I'm going to boot camp for a week. Here, have this fic I wrote.

Today was just one of those days, Stan mused. The snow was melting into slush, but the wind was biting and cold. Climatologically speaking, it was impossible, but hey, this was South Park. Stan laughed, not at all sincerely, a puff of smoke escaping his lips. This time, it wasn't from the cold.

Stan took another deep drag off his cigarette and enjoyed the taste on his tongue. It wasn't the cigarette that tasted so good, oh, no. The cigarette tasted like burnt chalk and soot. The cigarette wasn't the thing making him feel so warm inside. It was the feeling of disobeying Kyle.

The thought of Kyle made Stan's guilty enjoyment melt into regular guilt, and he let the cigarette fall from his lips into the puddle of quickly liquefying ice in which his feet were submerged. His hands in the pockets of his jacket clenched and unclenched as he watched the little red end go black and dead in the water. He filled his lungs with air automatically, but didn't release a sigh. He disguised it as a cough.

"What the hell, Stan," Kenny said. "You need another cigarette?"

Pan out; view friends Stan Marsh, Kenny McKormick and Eric Cartman leaned up against the chipping brown paint of Cartman's backyard fence. The three are encircled by a floodlight on a pole. Resilient patches of yellowed grass add colour to the soupy mess covering the lawn. Cartman stares at the ground; Kenny holds a pack of cigarettes out to Stan, who stares at them dumbly.

"Oh, uh, sure," Stan says, and he takes one. He holds it out in front of his face and looks at it. Its smooth, crisp white exterior can't pretty up the smell or taste of it. Stan can't hide the sigh.

He slips the cigarette between his lips and motions for a match. Kenny strikes it and lights the end of Stan's cigarette before touching his own to Stan's. Stan feels his stomach flip.

It's this sort of thing that made him take up smoking. The look of the cigarette hanging out of the side of Kenny's mouth, or his tongue tightening around the end of it, flicking it up and to the side to rest between his teeth, the hazy puff of smoke coming out of his mouth as his eyes don't leave your face. And the intimacy of lighting his own cigarette with your own.

Stan didn't have a smoking fetish. He just thought that smoking was sexy.

It's disgusting, Kyle says. And dangerous. Did Stan know that they used rat poisoning in them? Has Stan ever seen a Truth commercial? Was he stupid? Kenny had been doing it since they were fourteen. If he did it until he was thirty, the damage would be irreversible. Did he want to have yellow teeth and emphysema?

But here he was, sucking on a cancer stick and awaiting the inevitable death Kyle had preached about. It burned his throat, he noticed, and he didn't like how the burn in his throat somehow transferred to his eyes with every breath he took. He coughed a lot his first time. It worried Kenny.

"Have you ever thought about shotgunning?" Kenny had asked.

Stan said that he hadn't, what is it?

"It's when one dude takes a puff and breathes it into the other dude's mouth," Kenny said. "That way it doesn't burn as much."

"That's... interesting," Stan had said.

"It's gay," Cartman complained, rolling his own cigarette between thumb and forefinger. "I don't know why you do that homo stuff, Kenny," he mumbled.

Kenny stared at him. "Really, Cartman?" he asked.

"Yeah," Cartman replied. A pause. "Why?"

Kenny shook his head. "No reason."

"What?" Cartman asked, suspicious. "What is it?"

"Nothing," Kenny replied, taking another drag.

Stan had been smoking in Cartman's backyard for a week since then. So far, he hadn't felt any real symptoms of addiction, save for a bit of irritation when something interfered with what he called his "smoke break". And guilt. A lot of guilt.

Stan looked at his watch.

"Hey, guys," he said. "I've gotta go."

"Okay, see you, dude," Kenny said. Cartman nodded in his direction.

Stan exited to the alley through the back gate. He cast a look over his shoulder. He could see the smoke tendrils curling up over the top of the fence into the slowly darkening sky. He looked up; orange and purple melded into pink and blue, with dark purple clouds covering it all. He changed direction and headed to Kyle's house.

On the way there, he jogged. He took off his jacket and smacked it against his legs as he ran, willing the smell to get off him. He swiped his hand against the backs of snowy fences forming the alley. He wiped his wet hands through his hair, perfectly scuplting it. He mussed it up. He ran his tongue across his teeth, wondering if they were yellow yet.

He knocked on Kyle's door.

Kyle's dad answered.

"Oh, hello, Stanley," he said. Stan smiled.

"Hi, Mr. Broflovski," Stan said.

"Kyle's in his room."

"'Kay, thanks," Stan replied. He went to the right and headed up the stairs, ice crystals trailing on the steps behind him. He went to Kyle's room and opened the door, stepping through quietly.

Kyle was sitting crosslegged in his desk chair wearing shorts and a t-shirt, his hair messy and untamed. His glasses were perched on the top of his head, and he was typing pointedly at his computer.

Stan smiled. It was beautiful.

Stan crossed the room, pulling his boots off and throwing them to the ground. He swivelled Kyle around in his chair, wrapping him in a hug. Kyle shrieked, his hands up in the "this is a holdup" position, before laughing nervously and hugging Stan back.

"Sorry, dude," Stan smiled, sitting back onto Kyle's bed.

"It's cool," Kyle laughed again. "What's up?"

"Can I spend the night?"

Kyle stared. "How?"

"Not in the sexy way."

"Okay," Kyle said. He swivelled around again and returned to pecking at the keys. Stan grinned. He couldn't help it. He'd told Kyle he was cute before, but Kyle had called him gay.

Instead, Stan hugged Kyle from behind, putting his chin in the crook of Kyle's neck. Kyle "hmmmed" and smiled. He leaned his head against Stan's.

Suddenly, he tensed up. He sniffed, first abruptly and then a long inhale. He turned to Stan.

"Why do you smell like smoke?"

Stan let go quickly and leaned back onto the bed. "Oh, nothing," he said. "I was hanging out with Kenny."

Kyle turned back to the screen. "You know I don't approve of Kenny's smoking," he said. "He dies enough as it is, he doesn't need to help the process along."

Stan rolled his eyes. "You sound like your mother," he said, only half-joking.

"I'm serious," Kyle said. He turned to face him again. "I remember how you said you thought it was cool, or sexy or whatever. I don't want you smoking, Stan."

"Yeah," Stan said. Kyle turned to the screen again.

Stan's mind wandered back to the "shotgun" concept. He was pretty sure Kyle wouldn't do it himself. He'd have to help him along. He imagined taking a drag on the cigarette, pressing his lips into Kyle's, nothing between their tongues but smoke. Kyle, pulling back, barely an inch from his lips, releasing the smoke onto his face in a gentle exhale.

Stan stood up. "I'm gonna go home," he said.

"I thought you were spending the night," Kyle said, still typing.

"I, uh... I changed my mind."

"Okay," Kyle said. He blindly reached out for Stan, pulled him over, and leaned in for a quick kiss. At the last minute, Stan turned, and Kyle kissed his cheek.

* * *

"I'm leaving, dad," Stan called out. It was 7:30 – smoke break time.

Stan left hurriedly through the back door, heading into the alley and toward Cartman's house. On the way there, he thought about what Kyle had said. He thought about getting addicted, and how difficult it would be to quit.

He got to Cartman's, knocked on the door, exchanged pleasantries with Cartman's mom, successfully avoiding looking at her rack, and crossed to the back door. He entered the kitchen to see Cartman sitting at the table, stabbing a knife into a plate of Salisbury steak.

"Hey, fatass," Stan asked. "Where's Kenny?"

"Out back."

"...and why aren't you out back," Stan asked.

"Fucking Jew," Cartman growled.

Stan's face slackened. "Kyle's here?" Stan peered through the sliding glass door. Sure enough, Kyle and Kenny were leaned up against the fence. Stan could see the bulge of the cigarettes in Kenny's jeans pocket.

"Shit."

Stan slid open the door with a creak. Kyle and Kenny looked up at him. Kenny was smiling.

"Hey, dude!" he said.

"Hey," Stan replied. "Hey, Kyle."

"Hey, Stan," Kyle said.

They all stared at each other.

"Well," Kenny said, breaking the silence. "Best get the night started, hmm?" He pulled out his pack of cigarettes, pressed it into his face, and removed it, a single cigarette between his lips. He cupped his hands against the same insistent wind from the night before, the tiny flame of his lighter licking the end of his cigarette. He inhaled, and the red got brighter. He exhaled, and Stan realised he hadn't been breathing.

Kenny leaned against the fence, the cigarette bobbing from side to side as his tongue flicked it. He stared to the sky, now almost completely dark. It was cold.

Stan stared between Kyle and Kenny. Kenny, completely at ease, puffing away; Kyle, staring at the place where thinly wrapped tobacco met Kenny's lips.

Kyle reached over and plucked the cigarette from Kenny's mouth.

"Hey," Kenny said softly.

Kyle stared at the end, slightly wet with saliva. He stared at the tip, ash crumbling onto the snow.

He stuck it into his mouth and inhaled deeply, sucking the life out of it. The glowing tip dimmed, and Kyle's eyes burned. They were locked onto Stan's; Stan's, which stared into his in a mixture of horror and curiosity.

Kyle removed the cigarette and a cascade of smoke followed it.

His head fell back against the fence, and he held the cigarette out to Kenny. Kenny took it. He stared between it and Kyle, rolling the body of it between his fingers. He flicked some ash off the tip and extended it to Stan. Stan held his hand out. He dropped it.

All three of them stared at the cigarette as it landed burning end-first in a puddle of snow. It rolled against Stan's from the night before and settled.

Kenny fumbled for his pack, pulling out three. He gave one to Stan and Kyle and put the last one between his teeth. They leaned in, the ends of each of their cigarettes touching to form the heart of a starburst where Kenny lit them up. They didn't lean back when the flame took.

See you in a week.

-SDez