated Stan's stubbornness more than he hated getting played like this.
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