Swagger Like Us

Chapter Nineteen

A/N: I, uh. So I uploaded this entire fic, which hadn't been updated since 2012, onto Ao3 yesterday for reasons. And to do that, I had to read it (so many discrepancies, oh god, so many). And then I was like BUT WAIT, I HAVE TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENS. So somehow I churned this out. I supposedly originally intended this to be thirty chapters. That's so not going to happen. In fact, there's only going to be one more. That's a thing. It might not be as eloquent as I intended, originally, but. I'm not the same person I was when I started this fic. I don't feel the same about love as I did three years ago. So. Er. Yeah. It's going to have the same ending, just in a shortened manner. I hope it doesn't seem rushed though, because trust me, the years it took me to reach the conclusions I've reached about life definitely didn't feel rushed.

You tell me that you love me but you never want to see me again.

Swans by Unkle Bob

"You really want to tell your mom?" Kenny makes a face.

"God. No. Nonono." I wave my hands in the air for emphasis. My mother and my sex life ne'er should meet. Just. "This secret sex agents thing is getting old fast."

"Then why did you push it?"

"You don't think I should have?" I frown. "He was giving me so much shit about telling you about the both of us –"

"You didn't tell me." Kenny cocks his head to the side. "I guessed. Kind of. And then I s'pose you told me." He reconsiders. "Stan should know you tell me everything anyway."

"Yeah, let's actually not mention that to him."

Abruptly interested in a way too keen way, Kenny questions, "Why not?"

"Nevermind that," I say hastily, thinking of all the times Stan's freaked out over how close my friendship with Kenny has gotten. "You're supposed to be giving me advice."

"I am," Kenny agrees. "And that I will. Look, man, what you do is your business and all, but don't you think you're being a little bit…cruel?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, Stan's clearly been thinking about this – you – for a while. But even the idea of you guys together is brand fucking new for you."

"And?" I prompt, trying to figure out what he's getting at.

"And maybe you should lay off pressuring him on something he's probably thought through when you, you know, haven't."

"Oh, sage advice, McCormick. You're saying I should just let him take the coward's way out?"

"I'm saying that not everyone is as cool with their sexuality as you are, Kyle."

"Stan went after me," I point out.

"Yeah, but there's a difference between kissing a guy and telling the entire frickin' town that you kissed a guy."

"He didn't have a problem telling the whole damn town he was kissing Wendy."

"Is that what this is about? You're jealous?"

"I'm not jealous. I'm just." I struggle to figure out what exactly I am. Finally, I settle on, "It doesn't seem all that fair that Stan's made me come face to face with all this bullshit, but when he doesn't want to deal, he's allowed."

"Hey, man. From where I'm standing, Stan's been pretty upfront with you about how he feels and what he wants. Maybe you should talk to him about this, if that's how you really…urk…feel."

I sigh, watching Kenny's face take on a green tinge. "Talking about feelings is making you nauseous, isn't it?"

"Only a whole hell of a lot."

Whatever. It's not like I'm especially happy pouring all my problems into Kenny's lap either. I don't get why Stan was so willing to let the whole damn town think Wendy was close to tucking his man-bits in her purse, but he won't even consider holding hands with me in front of his parents. It doesn't even matter, because it's not like I want to hold hands in front of his parents; god, the ridicule from Randy alone would be ridiculous. But I still want him to be okay with doing it, all the same.

I'm a little fucked in the head.

"Let's get you out of your head," Kenny offers, flying the white flag of friendship or whatever. "Movie?"

"I can't today, I've got work."

"You always have work," he whines. "I'm playing agony aunt for you like, twenty-four seven, and let me tell you, Brof, it's starting to make me feel pretty damn neglected."

The echo of Stan telling me I neglected him bounces back at me from every angle. What is it with me treating my friends like shit this summer?

I cock an eyebrow. "Are you really, or are you just saying that?"

"Hand to god, Kyle." Kenny manages to look a bit embarrassed. "Ever since all this drama started, you and Stan have been pulling away. It's like you have a super-secret, super gay clubhouse, and I'm not invited."

Softening, I tell Kenny, "You're always invited into my clubhouse, Ken."

He shoves my shoulder. "Yeah, that's not helping the super gay thing."

"Okay, okay." I hold up my hands, like, truce? "Movie?"

"Movie," he confirms.

Midway through the movie, Kenny's jonesing for a cigarette break and I've got to piss, so we sneak out the back doors to take an extended break. Between the explosions and the shitty dialogue, it's not like we're about to miss anything vital.

The summer sun is already sinking, and true to form, the evening is already growing bitterly cold. We're the only place in the country that probably enjoys snow in mid-July. If I wasn't so completely used to it, I'd be pissed. As it is, I wrap my arms around myself and tell Kenny to hurry the fuck up.

He gives me his best shit eating grin and tells me to hold on to my panties, because he's an ass with a capital A. I watch him slow down, savoring the cigarette with succor for about half a minute before I snatch it from between his lips, finish thing off, and then throw it underfoot.

"Hey!" Kenny protests. "That was my last one."

"I'll buy you a whole new pack."

"Shucks, honey. Forget Stan, I'll come out to the whole damn town for you."

"It's ten bucks, Kenny. Not a Ferrari."

"I can buy a cheap whore for ten bucks," he cheers, following me back inside the warmth of the theater.

I push open the door to the bathroom and then stop in my tracks, because oh hell no. There's a grunt, half-pained, half-pleasured, and my hand flies up to cover my eyes. "Don't look Kenny."

I can feel Kenny trying to strain around me to see, but he regrets it nearly immediately. "What the actual fuck, Cartman?!"

"Aye, no one invited you fags in here," Fatboy's voice barks back. I do not take my hand off my eyes, because I am not going to willingly expose myself to that visual ever, ever again.

Calmly, I say, "It's a public restroom."

"Nice observational powers, Jew."

"It's a public restroom, doucheface. Not your own personal jack off laboratory."

I can practically hear his wheels turning, and please, Abraham, let his dick not still be in his hand. "I don't see your point."

"His point is put your damn pants back on, pervert!" Kenny's breath is hot on my shoulder, his outrage clear. "Kids come to piss in here."

Cartman audibly shrugs. "They've got to grow up sometime."

"No, you do." I stare into the lines of my palm, adding, "You can get arrested for that shit, dude."

"No you can't."

"Yes, you can."

"No you can't."

"Yes, you can."

"No you – damnit, Kahl. My mom does it all the time."

Kenny bursts into happy laughter. "Not the same thing, dude."

Cartman starts arguing the point, and I shove past them both, relieving myself to the sound of their constant, familiar bickering. I think about what Stan said, about him wanting to grow up so that eventually, when I decide to move on, he'll be able to keep up with me.

The thing is, that implies I'll move on. That one day, I won't have this. And maybe I can do without the sight of Eric Cartman's naked, bulbous flesh ever gracing my retinas like, for all eternity, but the rest of it? The sound of Kenny's delighted outrage, the thrown insults, the close-knit friendship?

How can I move on from all of that?

Pretty easily, I guess.

I stare at the letter in my lap; admittance to a fellowship program I don't even remember applying to. I've spent too long trying to suppress the notion that summer's end can and will come, and then I'll have to like. Do something with my life. If anything, I think that's part of why Stan's be-a-grownup initiative freaked me out so much; if he grows up, that means I have to, eventually.

I'm not ready for eventually. It took me twenty-three years to figure out I didn't mind dick. Evidently, I've got a lot of learning and growing to do before I can adult.

I don't tell Stan that, obviously. I don't tell him anything at all, when I meet him in North Park for dinner. He can tell I'm being quiet, but he doesn't push for the reasons why. Stan's pretty great like that.

The restaurant we're at is casual, and Stan went with that theme, even though all he's wearing is a trucker hat and jeans. It shouldn't make him look as handsome as it does.

I'm not even discrete about admiring him. It's hard to believe I went so long without ever thinking about touching him, kissing him, fucking him. I wonder how much of that was denial about who I am and what I want, and how much of it was simply fear – fear of ruining what Stan and I have always cradled between us, this unique brand of friendship that nobody else could touch.

We're sharing a basket of fries, and he's telling me this story from college about a girl he used to date. I'm laughing at all the right places, imagining Stan locked outside her dorm room in nothing but his underwear, but I guess there's something discordant about the sound. Stan covers my hand with his and asks, "Are you alright?"

"'Course. Why wouldn't I be?"

"I dunno." He peers up at me, those dark blue eyes of his bright in the shitty fluorescent light. "You've been quiet."

Without meaning to, or even wanting to, I blurt out, "Stan, what are we?"

He's taken aback. He has every right to be.

I forge on, "The path we took to get to where we are, this, it's really weird, and I know you said you want to keep up with me, but that means…what, exactly? If I get a job somewhere outside of Colorado, are you going to follow me? Or do you want me to stay here? Are we even actually, I don't know, dating?"

Dating. Moses. I can't remember the last time I actually dated anyone. I can't even remember the last time I wanted to. I've liked my life up until this summer. I've liked getting my dick wet when and wherever I can. Yet here I am, trying to define the relationship with Stan Marsh.

How did this even happen?

In my head, I start creating a pro-con list while Stan stares at me with something like trepidation.

Pro: I can start working off my student loans and pay my parents back for everything they've done.

Pro: I won't have to depend on my parents anymore, even though I'm ninety nine percent sure that somehow I'll manage to fuck it up and come back, hat in hand.

Pro: A constant influx of cash.

Con: The fellowship really is in DC. Ironic, right?

Con: The look on Stan's face when I get my shit together and tell him. If I ever do that.

"I don't know, Kyle. I mean, yeah. I guess I thought…we were?"

"Oh. Okay," I say dumbly, not sure how I feel about the answer.

I'm dating Stan. My boyfriend is Stan.

I have a boyfriend, I think, and the thought isn't as uplifting as it probably should be.

"Oh, okay," he agrees. "Is that wrong?"

"Not wrong," I say, scooping up a handful of fries and refusing to meet his eyes.

"You can tell me if it's wrong."

"I would tell you if it's wrong. I'm intensely judgmental, you know that. It's one of my more attractive traits."

"You have a lot of attractive traits." Great, now he's trying to flirt with me. I feel something tight in my throat. Ignoring it, I grit my teeth and smile.

By the end of the night, all I've got to show for it are aching teeth, but what the hell. Stan looks happy enough. Or so I think.

We're settling our check when he tells me, "You can always tell me, you know. When something is bothering you."

"Who says anything is bothering me?'

Stan shrugs. "Maybe there's not."

He knows me better than that. I swallow down guilt and wonder why I can't just up and tell him. We shared a long distance friendship for the past four years, and it didn't even come close to tearing us apart. A yearlong job isn't going to be a problem.

Not unless I make it one. Then it occurs to me:

Maybe I am the problem.

Here's the thing. I'm barely twenty four, and I've been feeling old for while now. But really, twenty four is nothing. It's like, just under a quarter of a century, and if I live to a hundred, I've got nearly three quarters left. Seventy six years.

Shit, that's a lot of time.

Enough time to start all over, and maybe fuck things up again and again if I want to. There's still so much time.

So what if Stan's been a part of my life since before I can remember? I didn't even know that we could be like we are, what we are, until this summer. Which means, I guess, that there a lot of changes ahead for us. It means that we have a few more obstacle courses to run.

Especially because it's Stan. One second he wants to grow up and the next we're owning at beer pong. I still can't figure out which version is real – will the real SBF please stand up?

Maybe they both are real.

People have more than one side, I guess. Only I don't like thinking that Stan might have sides I don't know, haven't discovered, and maybe never will.

I don't like thinking that I could somehow fuck up; be pulled away by a pair of nice tits or a tight pussy.

I mean, that's a very real possibility. All the things Stan said, about wanting to separate himself from my wanton frat-boy lifestyle; it wasn't all about me. No matter what he said, he really is trying to make a name for himself, to be an adult. He's got his nice apartment in North Park, and soon he'll have a steady job, and. And it's like he said. He's ready to settle down with a white picket fence, a dog, and two kids.

I'm not.

That's what I'm thinking, when he takes me back to his place. It's what I'm thinking when he huddles me up against the wall in his nice, pristine apartment, asking, "Are you still mad at me? About not wanting to come out?"

"No," I lie, even though the answer is absolutely. I don't even know why; it's not like I was too keen on this gay thing to start with. I just. I've always been honest about who I am, whether I'm being a big ol' bag of dicks or the smartest kid in town.

I don't see why my realization that my sexuality is more fluid than I'd initially thought is any different. I don't see why, if Stan is so into me, he doesn't want to shout it at the top of the hills.

"You're lying," he observes, fitting his hips against mine.

I take a sharp breath, the hard lines of his body suddenly more interesting than any of the awful, awful naysaying thoughts in my head. I let him press his mouth against mine, urgent and soft, and I try to remember how hard I fought to be in this place with him. How desperate I was for him not to ignore me anymore.

I did and he's not, and somehow, I'm still not happy.

What I am is fucking hard. So I shove all the bullshit thoughts away and wrap my fingers around Stan's hips, pulling him closer, tighter, looking for friction.

"Kyle," he groans, and yeah, that's good, but it could be better. I fumble his shirt over his head, and he yanks mine over my mass of red curls. Then our lips are crashing together once more, and it's good, dirty, slick. I paw at Stan's ass, and he fumbles with my belt buckle, the two of us walking back towards his couch. When we land on it, safely intertwined, Stan bucks up against me, our cocks lining up in exactly the right way.

I work his zipper down, slipping my fingers under his boxers until he's free, a solid weight in my hand. He does the same for me, lust sparking in his eyes.

"Kyle," he says again, his free hand finding my jaw, his lips following his fingertips.

It's too gentle, too sweet, when what I want is raw and rough and punishing. I speed my pace over his dick, urging him to do the same, until we're both taking gasping breaths against each other, our skin damp with sweat.

"Stan," I say, telling him, prompting him, trying to get him to understand that this isn't permanent, that this won't be forever, that I don't know what I'm doing, or how, or why.

But all he really gets out of it is that I'm about to come. He says, "Me too," and then my hand is sticky and wet, and I'm following right after him.

I slump my head against his collarbone and wish that I was better. Stronger.

Breathlessly I ask him, "This dating thing. I'm still figuring it out. You know that, right?"

He says, "I know. I know that, man." For a second, he watches me with such complete adoration and love that I feel like I've been punched in the gut. Then he asks abruptly, "What are you going to do, come September?"

It sounds like, 'what are we going to do'.

"I don't know," I lie. "What about you?"

"I don't know," he echoes, lowering his eyes.

It's how I know he's lying too.

We link our hands together, the distance between us growing, chasm-like, despite the way our bodies touch. I know I can say the word and cross it; hell, I know that's what I can and should fight for.

Only, if I say something, if I tell him about the fellowship for real, it will change things. It will force me to do exactly what Stan's been striving for – to grow up.

I just don't think I'm ready for that.