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Kyle bites the side of his thumb, staring at his reflection as he curls his toes inside his stupid ankle boots. Stan is just straightening up from tying his shoes. He is long and lean in silver and blue, with his hair flounced into sweeping volume. There is an electric blue star painted over one of his eyes. He looks like a rock star.
“Dude, you make this stuff look hot. I can’t pull it off,” Kyle says, turning sideways to see if things improve at that angle.
It is senior year and the last Halloween before they all split up for college. Stan is determined to win the costume competition at Bebe’s last house party. The glam rocker thing was his idea. It is all because of him that Kyle had to spend two hours having Shelley make over his face and straighten his hair into some kind of tower. Now he’s squeezed into pants a size too small and wearing a jacket with what looks like rocket fins attached to the shoulders.
In the mirror, Stan’s reflection steps right up behind him, and says, “Shut up, man. You look great. You look like Bowie.”
“I look like someone mentally retarded who got into the carnival supplies.”
“Kyle!”
“What?”
“Shut up, I said. I love this on you.”
They stare at their reflections together, shimmering and painted, high-power versions of themselves. Kyle lets himself imagine one of Stan’s pale hands sliding around him right now, pulling across his waist and down between his legs, jerking him off outside of those skin-tight pants, where they can both watch it happen.
His lips part in want at the thought and the movement is reflected right back at him in the mirror. It is so obvious that it sends a little flush of heat to the base of his throat and to his cheeks, where it is hidden beneath the powder. There is an intake of breath from behind him and Kyle wonders what Stan can see in the mirror.
Stan says, “We’re a million times destined to win this year, dude. Even with all the cleavage in the world, the girls won’t be able to beat us.”
“Depends who’s judging. If it’s the fat-ass again, then we’re sunk.”
“If it is, we’ll make sure we’re so drunk by then we won’t even care.”
Kyle shuffles his shoulders, trying to get the jacket to sit more comfortably and grins at Stan’s reflection. “Man, you strategise like a boss. It’s undeniable.”
“Right?” Stan says, holding out his hand for a high-five.
In the car, Stan pumps Adam & the Ants out of his speakers to ‘get them in the mood’, his hairdo quivering as he nods his head. Kyle sits beside him with the beer balanced across his thighs and watches the lights zip past the windows.
“As if you own this CD, dude,” Kyle says, when the intro to ‘Prince Charming’ starts up, “You’re such a hipster douchebag.”
“We can’t all be real geeks like you, okay? Some of us were born cool and just have to pretend.”
“You pretend so good that you’ve got me completely fooled.” Kyle reaches out to turn the stereo up higher, because he loves this song and they both know it. “Which shady dictator do you think Cartman’s picked this year?”
“My money’s on Gaddafi, dude. He gets off on being topical.”
“For sure. At least those robes will hide his fat rolls.”
Stan takes the corner onto Bebe’s street, swinging past a group of kids out trick-or-treating. Their snow boots poke out from beneath their costumes. He says, “Do you think Kenny managed to score any pot for tonight?”
Kyle shakes his head. “No way, dude. His brother would beat the crap out of him if he found he’d been in his supplies. Kenny’s probably dead right now for trying.”
“He said he’d get it.”
“Kenny says a lot of things.”
The security lights outside Bebe’s house make the star on Stan’s face look green. He puts the car in park and turns to Kyle.
“Kenny says he bets you’re a screamer in bed. Says you’re the type.”
Kyle hands over one of the six-packs and shoves open the passenger door. He loves it when Stan says shit like this. He laps it up. “You should stop believing all the things you hear, dude. Especially if they come from Kenny.”
“He only says it because he wants you to let him test his theory.”
“Kenny’s so full of shit. He’s never been with another guy.”
They crunch up the icy path to the porch, where Kyle leans on the doorbell. It is Kenny who answers the door. He is dressed like a mummy, with bandages and toilet paper coiled around his body. Tufts of blonde hair stick out from between the white strips wound over his head. His eyes are circled in something grey, which must be eye shadow; it is too faint and shimmery to be face paint. He already reeks of liquor and smoke. He hugs them both, squeezing his arms tight around Kyle’s neck and then surging into Stan like he’s about to lift him off his feet.
“Party’s on!” he hollers over his shoulder, back towards the people gathered in the living room. “My boys are here! Now shit can kick off, yo.”
Cartman’s voice, raised above the music: “Nobody fucking cares.”
Kyle wipes his boots on the mat and eyes the mess of bandages covering Kenny’s body. He says, “Please tell me there’s underwear beneath all that.”
“Ain’t nothin’ but goodness under here, bro,” Kenny grins, shaking his hips. Kyle plucks at one of the strips dangling from his arm.
“What the hell did you stick them on with? Jizz?”
“That’s right. I had to save up my jerk-off for like three weeks before I had enough.”
“Gross, dude!”
“You got something to open these?” Stan asks, holding two bottles of beer.
Kenny shakes the loose ends of his bandages clear and takes the bottles. He sets his teeth against the cap of the first, pops it off with apparent ease and does the same to the second. He passes one to Stan, the other to Kyle and then claps them both on the shoulder.
“Drink ‘em down and grab another. You guys gotta help me make this party a fucking raver.”
“Cheers to that,” Stan says, knocking the neck of his bottle against Kyle’s before they both start chugging like pros.
It is a good turnout. The place is already buzzing. There are plastic cups and beer bottles collecting on every surface. Stan and Kyle weave their way through the action, clasping the hands that are offered to them and clinking their bottles to people’s glasses, until they find Wendy and Bebe stepping in from the backyard. Underneath their coats, the girls are dressed like Magenta and Columbia from The Rocky Horror Picture Show. Wendy puts her hands on her hips as she checks out the competition.
“Well played, Marsh,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “Well played.”
Stan folds his arms across his chest, standing tall in his silver get-up. He looks so proud of himself that the hours Kyle spent being prodded by Shelley suddenly seem worth it.
“You got nothing on us this year,” Stan says, stooping so Wendy can reach to hug him.
Circling a finger in front of her own heavily made-up face, Bebe says, “I see. Trying to beat us at our own game, are you? Very clever.”
“Kyle, your eyeliner is so perfect,” Wendy says, laying a hand on his arm, because Wendy is always kind to him. Stan is the only one she is allowed to rip on. That’s been the rule forever.
Kyle touches the corner of his eye. “I didn’t do it myself.”
Wendy gaze drops lower and she gets a little dip of a frown between her eyebrows. “I’d kill for your legs too,” she says, and then, letting go of him, she looks at Stan. “You’re still going down, Marsh. I never lose.”
“We’ll see.”
Wendy turns, wide skirt bobbing. “Cosmos, Bebe? Where did you put that vodka?”
“Once I get done unwrapping Kenny’s bandages, I’ll be after you next,” Bebe says, flicking Kyle in the chest with her painted nails before she walks away. He doesn’t mind her flirting. Bebe knows his darkest secrets. She once asked him outright about his feelings for Stan and he wasn’t able to answer with anything but the truth. They’re both on the same nerdy debate team at school and whenever they partner, they wipe the floor with everyone else in the club.
Stan says, “Rocky Horror’s so standard. They’ll never win.”
Kyle wrinkles his nose, watching the swing of Bebe’s stripy hot-pants as she walks away. “I think we should follow the strategy all the same.”
“Word,” Stan says, glancing at the empty beer bottle in his hand.
They step around Craig - who is sitting on the floor and cutting a hole into a soda bottle to make a bong - get hugged by Butters in the hallway, and then end up in the kitchen, letting Wendy and Bebe mix pink drinks for them in wide brimmed glasses which slope awkwardly in the hand. The stuff spills over the edge at the slightest movement. Kyle’s wrists are sticky with it by the time the girls are mixing the second pitcher and he can already feel the warmth in his chest from drinking too quickly on an empty stomach.
Everyone is there, all the people who matter, like Wendy and Bebe and Kenny and Token and Clyde. Clyde’s wearing an old letterman jacket - not his, it’s the wrong colour for their school - which he has slashed and covered in fake blood. His face is made up like a zombie. Token is suave as fuck, dressed all in black, like Neo out of The Matrix. Kyle thinks Wendy is about to come on the spot when Token loops an arm around her and smiles down with brilliant teeth. This is their group, their team, their tiny army against the rest of the world.
Since the start of the year there’s been this feeling in the air, a buzz from the time bomb hanging over their heads. Once they graduate high school, things will change. Most of them have college to attend. Even Kenny has a job lined up, working on cars with his uncle in Arizona. Life as they know it will go up in smoke. They can’t escape that. It is their fate and they accept it.
But they are all determined to make this last year really count.
Scream is showing on a TV in the corner. Nobody is watching; they have all seen it a million times before. They are busy ripping on Cartman for his determination to only drink the expensive imported beers which he won’t share with anyone else, when Kenny is suddenly herding them into the middle of the room, sloshing vodka into any glass which looks too empty.
“Guys, we need a moment here,” he says, slinging one arm around Bebe, one around Kyle, waiting for the others to follow his lead to make one big connected circle.
“Speech,” Token cries.
“Dude, what the fuck do you think I’m doing. Give me a chance,” Kenny says, tightening his arm around Kyle. “We’ve come a long way you guys. These parties, man. I’m gonna remember this shit for the rest of my life. I’ll remember you all as the best fun I ever had. No matter where I go or what I do.”
“Hell yes,” Stan says. He is standing across the circle from Kyle.
“That’s the spirit, Marsh,” Clyde says, then adds in his football voice, “Go Wildcats!”
“Shit, it almost makes me feel sad to be leaving this place,” Kenny says, then leaves a pause, where everyone waits for the punch-line.
“Dude,” says Wendy, when the pause goes on too long.
“But then I remember what a shit-hole this town is and I thank fuck I got my ticket out of here!”
“Man, get your glasses.” Token shoves his beer into the centre of their ring and the rest of them copy him, pushing their drinks forwards to close the empty space.
“Here’s to just one more year in this ball-sack of a town!” Kenny cries. Their glasses crash together, sending beer and coke and sticky pink dribbling down to the floor. Kenny’s eyes are dancing. Like it’s a secret, he says, “Nothing can touch us, you guys. We’re invincible.”
Kyle feels that too. He feels invincible. He looks across the circle, finds Stan already staring at him, and with a giddy rush to the head, realises that this is it. This is the night when things can change.
A scream from the TV breaks their moment. The circle comes undone as people turn to look at the screen.
“Dude, this is the bit where the girl gets crushed in the garage door,” Stan says, looking away. “I hate that part.”
“Sweet.” Cartman steps closer to the TV, flicking the loose end of his turban over his shoulder.
“Me too, man,” Kyle says to Stan. “You nearly puked first time we watched it. Remember?”
“I know. It was fucking sick.”
Bebe’s tap shoe clicks as she stamps her foot against the kitchen tile. “Nobody is to get crushed at my goddamn party, you all hear me?” she says, then points a finger at Kenny. “Especially you.”
He laughs and tops up her drink. “Don’t worry. I’ve got a good feeling about tonight.”
*
Things get messy by around eleven-thirty.
Someone has ordered pizzas and the boxes are everywhere now, full of half-eaten crusts and smears of cheese. Cartman is leaning against the refrigerator, taking up half the space in the room with his opinions. Wendy has already rolled her eyes and walked out on the discussion. Now she is dancing wildly with Token to Blink 182 in the living room. Tweek is a quivering wreck, clinging to the walls after a turn outside with Craig’s bong. Scream has been replaced by SAW and Stan won’t even look at the TV screen. From somewhere upstairs comes a crash like falling furniture.
“All I’m saying is that people on welfare need to stop being such filthy scroungers and get some fucking jobs,” Cartman says, jabbing his bottle towards Kyle in emphasis. “The only reason we even need health reforms is to help people like that manage their STDs and inbred deformities. Get rid of the welfare douche-bags. Problem solved.”
Kyle almost clutches at his styled hair in frustration, but Stan catches his wrist just in time.
“Oh my God,” he says, staring at Cartman, “I know this is you I’m talking to and that I should totally expect it, but seriously, I can’t even believe what you’re saying right now.”
Cartman shrugs. “Welfare kills economies.”
“How are you saying that?” Kyle’s voice sounds shrill coming out of his mouth. He wishes Wendy was still here to back him up. Bebe’s keeping quiet. She has her straw in her mouth even though her glass is empty. Now Kenny pushes himself away from the counter, scowling.
“My family’s on welfare, asswipe.”
Cartman looks at him. “Right. And don’t you sometimes wish someone would kick their lazy asses into shape for the good of the rest of us?”
“No, dude. I don’t.”
“You’re such a liar, Kenny.”
Bebe grabs Kenny’s arm. One of his bandages, a paper one, is dripping cocktail pink. She tears the soggy part off and nudges him in the direction of the doorway.
“Let’s go make out, boo,” she says.
Kenny stops glaring at Cartman. He looks at Bebe instead and sucks his bottom lip between his teeth. “You’re so on,” he says, and, turning to Kyle on his way out, “You ought to bail too, dude. We don’t need bloodshed.”
But Kyle’s not ready to let it lie.
“You have no reason to be down on health reforms. That shit benefits our society, dude. You’re going to need it when you’re dying of a heart attack because your arteries are clogged to hell after being clinically obese for most of your life.”
“I can pay for my healthcare, Jew. I don’t hoard all my money-”
“You don’t have any money! Your Mom still pays for everything.”
“I don’t keep it hoarded away like a goddamn troll.”
“What the actual fuck?” Kyle says, looking at Stan, who smiles and raises his eyebrows.
“Like a troll, dude. You heard.”
“Do trolls hoard?”
“Apparently they do.”
“You guys are such fags,” Cartman snaps. “You watch. This will be the fall of our nation. That’s what happens when you get a bunch of fucking hippies in the White House.”
Kyle throws up his hands, because it’s suddenly not stressful any more. It’s just funny.
“Anything against the Democrats, dude,” he says. “You’ll disagree with anything as long as it spites the Democrats. And the really retarded thing is that if you did not have your head shoved so far up your fat ass about not having the same politics as me then you would probably be a fucking Democrat.”
“You need to stop reading New York Times columnists, Kyle. They’re brainwashing you.”
“Jesus,” Kyle says, looking at Stan again. “I can’t.”
“Then let’s go make out.”
Stan is joking, Kyle knows that, but it still makes his stomach flip. He smiles, though, and says, “Sure,” like it’s nothing.
Cartman makes a noise like an elephant, a kind of trumpeting scoff. “You guys make me so sick,” he says, pointing a threatening finger at Stan. “You need to watch out. You’re going to catch something from him.”
“Well, that’s okay,” Stan says, with a glance in Kyle’s direction, “That’s what health reforms are for.”
Cartman looks like he is about to explode, but Kyle laughs so hard that Stan has to put an arm around him to stop him going down and knocking himself out against the countertop.
“Jesus Christ, why don’t you just seal the deal already, you stupid fucking pussy. Everyone knows about you guys anyway, the way Kyle’s been gagging for your dick since sixth grade,” Cartman says, as he shoulders his way past Stan. “You might as well put him out of his misery.”
“Screw you, dude,” Stan says, without force. Kyle straightens up, trying to wipe away tears without smudging eyeliner all over his face.
He notices that they are suddenly alone in the kitchen and standing very close together.
“What?” he says, and Stan says, “Nothing.”
For a second, he has the strange sensation that they are about to kiss. There’s the right kind of taste in the air. Then the opening bars of ‘What’s My Age Again’ start up from the other room, along with Craig’s voice yelling, “Fucking yes!”
Stan punches him in the arm. “Dude, our song,” he says, “Come on.”
In the living room, they join the jumping huddle in the middle of the floor, moshing hard with their friends’ bodies knocking against their own.
*
Evening shifts to dead of night and people get lost in little drunken bubbles of their own. Jimmy and Red are singing karaoke without any music. Craig is using Wendy’s scarlet lipstick to draw on Tweek’s face. The house is warm enough to steam the windows. At the table, where there’s a card game going strong, Kyle finds a bra hanging on the back of the chair he is about to sit down on. It is lacy and thin and moves in his fingers like something alive. He dangles it at arm’s length.
“Put that back on,” Cartman says. “Nobody wants to see your ginger titties.” He is pouring beer into a glass, but his technique is terrible. Half the glass is full of foam.
“It’s not mine, dickwad,” Kyle says. “Where’s Kenny?”
Butters peers at Cartman’s beer. He is dressed like the Phantom of the Opera, a white mask hiding half his face. “Gee, Eric,” he says, “That sure is some terrible head you’re dealing out. You could probably do with some practice.”
“Boom,” Stan says, clapping Butters on the back, flashing his cards as he does so. It doesn’t matter, though. Clyde is too busy frowning at his own cards to notice the opportunity.
“Fuck you, Butters,” Cartman says, his cards neatly face-down on the table, “Fuck you to next Tuesday.”
Kyle is still holding the bra when Kenny comes crashing into him from behind and hugs him around the waist. Half Kenny’s bandages are gone. He is wearing girls' Abercrombie sweatpants, too short in the leg, too tight in the ass. Kyle drops the bra onto the pile of pennies the guys are using as chips and twists his head towards Kenny.
“There had better not be real jizz on you right now,” he says.
Kenny pulls away and slaps the hand that Stan holds up to him. “Nah, we’re good. I always tidy up.”
“Weak,” Cartman says, screwing up his face in disgust. “I’m not drunk enough to talk about Kenny’s spunk.”
“Because everything you’re drinking is like, four percent, you stupid fuck,” Clyde says. He lowers his cards and looks at Stan. “Dude, what game are we even playing?”
Stan’s hand has found its way to Kyle’s sleeve, where his fingers are plucking at the detailing on the material. He looks up at Clyde a second too late for it to be subtle.
“What?” he says. Kyle stares down at him and has to swallow hard.
“I reckon it’s time for shots, you guys. I’m gonna get the tequila,” Kenny says.
Kyle follows him into the kitchen, because he kind of wants to talk. He isn’t quite sure what he’s going to say, but then Kenny turns around and it is already there in his face.
“Oh my God. You guys are gonna fuck tonight,” Kenny says. He seizes Kyle’s arm and the reality of it sends a breathless little jolt to Kyle’s chest.
“I know,” he says. Kenny hugs him again, crushing the shoulder-wings of his costume, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet so that Kyle has to clutch him back to stay balanced.
“I’m so proud of you. Look at you, all grown up and ready to put out.” Kenny says, pinching Kyle’s cheek.
“Thanks, Mom.”
“You’re welcome, baby. Seriously, though, dude. Don’t freak out. You can do this. Okay? You got the balls for it. I know it.”
“I love you, man,” Kyle blurts.
“I love you too, bro,” Kenny says, and then, leaning past to grab a bottle of tequila from the counter “But not as hard as Marsh is gonna love you later on. Don’t let him spoil your make-up, okay?” He pats the flat of Kyle’s stomach and then walks back to the living room, where he lifts the bottle above his head and yells, “It’s tequila time! Arriba!”
Everyone whoops and scrambles around Kenny, kneeling and squatting around the coffee table. Wendy is splitting limes into segments with quick strokes of a knife and passing them on to Bebe to hand out to people.
“I always fuck up the order of this,” Stan says. He presses his blue-painted lips together and holds the salt shaker up. He stares at it like it is a mysterious contraption from the future. “Which comes first?”
Kyle takes the shaker, licks a line across his hand and wonders if Stan’s skin is going to taste different to his own. “Don’t worry,” he says, “I got you covered.”
They have to go on the count of three, but Kyle doesn’t take his shot, he’s busy grabbing at Stan’s sleeve, too late to stop him from chugging the tequila back.
“Salt first, man. What’s the point of asking me for help if you don’t wait long enough to take it.”
“Shit,” Stan says, choking a little, smacking his shot glass down and fumbling for the salt.
“Here.” Kyle offers his own salt-striped hand.
Time seems to slow as Stan takes his wrist and Kyle feels the first tinglings of a boner, looking into Stan’s strange mascara-ed eyes. Stan drags his tongue across the line of salt and then up further, across the bumps of Kyle’s knuckles, all the way to the tips of his fingers. Kyle stretches them out so he can feel the wet curl of Stan’s tongue around his fingernails. There is lime juice stinging a paper cut on Kyle’s other hand, but he doesn’t want to put a stop to this.
“Ey! Fags! When you’re through boning each other through the eyes, the rest of us are ready for a second round.” Cartman’s voice jolts Kyle to the realisation that time has not slowed down after all; it is only he and Stan who are moving too slowly.
He yanks his hand away from Stan’s mouth, replacing it with the wedge of lime, which he crushes against Stan’s teeth. Then he slams back his own tequila. He is still wincing and licking the drips from around his lips, when he feels Stan’s hands on him again, from behind this time, tugging at him, urging him up onto his feet. Stan’s voice is right by his ear, saying, “Jesus Christ, you better come with me right now, or I’m gonna die.”
“Okay,” Kyle tries to say, but it comes out all breath, no sound. He’s suddenly shaking, because this is really it right now and he’s so ready that it makes him dizzy. He closes his fingers around Stan’s hand ─not his elbow or his arm, but his fucking hand, who gives a shit that people can see?─ and forces his feet to move.
In the hallway Stan guides him against the wall and stands in front of him, fingers curling nervously against his waist. They look at each other through the splashes of make-up and then Kyle leans forwards enough for their lips to touch.
It’s not that strange. They’ve hugged each other a million times before and this is the same, they’re just pressed together in different places. Stan is heavy in Kyle’s arms, his breaths coming too fast. Kyle rubs his nose behind Stan’s ear, where underneath the cologne there is a smell more familiar than the scent of home. He touches his tongue to the soft skin there and like he’s flipped a switch Stan comes to life against him. He pushes Kyle backwards hard, shoving his thighs apart with a knee, angling his hips to drag his silver-covered dick against Kyle’s. Kyle isn’t prepared for it to feel that good. He lets out a cry that he has to stifle with his own hand.
Stan is laughing. “Kenny’s right. You are going to be a loud,” he says. He is trying for cocky, but his voice is trembling too much for it to work and Kyle likes that even more. He moves his fingers along Stan’s hairline, feeling where the roots are set crispy with spray.
“Marsh. You are such a dork under all your swagger. Anyone ever tell you that?”
“You say it all the time,” Stan says, “But nobody believes it, because you’re always standing next to me. In comparison I look so cool that it hurts their fucking eyes.” He drops his forehead against Kyle’s. They both go cross-eyed rather than stop looking at each other.
It feels weird for a second, like neither of them can quite decide where the joking stops and other things begin, but then Stan leans back a little and his expression has gone all serious.
He says, “Dude, for real,” and Kyle is nodding before the words are even out.
“Me too,” he says. He kisses the corner of Stan’s mouth and then lets out another moan as the thigh between his legs presses higher.
“Stan?” Wendy is squinting at them down the hall, coming towards them. Her shoes are gone. Her stockings slip against the floorboards.
There is time for them to move apart before she reaches them, but it’s still pretty fucking clear what’s been going on.
“We’re about to draw for the judging if you guys want to come. I mean, come over there. I mean, go there─ to the living room,” Wendy says, bunching one hand into the material of her skirt, and it couldn’t be more obvious that she’s worked it out.
“Oh, shit. We─” Stan says, glancing back at Kyle.
There is already an excuse forming on the tip of Kyle’s tongue when Wendy smacks herself in the forehead and says, “No, do you know what? I’m such a doofus. I promised Butters we’d play Twister tonight. We should really do that first, don’t you think?” She looks at Kyle, who nods.
“Makes way more sense to do that first.” Wendy smiles at him. She’s pretty buzzed; he can tell from how dark her pupils are when she takes his face in her hands and kisses him quickly on the lips. Stan is right there, but this is her blessing and Kyle is not about to turn that down.
She slips back to the living room then, to cover for them and to manage the situation as only Wendy can.
The interference kicks things up a gear. They can hear Butters yelling excitedly about the Twister mat, and the sound of Cartman laughing, so Kyle takes Stan by the arm and drags him through the nearest door, where there is a set of twin beds and a vase full of half-dead sunflowers. They don’t bother to turn on the lights, just fall onto one of the beds. They are making out with feeling now, crushing their mouths together and tugging one another’s hairdos all to shit.
“Jesus, we couldn’t have done this some day when we were wearing regular pants?” Stan says, as he tries to force his hand down Kyle’s waistband before the flies are undone.
“There’s time for that,” Kyle pants, yanking open the collar of Stan’s shirt, “When we do it next.”
“Next. There’ll be a next,” Stan says. He is jerking the clinging material over Kyle’s hips now. Kyle lifts his ass, to help out.
“Of course there’s going to be a next, dude. We’re about seventeen years too late for this to be a fuck and run.”
When their dicks finally touch, it’s magic, and there isn’t much breath left for talking. Their mouths are too full of tongue. Stan’s skin is hot and smooth beneath Kyle’s hands. He can feel every rib and the sharp angle of Stan’s shoulder blades. He clings tight as Stan works damp fingers inside him. It’s not totally new, but it’s new with someone he cares about and Kyle isn’t ready for how much of a difference that makes.
Stan presses his cheek against Kyle’s, his mouth open and quivering, as he whispers, “I thought about you like this earlier, when we were looking in the mirror. I wanted you to see yourself while I did this.” Stan twists his fingers, hooking them at the tips and Kyle’s whole body arches taut.
It is impossible that nobody hears the noise Kyle makes, but he couldn’t give a shit.
When he comes back down, Stan is still on edge, braced above him on one elbow. Kyle reaches down through the stickiness to find Stan’s dick. He curls his other hand around the back of Stan’s neck and then jerks him until the arm holding up his weight is shaking like fuck.
“Bring it home, Starman,” Kyle says, working his wrist harder and curving his body up close so that he can trace the outline of Stan’s lips with his tongue. Stan throws his head back as he comes and all the tendons in his neck strain. Kyle watches hypnotised, stroking him through, until with a strangled noise his shaking arm gives out and he comes crashing down against Kyle’s chest.
*
In the hallway, still sticky inside their costumes, Stan touches Kyle’s cheek.
“Dude, we’re all ruined,” he says. Kyle looks at him. There are coloured smudges all round his mouth. His clothes are creased, not sitting right against his bones. Kyle licks one thumb and uses it to wipe away the worst of the lipstick stains.
“No we aren’t,” he says. “I like us better like this.”
Back in the living room, everyone is gathered together again. It is like some kind of sacred meeting. The Twister mat is crumpled in the middle of the floor. Kenny has the straps of the mystery bra knotted around his throat. It hangs down over his half-bandaged chest like a neckerchief. He lifts his beer in salute as Kyle sits down on the couch and Kyle returns his grin.
Butters is staring, but Kyle doesn’t blame him; he knows what he must look like by now.
“Say, what happened to your face?”
Kyle doesn’t get a chance to answer. Before he can, Cartman is leaning over the back of the couch between them.
“That’s none of your fucking business, Butters. Who the hell asked you?” Butters blinks. His eyes are red-rimmed and woozy from too much weed. He holds both hands up in peace.
“I didn’t mean nothing bad.”
“Make-up rubs off. What’s your excuse?” Cartman snaps the elastic of Butters’s mask as he straightens up.
“Ow!” Butters clutches the back of his head and glares after Cartman. “Sorry, Kyle.”
“Forget it, dude.” Cartman has already pulled his dictator shades down and is swigging from one of his imported beers. Kyle can’t catch his eye.
“What’s up?” Stan asks, sliding onto the sofa and pushing his hand up against the side of Kyle’s thigh. The touch is just secret enough that it feels special.
“Stan Marsh, come on down!”
They look up. Bebe is standing in front of a fireplace full of crumpled beer cans, waving a scrap of notebook paper. The gold top hat which goes with her costume is filled with other scraps of paper, the names of everyone at the party all jumbled up together. The trophy they have been passing between them since they were thirteen sits on the mantelpiece. It started life as a lump of wood which was fished out of Stark’s Pond, but over the years they have made it their own. The surface is a mess of graffiti. Carving, marker pen, white-out, nail polish, all layered and layered to make a yearbook of Halloweens.
Stan looks blank. Bebe flaps her hand, beckoning him forwards. “Honey, you’re Costume Judge 2011!”
When Stan still looks blank, Kyle elbows him in the ribs. “You’re judging, dude. You have to pick who has the best costume.”
Clyde sets up a chant of ‘Stanley, Stanley.’ People join in, repeating the name over and over until Stan gets up uncertainly. Everybody claps for him, partly because they’re all wasted, partly because this really means something.
Stan stands at the front of the room and takes the trophy in his hands. His hair is all flat on one side and there is a glaring hickey on his throat. Kyle loves him, like this and every other way. He knows exactly what Stan is going to do.
*
“It’s ours for now,” Wendy says, tucking the trophy under her arm, “Until next year.” She rests one hand on Stan’s shoulder for stability as she steps back into her heels. The house is quiet now. People are leaving, except for Tweek, who is passed out on the couch. There is static on the TV screen. The speakers are dead.
Stan, Kyle, Kenny and Cartman stand on the porch, splitting one of Kenny’s roll-ups. None of them is prepared to admit that it’s too cold to stay outside.
Stan takes the cigarette from his lips and says, “Next year we won’t all make it back for Halloween.”
“So it can be a Christmas party. College isn’t a death sentence.” Wendy jabs a finger at Stan’s chest. “And this time we’ll win it from you fair and square. No more pity wins.”
She hugs them all, even Cartman, then heads down the path, past the burnt-out pumpkin carcasses, to where Token is waiting to walk her home through the ice. They wave and disappear.
The sky has the sickly glow of dawn. The four of them pass the cigarette between them, watching the light spread.
“We’ll still be here tomorrow,” Kenny says, his teeth chattering in the morning cold. “We still have time.”
Cartman says, “Time for what?”
“Whatever, dude.” Kenny flicks the end of the cigarette away into the snow. “Whatever the hell we want.”
Kyle thinks about putting his arm around Stan, but then he looks down to find that Stan’s arm is already there round his waist, and probably has been for some time.