Halakhically speaking, shaving is a complicated subject. The Torah uses two different verbs in reference to shaving and destroying the corners of the beard, while the Talmud distinguishes between a scissors' clip and a razor's cut. But electric shavers, though they use razor blades, cut the hairs like scissors; so, are they kosher?

Kyle was thirteen when his father gave him the answer, in one of his overly lengthy explanations. Some time ago some rabbi decided that the scissoring action matters more than the blades' presence, concluding the electric razor permissible under the law. But Kyle didn't care one bit for the history lesson, caring only whether he could freely eradicate those unwieldy red prickles from his jawline, banish the sprouting beginnings before they curl and tangle on his chin. After what felt like forever, Gerald handed Kyle a rotary Philips, and Kyle maintained a clean shave ever since.

Well, until Cartman and his stupid bet. One month, who can grow the best beard. Must be all natural, no maintenance of any kind, that includes all trimming, snipping, or manscaping. Winner gets fifty bucks and the loser must admit their facial hair is inferior in front of no less than ten people. After only a few provoking jabs, Kyle's competitive spirit took over, loudly declared his agreement, damning himself to thirty godforsaken days of bristly stubble and scraggly hairs. Not Kyle's best decision, regretting it by the third day's morning, but he refuses to let Eric Cartman win, even if he does hate the crimson mat clinging to his face.

Like his father, it grows just like his father's. The coiling effect halves the length but thickens the texture. Though the hair atop his head grows out soft and bouncy—floofy, in Kenny's words—the hair along its sides feels coarse and wiry, incredibly fucking itchy. And, determined as he is, time seems to pass slower the longer his beard gets, these closing days moving at an unbearable crawl.

Just a little longer, he tells himself, a little longer and that electric buzz will sound musical, his skin will feel smooth, and, with his freedom, he'll be a whole fifty dollars richer and humiliate Cartman in the process. It'll be worth it—so worth it—once he it's over. Until then, though, it's hell—frizzy, hairy hell.

"C'mon, babe," Kenny's voice sounds smooth and silky, like shave butter marinating and moisturising the skin. He always senses when Kyle starts dwelling, when his thoughts meander towards melancholic dread, no matter how trivial his woeful plights are. Kenny finds a way to make it better, by climbing on top, by holding him close, by merely being there, "S'not that bad."

A hand strokes his cheek, fingertips awkwardly manipulating the twists and whorls, familiar territory suddenly difficult to navigate. Because he loves Kyle with all his heart and understands the importance of besting Cartman, Kenny has dealt with the encroaching beard all month, tolerating its transition from cactus pricks to full-fledged ringlets. He claims he doesn't mind, but Kyle knows he misses kissing his jaw without getting hair stuck to his tongue.

Just a little longer, Kenny probably tells himself that, too.

Kyle groans, leaning into his touch, wishing his brush could strip away the knots and snarls. The beard buffers the sensation, robs him the full feel of Kenny's gentle pets. As if Kyle needs more reason to hate facial hair. A green gaze meanders, meets sky blue, and his lips form a frown, "Kenny, you hate bears."

"Please," A snort, then a smile, revealing teeth with a light butterscotch tinge, "You're barely an otter."

He narrows his eyes, "Don't tell me you're into this."

"Hey, I'm into you lookin' the way you like," Kenny tilts his head, soothes a thumb over Kyle's chin. His grin widens, mischief adding a sheen to the blue, "Kinda like how you're all meh 'bout skirts 'til I slip on a mini."

For all the hair covers, it doesn't hide his evanescent blush. Not his fault Kenny has spectacular legs. It's called having a guy who can do both. Kyle glares through the flare, says sharply, "That's totally different."

"Yeah, yeah," Kenny knows it's bullshit, but won't call him on it. He never does when he wants to make a point, "Just sayin', maybe we haven't been takin' full advantage of this whole situation."

The lilt in his tone says it all: another McCormick trademark porno idea. Nine times out of ten, Kyle approves. The tenth time, Kyle agrees after a mild kissing ass on Kenny's part, figuratively and literally. Doesn't mean he can't tease him a little first, "I told you, we're not roleplaying your Red Dead Redemption ships."

His smile tightens, curve switching from breezily natural to comically forced, "You know Arthur and John Brokeback'ed it in those mountains more than once."

"Yeah, yeah."

"And much as I love ya that your cute-ass gunslinger getup," Cute, why does he need to be an asshole and call it cute? "I was thinkin' somethin' simpler."

C-word aside, Kyle's interest is sufficiently peaked. Something silly as facial hair isn't enough to dampen their sex life, though its presence requires a few accommodations. Nothing a few work-arounds can't fix, but it'd be nice for the beard to be a perk instead of a nuisance for once. He quirks a brow, intrigued, struggles against the smirk sneaking on his lips. Can't let Kenny get too overzealous. Or come off as too desperate.

Kenny sees that smile—dammit—followed by an easy wink, a bat of an eye coupled with a wet click of his tongue. He pulls the cheesiest tricks, the stereotypical hackneyed cliché crap from teen dramas and rom coms; and it gets Kyle every fucking time without fail. Worst part is he exploits, leaning in close while Kyle's off guard and vulnerable.

Usually, he favours the mouth, loves when his words reverberate on his palette, echo down his throat. The beard doesn't deter him—though sometimes he laughs because it tickles—but he has a special message, needs a direct line to his brain. Hot breath brushes his ear, tingling at Kenny's husky whisper, "Two words: thigh burns."

When something grinds against the skin, the friction generated leaves a reddish mark. Size and intensity vary, dependent on the time and frequency, along with the epidermal thickness and stimulus texture. The heat, sometimes, wears at the chafing material, especially if it's something like hair. The superficial singe leaves behind a thinned patch, bristles burnt by the flesh it rubbed against.

Cartman's rules prohibit intentional barbering, but he can't argue with accidents willed by scientific law. Well, he can, but their doubts he'll trump up reasonable grounds for disqualification. And, since the day he caught Kenny daubing hydrocortisone on the scratchy fringes of his hickeys, Kyle's kept oral off the table, assuming Kenny wanted that; but if he doesn't, if he's okay with it…

TEETH—A light bite, to the earlobe, one of Kenny's playful, impatient nips. He tugs, gentle but goading, makes Kyle squirm. He scarcely stifles a groan, wishes his spots were less accessible, more like Kenny's obscure ones, nestled in the hollow of his collar or tucked at the base of his shoulder. Pressing a palm to his chest, he gives Kenny a shove, "Quit it, dickhead!"

"Whaaaa'?" A whine and a laugh fuse into an odd musical note. Kenny draws back, expression feigning offense, though his eyes give him away. Too emotive, too honest, it gets him every time. Their noses brush together, as his fingers toy with a scruffy cluster, "You w're bein' slooow."

A huffing exhale, and Kyle rolls his eyes. Kenny wants to play dirty? Fine. He's not the only one with tricks. Kyle's hand darts down—right down—slides under the elastic, grabs. He smirks, watches Kenny's smug and sly smile twitch, shudder running up his spine, muscles going stiff. Oh, nice-n-stiff, alright. Kyle relishes his moment, "So's this too slow for ya?"

"Ha," An airless sound, breath hitching, gasping, choking. Mouth agape, he tongues his top teeth, bliss etched on his face. Kyle takes the opportunity to do a little tugging of his own, matches the pull-pull-pull with the rock-rock-rock of his hips. Kenny's head bobs to the rhythm, breathing slow and controlled. He starts keeping steady, until Kyle picks up the pace, coaxes a grunt from the back of his throat. He licks over his lips, then, "Yeah, I'd say tha's 'bout my speed."

Kyle opens his mouth, half a laugh slipping out before Kenny swoops in, claims his kiss. Sloppy and wet, flavoured with menthols and flat soda, the idyllic taste of a lazy afternoon. That's how Kenny kisses, with fervour and fullness, raw and rich emotion, like a tornado or a hurricane or a volcanic eruption. He roughs out the funky prickling, undeterred by red barbed wires, because he cares about Kyle too much to let something that silly get in his way. When he really wants to be, Kenny McCormick is an unstoppable force. And Kyle loves being swept away in his torrent.

Kenny breaks their lips apart, but a drivelling gossamer keeps them connected. Gravity weighs it down, saliva hanging closer, closer, closer, plopping on Kyle's chin. Spit seeps between the curls, as Kenny's fingers run first through coarse beard, then soft fro. Kyle blanks on his stroking, stunned by his glistening smile, his skylight blue. Kenny's low tone enchants, tantalising as his touch, "'Cept I'm p'sure I told ya to blow me."

Don't need to tell Kyle twice, "Then roll the fuck over so I can."

Another kiss, a peck on the forehead, sweet and doting and downright endearing. Kenny's too good at that, at flipping on the dime, hot and heavy one minute, soft and saccharine the next. It drives Kyle crazy, absolutely off the wall, but he craves it like nothing else, addicted to the way Kenny strums and plucks his heart strings, plays him like a country guitar. Oh, how he so finely tunes Kyle's acoustic potential, hones him like a talent.

Kyle lets go, moves his hand back to the band circling Kenny's waist. As he drags down, Kenny tumbles to the side, bringing Kyle along for the journey. The bed frame shakes, upset by their stupid stumbles, the two first lying level, then Kenny propping Kyle on top. Kenny lifts his hips, lets Kyle gingerly inch back. The cotton-poly blend matches dipping contours, Kyle guiding Kenny's bottoms over knees, past calves, finally freaking off. He tosses them aside, forgets they exist, focuses instead on the Kenny's dick, erect and throbbing, waiting for Kyle's mouth to suck-blow-hum. Fuck, has it been too long.

Eagerness overtakes him, a perverted sort of magnetism, lips forming a ring and wrapping around the head. Kyle grew up hearing the term gifted tossed around, although it typically referred to his grades in high school or his skill with a flute. He prefers how Kenny uses it, calling him gifted in the finest art of fellatio, a natural cocksucker in his humble opinion. From someone with his prior experiences, that speaks volumes to Kyle's ability. He values that more than any of his flautist ribbons. He licks over the tip, a flick-flick-swipe, before continuing down, down, lower.

"Shit, Ky'," Kenny bucks forward, split-second reflex, naturally inclined to fill, fill, fill. His thighs press against the harsh crimson mesh. No, he might not be a fan of the look, but he is a fan of the burn, of having marks attesting to their filthy little deeds, proof of their touching and their loving and their stupid sweaty fucking. He'd wear short-shorts in the middle of winter just to show off and brag, tell everyone how Kyle couldn't wait to have him in his mouth, have Kenny thrust, thrust, thrust down his throat.

Kyle works the length, varying his cadence, faster until he's slow, slower until he's fast, slow then fast then slow and then fast. He translates muffled moans into buzzing vibrations, power in the warbles and trills, the melody of an earthquake. His tongue follows the shaft, sometimes swirling, sometimes nudging, sometimes simply salivating against pulsating veins. With every motion, slightest movement of his head, he rubs the light skin of his thigh, back and forth, up and down, together, together, together in heat, heat, heat.

He feels Kenny weave his fingers atop his head, lace them with the soft bouncing strands. Kyle doesn't know how Kenny restrains himself from yanking and jerking the way Kyle always does; rather than grip tightly and strain the roots, Kenny cards his fingers through his hair, ruffling and tousling curly clumps. Though he doesn't latch on, his palm keeps Kyle's head in place, allowing enough slack for Kyle to bob freely, but not leave before he comes.

"Atta boy," Kenny drawls out a drumming purr, elongating each syllable. He douses flames with gasoline, hooking his legs around Kyle's neck, rocking deep, deep, deeper in his mouth. Bitterness coats Kyle's tongue, the dribbling clear predicating how close Kenny is to the edge. For every swift buck, he tells Kyle to nudge, nudge him over his limit, into slaking-sating euphoria, "Yeah, jus' like that, babe."

Friction, everything hinges on friction. Beard against thighs makes to friction. Tongue teasing foreskin makes friction. Kyle sucking Kenny makes frick-frick-friction. And some of it is wet and some of it is dry but it all creates heat and heat and heat, all burns and burns and burns. Maybe this'll cost Kyle the bet, his awful beard seared and stripped; fuck it, he can shoulder a hit to his pride, fork over a measly fifty! In his own way, he'll be the winner, because it takes genuine tenacity to scorch a beard with a blow-job.

"Uh—hAAAAh…" Orgasm octave, when Kenny comes his voice lifts, glides into the next scale's range. On the upward soar, he releases, saturates Kyle with sticky white, with a taste only pleasant because it belongs to Kenny. Then the lulling slope, the dazed and dizzied after, basking in the hormones before they dilute and ebb away. Kenny pauses, lets his breathing gradually temper, reluctant as he is to return to dull and boring normal.

Kyle eases off, swallows. After the initial gulp, he brings a hand to wipe any excess, realising too late that the extra embedded with the coils. He only picks up a part of it, smears the rest across, spreading it like a red wine stain on a pearl white carpet. At least merlot doesn't crust.

Blindly, Kenny messes with Kyle's hair, dishevels it to satisfaction, then caresses his cheek. Green eyes flicker, lock with scintillating blue. His lips slack into that lopsided grin, particularly cocky after getting his sucked. He spreads his legs apart, granting Kyle freedom to move, says in one breath, "You c'm'ere."

With Kenny's hand guiding him, Kyle moves closer, clambering over his torso, leaning close, close, closer at his behest. Kenny straightens his back, meets him partway, lips colliding, coalesced. Kyle knows his play—return to sender—because Kenny hates wasting. Semen isn't a resource that requires recycling, but Kyle likes their gross, sticky kisses too much to argue them. However, hard as Kenny tries, his lapping licks only get hair, hair, icky and stingy hair. After the smacking withdraw, he sadly sticks out his tongue, "Bleh."

"What'd you expect?" Kyle's lips curve into a grin, "Licking carpets for lesbians."

"I'll have you know Bebe said I'd make a great lesbian," Kenny counters, tone matter-of-fact, and cups his face. Something flares in the blue; it must feel different, "But your blowjobs are way too good to pass up."

"So that's why you keep me around?"

"Well, I guess I, like, also love you or whatever."

"Or whatever?" Why does he always need to be a goddamn asshole?

"Yeah, y'know," Kenny sighs, happily stroking his cheek, "Scruff 'n all. Whatever."

"Whatever," Kyle huffs, pauses. He waits for Kenny to raise a brow, request a follow up, then finishes. "Love you, too. I guess."

"You guess?"

"You suck."

"Pretty sure that was you, Kyle."

Kyle knows he should get up, go to the bathroom, inspect and wash his beard, but he ends up kissing Kenny instead. Even if he loses, he'll endure the ridicule and financial repercussions. It was worth it—so fucking worth it.

A/N: Thanks so much for reading, favouriting, and leaving a review! It means a lot to me, and I hope you enjoyed this sloppy, messy something. See you next story!