A/N: This is the prequel to "Two Christmases."

Sure, Kyle has hesitations about signing a one-year lease with Stan, but there are only a few weeks left until the semester begins, and there's no way he's going to live in the dorms for another year, not that he reserved one, anyway. Spending the summer at home in South Park and looking for an apartment in Ft. Collins is almost impossible, and the two apartments he's seen so far have been absolutely disgusting, to say the least.

He's been scouring the apartment listings on Craigslist relentlessly since school ended. It's getting depressing – half the ads don't even have pictures, and the ones that do either show a complete mess of an apartment, or depict an absolutely pristine living space, of course priced at $1200 or more per month. Around ten o'clock on the Thursday of the first week of August, he's at the front desk at the library, scrolling through fresh reposts on his phone. Someone approaches the front desk, probably wanting to check out a big stack of books, or fucking ask him where to find something. Grudgingly, he looks up, and he's both relieved and surprised to see it's Stan, smiling down at him a little too brightly for this early in the morning.

"Hey. You wanna get lunch?" Stan asks, leaning against the desk.

"Uh. It's only quarter after ten."

"Oh. Breakfast then?"

"I can't just leave. Not until Peggy gets here at noon," Kyle says regretfully, wishing he could leave, but he's the only employee working the children's floor.

Stan looks at the clock on the wall. "I'll just stick around till then, I guess. Can I?" he asks, though he's already coming around the side of the desk.

"What? Yeah, of course you can."

Stan plops down in the other computer chair. "So. What's up?"

"You know, working, trying to find a goddamn apartment for next semester – "

"Wait, what? You are? Dude, I didn't know that! So am I!" Stan says, getting really excited.

Kyle cocks his head. "You don't seem very worried about it."

Stan shrugs. "I'm actually just looking for a roommate. I have an apartment in mind, but it's a two bedroom, so I still need to find somebody. We could totally sign the lease together, if you want."

Kyle's first thought is "No way in hell that'd work out" but he's really in a bind here, and if he doesn't have a place to live near campus by the 28th, he's one-hundred-percent screwed. So he says, "Well. Show me what it looks like."

In Kyle's mind, it's a very tentative, worst-case-scenario plan. Living with Stan would not be ideal, but it would obviously be more ideal than not having a place to live at all. Everything goes so smoothly from that point on it's almost cruel – their parents help them move in, they get all the utilities squared away, then buy a ton of crap for their neat little kitchen at Bed Bath & Beyond. The apartment starts looking like it's really theirs, and deep down, having something akin to a home with Stan is troubling to Kyle.

The first night is weird. He isn't used to it yet, this room that feels unfamiliar even in the dark. More than anything, Kyle wants to climb out of bed, sneak down the hall into Stan's room, and crawl under the blankets with him. He'd be so warm, his body soft and heavy, like back in middle school when they still shared a bed during sleepovers, like the night at Bebe's graduation party – except fuck, no, absolutely not, that's the last thing he's allowed to think of now that he and Stan are living together. He has to set some rules for himself. This isn't do-whatever-the-fuck-you-want-land, where he could jerk off to that memory and not worry about having to look Stan in the eye anytime soon.

He still wants it, though. To crawl into Stan's bed, that is. If only that.

This semester, Kyle doesn't have class on Fridays, so he spends the day hanging around the apartment. There's not a lot of homework the first week of class, so by quarter to twelve he's already finished the two short assignments he had to do. He browses through random sites online for a while, then decides he might as well jerk off since he still has an hour before Stan comes back from class.

In the past few months, he's discovered that coming with something in his ass is so much more satisfying than jerking off alone. His fingers didn't suffice for long – eventually he caved in and bought a vibrating prostate massager online. He has some shame about it, because it's such a gay stereotype, loving having his ass filled this much. But he is gay, so gay that he can't even look at Stan when he walks around the apartment shirtless without getting hard. Of course he's attracted to Stan; who wouldn't be? He's tall, nearly 6'2", has just the right amount of muscle definition, and he's handsome as fuck: his face has an excellent bone structure while still retaining a trace of boyish sweetness. And though he hasn't seen it in its fully-developed glory, Kyle is positive Stan's dick is nothing short of immaculate.

Sighing to himself, he digs through his closet, pulling out the shoebox where he keeps the prostate massager and lube. Everything just has to be a stupid trade-off. As much as he enjoys hanging out with Stan, it's horrible having to awkwardly scamper off to his room because he got a boner from looking at Stan's nipples. But regardless of the inconveniences, it does provide him with foolproof mental imagery to get off to, which is what he plans to do now.

He draws the curtains closed, then strips his clothes off, shoving the guilt from his mind as he lies on his bed and squeezes some lube onto his fingers. He spreads his legs, raising them into the air. His half-hard cock hits his stomach, and he reaches around to press one lubed fingertip to his hole. This part isn't really that great, and he has to jerk himself through it to stay hard, keeping his concentration focused on moving his finger around in his ass, widening it enough for another. With the insertion of a second finger, he's able to just graze the base of his prostrate, and it's excruciating, being so close but not quite close enough, so it's the perfect time to torture himself mentally, too, and start thinking about how Stan gave him a handjob two summers ago.

Stan is drunk, of course. He tells Kyle he wants to "show him something" in Bebe's basement. For whatever reason, maybe because he's had half a drink, Kyle believes him. They slip away from the dancing and the loud music, Stan leading the way down into the empty basement. He doesn't turn on the light, and that's when Kyle realizes there's something odd about this. Kyle's about to ask what it is he wants to show him when Stan grabs hold of his hand and interlocks their fingers in the darkness.

"What – what are you doing?" Kyle asks, trying to keep his voice hard, steady, but it crackles through his throat.

"I don't know." Stan is quiet for a moment. "I just keep thinking about college."

"Uh. What?"

"How we won't be able to like – shit, I don't know. Things are gonna change. We can't do this stuff anymore," Stan says, pulling Kyle into his chest, holding him there.

"Stan. We haven't done this stuff in years."

Stan sighs very sadly. "I know. I'm sorry. Can we go out with a bang then?" he asks, resting his palm over the front of Kyle's jeans.

Kyle bites the inside of his cheek to make sure this isn't a dream. It's not. He should take a minute to think this through, consider the consequences or something, but Kyle wants this, he knows he does, and apparently, Stan wants to give it to him, whether it really means anything or not. The only thing that Kyle can possibly say is, "Okay."

Stan gives Kyle's growing erection a little squeeze and then turns him around, pulling his back to his chest and resting his chin on his shoulder. Kyle doesn't know where to put his arms, so he folds them across his chest, gripping his elbows tight to keep himself from shaking. Stan's breath is hot on his neck, excruciatingly sexual. He moves his hand to the waistband of Kyle's jeans, letting his fingers rest on the button for a moment before he opens it, carefully sliding the zipper down.

"You're uh – you're sure?" Stan asks, although his hand is already in Kyle's pants, only the thin fabric of Kyle's boxers between his touch and Kyle's dick.

"Yeah," Kyle breathes, thrusting slightly into Stan's palm to let him know that yes, he's more than sure, and please don't ask again because he can't have second thoughts, not now.

Stan dips his fingers into the fly of Kyle's boxers, and the instant he makes contact with Kyle's now-leaking erection, Kyle's knees go weak and he slumps against Stan's chest. Stan holds him up with his other arm while he carefully pulls out Kyle's cock, lacing his fingers around the base. He begins to pump him in long, smooth strokes, and Kyle tries to soak in every detail: the way Stan is somehow able to touch him like he's always known how, Stan's muffled whispering that he's not cognizant enough to decipher, and most profound of all, the unmistakable hardness of Stan's erection pressing against his ass.

Stan gives his neck a tiny lick and suddenly he's coming hard, emptying himself in Stan's hand, clenching his jaw tight because otherwise he'd be moaning Stan's name over and over.

That's where Kyle cuts the memory off, because afterwards it was awkward, neither of them knowing what to say, so they went back upstairs like nothing had happened, which Kyle was sort of grateful for, although it was painful, too. As he pushes the lubed-up toy into his ass, he closes his eyes and replays the most important part, the part where Stan is stroking him off, and tries to mimic that deliberate yet characteristically gentle grip with his own hand. He turns the vibrator on at the lowest setting, and begins slowly fucking his ass, pressing it softly against his prostate. Each time he drives it back in, dizzying little surges of pleasure shoot straight to his dick, and he doesn't bother holding back a moan. He turns the vibration up a notch and imagines Stan's babbling whispers of encouragement, that low, breathy voice asking, "Yeah? That good?" He spreads his legs wider, trying not to start pumping his cock too fast, or else this will be over too soon, and he hasn't even gotten to his most damning fantasy of all.

Forcing himself to drop his hand from his dick, he pulls the vibrator almost all the way out, leaving the very tip just inside his ass, then turns the vibration off. The instinctive part of his mind shouts in frustration, but he ignores it and rolls onto his stomach, lifting his ass into the air. He digs up his most elaborate, most private fantasy, the one reserved for once he's thoroughly teased himself: Stan fucking him with desperate frenzy, his hands tight around his hips, not a preemptive measure to keep him in place, but an assertion of his force, because Stan is the one in charge. He's growling cruel things, but Kyle doesn't assign exact words to his chastising; he prefers a blurred-out jumbling of condemnations.

Kyle turns the vibrator on the max setting and thrusts it deep into his ass, tipping it downward as he slams against his prostate with brusque carelessness. He stuffs his face into the pillow, moaning, dampening the fabric with drool. He's desperate to touch his cock, he's probably leaking all over the damn bedspread by now, but Stan wouldn't do him the favor of jerking him off, nor would Stan let him jerk himself off. So he resists, his pleading moans muffled poorly by the pillow. But Stan would let him let come eventually, wouldn't torture him endlessly, so when he's nearly there, he flings his arm down between his legs and grasps himself in a fist, rapidly pumping his cock. Just as he's about to come, he pushes the tip of the vibrator right against his prostate, and jerks himself faster, shouting as his orgasm sears through him. Heavy bursts of come spurt from his cock, forced out of his body by the whirring vibration deep in his ass.

He's always overwhelmed by the intensity of coming this way, every inch of his body tingling, and he has to shut the vibrator off, its steady bzzz-ing unbearable now, too close to that overly sensitive spot. But he doesn't take it out quite yet. Clenching his muscles around its contours, he allows himself one last thought before the final aftershock wanes: his ass being filled up with hot come, marked as property, claimed.

Groaning, he slumps down on the bed, the guilt already beginning to creep in. And shit, what time is it, anyway? He lifts his head to look at his alarm clock: it's 12:46. If he hurries, that should be enough time to clean his dick up, wipe the lube out of his crack, wash the stupid ass-toy, and Febreze the room before Stan gets home at 1.

By 12:58, he's gotten cleaned up, redressed, and hidden the evidence of his anal pleasure routine back in his closet. He hears the front door unlocking and tells himself to act normal, as if he wasn't just jerking off to the sight of Stan's face. As he's walking into the main living area, he sees Stan's phone on the coffee table, which is odd, because it wasn't there earlier when he ate breakfast at 10:30.

When Stan opens the door, he seems stunned to see Kyle. "Hi," he says slowly, shutting the door behind him. Stan's eyes dart to his phone on the coffee table, and that's when Kyle realizes there's something weird going on here.

"Hi," Kyle says, regarding Stan suspiciously.

"I left my phone here," Stan says quickly. He moves past Kyle, over to the coffee table, and picks it up.

A lump is forming in Kyle's throat, his heart rate speeding up as his mind pieces together a horrific theory. "When?"

"This morning," Stan says, but Kyle detects a definite trace of uncertainty in his voice. Stan's lying, and Kyle knows it's a lie, too, because that phone was definitely not there at 10:30 this morning, a whole hour after Stan had left.

"It wasn't there when I ate breakfast," Kyle says. He's starting to feel sort of bad now, like this is an interrogation, but there's this wretched possibility that Stan overheard him, and he needs to confirm it.

Stan shifts uncomfortably, avoiding Kyle's eye. "I, uh – stopped by after my first class."

Fury sparks in the pit of Kyle's stomach. Does Stan think he's an idiot? "No you didn't, you – when did you come back?" he demands.

Stan hesitates for a moment, then looks Kyle straight in the eye and says, "Well! My class got out early! So I came home!" His face is flushed, bright red.

The horrible reality pieces itself together. Kyle feels his body go numb. "You heard."

"Only for like, a second! Then I left! I swear!"

"Of course you did!" Kyle retorts, too frazzled to even care what's coming out of his mouth.

"Why wouldn't I?" Stan asks, distressed.

"You think I'm disgusting, don't you?!" Kyle says, getting louder. "At least I don't jerk off in a sock to the thought of some stupid bitch with a fake tan!"

Stan gapes at him for a moment, then his expression hardens. "What the fuck are you even saying?"

Kyle grits his teeth, staring Stan down. He doesn't have a response for that; he has no clue what he's saying. He wants to punch Stan in the fucking face, for getting out of class early, for trying to lie to him, for being a heterosexual piece of shit. Fuming, he turns on his heel and marches back to his room, desperate to slam the door shut, but that would be childish, overdramatic, and he's already made enough of a fool of himself.

Kyle drops face first onto his bed and lets a tear out. Just one. Fucking Stan. With his too-perfect physique and stupid smile, sucking people in like moths to a flame. He's so ignorant, too, doesn't realize the extent to which a simple gesture like holding the door open affects a person. Doesn't realize the extent to which a drunken handjob ruins a person.

He wishes he could go back in time and tell Stan no, he could not give him a handjob, he did not have permission to fuck with his mind like that. Stan isn't gay, he's just nostalgic about how they used to take baths together until they were five or six, how they used to share a bed during sleepovers until they hit high school. What Stan believed was a neat little conclusion to their years of brotherly intimacy was a merciless coup de grâce for Kyle. At first, he'd hated Stan for it, for taking advantage of him like that. Stan knew he was gay; he'd told him two years prior. Eventually, Kyle ended up forgiving him, because Stan had been really drunk, and it was sort of touching that the physical closeness they shared growing up was important to Stan, too.

Kyle isn't feeling so sympathetic now. Drunk as Stan may have been, he knew what he was doing.

But even now, despite everything, if he really could go back in time, Kyle knows he'd probably still say yes.

Kyle spends the rest of the afternoon in his room. He goes from hating Stan – hating him a lot – to hating himself for being so careless, then hating himself some more for being attracted to Stan in the first place. At least he'd remembered to lock his door, so Stan didn't actually see anything, doesn't know Kyle likes to get off with things up his ass. Wait, never mind. He probably heard the buzzing.

Around three o'clock, he creeps out of his room to pee, hoping Stan is in his room so he won't have to see him. Kyle washes his hands twice, then goes back to his room to brood some more.

What the hell is he going to do? He can never look Stan in the eye again, and he certainly can't live with him anymore. He has to move out, sublet his room. But then where would he live? Maybe that crappy apartment off West Pitkin he saw over the summer. God, it'd be so much work; it took forever to move all his shit here. And, ugh, his mother. Naturally – and correctly – she'd assume it had something to do with Stan, then she might start nagging him again, asking him if he "still thought he was gay," and he'd just managed to get her to shut up about that two years ago.

Well, forget it. He'll just have to make sure he never leaves his room if Stan is home.

Exhaustion suddenly sets in. He hasn't eaten since breakfast six hours ago. He should've grabbed some crackers when he made that trip to the bathroom earlier. Hopefully Stan will get a shower later so he can sneak out and get a bowl of cereal, at least.

In an effort to ignore the hunger pangs, he reads everything about the uranium mining debate on Wikipedia. By six o'clock, he feels dull, brain-dead, and is absolutely starving.

There's a very soft knock on the door. "Kyle?"

"What?" he growls, no energy to make it sound appropriately hateful.

"Can I talk to you? Please?"

"Talk then," Kyle says. He's not going to open the door.

Stan is quiet for a moment. "I don't think you're disgusting."

"Thanks," Kyle says bitterly. "Is that all?"

"No," Stan says. "You were wrong. About me. I don't just like girls."

Kyle holds his breath, the impossible meaning of Stan's words fighting to sink into his brain. He hops off his bed and grabs the doorknob, trying to muster up the nerve to fling it open, part of him expecting this is some sort of sick joke.

"I'm, uh, bi, I think. Well, pretty sure, anyway," Stan says.

Kyle cracks the door open, eying Stan warily. "What?"

"I'm bisexual," Stan mumbles.

Kyle gapes at him, realizing Stan is completely serious. What the fuck? Stan likes guys? Since when? Does he think this is some way to win him over and get him to quit being angry? Trying to sympathize with him by claiming he's not straight? His head is spinning and it's making him for real dizzy, nauseated. Breathing hard, he flips around, his back to the door, hand still gripped tight around the doorknob.

Stan heaves a sigh of exasperation. "Can I just talk to you?"

Kyle senses Stan coming closer, and instinctively, he pushes his weight against the door, but something stops it from shutting all the way. He hears an anguished shout. Flinging the door open, he sees Stan clutching his hand to his chest, whining, "Fuuuck."

Guilt stricken, Kyle grabs Stan's hand, clasping it tight in his own, trying to will the pain away. "Shit, shit, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." He has to hold himself back from pressing a kiss to Stan's knuckles.

Stan shakes his head. "It's okay." He doesn't pull his hand away. Kyle doesn't let go, either. Eventually, he does, and Stan draws his hand back, flexing it. "I'm fine."

"I'm sorry," Kyle says again, feeling horrible.

"No – don't." He drops his arm to his side and cocks his head back. "Anyway. I was gonna make pasta. If you're hungry."

"Oh, um, okay. Yeah."

Kyle sits on the couch, watching Stan from the living room while he boils water in the kitchen. Stan. Bisexual. Not straight. It's blowing his mind. The reason why Stan never told him before suddenly dawns on him. Kyle has definitely spoken unfavorably about bi guys in the past, even going as far as to say they should "just pick a side." But could Stan really blame him? Just into freshman year, Kyle dated a bi guy for a month, then got dumped via text so the douchebag could get back with his ex-girlfriend. It pissed him off more than it hurt, and it was especially stinging that he was dumped for a girl. Some stupid hipster bitch who wore dream catcher earrings.

He's grown distrusting of bisexual men. They always seem to be more into women. But maybe this is just a stereotype he's grown to believe based on that one case scenario. However, Stan seems to prefer girls, too. Or maybe, unbeknownst to Kyle, he has done stuff with guys. This infuriates him, because how dare he.

He should probably go help Stan with the pasta, but he's hesitant to get up and be in close contact with him. Plus, he's tired, and doesn't really want to. When Stan comes over to the couch with two bowls of pasta, a fork wedged in each, Kyle feels like a spoiled brat. "Thank you," he mumbles. The steam rising up to his face smells so good that Kyle can't wait for it to cool off. He curls a huge mass of pasta around his fork, careful to blow on it a couple times first. Anything Stan cooks always tastes particularly good, even if it's just something simple like fettuccine pasta with marinara sauce.

"I used to think it was just a you-thing," Stan says, once Kyle has consumed nearly the whole bowl, and in record time. "Like, I was fixated on you because of all that weird shit we used to do as kids."

Hearing Stan say he was "fixated" on him makes Kyle's insides shake in a wound-up, crazy way. "It wasn't that weird," he says, shrugging.

"Some of it was. Well, anyway. That night at the party – and this is shitty, I know, and I'm sorry – I wanted to test myself, to see if I was actually into it. Like, for real."

"So, were you?"

"Couldn't you tell?"

"Then why did you act like you were ashamed of it?" Kyle demands.

"Because I was! It was – dishonest. And I knew you'd let me," Stan says quietly, leaning forward and putting his head in his hand. "You've always been so sure of yourself, and I felt like a dumbass for taking so long to figure out that I liked guys. I didn't want you to have to be the one to put up with me figuring myself out, because what if I was wrong? That would've fucked everything up, and I was already worried that what happened in Bebe's basement would, so I was glad it seemed like you'd forgotten about it."

Kyle wants to laugh. "Like I could forget it."

"I meant that it didn't really change us."

That's at least true in the sense that Kyle wanted Stan's dick both before and after the incident. "It was college that did," Kyle says, peering at Stan from the corner of his eye, wanting him to fess up about any casual encounters with men he may have had.

"I know. I guess it was me, too. I had to – distance myself a little, to make sure it wasn't just some fucked up incestuous thing, that I really was attracted to guys. And, uh, I realized that I do," he says, trailing off. He scratches his head, his face still covered from Kyle's view. "I was going to tell you. But some of the stuff you've said – you know, about bi guys."

"But you just went back to dating girls."

Stan groans and leans back on the couch, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. "No guy wanted to. The second you say you're bi, they think you're undateable."

Kyle cringes – he's definitely said that before. He just hopes it wasn't in Stan's presence. "I guess it would be – difficult."

"That's why I went back to dating girls for a while. But, Christ, that ended up getting weird, too. That one girl was hung up on having a threesome with another guy, and like, didn't understand why I wasn't into the idea. Then she said I must really be straight, which was fucking stupid. It's like I'm not allowed to have a normal relationship this way, and it sucks."

Kyle has never thought of any of this. He moves the little broken pieces of pasta around with his fork, mulling this over, trying to come up with something to say.

"I mean, would you date a bi guy? Um, again, that is?" Stan says, his voice hesitant.

Kyle's heart leaps into his throat, and he swallows hard, refusing to allow himself to infer anything from that. "Oh. Uh. Yeah, probably," he says as coolly as possible.

"I lied before," Stan says, covering his face with his hand. "I didn't leave as soon as I came home earlier, when I, um. Heard you."

"Yeah?" Kyle says. He can feel the beginning of an erection, imagining Stan outside his door, listening to the sounds of him pleasuring himself.

"At first I thought you were crying or something, and I was worried, but then I realized, um, what you were doing." Stan takes his hand from his face, and looks at Kyle, but his expression is still guarded, cautious. Kyle can hear Stan's breathing coming in harder from all the way across the couch. "I stood outside your door and listened. For fifteen minutes," he says. "It was the hottest thing I ever heard."

Kyle gapes at him, stunned. Unwisely, he admits, "I was thinking about you."

Stan's eyes widen. "You were?"

"Yeah."

Stan crawls toward him, and Kyle feels time slipping into slow motion, the seconds getting longer as Stan comes closer. Like he's holding something fragile, Stan cups his face in his hands, running over his jawbone with his thumb.

"I wanted to do it all with you," Stan says, looking like he might cry.

"You could have," Kyle says. "I would've let you."

The last thing Kyle sees before Stan's mouth is on his, kissing him, is Stan's eyelids fluttering shut in the way they do just before he falls asleep, the stresses of the day leaving his face as he gives himself over to sleep. Kyle can sense Stan wanting to give himself over here, too, his tongue prodding cautiously between Kyle's lips like he's testing to see if Kyle wants this from him. Kyle does, more than anything, so he relinquishes his mouth to Stan, sighing into the kiss. The intensity of their tongues click together bubbles exponentially, sparking a domino effect: Stan sweeps his hand behind Kyle's neck, his fingers crawling up through his hair, and Kyle allows his hands to roam over Stan's chest, relearning a territory he thought he had lost.

Stan's palm is on Kyle's thigh, immovable, and Kyle's cock throbs against the fabric of his boxers, staining them with precome. Panting, Stan pulls away like it hurts him to do so, then says, "I think about that night all the time." He lets his head sink to Kyle's neck, breathing in his skin like he's trying to absorb as much of him as possible. "The way you felt in my hand. Shit, dude, it was so –– Can I do it again? Or, um, suck you off maybe?" he asks, peering up at Kyle almost sheepishly.

"Y-yeah. Yeah," Kyle says. He tries to retain some sense of focus – should he take his pants off? It will be embarrassing with the lights on; Stan will see what he couldn't in Bebe's basement. Looking away from him, Kyle slowly unzips his fly, tugging his jeans down a little and praying Stan will do the rest.

Stan sinks down the floor and eases Kyle's legs apart, situating himself between them. He rests his palm over Kyle's erection and Kyle has to silence the part of his brain that wants to rub himself into the warmth of Stan's touch. Stan is still looking at him with a cautious "This is okay, right?" expression, and Kyle nods deliriously. His whole body tingles with little electric synapses that migrate straight to his dick as Stan drags his jeans and boxers down over his erection.

Stan wraps his fingers around the base of Kyle's cock, his other hand resting torturously idle over his groin. "Wow," he says quietly, the heat of his breath brushing over his cockhead.

"What?" Kyle asks quickly, starting to panic.

"Your hair. It's red."

"Well, what did you expect?" Kyle sputters, ashamed.

"No, I like it," Stan says, running his fingers through the mass of thick curls.

Stan touches his tongue to the tip, then starts lapping at his cockhead, licking up the precome. Watching Stan do this, seeing his lips, fat from the kissing, opening as he takes him in his mouth, is so intense that Kyle has to clamp his eyes shut and only allow himself the tiniest of peeks to remind himself that this is really Stan; it's Stan's tongue, hot and wet, sliding beneath his cock, Stan's lips gliding back and forth along the shaft as he bobs his head up and down, swallowing him again and again. Kyle can tell this can't be the first time Stan has done this, which hurts, but it doesn't matter right now, because Stan is sucking him brilliantly, taking all of him in his mouth, and it's so good that it's scattering Kyle's thoughts, pulling his awareness back to the pulsing of his cock driving in and out of the incredible heat of Stan's mouth.

Kyle senses he's going to come soon, but something feels off, different, and then he realizes it's because there's nothing in his ass. It's selfish of him to still crave more when his cock is being worked on so exquisitely, but he wants so desperately to feel Stan in him, clench his muscles around his cock, revel in the sensation of being stretched inch by inch, of being filled completely. Imagining it is enough to get him close, and he grabs Stan's shoulder, wanting to give him fair warning, but also hoping he'll swallow, because Kyle would, and it'll kill him to be robbed of coming in Stan's mouth when his ass is already empty, clenched tight around nothing.

Kyle moans behind closed lips as he empties himself into Stan's throat, his hips twitching shallowly as Stan sucks him dry. It's not like the mind-blowing orgasms Kyle has perfected on himself, but it's still good, just more centralized in his cock than a whole-body thing. It's less to come down from, too, and he doesn't feel as out of it as he usually does, but he's still aching for more. He wants to be disassembled.

Stan eases his softening cock from his mouth, then wipes it off with the sleeve of his shirt and tucks it back into Kyle's boxers in a way that's so tender it's sort of ludicrous. He crawls back up to the couch, grazing his erection against Kyle's thigh. Kyle sucks in a breath and looks away from Stan's expectant eyes, because yes, of course, he's going to return the favor, but he doesn't want this to just be a paltry exchange of getting each other off. "Do you want to fuck me?" he asks casually, watching Stan's eyes widen.

"Do you – want that?"

"Well," Kyle scoffs, feeling ridiculous now. "Not necessarily."

"I want to, I just – don't know how," Stan admits.

"I can show you."

"You've done it before?" Stan asks. He sounds hurt, though he shouldn't be, because Kyle knows Stan's had sex with at least three girls.

"No, but I know, like, how to do it." Kyle withholds elaborating that he has spent countless hours meticulously researching anal sex. "Do you have, um, condoms?"

"Yeah," Stan says. "Where do you want to, uh, do it?"

"In my room. I need to – brush my teeth first," Kyle declares, using Stan's shoulder as leverage to get up off the couch.

"So I'll just wait in your room then?"

"Yeah that's good!" Kyle says over his shoulder as he's hurrying down the hall, holding his pants up because they're still unbuttoned. The crack of his ass might be showing, and he hopes Stan isn't looking at him waddling down the hall in falling-down pants, which is inherently silly, considering he's going to be seeing everything soon.

Kyle slips into the bathroom, shuts the door and presses his back up against it, his mind reeling. He squeezes too much toothpaste onto his toothbrush, shoving it into his mouth anyway and scrubbing the pasta-taste out. Every nerve in his body is humming with excitement – and anxiety. He looks at his reflection in the mirror and tells to himself to chill out. This is Stan, it's going to be fine. He splashes some cold water on his face and takes a deep breath.

Unexpectedly, Stan is standing just outside the door. "I figured I should probably, uh, brush my teeth, too."

Kyle is instantly reminded that Stan swallowed his come. "Oh. Um. Good idea." He moves to the right, just as Stan does, then moves to the left, same-stepping him again. Laughing a little, Stan moves to the far side to let Kyle pass. Their gazes catch, and Stan offers him a small smile, his cheeks tinged boyishly pink. It's enough to immobilize Kyle for a split-second, his chest fluttering in a garbled, giddy fashion, and he heads to his room feeling like he's moving in zero-gravity.

Seeing his bed, the reality of what they're going to do on it pummels over him again. He wonders how they're going to do it, exactly. Knowing Stan, probably missionary position, which is perfectly acceptable in terms of prostate stimulation, though he'll have to guide him. Oh, shit, he should go get the lube out of his secret masturbation box before Stan comes back. Good call, that could have been embarrassing. He stuffs the tube under the pillow for easy access later, then stands up and analyzes the room for any other necessary preparations. Better turn the lights off. Hopefully this does not come off as trying to be sexy. He's just apprehensive about looking Stan in the eye while he's fingering him. Or, shit, should he do that himself? What if Stan isn't like, into that?

Mulling this over, he flicks the lights off and hops up on his bed, his back to the wall. It's dark enough, but not pitch-black; there's some rough visibility from the last hints of daylight permeating the curtains. That's sort of inherently sexy.

He hears the faucet shut off, the bathroom door creaking open, then Stan coming down the hall, acutely aware of each tiny shake of gravity his socked footsteps make.

Stan slips into the room, closing the door behind him, and the temperature of the air swells a degree. He can hear Stan's shaky breathing as he inches toward the bed, slowly climbing up onto it.

"Are you nervous?" Kyle asks, scooting closer to him.

"A little," Stan says, resting his forehead on Kyle's shoulder. "Okay, maybe a lot. I'm worried that I might – hurt you."

Kyle wraps his arms around his shoulders, petting his hair. "You won't. I have, um. Lube."

"It's not just that. I'm uh, kind of – big," Stan mumbles.

"How big?" Kyle has to ask, already drooling.

"I dunno. It's not like, fucking monstrous or anything."

Kyle pulls back to look at Stan. "It'll be fine." It should be, anyway; he's had a lot of practice with that prostate massager, even if it is only four inches long.

"Okay," Stan says, letting out a breath. He moves his face forward in tentative little increments, and Kyle leans in to catch his lips with his own, coaxing them open. It's enough to ignite Stan, and he reciprocates with equal energy, alternating between lapping at Kyle's mouth and pressing firm kisses to his lower lip.

Half-hard and steadily becoming more aroused, Kyle pulls Stan closer, guiding him on top of him. Although Stan's erection is just barely grazing Kyle's thigh, he can feel how breathtakingly hard he is. Without consulting any higher brain function, he reaches down and squeezes him in his palm, groaning in sync with Stan. "I want you," Kyle murmurs against Stan's neck, not caring that it's a sort of tacky thing to say.

"Oh, fuck," Stan whines, his hips twitching into Kyle's hand. "Me, too."

Kyle pushes his shirt up, letting Stan tug it all the way off. Stan tears his own shirt off in one swift movement, and then, more deliberately, unbuttons his jeans. Kyle stares transfixed as Stan's cock comes into view. Even in the dim light, he can see that it blows his expectations out of the water: it's the perfect length, girth, everything, better looking than even the finest artisan could have sculpted, gloriously erect, and slightly curved-up, the ideal shape for stimulating the prostate.

Distractedly, Kyle fiddles with the button of his jeans, pulling them down with his boxers to mid-thigh. Stan crawls back to him and tugs them all the way off. "I'm cold," Kyle says, even though he isn't, it's just that he's a little on edge with being this exposed, and he'd just prefer to be under the covers is all.

"'Kay." Stan crawls under the comforter with Kyle, and they both sigh when their bodies touch, skin-on-skin, nothing separating them. "You feel so good," Stan murmurs, kissing him again.

"Do you want to feel – more?" Kyle asks. He winds his hand under the pillow to grab the lube.

"Yeah. I do," Stan says, taking the bottle.

Kyle rolls onto his back and spreads his legs. His cock has softened somewhat, mainly from nervousness. Pulling the comforter up over his back, Stan moves to kneel between Kyle's legs. He squeezes a considerable amount of lube into his hand, rubs it between his fingers, then places the bottle aside and leans forward, his hand sinking behind Kyle's balls. Stan touches his fingertip to his hole, instantly making Kyle's cock stiffen. Kyle spreads his legs wider, encouraging him. Stan traces the rim in slow, circular motions, occasionally pressing harder just at the center.

"You can – go in," Kyle says, and Stan obeys, sighing as he pushes inside. Stan's finger slowly sinking into his ass is like a preview for what's to come; he can feel the beginning of Stan unraveling him, decoding his innermost locks. He bears down, and Stan's finger slips all the way in.

"You're so warm," Stan says, his eyes fluttering shut. Very slowly, he moves his finger around, pulling out just slightly to sink back in.

"Ah, yeah," Kyle breathes, concentrating on every tiny movement of Stan's finger. Stan fucks him more purposefully, eventually pulling out far enough to touch a second fingertip to Kyle's hole. He pushes in even slower than he did the first time, and Kyle's relieved to feel he's finally being stretched, Stan's fingers spreading him apart as they go deeper into his ass. "Curl them toward you a bit," Kyle says, desperate for Stan to touch him there.

Stan does so, rubbing in various spots until he manages to graze over Kyle's prostate. Not realizing he's done so, his fingers move away. "Go back, go back," Kyle says quickly.

"Where? Here?"

"No."

"Here?" Stan asks, his fingertips pressing against Kyle's prostate.

"Yeah," Kyle says, nodding dazedly as Stan rubs over that spot. His cock is painfully hard, dripping precome onto his stomach, and he can practically hear it throbbing, soaking up each of Stan's touches from the inside.

"Add another finger," Kyle says, because while he wants this, Stan massaging his prostate better than that toy ever could, what he really needs is for Stan to fill him with his cock, to take him, reshape him.

Stan sinks a third finger in, and Kyle relishes it, the dull ache of his ass allocating for Stan's three fingers. "You look so hot like this," Stan says.

Kyle is sure he looks ridiculous, but he does feel kind of hot, attractive, even, with Stan gazing at him with searing adoration, wide-eyed and earnest. "Thanks," he says, careful to not roll his eyes. "And I think that should be enough. If you wanna, uh, start now."

"Oh, okay. Yeah," Stan says. The pang of emptiness Kyle feels once Stan has withdrawn his hand completely is compounded by the fact Stan will be wrapping his cock in latex, thus sealing off direct contact. In theory, it makes Kyle want to sob, as does the reason for it – that Stan has had sex with other people. But that doesn't matter anymore, right? He watches Stan dig the condom packet out from his jean pocket, rip it open, and roll it onto his dick like he's done it a thousand times before.

"Hey, hey, what's wrong?" Stan asks, cupping the side of his head.

"What? Nothing."

"You just looked really sad for a second there."

"Oh. I was just thinking about how I'm, uh, losing my virginity to you," Kyle says. "But not the other way around."

"Fuck, I'm sorry. I wish it were. I wish I had waited."

"Don't be sorry. I wasn't trying to like, make you feel bad about it."

"Okay," Stan says, grazing over his cheek with his thumb and climbing back under the covers.

"Maybe put some lube on uh, yourself," Kyle mumbles.

"Won't that screw up the condom?"

"It's not an oil-based lubricant."

"Oh. Okay." Stan digs through the mass of blankets for the bottle, then pours some into his palm, slicking his cock. Holding himself at the base, he scoots forward. "Um. Ready?"

"Yeah," Kyle says, raising his hips. He feels the head of Stan's cock press against his entrance and he tells himself not to tense up. Relax. Breathe. Slowly, Stan pushes in, and it's astonishing just how huge the tip of his cock feels.

"You okay?" Stan asks.

"Yes, of course."

Stan scoots forward, his cock inching deeper into Kyle's ass. It doesn't necessarily hurt, or maybe it does and he's just so deluded with craving Stan's dick that he's somehow managed to confuse his anal nociceptors.

"Ah, sec," Stan says, breathing hard through his nostrils. "I got scared I was gonna come."

Kyle smirks, licking his lips. "You can't. Not yet."

"I know," Stan says. He resumes his methodically slow pace, pushing in one tiny fraction of a centimeter at a time, and maybe there's a dull ache, but Kyle relishes it, because his desire to contain Stan, physically and metaphysically, has made itself home amongst the simplest, most instinctive facets of his being, cementing itself as something crucial to his existence.

Stan lets out a long breath and says, "I'm in." As if exhausted, he drops onto Kyle, their chests sticking together with traces of sweat. "I don't know how long I'm gonna last."

"That's okay," Kyle says. He circles his arms around Stan's back, content to lie here like this forever, locked into wholeness. "We can do it again later, if you're up for it."

"Dude," Stan says, leaning back. "I'm gonna be up for this every second of my life."

Kyle throws his head back and laughs softly, wondering what he did to have his life fall into place exactly according to his wishes. "God, me, too."

Smiling broadly, Stan plants a kiss to his jaw and starts thrusting in very small strokes, his hips rolling in a way that's intensely erotic. His pace picks up a little, then he tilts his angle slightly, just barely grazing over Kyle's prostate. Kyle raises his hips as much as possible, praying for Stan to strike the right angle again.

"Here," Stan says, lifting Kyle's legs up over his shoulders.

"Just – fuck me hard, okay?"

"Yeah. I'm gonna," Stan says, and it's very certain, his voice a low growl. He pulls out and surges back in, his hips snapping in less fluid bursts, and Kyle groans, overwhelmed by how much better this is than his fantasies, by how skillfully Stan can untangle and reformat him. And he's so relieved that he can reciprocate, that what he's able to offer is valuable to Stan.

Kyle's hand gravitates towards his cock, but Stan beats him to it, his fingers wrapping around his shaft. Stan starts pumping him, the pace haphazard and nonequivalent to his thrusting into his ass, jumbling any remnant of organized thought in Kyle's brain. He is only his senses – his cock being stroked with sincere dedication, his legs anchored on strong shoulders, and a tingling warmth culminating deep inside him, soaring each time Stan rubs against that spot.

He clamps his lips shut to hold back a moan, but as he feels his orgasm rush into every crevasse of his body, he loses any sense or compulsion for dignity, and he whines Stan's name when he comes, spilling himself into Stan's hand, onto his stomach. Stan continues thrusting in and out of him in spasmodic, feverish snaps, and Kyle clenches tighter around his cock, holding onto it like an anchor as he rides out his orgasm.

"Gonna – come," Stan grunts, his movements becoming short, quick. Kyle opens his eyes so he can see Stan's face as he comes, and it's like his heart is being kneaded, softened, feeling Stan's final tiny thrusts match his almost pained expression.

Stan lets Kyle's legs slip from his shoulders and he falls onto him, drained, still breathing hard. They are silent for a few moments, holding onto each other as they drift down from the height of climax, their bodies calming as one tangible flesh.

Pushing himself up on his elbows, Stan smiles and says, "I had a really good feeling about today when I woke up."

"So was it a good day?" Kyle asks. "Even though I slammed your hand in the door?"

"It was the best day of my life," Stan says, running his thumb over Kyle's eyebrow. "I want to have so many more good days with you."

"Are you asking me out?" Kyle asks, semi-serious.

"Yeah," Stan replies, smirking and pushing his way back into Kyle's ass as he begins to slip out.

"Well. Okay," Kyle says, and Stan laughs, cupping Kyle's face in his hands and planting kisses all over it, catching the laughter that escapes from Kyle's mouth with more kisses. It's an old comfort, being this happy with his best friend, and it's a framework that's so well-catered to further construction that Kyle is genuinely enthusiastic to start building, to create something with Stan as sturdy as the walls of their apartment.