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Randy Marsh liked to believe himself a simple man, with simple pleasures (which was a delusion of unprecedented magnitude, as anyone in South Park, possibly all of the United States, can attest). One of his simplest, most fulfilling pleasures was living vicariously through his one and only son. So when he and Sharon walked into their house greeted by a cacophony of sex noises from upstairs, he puffed his chest, cracked a beer, and immediately settled into the couch to gloat about his progenies sexual prowess.
He tried first with Sharon, who dumped the groceries on the counter unpacked and left unceremoniously when a high pitched voice wailed their son's name. Then he called Gerald, always ready to lord it over his head when Stan proved more masculine and virile than his little friend.
“What?” Gerald demanded, disbelieving, when Randy outlined the situation for him, “Stan’s with a girl? Right now? Are you sure?”
“Oh yeah, man, positive. You should hear her, she’s getting railed!” He bragged, holding up the phone briefly, hoping the screaming chorus of “Ah, Ah, Ah”s and the tortured squeaking of the bedsprings were audible. “My little man, a bona fide Don Juan!”
“Huh, that’s- strange,” Gerald muttered, trailing off. Randy was annoyed that he didn’t sound more impressed with Stan’s god-like stamina and ability to play his partner like a fiddle, which he’d obviously inherited from none other than his father, and sought to remedy the oversight immediately. No man’s apathy could withstand the awesome force of Randy Marsh’s fatherly self-wank.
“Nothing strange about it, Compadre,” Randy sniffed, thumbing at his nose. “Marsh men really know how to please our partner.”
“Right, right, hey Randy, I’m gonna have to call you back,” Gerald said, still distracted. He hung up part way through Randy’s indignant spluttering, calling for his wife as the phone went dead. Shrugging off his offence at Gerald’s unceremonious cutting off of the conversation, Randy made the rounds, calling everyone he could think of, proudly holding up the phone so they could hear the evidence of his boy’s stamina and prowess.
He spoke at near about twenty people, through three rounds of rambunctious fucking, accidentally including Shelly and Sharon in those numbers. Shelly picked up just in time to hear Stan’s partner squealing for him to go harder, yelled, “Ew, Dad!” and hung up (it would be nearly three months before she unblocked his number). Sharon ignored him three times before answering just in time to hear the beginning of round three and didn’t even bother to say anything (she also blocked him, which, rude).
Two hours after they returned to find their home transformed into a den of teenage depravity, the sex marathon wound down and the shower started. Five minutes after that, Randy’s phone rang and he picked up, smug and eager to continue bragging at Gerald. They hadn’t said five words to each other before two pairs of footsteps started down the stairs.
“Oh, oh, Gerald, here they come!” Randy hissed excitedly, flapping his free hand a little, splashing beer on his jeans. “I can’t wait to see the babe Stan bagged for himself! Fifty bucks she can’t walk straight-“
“Randy, hang on-“
Randy arranged himself into a nonchalant pose in the corner of the couch for a better view, tipping his beer into a salute and trying not to be too obvious as he craned his head for a better view.
“Well, hey there son,” he started, giving up on discretion and trying to tilt his body to see around Stan’s bulk, and-
Stan froze halfway down the stairs, eyes wide like a deer in the headlights, the languid relaxation in his gait disappearing with a strangled, high pitched, “Dad?!?! What, when-”
A flash of dark red curls peaked just past Stan’s shoulder, a pale hand coming up to clutch at Stan’s bicep, and damn, hell yeah- “A redhead, huh? Good choice, Champ, she sounds like a real firecracker there-”
“Randy!”
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Stan groaned, eyes squinting shut. He pinched the bridge of his nose the way he did since he was a boy when people were being stupid, which, Hey, what the fuck? Randy was just trying to show how proud he was of his boy, just wanted to share in Stan’s successes, to bond with his son, was that so bad?
“Randy!”
“Jesus, Gerald, what?”
“Would you put Kyle on the phone, please.” Gerald’s voice was carefully calm, bordering on deadpan. Randy squinted, lips pursed, searching fruitlessly for the punchline. He set down his beer. Picked it back up. Used it to nudge his balls out of a crease where the fabric was beginning to pinch them.
“Gerald, what the fuck are you talking about?”
“Oh, Jesus Christ!”
“Stanley! I’m on the phone!”
“Oh, my God, dude, I can’t,” Stan said, muffled a bit by his hand, which had spread out to cover his whole face. That pale hand reached up to pat Stan’s hunched shoulder and a short, skinny body edged around and down the stairs. Randy drank up the view, eager to find out what kinda chick Stan had bagged for himself. Thin calves, up to decently thick thighs, okay, nice nice, with hips that flared out a bit, shame that, but there was enough of a curve to the side that there was hope for a juicy ass, tiny waist, super flat chest, boo, and… broad shoulders? He finally dragged his eyes up far enough to see a face he’d known since toddlerhood, and a cloud of red hair he’d only started really seeing this past year with any regularity, and oh.
Oh.
OOOoohhhhh.
Kyle Broflovski slunk down the stairs with his head held stiff, staring resolutely straight ahead. He didn’t make eye contact, didn’t bother to say anything, just plucked the phone from Randy’s slackening fingers, ignoring his gaping mouth and wide eyes. Stan sunk slowly onto the stairs, head disappearing into both hands now.
“Hey Dad,” Kyle said, voice flat and low and so very, very different from what had echoed through the house for the last few hours. Gerald was speaking, just as measured as before, and Kyle was responding in kind, eyes locked on the top of Randy’s head. After an excruciating two minute exchange, Kyle hung up the phone, politely handed it back to Randy, and looked over his shoulder at Stan. “I have to get home. Apparently, my father has a new and- intimate knowledge of what I sound like during sex, and my parents want to discuss that. So.”
“Oh, my God,” Stan moaned weakly. Randy couldn’t see him around Kyle, couldn’t wrap his mind around the situation fully yet regardless. He just kept holding his beer in one hand, and his cell in the other, and staring up at his son’s best friend, with whom his boy had apparently been swapping various and untold bodily fluids with for who knows how long now.
Kyle cleared his throat hard, stared blankly in Stan’s direction for a bit, then muttered, “bye, dude,” and walked out. He forgot his coat but Randy didn’t suppose he’d be back for it any time soon. As he left, Randy was, somehow, perversely pleased to see him limping through his stiff gait. Sunnuvabitch, Gerald owed him fifty big ones. That smug pride he’d been sharing all afternoon started to rekindle; after all, Marsh men were known for their virility and stamina and awesome ability to ream their partner, gender notwithstanding.
He allowed Stan to wallow in the following silence, nurturing that spark of vicarious delight until he nearly burst. He tamped down his ego as best he could with a swig of warm beer and decided to wait Stan out. He lasted five painful minutes.
“I thought you and mom were going out to Denver today.” He spoke clearly for someone who was trying to burrow into their own knees.
“Decided to cancel. They were calling for a blizzard this afternoon, your mom didn’t wanna chance getting caught,” Randy replied coolly through the giddiness that shivered through his chest and flushed his cheeks. He plopped his feet up on the coffee table. Stan sunk further into himself.
“You didn’t text.”
“Pshh, you were so far up Kyle’s ass that you wouldn’t have noticed.”
“Jesus, dad, can you not?” Stan groaned, flopping bonelessly against the stairs. His body was so limp he started to slide down the carpet.
Randy shrugged defensively, sloshing his beer. “What? What?? I’m not allowed to be proud of my son?!”
“No, dad! Not when that pride results in half the fucking town knowing about my sex life!” Stan yelled, popping up with a savage glare. Kid looked halfway unhinged, like he might leap down the stairs and strangle something. Pssh, yeah right.
“Aww, c’mon Stan, it’s not my fault your little boyfriend screams like a chick when he’s gettin’ banged!” Randy sniffed incredulously. “And, and- besides, how do you know I told anyone other than Gerald, huh?”
“Dad! Don’t call Kyle a chick, for fuck’s sakes! And it doesn’t matter if we’re- dating or anything, he’s my best friend! Fucking- you can treat him with a modicum of fucking respect!” Stan stood, hands balled at his sides. Randy took a sip of his beer. “And I fucking- didn’t, until right now, so thanks for really demonstrating how much of an asshole you are! Do you know, can you even understand hot fucking embarrassing it is that you dragged my love life around town? Fuck!”
“Stan-”
“No, fuck you dad! Keep your fucking nose out of my business!” Stan turned on his heel and stomped upstairs, and Jesus, how could one boy sound like an entire parade of elephants?
“Stan? Stan! C’mon, bud-”
“Well Randy, I hope you’re happy with yourself,” Sharon said, brushing past him. Her hands were full of bursting bags, and he could hear the distinct clinking of glass bottles hitting against each other.
“What? Oh, what Sharon? What did I do?!”
God, some people.
**
It was cold by the time he walked through the front door of his house. He couldn’t bear the thought of going home directly, so he’d made his way up the street to the basketball court, and when that wasn’t enough to cool the storm of rage and anxiety he walked up towards the movie theater and curved over to the u-storage and back down again.
It took walking the circuit twice before he could breathe, and once more before the chill fully set in and he regretted forgetting his jacket. The sun sunk behind the mountains and that blizzard Mr. Marsh had mentioned before was finally reaching them. Visibility was nearing zero, but thankfully, almost every South Park resident could walk their town dumb, deaf and blind. That stubborn assertion was proven correct, at least in Kyle’s case, and he opened the door thankfully to the familiar scent of his own home.
He entered as quietly as possible, even though he knew his parents would be lying in wait for him. True enough, he only had enough time to untie his boots with numb fingers before the ambush.
“Bubbeh, is that you? Where were you? We’ve been waiting for an hour!” His mother called, bustling out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a tea towel. By the smell of it she had been baking challah and distantly he could recognize his excitement for it. His father hovered at her shoulder, a quiet, almost guilty ghost.
“I had to take a walk,” Kyle said quietly in a measured voice. His tightly leashed rage was beginning to rise in his throat, hiding the burn of humiliation beneath it. Thankfully Ike was probably hiding away in his room, buried under his headphones and laptop. With any luck he’d stay there, oblivious.
“Well, you could’ve let us know, young man! We’ve been worried sick!”
“Sorry, Ma, I forgot my jacket. I really can’t talk right now,” he said, heading up the stairs without waiting for permission. It was a part of his anger management that he and his mother worked through their boundary issues, and if there was ever a time when he needed her to heed those lessons, it was now.
“Kyle, come back here this instance! We need to talk about this!”
“Ma!” He whipped around, the tears he’d been too angry to shed just beginning to escape and his voice cracking as he broke down. “I just. Said. I need a minute! Please.”
Sheila Broflovski had many flaws, her stubbornness being one of her worst, but she wasn’t bullheaded enough to refuse her eldest his space. She backed down with a sigh and waved him off, clutching at Gerald’s hand when it landed on her shoulder.
“All right Bubbeh, take some time and we’ll sit down to discuss this later. I love you.” He blew out a huge, shuddering breath and continued to his room.
This was all a huge shit show. God, he can’t imagine what school will be like come Monday. No, that’s a lie. He knows exactly how it’s all going to go down. Stan’s dad called half the goddamn parents of the kids in his grade, and the grapevine had a strangle hold on this fucking town. It would trickle down, and fast, and by Monday morning everyone would know he and Stan were fucking, and that Kyle screamed like a girl during intercourse, if they didn’t know already.
Fucking hell.
Who cares if he and Stan are screwing? How is it anyone’s business but theirs if they sleep together, and for that matter, how they sleep together? If anyone tried to assign bullshit, harmful stereotypes on either him or Stan, he’ll shove those stereotypes so far up their asses they’ll puke political correctness for months, fuck.
A tentative knock on the door stops Kyle from pacing a hole in the carpet and his mother says, “Kyle, Stan is here to see you. He brought your jacket for you.”
All the fury coiled in his muscles drained away in a second, leaving his limbs weak and rubbery, and though his heart still raced he cracked the door and stared at his mom with red eyes and a red face. Stan stood behind her, shoulders hunched in tight like he was trying to appear smaller than his behemoth body could possibly be.
“Thanks Ma.”
She frowned at him, not mad, not disappointed, just- sympathetically. Like she possibly understood the ramifications of what happened, the shitstorm that would rain down on them. No one in South Park understood the meaning of the word discretion, or privacy. He dreaded to think of his family being privy to any more details of his personal life than they already were.
“When you’re finished, come downstairs please. Both of you.”
Kyle huffed in acknowledgement, too exhausted to do anything more and tugged Stan into his room. They both collapsed onto the bed, curling against each other. Stan was still cold from the brief walk, smelled like fresh snow and crisp wind. He felt good against Kyle’s overheated skin, exactly what he needed. Like always.
“I’m sorry,” Stan whispered, nuzzling into Kyle’s hair the way he did when he was particularly distressed. He’d done it frequently when they were very young, overwhelmed and incapable of processing his emotions. He stopped doing it through the later half of elementary and middle school, but started up in high school, just before he broke up with Wendy for the final time and started flirting with Kyle seriously. Kyle, for his part, had always enjoyed the cuddling, and always responded by pushing his forehead comfortably against Stan’s collarbone like he did now.
“What are you sorry for,” he asked rhetorically. Stan started shifting about, probably getting hot and stuffy in his heavy winter jacket, so Kyle pushed and maneuvered them around to help get it off him. They ended up with Stan on his back, Kyle sprawled on top weighing him down. Stan said it helps with his anxiety attacks. Once they settle he continues, “it’s not your fault your parents decided not to give you a heads up that they cancelled their plans. And it’s sure and Shit not your fault that your father has no sense of boundaries and broadcast our sex life to half the town. None of that comes back to you, Stan.”
“I mean, I know that, but-”
“No buts,” Kyle said firmly, raising his head just enough to give Stan a stern look. "I’m not letting you blame yourself for the actions of another person, even if they are your father. Repeat after me: Tonight was not my fault.”
“Kyle-”
“Stanley. Repeat it.”
Stan stares up at him, lips just beginning to tremble. He swallows hard and manages the weakest, least convincing, “Tonight was not my fault.”
“Again,” Kyle demands, bracing his hands under Stan’s shoulders to keep his own aloft while he relaxes the rest of his body as much as possible to maximize the squishing. Stan’s breath wooshes out of him, but he seems at least a bit more settled.
“Tonight was not my fault.” It was stronger, almost convincing, so Kyle brushed a gentle kiss against Stan’s cheek and whispered against his skin.
“One more time Stan, say it for me one more time like you mean it,” he pleaded, whining just a touch like he did when he was desperate for his best friend, when he was on the edge of begging for it. He rolled his hips in a tease, not enough to get either of them hard, but enough to evoke the memory of Saturday mornings in a silent house, of lazy grinding and orgasms so gentle neither of them even realized, of that quiet intimacy that had existed between them their whole goddamn lives. “One more time.”
“Tonight was not my fault.”
“That’s it,” Kyle moaned, rewarding Stan with a nice kiss, coaxing out his tongue to suck on eagerly. If they hadn’t spent all day having increasingly athletic, exuberant sex, Kyle would be more than tempted to let it go on, but his parents were waiting for them to have a very embarrassing, more than likely utterly unnecessary chat with them, so he pulled back after only a couple minutes, peppering Stan’s face in feather light kisses. “You’re so good for me Stan, so good.”
“Jesus Kyle,” Stan whined, legs and hips tensing to stop himself from humping up against Kyle’s body. His hands had made their way down to grab possessively at Kyle’s hips, hands comfortably tucked into the back pockets of his jeans. Kyle grinned down at him, fully aware he was being a shit, and not really caring too much. Frustration was a much better look for Stan than misery so Kyle was keen to count it as a win. He rolled off of Stan so that he was only partially on the other boy's chest and propped his head on his hand.
“Feeling better dude?”
“I mean, a little. I still feel like shit that the situation happened, but you’re hell to argue with, you know that?” Stan smiled back, still worn around the eyes, but looking much better.
“Debate team, mother fucker!” Kyle took a second to enjoy his hard won snort from Stan. “But seriously, you know it wasn’t on you. Yes, the situation is shitty, yes life is probably gonna suck for a bit, but honestly, it’s not going to be the end of the world. The only person who’s gonna be unbearable is Cartman, and we know how to shut his ass up pretty quick, right? Hell, maybe we could pay Kenny to drum up a bigger scandal, get the heat off us for a bit. He’s like, scary good at blackmail.”
Stan didn’t reply, but smiled indulgently and burrowed his way back into Kyle’s hair. They laid there cuddling until Kyle’s phone buzzed obnoxiously in his jacket pocket.
“Well,” he grumbled, reluctantly untangling their limbs and rolling off the bed. “Guess we’d better face the music.”
As long as they were together, they could make it through whatever life chose to throw at them.
And ultimately, his parents didn’t actually throw that much at them.
Sheila and Gerald sat at the dining room table, stone faced and side by side, presenting a unified front. Ike, thankfully, was still absent from the situation. Whether that was by chance or design, Kyle didn’t want to know yet. The thought of his baby brother knowing a single thing about his sex life was even worse than his parents knowing, despite the fact that Ike had matured sexually way earlier than Kyle did, and probably had three times the amount of experience. It was mortifying regardless. Ike would always be the babiest of brothers.
Stan and Kyle, equally stone faced, took their seats across from his parents and, together, they waited.
“So, boys,” Gerald began, scratching idly at the back of his hand, “this is a development neither of us were aware of.”
“What your father means to say,” Sheila broke in before Kyle could retort, “is that we have a few questions, and while they may seem- invasive, especially after what happened today, we’re all going to be forthright and honest with each other. Understand?”
“Mom, I don’t know if either of us are comfortable with that,” Kyle grumbled, crossing his arms and sinking down into his seat. Stan sat like someone had welded an iron rod to his spine, clutching at his knees.
“Now, Kyle, give it a chance. These kinds of discussions are best held openly and with as little insinuation as possible.” Kyle rolled his eyes but conceded, staring until she asked her first question. “So. When did you two first start- having intercourse?”
“Oh, good, we’re gonna be clinical about this. Fine, all right. We first began having intercourse five months ago. It took approximately one month of intercurial sex before we progressed to full penetrative intercourse.” Kyle and his mother held uncomfortable eye contact through Kyle’s entire speech, while Gerald and Stan refused to look at each other. Stan zeroed in on a pretty faberge egg, admiring how well the pink and gold went together while he vehemently regretted every decision he’d ever made. Gerald, on the other side, stared at the menorah and noted that it needed a nice polish.
“Very well. And are you two dating?”
“We haven’t really talked about it.” Sheila frowned severely, shoulders drawn back.
“What what what?? And do you boys use condoms? Are you being safe? Sleeping around with other people? How can you respect each other's boundaries if you aren’t discussing these things?” She demanded. Stan could hear the click of her cherry red nails tapping against her arm rests. Kyle reared up defensively, perching on the edge of his seat like he was about to jump up.
“Jesus, mom, what exactly do you take us for? Yes we’re being safe, we’re respecting each others boundaries, and neither of us are sleeping with other people. I don’t need to label our relationship because Stan is my best friend, my person, the one person in the world that I would ever trust with my whole self! I love him, and that’s enough for me! I don’t need to call him my boyfriend because he’s Stan.” Kyle waved his hands uselessly, utterly unprepared to lay out the totality of what he felt. He had stood at some point and Stan was looking up at him with wide eyes. He gave a resigned, defeated shrug. “We’ve talked about the important stuff, mom. You should trust us enough to know that’s the truth.”
Sheila stared at them both with that familiar piercing stare she’d always get when she knew they were up to something and she was trying to decide how dangerous it was, and if she should shut it down. After what felt like a small eternity, she eased back into her chair, relaxing. Gerald, it seemed, hadn’t looked up from the menorah once.
“Very well boys, we trust you to take care of each other.” Kyle flopped back into his seat like his strings were cut, draped bonelessly and leaning hard towards Stan. “Now, do either of you have any questions for Gerald or I? Because anal sex can be quite dangerous if done incorrectly, and you’re very delicate Bubbeh.”
“Jesus, Mother! No! I think we’re well versed enough at this point not to worry!”
“Well I don’t know, do I! And apparently Stanley is- quite well endowed, so the chance for something to go wrong is much higher-”
“Ma!”
“I’m just saying, Kyle-”
As their argument escalated, Stan leaned forward to address Gerald, trying desperately to tune out how the discussion was, increasing, becoming an in depth back and forth about how big his dick may or may not have been. Tentatively he venture, “Uh, Mr. Broflovski?”
“Oh, c’mon Stanley, you’ve known me your whole life, I think you can call me Gerald by now.” Dark hazel eyes slid lazily to him and a flippant smirk spread over his face. Stan grinned back awkwardly and nodded half-assed.
“Right, right. How, uh, I mean, you’ve been married for a long time now, right?”
“That I have, kid. Twenty years and going strong.” Stan was struck, abruptly, that he had never before noticed how sharp Kyle’s father’s gaze could be. He knew the man was intelligent, had been bailed out of too many stupid situations by him before not to have noticed, but he’d never seen how keen, how shrewd the man was under his appearance of obliviousness.
“Yeah, cool. That’s amazing. I just- how have you stayed together for so long without, like- I dunno, getting sick of each other? I guess?” He fumbled, lacing and unlacing his fingers anxiously. Gerald shook his head with a laugh that went unheard beneath the rising volume of Kyle and Sheila.
“With these two? You smile and nod and pick your battles. But you grew up with Kyle, you know perfectly well how to handle him. What you have to figure out is how your needs and his needs fit and differ. Nothing is more important than open and honest communication and respecting boundaries. Figure out your problems before they fester and poison your relationship.” Gerald paused, waited while Kyle and Sheila took their discussion (it had moved on, bizarrely enough, to debating the pros and cons of different types of lube) into the kitchen, both waving their hands. “Look, I love my wife and son, but they have very strong, aggressive personalities and they love to be right. You, as a partner, need to be firm enough to meet them head on, but flexible enough not to break under the onslaught. It’s a thin line, but I think you’ll be just fine.”
Gerald stood with a creak and a groan and glanced at the clock. “Well, time for bed for this old man.”
Stan followed close behind as Gerald meandered into the kitchen, breaking them up easily and quietly by resting his hands on Sheila’s shoulders and interjecting.
“Sheila, my beautiful wife, and light of my life, please leave our son alone and come to bed.” Sheila simpered, fondly patting her husband’s chest and fluttering like a young girl with her first crush and Stan wondered if Kyle had ever looked at him with such infatuation.
“Oh, fine, bedtime it is.” She turned and pointed at Kyle, who met her head on with an unimpressed frown. “We’ll continue this discussion later, young man! Good night, Bubbeh, Stanley.”
She pressed a kiss to each of their cheeks and bustled out, corralling Gerald out and up to bed. Stan hesitated for all of two seconds before he swooped in and wrapped Kyle in a firm hug. The weight of Kyle’s arms around his waist was a comfort and they swayed in the kitchen, content in their cocoon of warmth.
“It’s about time you two came out publicly as butt buddies.”
“Jesus, Ike! What the shit?!” Kyle snapped.
His brother stared at them, slurping at a juicebox that he knew Kyle couldn’t have as loudly as possible.
“Just saying,” he said around the chewed up straw, “I’m amazed no one caught on before now; you two are about as subtle as food poisoning from City Wok.”
“The fuck is that even supposed to mean?” Stan muttered into Kyle’s hair, refusing to release him even when he started wiggling like a cat.
“It means you two are explosive, noisy and painful,” Ike snorted, shooting his empty juice box at the trash can. It bounced off the counter halfway and fell to the floor. Kyle growled, trying to drop his weight so he’d slip out of Stan’s arms. Stan adjusted so one leg was just pushed between Kyle’s. “Seriously, when Stan comes a-knocking, there’s a five minute pause before the bed starts a-rocking. And I know for a fact that you two have fucked while mom and dad were home, I don’t know how they didn’t hear.”
“Gross, Ike! Can we stop discussing our sex life, please? I’ve had enough of that for a lifetime,” Kyle groaned, finally giving up on his escape. He’d ended with one arm sticking straight up beside Stan’s head and one leg awkwardly braced against the counter behind.
“Sorry Kyle, this is your reality now. Everyone else gets to suffer like I have since the first time you two slept together. I have a deep and intimate knowledge of what you like during sex, and it’s all because you’re disturbingly vocal. So. Cheers for that.” Ike saluted cheekily and wandered out of the kitchen chortling like an asshole.
They stayed where they were, swaying in their awkward embrace. Stan felt a little bad but he kinda wanted to see how long it would take Kyle to start squirming again. When another five minutes passed and Kyle still didn’t say anything, Stan started to slowly drag him, shifting one arm to hook under Kyle’s raised leg. His other foot dragged behind them limply and he relaxed until Stan was supporting all his weight.
“You gonna help now?” Stan asked when they reached the stairs, smiling a little at how Kyle’s petulance presented itself. Kyle groaned and somehow managed to drop even more dead weight onto him. How the hell someone so fucking skinny managed to be so heavy, Stan would never know, but gamely he adjusted his grip and hoisted Kyle fully into his arms. He thanked god every day that he stuck with football so long; the amount of times he found himself in the position of hefting Kyle about were many and close between, and not just in the bedroom.
He got them safely to Kyle’s bedroom, then his bed, and Stan decided it was his turn to do some crushing, so he dropped onto Kyle’s limp, sprawled body, stuffing his face into the curve of his neck and deciding that, yes, he could quite happily live there for the rest of his life. Kyle huffed dramatically, whining nonverbally about the inconvenience but he didn’t object so Stan happily stayed where he was.
In the pitch black of the bedroom, basking in the warmth of another body, of Kyle’s body, beneath him, Stan felt himself drift into a happy doze. Halfway to sleep, he mumbled, “Hey, Kyle?”
“Yeah dude?”
“I love you too. You know that, right? Everything you said downstairs, that’s how I feel too.” He rubbed his nose against the tiny mole on Kyle’s neck, the one that had caught his eye since they were kids. “You’re my person too. I’ve never felt safer with anyone than I do with you.”
“I know Stan. Like I said, we’ve talked about all the important stuff.” Kyle brushed little kisses against Stan’s hair and ear, curling around him and mimicking their embrace from earlier. “We have the rest of our lives to figure ourselves out, but I’ll never let you go. No matter what happens, you’ll always be my best friend.”
Smiling against Kyle’s skin Stan let himself drift away, cocooned in warmth and a happiness he never thought he’d get.
(As it turned out, sleeping with Stan on top was a mistake, one they’d made before and never learned from. Kyle woke up sore and completely unable to move until Stan apologetically rubbed his numb limbs and ran him a bath. They swore to never do it again, and failed miserably a week later.)