Right, so... hi. I'm new and this is my first fanfic (although not my first attempt). Constructive comments are appreciated :)

South Park and my girly heart belong to Matt n Trey, so I hope I did Kyle and Stan justice. Sort of. If you haven't deduced this already, I made them totally gay for each other, so if that bothers you, turn back now! Before you catch teh ghey too!

Oh, and this is T mostly for language and just a little for Stan's over active imagination, because otherwise this is like, fluffzilla.

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Its winter break, and in one of those infamously disgusting, unfair twists of fate, Stan is stuck in bed with the flu. What could be worse? He can't even muster up the energy to concentrate on the plot of a movie, so mostly he sleeps. It's better than thinking about how he's being quarantined by his own family with Christmas just around the corner. Well of course they don't want to get sick. Stan just sort of wishes somebody would stay near him for more than five minutes.

He's sleeping fitfully when Kyle finally shows up.

"Hey," Kyle says gently, like Stan's on his death bed or something. Stan wouldn't be surprised if he was dying; he feels like he could be. He can't remember the last time he was this sick.

"Hi," Stan replies, equally somber. Goodbye, Kyle. Tell my mother I loved her. Oh, and tell Cartman he's a douche bag.

"How are you feeling?" Kyle asks, and Stan thinks it must be pretty obvious that he's feeling terrible, or Kyle wouldn't need to indulge in small talk. He swivels his head around on the pillow to glare when he notices Kyle is holding something. A tray?

"Oh… I… I made you soup," Kyle answers before Stan can ask. "I thought, you know…" he trails off awkwardly as Stan stares, too sleepy to respond. In the silence, Kyle sets the tray down on a stool that's already waiting next to Stan's bed.

Soup? Really? Had Kyle really made him soup in his hour of need?

The overwhelming niceness of the idea crushes poor, fevered Stan. He's flooded with hazy mental pictures of Kyle, great, awesome, wonderful Kyle, cooking him soup. It's probably microwaved, he knows Kyle better than that, but it's so much more fun to think of Kyle in an apron, slaving over a hot stove, throwing away his time and dignity just to make Stan feel better. Haha, but only if he's in one of those horrible, pink frilly aprons that girls always seem to fantasize about men wearing. Of course, that fantasy generally demanded that Kyle be stripped of all reasonable articles clothing, but wouldn't Kyle be just the perfect one to wind up in that situation? He does have the best ass out of us all, Stan thinks. He can picture Kyle's backside now without much effort; there had never been a reason to hide from each other while changing. Modesty was for girls. Or something. And when Stan suddenly realizes that he's staring at Kyle's crotch, it's only just in time to watch as Kyle realizes it too.

"Sorry," Stan says quickly, "it's the fever. I totally spaced out there for a second." I wasn't staring at your crotch; I was trying to X-Ray Vision my way to your great ass. Because that's such a better excuse.

"What were you thinking about?" Kyle asks, probably trying to change the subject.

That line just where your ass curves into your thigh, Stan, terrifyingly, almost finds himself confessing. No, really, he's actually opened his mouth. What the hell is wrong with him, straight up telling that to somebody out of nowhere? ...But wait a minute, had he actually been thinking that? Had he really been thinking about pressing his fingertips against that perfect little crease of skin? Well, No!! Jesus, of course not! Where the fuck had that idea even come from? The fever, probably, and who knew viruses could alter somebody's thinking so drastically. Like a parasite. Like those horrible plagas from Resident Evil 4 that crawl inside you and take over your mind. He hopes he doesn't get brain damage from this.

But oh, Stan really needs to lie faster, because Kyle still wants to know why Stan was staring at his crotch. Er, -wasn't- staring. Maybe he can pass this languid pause off as another drooling fever lapse. "I was..." But now that he's opened his mouth again, his tangled thoughts seek familiar territory and they quickly revert back the last thing he'd tried to communicate.

Kyle's Ass. And now he really is thinking about hooking his arms around Kyle's waist, you know, thinking about the physics of it all, the anonymous anatomy of such a position. Position. Stop thinking, Stan, for god's sake, stop thinking. He's ashamed he's even capable of imagining this.

"Are you okay?" he hears somebody tenuously ask. Stan must look pretty bad because he can tell this person doesn't want to know the answer. They don't want to wind up being forced to invent those phony CPR skills people were always supposed to instinctively have, the ones you need to be entertaining at a bad party, or incase you wind up in a cheesy movie all of the sudden. Wouldn't that be funny if he was being filmed? Cartman would paste pictures of Stan gazing longingly at Kyle's crotch all over the highschool. The CPR would be just as bad; Cartman would never understand that it wasn't that Kyle wanted to kiss Stan, he was trying to Resuscitate his, what was it, Cardio… Pull… something something. Not that Stan needs any cardio resuscitation; his heart is beating so fast he feels like it might explode.

"Stan?"

It takes him a second to realize that Kyle is the one sitting next to him, asking nervous questions. Kyle, his platonic best friend, Kyle who is not grinding on Stan's lap, whose pale legs are not hooked around Stan's waist, his heels not pressing into Stan's back as Stan does NOT leave finger-print bruises on his best friend's perfect ass. Because that was the physics of it all, the anatomy of the image, it just wasn't as anonymous as Stan had hoped. He is saved, however, by the fact that the real Kyle is sitting at a PC distance, looking concerned in a Politically Correct sort of way, though Stan thinks it would be funny if Kyle was suddenly his Personal Computer instead. "I'm just a little nauseous," Stan spits out, suddenly realizing he might be losing more than just his sanity in short order. That would be fine, anything to get him off the subject of Kyle as his personal anything. "I'm really sorry, I don't know if I can eat anything right now."

Kyle looks more disappointed by this revelation than Stan had anticipated, and if he wasn't too busy looking for something that wasn't Kyle to vomit on, he would feel incredibly guilty. It's amazing, though, how when Kyle holds up a trashcan, Stan's stomach practically knows before his brain does that it's okay to let loose. It must be Kyle-Stan-best-friends-telepathy. Or luck. Whatever. Stan spits to get the acid taste out of his mouth. "I'm really sorry," Stan groans as he takes the can from Kyle, though he's not quite sure what he's apologizing for, the soup or the vomit. He doesn't feel like he should have to care about either of them. He's the one who's sick, damnit.

"Jesus, don't be sorry," Kyle is quick to say, and when he runs his hand over Stan's hunched spine, Stan wonders how he can even think about sex when he's feeling so fucking gross. Everything aches, his muscles, his head, his stomach, and Kyle is making him sweat. No, no, that's the fever, Stan remembers, and then throws up again. But he wasn't sweating before Kyle started touching him... Stan retches, but there's nothing left. His insides feel sticky and abused, like a stretched out empty balloon that some kid blew two much spit into before deflating, and now that it's empty, it's rumpled and gooey. Bad all around. Nothing to be aroused over.

And he's not, Stan is not aroused at all, but he really, really wishes Kyle would just go home and let him sleep. This is just too much. His skin is too sensitive, too hot.

Please leave; you're raising my fever.

Please leave before I fake a seizure so you'll give me CPR.

Please leave; I hadn't thrown up for hours until you got here.

Please leave before I ask you to stay.

Stan's mouth says, "Did you get a flu shot?"

Kyle replies hesitantly, "No. That's for old people and little kids. You know that."

And now Stan is really worried because he knows he's going to ask Kyle to stay, and he knows Kyle is going to refuse.

"Do you have to go?" Stan asks, but he didn't mean to sound so desperate.

Kyle looks a little surprised, which reassures Stan that his best friend didn't anticipate the question, and therefore can't read his thoughts. This is better news than it usually would be. "No, I don't have to go yet," Kyle says, slightly affronted. "Did I look like I wanted to leave?"

No he hadn't, but, "I don't want you to catch this," Stan admits. Get out while you still can, Kyle. Save yourself.

Save yourself from what? The flu? Or… from Stan?

Kyle leans back in his chair looking like he's thinking about saying something important, but Stan is too delirious to focus on Kyle's expression. Instead, he opts to bypass the urge completely by closing his eyes and, having nothing else to focus on but his virus-riddled body, he laments how painfully hungry he is. If only he could keep something down!

The guilt at not being able to give Kyle the satisfaction of eating his soup comes back around again, and Stan groans and squirms under the extra weight. He doesn't have the energy for psychic pain right now! His cells are at war, his stomach is empty, his troops´ rations are depleted! Stan needs to put his game face on and get better!

Please leave; you're distracting my immune system.

Please leave; I don't want to think about you when I don't have the energy to stop.

"My mom would kill me if she heard me saying this," he hears Kyle say, and Stan obediently snaps his eyes back open to show that he is part of the conversation. What wouldn't Kyle's mother kill him for? "If you want me to stay, I don't really care if I get sick."

Stan could cry. Not really, he's pretty dehydrated right now and he's fairly certain that crying would give him an aneurism or something, but really. That's one of the nicest things Stan thinks anybody has ever told him. "That's retarded, Kyle," Stan's mouth lashes out. What? Hadn't Stan just instructed himself to say thank you, that's pretty much the only thing I ever wanted to hear you say? Because at the moment, that's kind of how he feels. "Don't get sick because of me. You're always sick."

"So maybe I'm just better at it than you," Kyle retorts, slightly offended that his willingness to sacrifice his health just to spend a little more time with Stan wasn't impressive enough. First his soup and now his immune system! Rejected. Stamp. Rejected. Stamp.

Stan smiles weakly at Kyle's stupid attempt at a joke, (it was a joke, right?) because he doesn't want to make it seem like he's trying to get rid of Kyle. He's sure Kyle will understand. "I don't want you to get sick," Stan says.

"Maybe I won't. And if I do, you can make me soup."

"Only if you promise not to eat it," Stan mumbles sheepishly.

Kyle grins. "I promise I will never eat anything you cook, Stan. But it's the thought that counts."

The thought that counts. Stan's mouth says, "I like that you were thinking about me."

Kyle looks a little surprised again, probably weirded out, and Stan wants to hit himself for not being quick enough to stop that one. Maybe now Kyle's thinking, this guy was just ogling my junk and now this sentimental bullshit? Am I sure I want to stick around long enough to catch gay from him?

Oh, God, Stan thinks. That's what this is; I've caught gay from Butters.

He hears Kyle say, "Yeah, well, you're my friend. I just thought it would be nice. You're sick; it seemed like the thing to do."

Doesn't Kyle know that doing nice things when somebody's sick is a role generally reserved for that person's mother? Or girlfriend? Kyle certainly isn't his mother, so what is he trying to do here? Unless he's trying to make a point that Stan has never done anything nice for Kyle while Kyle was sick.

Great, now Stan feels doubly guilty, and selfish too. This just keeps getting better, he thinks.

Then Kyle says, "Plus, I haven't seen you in two days and I kind of miss you. Kenny does too. He'd probably be mad if he knew I'd come over here without telling him."

This time Stan's mouth is saying, "Why didn't you tell Kenny?" He doesn't really care, he's too sick to look into situational details that don't involve him.

"Because I didn't want him to come," Stan hears Kyle admit.

Just what Stan needs, to hear some petty drama when he's dying. "Are you fighting," he asks, exhausted. He sets the wastebasket on the floor; his fingers feel like they're cramping up.

"No… I just wanted to see you. You know, alone." Kyle shrugs it off.

Alone? Stan has to think about this one, but he can't really manage thinking about anything just then. "Why? So you can catch the plague? You're not turning into a sadist or anything, are you? …Did Cartman send you in here to watch me die?"

Kyle bristles, and Stan's not sure if it was the fact that he'd already, apparently, forgotten about the soup, which was supposed to make him better, or that he had implied that Kyle was in league with Eric Cartman. Stan realizes too late that he shouldn't have said anything past why.

It's the fever.

It's the brain damage.

Please leave before you want to leave.

"Yes, obviously I came here to watch you suffer, asshole."

Well, pay close attention, because if Stan wasn't suffering before, he is now. "I'm sorry-" he actually almost says baby, but he forces the word down his throat and turns it into a spasmodic hiccup. Why would he say that? Who is piloting Stan's brain today? He wished he could just grab a parachute and leap out of his body to safety, because he's pretty sure he's about to crash. Panicked, he says, "I'll eat your soup, I'll eat it..."

"Standon't—"

Kyle lunges to intercept Stan's nose dive into the food and ends up catching him by the shoulders. "Stan, don't," Kyle says again, softer. Stan realizes that he is being gently lowered back into bed and that Kyle is now hovering over him, his hands on the bare skin of Stan's neck as he trails his fingers up to Stan's face. "You're burning up," he barely hears Kyle say.

"I think you're supposed to kiss it to make it better," Stan hears himself say, and he's too delirious to be embarrassed.

The gentle pressure of lips on his forehead shocks him into consciousness, and Stan is grateful that he has nothing left inside him to throw up.

"Better?" Kyle actually asks the astonished Stan.

It's so cheesy, but Stan's mouth replies, "That's not a real kiss."

For a moment, Stan is so shocked that he's actually said something so stupid, something so—Wait a minute...! No, no way. Stan's train of thought crashes and crumples like an accordion as Kyle leans in gracefully and brushes a kiss over Stan's lips. It's like a scene from a fucking faerie tale, and Stan begins to tremble as he wonders how he got roped into to being the girl. When Kyle straightens up again and looks away, Stan would give anything to be healthy enough to grab him by the shirt front and do the thing properly. But what does this mean? Does it mean anything at all? "Kyle--"

"I should go."

Kyle's looking at the door like it's his new religion. Be saved, Stan thinks again.

Please leave, save yourself. From me.

"Kyle, wait," Stan says. Through his headache, it hurts his feelings to see how ashamed Kyle seems that they just kissed. He can't even pretend that it was just for fun. Stan doesn't want it to bother Kyle that much.

Kyle mumbles, "Jesus, you're shaking. I'm really sorry, I shouldn't have done that, it was just a joke. I'll just leave. You're really sick. I'm sorry. Sorry."

"Please stay," Stan whispers, and he realizes this is the moment he's been dreading. "Please stay. Help me get better." Now he's said it, and he can't take it back. He can't because he doesn't want to.

Kyle eyes him hesitantly; he's obviously confused about this. If Stan had control of his brain, he would be too, but he doesn't and this is all so easy for him. His mouth just does the talking. He doesn't have to think about this at all; he can't, even if he'd want to. Then he realizes Kyle is drifting back, like a kid following a will-o-wisp to his murky death, and Stan has never been so relieved. He didn't really want Kyle to save himself, selfish as it might be. He smiles, even though it hurts his temples to grin that big, and as Kyle leans over to kiss Stan again, their smiles are both so big that they end up bumping teeth.

"Sick," Kyle says, recoiling and rubbing his mouth with the back of his arm, but Stan can tell he's still grinning. "Can we actually reschedule this for sometime after you've brushed your teeth?"

"Sure," Stan says sleepily. "Go get my toothbrush. I can wait."