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Toolshed hears the crunch of his rib cage before he feels it. There is an awful sound of his bones breaking followed by a hot pain that sears his innards. He falls on his back and his safety goggles clatter onto the cement floor mid-fall. His companions call out his name, but he is unable to respond, his vision blurring when the back of his head connects with the road. He blinks away the stars, attempting to focus his gaze on anything within his vicinity. He needed to get back up and fight. His team had already taken a beating, and he was brawn between the last two standing.
“Should’ve stuck with us, Toolshed.” a voice mocks from a slight distance away. He can’t see him, but Toolshed can picture the conniving bastard’s evil smirk as he retracts his claws. He grits his teeth, livid at the double-attack that knocked him down.
“Coon,” Toolshed utters through clenched teeth. There is hot liquid escaping the corner of his lips, and it gets caught in his throat, eliciting a wet cough. He grimaces, tasting iron.
“Kite could have healed you, you know. Protected you too, like last night. It’s what you both wanted, wasn’t it?”
Toolshed screws his eyes shut, attempting to fight back the bile rising in his throat from the pain. He knew answering Human Kite’s call to action the night before was a mistake. His ex-teammate and ex-friend had been stuck in the middle of a mission and desperately needed his help. There was lava in the way and low ceilings. The Kite couldn’t fly inside the warehouse he was assigned to investigate. His reconnaissance mission would be moot if he couldn’t advance, and so he had asked for a truce with Toolshed to complete his work before the sun rose.
Though a little stiff and awkward at first, the two fell back into their usual rhythm extremely easily. They scouted the warehouse’s basement together, mapping all the hallways, entrances, exits and any other landmarks that would prove useful in later battles. Kite had a folded map he opened every time they turned a corner and found a new area, and the two would crouch together on the floor or flatten the map against the nearest wall, roughly marking their discoveries with the pencil tucked behind Toolshed’s ear. When they finished jotting down the last door, which happened to be an exit, Kite grinned at him the same way he did when they successfully tag-teamed a baddie in the past. Back when they were on the same side.
Back when they were best friends.
Toolshed’s chest aches a little, feeling nostalgic. He thinks Kite feels the same. They’re both hovering outside the warehouse, neither willing to call it a night and part ways.
“Listen ‘Shed,” Kite starts. He pulls back his hood a little, allowing the vibrant red ringlets of his curly hair to spring free from their confinements. Toolshed knows Kite grew hot quickly in his suit, despite the teal-colored costume being sleeveless. If he wasn’t soaring in the air, the skin-tight under-armor got stuffy fairly quickly, which Toolshed knows thanks to Kite’s incessant complaints when they were off-duty back in their heydays. “It was great working with you again, man. It was like old times. I know you don’t plan on rejoining Coon and Friends, but maybe...”
“Kite, you know I won’t make any compromises with that fucker.”
“No, I know! This has nothing to do with our teams.”
Toolshed raises a brow, intrigued.
“I was thinking maybe we become a duo —in secret. At least on solo missions like this one. How would they ever know?”
It was a good point, and a good offer. A partnership with Kite would be extremely beneficial to him. He wasn’t nearly as mobile as Kite. Night missions dragged on when he had to walk through South Park without Doctor Timothy around to teleport him to his mission location and back. And quite frankly, they were lonely. Having Kite to keep him company would be a breath of fresh air.
“I don’t mind teaming up with you again,” Toolshed admits while crossing his arms. He’s trying to seem nonchalant about the offer, but his heart is bubbling with glee. He missed Kite. He would love to spend some time with him again —even if it had to be on the down-low.
“Really?” Kite asks, lighting up when Toolshed nods.
“Well, well, well. Now isn’t this a fucking sight to behold?”
Both heroes jump, neither noticing the shadowed figure lurking in the alleyway until he stepped out and joined them under the flickering streetlight.
“Coon,” Toolshed greets, hoping he sounds intimidating, not startled by the other’s appearance.
“Kite,” The Coon says, ignoring Toolshed’s greeting. “Care to explain what the fuck is going on?”
Kite immediately steps closer to Toolshed. “I requested his assistance. There was lava in the warehouse.”
“I’m sure there was, Kite. And I’m also sure Toolshed slipped and fell dick-first into your ass somewhere in there too, huh?”
“Knock it off, Fatass.” Kite warns. Toolshed scowls at the claim, but doesn’t dare speak. If anyone can defy The Coon without fear of consequences, it was The Human Kite.
“Well Kite, if you weren’t aware, the recon mission was to have an advantage over the Freedom Pussies.”
Toolshed feels a vein pulse along his temple. “Kite’s the one with the map,” he claims, breaking his silence. “I don’t have a good enough memory, Coon. You don’t have to worry about me relaying any useful information to the others.”
“Oh well, that’s a relief! Really ‘Shed? You think I’m just going to let you off with a slap on the wrist?”
The Coon puffs his chest, but all Toolshed sees is the hero’s protruding gut. Toolshed readies his stance, prepared to fight if need be. Expecting more monologuing from the other, Toolshed can barely yelp as The Coon lunges at him with his claws out. He flinches, expecting deep cuts and horrible bleeding, but nothing happens. He opens his eyes, and sees Kite shielding him while still standing beside him. His large kite had been launched in front of Toolshed, protecting him from the claws, the sturdy material unaffected by The Coon’s attack.
“Kite! The fuck, man?”
Kite places one arm protectively around Toolshed’s shoulders and pulls him close, the other retrieving his kite. Toolshed’s arm automatically falls behind Kite’s as the other replaces his kite on his back and wraps his other arm protectively around Toolshed’s chest, both hands meeting on his shoulder. Toolshed is essentially embraced by his foe as he stares his other enemy in the face.
“We’re not fighting, Coon. It’s late,” Kite claims. “If you want to fight about this, let's do it tomorrow.”
The Coon looks ready to argue, but a single car drives by the empty street, reminding the vigilantes that civilians were nearby.
“Fine. But don’t expect me to let this go unpunished. And I mean that to the both of you.”
The Coon storms off, returning to the shadows and turning the corner, out of sight and earshot. Toolshed risks a glance at the face that is far too close to his. Kite is pouting at him, and he doesn’t know how to process his expression combined with their embrace.
“This would be so much easier if you were on my side,” Kite mumbles.
“I am now, remember? We’re a secret duo.”
“That secret didn’t last more than a minute,” Kite whines. Toolshed rubs Kite's back, uncertain what else to do. His arm was tucked snugly under the kite that had shielded him from mortal wounds mere seconds ago.
“It’ll be fine. And thanks, by the way, for the shield.”
Kite sighs, and the hot breath tickles Toolshed’s cheek. He removes himself from Toolshed and places his hands on his hips. “No problem ‘Shed. Can’t have you bleeding out on me.”
They smile at each other and start heading back to their home bases, which happened to be in the same direction. Kite warns Toolshed to watch his back tomorrow. The Coon might be a vigilante, but he was still a conniving prick who would absolutely retaliate at anyone who dare go against him and his schemes. Toolshed wants to ask Kite why he bothered to stay on his side if he disliked him so much? Why not follow him to Freedom Pals? He knows the answer, and he’s a little angry with himself for not realizing it sooner.
Kite kept his friends close, and his enemies closer.
The kite shielding him against The Coon that night was literal symbolism of where his allegiances truly lay.
“Stan!”
Toolshed is pulled away from his hazy reminiscing. His blurry vision is assaulted with color. Teal and red are prominent, and Toolshed thinks maybe he’s in the hospital staring up at a surgeon covered in blood. He blinks, and swallows painfully. He can’t breathe, he realizes with a start. His breath is ragged and wet with his own blood.
“Stan! Stan, oh God.” Toolshed’s eyes finally adjust. He’s staring up at Kite, who is cradling his head with one hand. The other is rested flat on his chest, but he can’t feel it. There is only pain and a ringing in his ears.
“Kyle,” Stan says, dropping the names of their superhero personas, finally coming to the same conclusion as Kyle had the moment he called out to him using his real name.
He was dying.
“Kyle,” Stan repeats, and it comes out shaky and broken. His lips tremble and his vision blurs once again, but now with tears.
“I’m here, Stan. I'm here.” He sounds as terrified as Stan felt. “You’ll be okay.”
Stan doesn’t hear him. His tears escape the corners of his eyes, clearing his vision momentarily. Kyle’s face is hovering above, hood now fully removed to reveal his messy curls, nose a hair’s breadth away from his, and he’s crying too, Stan realizes. Fat tears roll down his cheeks and drip onto Stan’s face. Stan can’t help but think, in his sudden, blissfully painless delirium, that he’s incredibly lucky to die in Kyle’s arms. His best friend had always been a comfort to him, and it felt right leaving with Kyle the last person he says goodbye to.
“Stan, don’t sleep. Wake up!”
Stan blinks, suddenly feeling very tired. He wants to wish Kyle a goodnight and pass out.
“Stan, please. I can’t do this without you. We’re a duo, remember?”
Stan knows he’s slipping. This might be the last time he can say what he had always been too embarrassed to say in the past. Through all the misadventures they’ve experienced, including some heavier ones that almost fractured their friendship beyond repair, Stan and Kyle had always pulled through. They did everything together, and Stan feels guilty for leaving his spot next to Kyle. As Kyle cradles his head and sheds tears only for Stan, the pain in his chest seems to amplify.
“Kyle,” Stan wants to comfort his crying friend. He weakly reaches up and shakily brushes away a tear with the pad of his thumb. “Thank you for making my life worth living.”
Stan closes his eyes and lets his hand rest on his chest, over Kyle’s. He hears the other cry his name, and then warmth encompasses Stan’s lips.
“CAR!!!”
All the kids scramble to get off the road, and Stan’s eyes fly open at the call. The warmth leaves his lips with a wet sound, and Stan and Kyle are staring at each other with wide eyes.
“Get off the fucking road you damn kids!”
Stan sits up with a start and backpedals away from Kyle, who is standing and rushing to the opposite side of the road. Stan jogs towards the nearest sidewalk following the car’s honking, and rapidly wipes his eyes when he’s certain no one is looking at him. He couldn’t believe he had gotten so caught up in the roleplay that he cried. He had even said something so cheesy to Kyle.
Kyle...
Stan risks a glance to the far end of the sidewalk where Kyle was standing alone. He too was rapidly wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, and Stan thinks maybe they were lucky the fight was still happening while they were having their little moment. If Cartman’s lack of homophobic slurs was anything to go off of, he’s pretty sure nobody witnessed their kiss.
Once the car is gone and the fighting resumes, Stan plays dead on the sidewalk. He can’t help but peek through his slitted eyes, hoping no one calls him out for ruining their immersion as he watches Kyle. He can’t believe Kyle kissed him. He had apparently been even more caught up in the roleplay than Stan. His friend had always been a good actor, but he is certain that kiss was his peak performance.
Stan debates bringing it up to Kyle after the fight is decided, but the other seems to have composed himself, and is back to playing along with however the storyline had developed. Stan joins his defeated teammates as they head to Token’s house, the events of the past two days long forgotten.
The kiss remains a secret between the two, just as their short-term partnership —a fleeting moment that didn’t last, and probably shouldn’t have happened in the first place.
***
Stan winces, feeling an incredibly sharp pain flare in his forearm. He cries out as he slides across the grassy field, and hurriedly twists his body off his limb. The referee blows the whistle and there is a rush of bodies surrounding Stan. Some are his teammates, who are arguing with the rival team about their foul play. The referee and the coach are there too, asking Stan if he’s alright and whether he can stand. Stan removes his helmet, spits out his mouthguard and rapidly shakes his head, clutching his arm in pain. Something was wrong. It fucking hurt like hell. He gritted his teeth, grunting his yes and no's to the coach’s questions.
“We’ll have to get him off the field. Someone call the ambulance!” He’s looking at the assistant coach as he says this, and turns to the referee, who is asking the onlooking players to give them space. The pile of bodies surrounding Stan retreat, but before his coach can help him stand, somebody is rushing across the field and kneeling by his side.
“Stan!”
Stan’s eyes fly open at the sound. He lifts his head right as Kyle’s arm slides under it, his other hand pressed to Stan’s chest. His brilliant green eyes are wide with worry as he looks down at his friend. Guilt gnaws at Stan’s stomach. Poor Kyle. He had asked the other to come watch his game despite the other having a unit test the next morning. He figured his friend would have plenty of time to study after, but that was before Stan broke his arm. Just the way the other shouldered past everyone on the bleachers to come to his side was a testament to his dismay. Stan is certain the other would stick by his side, which meant he wouldn’t get much studying done. He worries he might not hear the end of it the next day, but for now, he lets himself be comforted by Kyle’s presence.
“Kyle, get off the field,” Stan’s coach sighs. Kyle shoots him a glare, but Stan grabs his wrist with his good hand and squeezes it, warning his friend to swallow back whatever he was about to say.
“Grab your stuff,” Stan requests. It’s enough for Kyle. He gently lowers Stan’s head back onto the grass and rushes off to retrieve his backpack, leaving Stan with his coach and the sight of Marsh in large capital letters on the back of Kyle’s shirt; an old jersey Stan gave him after their team replaced theirs with the school’s updated logo. Kyle didn’t come to all his games. Sometimes their extracurricular activities conflicted, but he came to enough over the past four years of their high school career for everyone to know who Kyle Broflovski was.
By the time the ambulance arrives, Stan is back to closing his eyes, jaw clenched shut as he endures the shooting pain. He’s leaning heavily on Kyle as they sit on a nearby bench, waiting for the paramedic to take a look at Stan. It’s a broken arm, judging by the swelling. They ask Stan if he would prefer to sit or lay in the ambulance, which he requests the latter, and if his companion would be accompanying him, which the other says yes to before Stan can open his mouth. A few minutes later, and Kyle is by Stan’s lying figure as the ambulance takes off for the hospital.
Stan tries to focus on the hand in his hair rather than the incessant pain pulsing through his right arm. Kyle combs his fingers through Stan’s sweaty bangs, telling him that he’ll be fine. To keep his mind occupied, Kyle breaks down what he knows the hospital will do, which is to obtain his medical history, run some tests like an X-ray, and probably give him a cast by the time everything is settled.
“Kyle I am… so sorry.”
“Don’t apologize to me, dude. You're the one with the broken arm mid-big game.” Kyle tugs at Stan’s hair as he says this. “Right now, we just gotta focus on making sure everything's okay.”
Stan nods and grimaces at the pain the movement causes. His trip to the hospital more or less goes as Kyle predicted. His parents visit him soon, worried after hearing what happened through Kyle. Randy, his father, seems more concerned about future games, while his mother Sharon hovers worriedly, undoubtedly resisting the urge to snap at her husband for his misdirected concern. Stan is relieved that Kyle is there to mediate. He keeps him company between emergency and examination rooms, and by the time Stan is in his assigned recovery room with his cast, Kyle is already there with his textbook open on his lap, studying.
“Hi Stan,” he greets simply as the nurse wheels his bed into place.
“Kyle, it’s late. You should go home.”
"You should try to be more convincing, mister sad puppy eyes.” He brings his seat closer to Stan and proceeds to pinch his cheek. Stan huffs and groans as he closes his eyes. His arm hurt like hell, and the pain medication provided earlier was already beginning to wear off.
“Do you need anything? Water?”
“I’m good, dude. Thanks.”
“Okay. Let me know if you need me to call your nurse.”
Stan doesn’t. His room isn’t a private one, but the person next to Stan is asleep, the curtains pulled for privacy. Unless the nurses were in to do their routine check-ups, Stan didn’t want them around. Having Kyle by his side was enough. Stan rests his eyes, letting the background sounds of the hospital and Kyle flipping through the pages of his textbook lull him into a dream-like trance. He replays the day’s events, and for some reason, Kyle’s scared demeanor takes the forefront of his thoughts. His hovering over Stan’s lying figure unlocks the part of his brain that had stored a large repository of forgotten or repressed childhood memories. In this instance, Stan remembers back when they were ten years old and exploring the streets of South Park, pretending to be superheroes. He had roleplayed taking fatal blow during battle by The Coon, and was in the midst of acting out his death when Kyle ran to him, exasperate and petrified at Stan’s lying figure, which coincidentally seemed rather similar to earlier that day on the football field.
Stan also remembers the kiss.
In his dream-like trance and pain-induced delirium, Stan brings it up.
“Kyle?”
“Mhm?”
“Do you remember how we played superheroes back when we were in the fourth grade? Do you remember how there was that one time Cartman cheated and killed me?”
"That fucker cheated every time we played. You're gonna have to be more specific.”
Stan describes the night before the kiss —when he joined Kyle on his solo mission. Kyle nods along but his eyebrows are knit with confusion.
“I barely recall this, but sure, go on.”
Stan explains the next day; how they got into a big argument with everyone, and how Cartman seemed to had a vendetta specifically against him and took his pettiness to the extreme during their battle. He explains how he was killed in game and was being overdramatic upon his defeat. He explains to Kyle how he had joined him in the theatrics.
“And I think we were both caught in the moment, and you kissed me.”
“What?” Kyle laughs, closing his textbook. “When the fuck did I do that?”
“You don’t remember?”
“No dude, what the hell? Are you making this shit up?”
“No, dude! You straight up kissed me. Right on the lips!”
“You’re fucking delirious dude.”
“I’m not! How do you not remember this?”
“Are you sure it happened?” Kyle asks, genuinely perplexed. “You said you fell back and hit your head really hard, right? Maybe you just dreamt it?”
“I remember being conscious. Everyone screamed car and we just ran off to the sidewalk. You seriously don't remember this?”
“No dude. I think I would remember kissing my best friend.”
The two fall silent at that, a little awkward following the conversation. Kyle returns to studying, and Stan merely looks out the window, praying that his parents would return with dinner soon. He doesn’t know how to feel about Kyle not remembering the kiss. He thinks he might be a little offended.
***
Stan becomes slightly stir-crazy having his right arm stuck in a cast. He has a sling over the shoulder to support his arm, but otherwise, he has to take pain relievers to numb the throbbing throughout the school days. Kyle takes good care of him during this time. He keeps Stan company and helps him with his classwork when he has trouble focusing due to the pain or his medicine’s side effects making his drowsy. He carries things for Stan, including his backpack so that there is no further pressure on his shoulders. When Stan wants to move, Kyle joins him on little walks around their neighborhood. Despite being best friends their entire life, Stan feels closer to Kyle now than he did for the past four years of high school. Without football practice and games eating up his days, Stan had more time than ever to spend with Kyle, and Kyle had ample opportunity to shower Stan with his meticulous doting.
It’s early on a Saturday morning when Stan wakes up. He tries to fall back asleep, but his body had grown accustomed to waking at an ungodly hour to go for a jog or weight train on the weekends, and said body hadn’t seemed to register that he would not be humoring that routine with a broken arm. He’s off his pain meds, but there is still a dull throbbing that seems to flare when the air was as dry and cold as it was that morning. He scrolls through his phone to pass the time, and ends up sending a few memes to Kyle as he comes across them. Eventually Kyle messages him back, asking why the hell he was up so early. Stan explains, and thirty minutes later, Kyle is waiting for Stan downstairs so they could go for a walk.
“I don’t know how you can still be so full of energy,” Kyle grumbles. He’s not normally one to wake up early unless necessary, so Stan offers to buy him a muffin for his troubles.
“Force of habit,” he admits. “Also, I couldn’t fall back asleep.”
“Is your arm hurting?”
“A little, but it’s fine!” Stan reassures Kyle. The other is giving him that look, so Stan bumps him lightheartedly. Kyle bumps him back as they continue to walk. They end up at Tweek Bros., and despite the crowd, Kyle finds a free seat. Stan waits in line, and orders an apple cinnamon muffin for Kyle, along with a large black coffee. Tweek is jumping between the back of the store and the front counter, helping his mother refill the baked goods that had emptied during the morning rush. Stan greets him with a simple nod, and Tweek twitches as he hands Stan a cup tray and a second, empty cup that he fills with a splash of brown sugar oat milk, knowing what Stan was about to request. Stan thanks his friend as he takes his purchases to Kyle.
“Thanks,” Kyle sighs, taking a sip of the black coffee. Stan can’t believe he could stomach that stuff without additives, but Kyle had developed a liking to the bitter taste —allegedly. Stan thinks it’s bullshit, but humors his best friend, who grabs Stan’s cup and pours half of his coffee into it. Stan swirls his cup so the oat milk can mix into the drink, and he takes a sip, satisfied. Kyle and Stan share the muffin, but Stan leaves a majority of the treat for Kyle. He knows the other won't be able to finish his coffee without it. In fact, Stan can’t remember a time where Kyle could actually stomach black coffee without something sweet accompanying it. It’s such a small thing, but this tidbit of info about Kyle is something he finds precious. Cute, in fact.
“Where do you want to go now?” Kyle asks. He hasn’t finished his coffee now that his muffin was gone. Stan smiles at him and pours the rest of his drink into Kyle’s, sweetening it. Kyle doesn’t say anything, but silently mixes the cup with a swirl and takes a sip, smiling up at Stan —content with the taste.
“I don’t know,” Stan answers. Simply getting out of the house on that chilly Saturday morning and walking to the coffee shop had energized him. He feels much better now, and he wonders how other people handle that particular restlessness Stan felt without having a Kyle in their lives to help scratch the itch. “Let’s just do a circle around town.”
Kyle doesn’t complain. Stan thinks it's special treatment for being injured. The past two weeks have been something else receiving Kyle’s undivided attention. He makes a mental note to treasure the following month or so before he is fully healed and out of his cast.
The two walk quite far before Stan stops. Kyle pauses, and asks Stan if he’s tired, but Stan just shakes his head, staring at the street before him.
“This is the place!” Stan exclaims in shock. They were headed towards his uncle Jimbo’s shop when Stan was struck with a strong sense of nostalgia. “This is where we had that fight!”
“Fight? Since when did we fight?”
“Not recently. I mean as kids —as superheroes!”
“God, not this again,” Kyle grumbles.
“You can’t tell me you seriously don’t remember.” Stan jumps onto the empty road, and Kyle yelps at his sudden movement.
“Stan! Get back on the sidewalk, the fuck?”
“It was right here!” Stan says, pointing to a spot on the road parallel to the streetlamp he stood at after the car was called. “This is where you kissed me.”
“Fuck off, Stan. Stop saying I kissed you!” Kyle shouts, looking angry. Stan stiffens, not expecting such a strong negative reaction. “Seriously dude, fucking drop it. I don’t remember it, okay?”
Stan rejoins him on the sidewalk. Kyle looks ready to storm off, which makes Stan’s heart sink.
“Sorry,” he mutters. “I-I didn’t mean to—”
He’s cut off by a quick embrace. It’s a little awkward because of his arm cast, but Kyle hurriedly retreats and huffs, resuming to walk ahead of Stan. “It’s fine. Sorry for snapping,” he adds over his shoulder. He slows down only enough for Stan to start moving again. They walk in silence for a few minutes before Kyle starts asking him what his plans are for the rest of the day. Stan can’t play videogames with one arm, which is usually how he shoots the shit in his free-time during the off season. It’s a little cruel that he is prematurely exempt from football, but also can’t waste his days on his PC. Despite this, he does have a backlog of boardgames he hadn’t had a chance to play yet. He tells Kyle this, and his friend offers to join him.
Stan forgets about their earlier pseudo-argument. The two end up playing until the evening, and things return to normal between them, much to his relief.
***
Several weeks and doctor visits later, Stan finally has his arm off the sling and into a brand-new plaster cast. He's relieved to have the mobility, but more importantly, to be able to wash his forearm and give it some time to breathe before it was wrapped up again. He was starting to notice that his arm smelled, and became self-conscious whenever Kyle sat too close. Now that he was free of that unease, he wanted to see his friend right away. Once his checkup is completed, Stan asks his dad to drop him off at Kyle’s, wanting him to be the first person to sign his cast.
Half an hour later and Stan is sitting on Kyle’s bed, his legs outstretched, his friend sitting cross-legged beside him, tongue sticking out as he scrawls his name in cursive right in the middle of his cast, right where Stan would always have the best view of it.
"Do you think you’ll keep it after?” Kyle asks.
"I don’t know. Casts can get kinda gross the longer you're in one.”
"That's true. Maybe I shouldn’t put so much effort into this.” Kyle is now doodling a little cartoon version of himself and Stan. Stan always adored how Kyle depicted them in his drawings. He drew them with same hats they wore and they were kids; Stan with his little red and blue poofball hat, and Kyle with his green ushanka. They were long since retired, but both held a very special place in Stan’s heart, and he knows they did in Kyle's as well.
"Don’t you dare not put the utmost effort into this signature,” Stan threatens.
Kyle laughs and continues his doodle. Stan silently observes his friend for a moment. In his senior year of high school, Kyle had let his hair grow from its usual short cropped haircut upon Stan’s request. He complained about how hard it was to control and how ridiculous he looked with his afro in his yearbook pictures, but Kyle’s first year photo was Stan’s favorite. He loved his hair, and he wanted to see it back to its usual length again. He thinks Kyle wants it as well, because Stan had caught his friend asking Bebe for tips during the end of the previous year before summer vacation, who proceeded to give Kyle a rundown of the different products and techniques he could use. Now, only a few months later and halfway through the first semester of their senior year, Kyle’s hair was a mass of perfect coils, childhood matted hair caused his hat and frizz caused by the dry Colorado air no longer an issue.
Stan’s eyes wander down from Kyle’s hair to his face. His freckles had faded as he got older, however Stan could still catch glimpses of the dark spots peppering his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. Kyle’s green eyes are focused on his arm, and his long lashes cast a shadow on his cheekbones as he works dutifully. Stan thinks, at least conventionally, that his friend is rather pretty. He has a sharp nose, and sharper tongue when situations called for it, but his personality and features were cute more than handsome. He knows Kyle would kill him for thinking this, so he keeps it to himself. He also knows that Kyle would kill him for bringing up the kiss again, but in his observing of his friend’s features, he can't help but think of it as his gaze falls onto those pink bow lips.
And suddenly, Stan feels flustered. Flustered and frustration.
“Why are you gaslighting me?” He asks Kyle.
“Ex-fucking-cuse me?”
“You know we kissed! You’re just embarrassed and pretending you don’t remember.”
Rather than act confused like the first time Stan brought it up, or angry like the second, Kyle has a sort of defeat in his expression as he exhales, removing his pen from Stan’s cast to look at him exasperatedly.
“Stan, this is second time this week. What is with you and this kiss?”
“It’s bothering me that you’re lying to my face about not remembering it,” Stan admits. He doesn’t want to fight with Kyle, but he can’t pretend that he’s fine with letting Kyle shy away from the conversation. He’s not sure why, but he’s fed up with Kyle’s dismissive behavior.
"Does it really? Because if you actually cared, you would have brought it up, oh I don’t know, eight fucking years ago?”
Stan bristles at this.
"I didn’t bring it up because you didn’t. I thought you were embarrassed!”
“So then why remind me?! If you knew I was embarrassed, why are you bringing it up now?”
"I was just thinking about it when you came running to me after I broke my arm. I got déjà vu is all!”
“But why remind me?” Kyle persists. "What would you gain from that conversation? A laugh?”
"What the fuck is your problem? Yeah, a laugh. It was a dumb thing we did as kids.”
“What if it wasn’t dumb to me?” Kyle asks, letting go of Stan’s arm. He’s moving to stand, but Stan instinctively reaches out and catches his arm before he can get off the bed. He doesn't know why they're fighting about this, but he doesn’t want Kyle kicking him out of his room.
“What do you mean?”
"I mean —what if it wasn’t dumb to me? What if I was serious when I kissed you?” Kyle tries to pull away from Stan, but Stan hasn’t let his accident deter him from strength training the rest of his limbs. He tenses his muscles, and Kyle can barely move his arm as a result. Kyle sighs and continues, reading Stan’s confusion. “What if I knew you were straight so I didn’t bring it up again hoping you’d drop it and still be my friend? What if I pretended when you brought it up a few weeks ago that I didn’t remember because I was scared?”
"Scared of what?” Kyle shakes his head and looks down. It breaks Stan’s heart. “Kyle, I would never stop being your friend over dumb little kiss.”
"Stop calling it dumb! I just told you I was serious.”
Stan swallows as what Kyle says finally clicks. His heart is hammering against his ribs, and he's terrified he might do something wrong, but he needs to figure this out for the both of them. Kyle looks upset beyond anything he’s seen long time and the sight is killing Stan.
“I’m sorry, forget it please.” Kyle whispers.
"Are you still serious?”
“Huh?”
“Like, if you kissed me right now, would it be a serious kiss?” Stan needed to know if Kyle was still into him, because that was conclusion he reached after finally processing Kyle’s loaded words.
“I don’t— Stan, what are you trying to get from doing all this?” Kyle’s voice cracks.
Stan doesn’t know. He can’t seem to let go of Kyle’s wrist. He’s holding onto his best friend with a vice grip, hoping somehow that the universe will take over and communicate everything between them, understanding their feelings, and bridging the weird gap currently between them.
Stan frowns. The Kyle in his head is telling him to get his shit together and take responsibility for his feelings. The Kyle in his heart tells Stan he needs to stop pretending he doesn't know what he wants from Kyle.
"Stan?”
“I think… I reminded you because I was ready to talk about it,” Stan explains, thinking out loud more so than directly to Kyle. “I think you being the only one in the bleachers to rush over me, taking me to the hospital without me asking, and staying with me the entire time, even after my own parents left me…” Stan’s voice cracks and he has to take a minute to compose himself. His throat feels constricted and he’s leaning towards Kyle, hand still desperately holding onto him, terrified letting go will make Kyle disappear right before his eyes. He's taken back to his superhero death. Even at the age of ten, Stan knew that Kyle was his most important person. Despite all the ups and downs, the two had always worked things out in the end. They’d do everything it takes to make sure things were fine between them. Even if what he says might break their friendship, Stan is certain that in the worst-case scenario, they would slowly gravitate back to each other and try to fix things. It’s that knowledge that gives him the courage to continue speaking. “I think you being there for me after I broke my arm reminded me why I cried when we were playing pretend. I felt like crying again when you came to me on the field.”
Kyle was no longer trying to pull away from his grasp. Stan loosens his grip just enough to reach for Kyle’s hand, curling his fingers between the others’. “When I was dying in your arms. Dude…” his voice is quiet. “I kept thinking; I love you so much.”
Kyle gasps. It’s not loud, but the short intake of breath is piercing in the silence of the room. Stan looks up from their intertwined fingers, and his eyes widen at the sight. Tears are running down Kyle’s cheeks. Again, he’s taken back to that moment in the past, and it makes him laugh through what he realizes are his own tears. Kyle kissed him back then, Stan realizes, because he was thinking the same thing too.
"Stan are you serious?”
"Yeah.”
Kyle let's out a sob, and practically tackles Stan into a tight embrace. Stan yelps, careful of his arm, and wraps the good one tightly around Kyle, his other falling on top gently. He buries his face in Kyle’s shoulder and inhales his familiar scent. Kyle cries in the crook of his neck, and Stan rubs his back, comforting him through his bubbled confession as he wipes his own eyes on the fabric of Kyle’s shirt. Guilt and shame gnaw at him as he learns how much his best friend pined for him, and how misguided he had been thanks to Stan’s unsteady past relationship with Wendy. Stan bashfully admits to Kyle that he and Wendy were only friends who pretended to be together for the sake of protecting Wendy from overzealous and horny classmates who, regardless of her saying no, would still hit on her and make their stubborn advances. It was easier, as horribly frustrating as it was to Wendy, for her to say she had a boyfriend. Even if it was on and off, the star quarterback was a daunting figure to face, and it protected Wendy when she wanted to focus on studies and her social life.
“So you two were never actually together?”
"Never dude.”
Kyle laughs into Stan’s shoulder and sniffles. They sit like that for a while, recalling all the times that they were close to breaking their friendship. Stan is shocked at how many instances occurred merely last summer. Road trips, campsites, the local swimming pool, the empty mall parking lot late at night, lying in the same bed after an evening of gaming and the last-minute decision to make it a sleepover...
“Dude, how did you not punch me in the face up until now?” Stan asks, bewildered at his friend’s patience. If Stan hadn’t been a dimwit and worked out his feelings sooner instead of pushing them to the back of his mind, he’s certain he would have crumbled fairly quickly. They would have been hugging like this much sooner.
“I don’t know. I’m tempted to do it right now for all the misery you’ve caused.”
“Hey now, I also fixed things, right? Doesn’t that count for anything?”
“It does,” Kyle admits. He’s sitting on Stan’s lap now, hands on Stan’s chest and cheek resting in the crook of his neck. Stan’s chin is on his hair, and he has pushed himself to Kyle’s headboard so he can rest his back against the wood while holding Kyle tight.
“Enough for another kiss?” Stan asks, albeit a little bashfully. To say kissing Kyle had plagued his mind was an understatement. The entire duration of his arm being broken had him thinking about it.
“Another?”
“Like the one eight years ago.”
Kyle lets out a small oh, followed by a laugh. He pulls away from Stan’s embrace just enough to look up at him and grin. “Sure, Stan.”
Their second kiss isn’t nearly as dramatic as their first. There’s no imagined blood or genuine tears on either of their cheeks. There’s no screaming in the background or the threat of oncoming traffic rushing the two either. The kiss is slow, gentle, and maybe only similar to their first in that it was warm.
When Kyle pulls away, Stan’s eyes lock onto his. He looks uncertain and sheepish, which is a rare sight to behold.
“What?” Stan asks. Kyle’s face reddens and he grumbles something unintelligible as he buries his face into Stan’s shoulder. “What is it?” Stan laughs.
“It was such an innocent kiss but...” Kyle readjusts himself on Stan’s lap, and Stan feels it.
“Oh, um,” Stan tries to shift his crotch away from Kyle’s, suddenly very self-aware of what was transpiring between them.
“Sorry,” Kyle croaks, fingers curled into Stan’s shirt. His cheeks are beet red, and he’s incapable of meeting Stan’s gaze. Stan’s earlier thoughts of his best friend being pretty come back tenfold, and suddenly he’s possessed to kiss him again, so he does. He removes his good arm from hugging Kyle’s back so that he can bring his hand to his chin instead. Stan lifts Kyle’s head until their eyes are leveled, and waits until the other finally looks at him. He gives him a quick peck, and smiles.
“I really like you,” Stan blurts.
“Fuck you,” Kyle whines. He punches Stan in the shoulder of his uninjured arm, albeit gently.
“Huh?! What’d I do?”
“You said it so easily!”
“That I like you?”
“Yes! And you’re kissing me like its nothing!”
“That’s not true,” Stan argues. “I’m not kissing you like it’s nothing! I’m—” He feels like he’s losing his mind. He wants to kiss him deeper, hold him tighter, and rephrase like into love. It was an intense feeling, and he thinks it’s a little too soon to be coming on so strong. “I’m kissing you ‘cause it means everything to me. Not just your lips; I mean you Kyle. I—”
He wants to say more, but Kyle leans forward and kisses him again. It’s another chaste kiss, but something about it has Stan feeling hot to the touch and breathless. He thinks maybe it’s the knowledge that Kyle is straddling his lap while aroused. He regrets thinking this, because it’s starting to spread to his groin too. He feels his cock twitch with interest when they kiss again.
“I’ve liked you for so fucking long,” Kyle admits. “When we were so damn young.”
“We’re still young.”
“That’s why I’m mad at you for saying you like me so easily.” He kisses Stan again, albeit roughly. Stan moans in shock as Kyle licks against his lips. He parts them for Kyle and lets the other explore his mouth. When he pulls away, Stan’s lips are slick with a mix of his and Kyle’s saliva, and hot breath from their panting has Stan working up a sweat. He shifts uncomfortably, not from Kyle’s weight, but from the tightness in his pants. “I could never say it to you. I struggled for years dude. And then you just casually decide you like me as more than a friend and that’s that! You got what you wanted!”
“Isn’t this also what you wanted?”
“Yes! And I’m pissed. Why’d you have to be so stupid?” He kisses Stan again. This time it’s a rough series of pecks. “Why’d you have to take so long?”
Stan doesn’t know if Kyle wants a genuine apology or not. Just to be safe, he whispers he’s sorry and wraps his arm back around the other’s waist, pulling him in for another kiss. Before Stan knows it, he and Kyle are sloppily making out while grinding against each other’s erections, moaning breathily into each other’s mouths. The room is silent with the exception of their wet lips moving in unison and the occasional noise that escapes the back of their throats when the friction between their groins grows unbearable. Part of Stan thinks he can do this with Kyle forever. Another part of him thinks he’ll explode if they don’t relieve the pressure building between their legs.
Luckily for him, Kyle reads his mind. Or maybe he’s in his own world too, and merely decisive enough to action his desires.
“Stan?”
“Yeah?”
“Is it alright with you if I indulge for a bit?”
“Dude, do whatever you want with me.”
Kyle’s eyes flash with something akin to fiendish, but then it’s gone in an instant. “I’ll remember that,” he says with a serious nod. Stan swallows nervously, not sure what he just unlocked, but apparently he’d find out soon enough.
It’s then, in Kyle’s room, that Stan learns how astonishingly deprived he let his best friend become over the span of their childhood well into their late teens. Stan is sucked dry, hard again in mere minutes after being given the show of a lifetime when Kyle finger-fucks himself in front of Stan, and then ridden through his second orgasm of that night. He barely has the mind to text his parents that he’ll be staying over at Kyle’s. Neither his parents nor the Broflovski’s bat an eye to this in the past. Stan staying over was the norm. Stan has extra clothes in Kyle’s room, both overnight and for the next day, and toiletries for as long as they’ve known him. Gerald often joked that Stan was their third son, and now as he finishes brushing his teeth and sneaking back into Kyle’s room, Stan wonders how Kyle’s dad will react when that soon becomes the reality, because Stan doesn’t have a doubt in his mind that he isn’t meant to be with Kyle.
“How’s your arm?” Kyle asks as Stan crawls under the covers with him, careful not to crush his arm as he snuggles with Kyle.
“In the way,” Stan complains. He places his cast over Kyle’s chest, and the other gently lies his forearm on top. Even though Stan can’t feel it, Kyle rubs his thumb over it while assuring Stan that he’ll be out of it soon.
“You’ll have to do some physio, but I think you’ll bounce back fast enough to play some games before we graduate —assuming the team can get far enough without you.”
Stan snorts. “We’re not that great, even with me on the team.”
“Hey, sometimes luck plays a really big part in it.”
Stan drags his arm up to Kyle’s face, and lets his thumb peeking out of its plaster rub the soft skin of his freckled cheek.
“That’s true,” he agrees, feeling incredibly lucky in that moment to have Kyle talk sense into his doubtful, self-deprecating thoughts. He doesn’t like to admit it, but a lot of his self-worth had stemmed from him maintaining his position in their high school’s football team. When they won a game, Stan felt a sense of significance. Otherwise, he worried he fell to the background quite easily —a supporting character in other people’s lives.
Kyle shifts until the covers spill from his shoulders. Stan’s heart skips a beat when the other hovers over his lying body. He brings his hand to Stan’s chest, and Stan automatically puts his hand on top. Kyle is looking down at him with those brilliant green eyes, and after a quick exchange of silent smiles, Kyle leans down to kiss Stan. It’s akin to their first; warm and, for some reason, emotional. It makes Stan want to cry as hard as he did back then. He has no idea how to express what he’s feeling in that moment, but the unrelenting constriction of his heart makes him think he’s dying. When Kyle looked at him like this, Stan didn’t feel quite as insignificant. Despite the other kids proceeding to play superheroes, Kyle couldn’t continue on without him. The fact that Kyle treated him like he was his entire world, even when Stan was oblivious to his feelings, made his eyes sting.
But they were young. They still had time to make up for the years passed.
He pulls Kyle down onto his chest and holds him close, kissing his curls and inhaling his familiar scent. Stan would have been told he was crazy for thinking this out loud, but he's certain he’d break his arm a thousand times over if it led to him holding Kyle in them now.