“He’s just wasted,” Kyle says. “He’s always looking for me when he’s wasted.”

“He’s not that drunk.”

“Okay, whatever,” Kyle says. He takes another drink. “You know, last time he drank, he emptied our bottle of vodka, told me I was his guardian angel, and puked all down my shirt.”

Tolkien’s expression sparkles with mirth. He presses his grin into the mouth of his beer can. Then, he says, “Was it a nice shirt?”

“Fuck off,” Kyle says. “I still wear it.”

“Gross, dude.” Tolkien wrinkles his nose.

“Ever heard of a washing machine?” Kyle says. Or, he tries to say it, but he’s interrupted by a sudden weight draping over his back. He makes a small oof sound and tries to elbow the weight off, but it’s not budging. “Move, asshole.”

“Hey, Stan,” Tolkien says.

“Why are you hiding?” Stan accuses. He digs his fingers into the meat of Kyle’s shoulders. Kyle winces.

“I’m not, you’re just fucking blind,” Kyle says. “Who snitched?”

“Cartman,” Stan mumbles.

“Of course,” Kyle says through gritted teeth.

“Kyle,” Stan says, though the word is interrupted by a foul-smelling hiccup, “will you come with me? I want to talk to you.”

“Can this wait?” Kyle says.

Stan makes a very disgruntled, dissenting noise. The weight on Kyle’s back gets heavier, more pressing, and Kyle imagines Stan closing his eyes, letting his muscles relax. Kyle takes the opportunity to extract himself from Stan’s grip, propping him up instead with a hand on each of his shoulders.

Kyle gets a good look at Stan’s face. He’s flushed, pupils dilated. Definitely drunk, but not white-girl-wasted like he usually gets by the end of a party. His mouth his hanging open a little, his jaw slack. Mouth-breather. His hair is sweaty and plastered to his forehead. His eyes are half-lidded behind his glasses, not leaving Kyle’s face.

“You can go, man, it’s okay,” Tolkien says.

Kyle gives him a withering look. “Thanks.”

Tolkien shrugs, but Kyle is pretty sure he knows what he’s doing.

That’s the joke, isn’t it? Stan, the whirlwind of half-baked emotions and empty promises and want, gets a terribly singular focus at parties. Kyle doesn’t know how everyone hasn’t gotten tired of watching Stan embarrass himself, flinging himself at his fixation of the night – usually Kyle, but sometimes Wendy or Kenny – and apologizing for years-old drama, expressing supposedly-repressed sentiments.

Kyle can never figure out how much of it is real. Stan hardly ever acknowledges it after.

“Kyle,” Stan says, “I need to talk to you. I feel shitty.”

Kyle steels himself. “What do you feel shitty about, Stan?”

Stan’s eyes shift around, landing on Tolkien suspiciously. He hesitates, then leans in close to whisper into Kyle’s ear. Kyle rolls his eyes.

Far louder than a whisper, audible to anyone in a five-foot radius, Stan hisses, “I’m sorry you got detention for that essay I copied from you. I should’ve said something.”

Hot, sour breath splashes across Kyle’s neck. Kyle shivers a little, then pushes Stan back by his chest.

“That’s it?” he says, crossing his arms. “I don’t care about that.”

Stan scrubs a hand over his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Kyle says.

Stan makes a sound that approaches a whimper.

Kyle’s starting to feel distinctly uncomfortable. Stan won’t stop staring. The room is dark, his face splashed in shadow and low lamplight. It’s Craig’s party, so there’s depressing underground prog-rock blaring from the speakers. Color swims at the edges of Kyle’s vision. Maybe he’s drunker than he thought.

“Just come talk to me,” Stan insists. He reaches out and fists a hand in Kyle’s sleeve. Kyle bites the inside of his cheek.

“Fine,” he says, at length. “Five minutes.”

He puts his can of beer down on a random shelf and pretends not to notice Tolkien’s raised eyebrows, his poorly-disguised expression of delight. He lets Stan tug him by his sleeve, through the crowds of people talking and gyrating, over Clyde and Bebe who have been making out so distractedly that they’ve slipped off the couch and onto the floor. Kyle’s heart thuds in his throat as Stan pulls him in the direction of the stairs.

They end up in Craig’s bedroom. Even if Kyle hadn’t been here before, he’d be able to tell it was his. The decorations are neatly spaced with no overlaps, like a complicated jigsaw, and are a combination of surrealist film posters and prints of moody classic rockers. Eraserhead sits above his art supplies. Jim Morrison looks soulfully down at the bed from the ceiling.

Kyle is so distracted by the décor, his head growing slightly fuzzy, that he barely hears the click of the lock turning. When he looks around, vaguely surprised, it’s to the sight of Stan pressing his back against the door, letting his head loll to the side.

“So?” Kyle says. His palms are starting to sweat.

Stan just looks at him. Then, slowly, pushes himself back off the door. He walks carefully, one foot in front of the other, like maybe he’s afraid he’ll fall. He doesn’t look down, though. His eyes don’t leave Kyle’s face. They’re hazy, pupils too fat even for the dark. The blue of his eyes are barely visible.

“What?” Kyle tries to get angry. “You pulled me up here. This better be good.”

Stan’s right in front of him now. He’s really not that much shorter than Kyle, with all the insecurity he projects about his height, and they’re practically nose-to-nose. His expression is splashed plainly across his spread-open face, all the way down to his hands that twist anxiously together.

Suddenly, those hands shoot up to grab the collar of Kyle’s sweater. Stan grips the fabric harder than he needs to, twisting it up in each of his white-knuckled fists. He pulls Kyle a little closer – as if he can get any closer – looks up at him for one more second, and kisses him.

the rest of the fic is over on ao3!