A/N: I lied. Apparently, there's more. I don't even know what to say about this one.

Stan could hardly contain himself.

Fuck Nabisco's Peanut Butter Bites. Fuck Fig Newtons.

He was having frozen waffles for breakfast.

A squeal of unsuppressed delight made its presence known somewhere in the back of Stan's throat, coming out as an awful gurggly sound. It was a valiant and thoughtful effort on his part to keep it muffled enough so that Sharon and Randy weren't bothered by obnoxious ambient noise during their Monday Morning Sex, which apparently helped stave off the suicidal thoughts that shadowed the couple's work week.

Stan smiled to himself, carefully taking the unopened waffle box from its frozen prison. Thoughts of yesterday's troubles with Kyle were completely forgotten as he cradled the object to his chest. It was cold, and it made his nipples kind of pointy, and somehow it was all okay.

Stan was okay.

He cooed to the box, leaning against the counter. Stan felt that his affection was well-received. But that was shattered when his adoring eyes caught site of the yellow Times New Roman graphic on the side.

Wal-Mart.

His mouth parted very slightly. Hands shaking, he stopped breathing for a moment.

Then,

"AUGGGGH!"

"Shut up, Stan! Your mother and I are making love!"

Studiously, he ignored them.

Studiously, he did not drop the offending box of imposter waffles.

Studiously, he stifled another war cry cracked with the onset of puberty.

What were these Wal-Mart brand waffles doing all up in his Eggos?

He could take it no longer. Everyone was fucking lying to him. Fucking Kyle and his fucking premature ejaculation, fucking Sharon and Randy and their creepy middle-aged fucking, and then the fucking waffles and their deceitful generic brands. Nothing made sense anymore. The world was crumbling at his feet.

He threw the box to the linoleum in a fit of rage and continued to ignore his father's shouts from the bedroom down the hall to stop whining and that he'd be done very soon to resolve the matter.

His full attention was on the mysterious waffle tumbling from the now broken, creased up box—creased, just like Stan's soul.

The rogue waffle appeared to be travelling alone, for none followed. Stan assumed this was the alpha.

He glared at it challengingly for a few moments. The alpha seemed to be making no move to protect its harem from the wrath of a scorned, hungry teenage boy, and Stan eventually decided to just leave it to thaw on the floor.

He sighed, trying to ignore the persistent hunger pangs in his abdomen. It was time to get ready for school.

"Ohh, yes, Sharon. Mm, just like that..."

It was then that Stan Marsh decided today would not be a good day.

"'You're in the king's main quarters, eyes darting longingly from the unwrinkled coverlet on the impressive bed to the king himself, lounging on the settee in front of you. He stretches out languidly, lips curving into a knowing smirk. His haughty expression melts into something more desirable as he gazes down at you through half-lidded, expectant eyes...

'O, King Charles II! The bulbous head of your throbbing phallus is just exquisite! But might we take an interlude for tea time, perhaps? Oh, my, please refrain from releasing your royal ejaculate of prestige within my mouth just yet, my lord! But before it be 'morrow, your seed shall be planted within no less than every orifice upon my person; I promise it shall be so. 'Tis our night of hedonism, of Eros, and his sorcery of lust and passion! Let us commence, my king!'

"Now, class," Mr. Garrison, who was still inexplicably the boys' teacher, continued. "Why do you think Dickens decided to exclude the foreplay in this piece? Anyone?"

Stan sighed, not in the least giving a shit.

Murphy's Law seemed to definitely be in effect. That was okay. Maybe Stan could just check out mentally for a few days, or however long it took for Kyle to get over his infatuation.

The pink and red streamers stuck everywhere in the halls and classrooms did nothing to quell any of the redhead's super gay crush. There were haphazardly cut-out hearts plastered to lockers everywhere. It was a jolting reminder of tomorrow—of Valentine's Day. Both Kyle and Wendy would probably be expecting something from him. Stan was very, very close to telling them both to fuck off—in his most polite tone, naturally.

"I'm telling you, dude," Kenny was saying to an uninterested Stan. "For Valentine's Day, you should get Wendy a Raffelsia plant. Bitches love Raffelsia plants."

"Kenny, not now—"

"Stanley! Shut your gay little face, will you? I'm trying to prepare you ungrateful little assholes for college!"

Stan wisely kept quiet.

A neatly folded note landed on his desk, and he knew who it was from without even looking at it.

He could feel Kyle's lecherous gaze one desk behind him. He could feel it. And he did not like it.

Garrison began rambling on again. Stan groaned, frustrated beyond belief.

He began unfolding the note, almost unwillingly. He knew Kyle would find a way to get his attention in a much more blunt way if he didn't, so really, there was no choice.

And maybe...maybe there was a small part of him that was really curious. But it was natural, he figured. Just natural curiosity.

At first glace it looked normal, save for Kyle's faggoty curlicue penmanship. But Stan realized he was sadly mistaken as his eyes roamed the slightly wrinkled notebook paper.

Dear Stan,

You make me wet.

Love,

Kyle ;3

At that very moment, Stan's starved stomach decided to growl. Loudly.

And Kyle growled back.

"Grrrwwr..." he purred. "Oh, Stan. You beast, you."

He wanted to die. He really, really did. It wasn't just for dramatics, and it wasn't just a figure of speech. He really wanted to die. And he wanted Kyle to watch.

"You were amazing last night. So passionate, so attentive and loving." Kyle whispered, daring to trace the back of Stan's neck with his finger. "Let's hump again sometime soon, yeah?"

He forced himself to be quiet. He knew that if he let himself utter just one word, it would turn into a tirade of shouting and bitching and whining, and he didn't want to cause a scene.

He closed his eyes, and simply shook with suppressed rage.

He heard Kenny giggling quietly to himself.

Little shit.

"Yes, Stan," the blond whispered through his breathless giggles. "Let's hump."

"Kenny," Stan growled, enraged. "Shut the fuck—"

"Stan, what did I tell you about your gay little face?!"

Fucking Mr. Garrison. Stan's hit list just seemed to be getting bigger and bigger.

"To keep it shut?" he tried cautiously, losing his balls like he always seemed to do when challenged by an authority figure.

Or maybe it was just Mr. Garrison.

"Yes! So why don't you do just that?"

"Stan," Kyle was murmuring from behind. "If it's any consolation, I don't think your face is gay."

Stan frowned, looked at the carving on his desk that said, 'Fucking the floor gives my cock rug burn' that he did not make, and realized that no, Kyle, it's not any goddamn consolation.

Not at all.

"Staaaan..."

Stan Marsh sighed in his sleep, shifting.

"Staaaaaaaan..."

He groaned.

And Kyle heard.

"Staaaaaan!! Are you dreaming of me?!"

He shot out of bed at this point, blinking stupidly in the darkness of his room. He saw nothing but the Terrance & Phillip poster illuminated by the moonlight on his wall. Not knowing why he woke up in the first place, and not in the least giving a shit, he fell back in the comfort of his bed.

"No! Don't go back to sleep, love!"

Stan then shot up out of bed again, directing his wide-eyed stare to the source of the muffled voice. Lo and behold, it was Kyle, his Super Gay Best Friend. He had his face pressed up against the glass of Stan's window, and even though his features were mostly squished and distorted, Stan could still clearly make out the salacious grin sent his way.

The amount of fear it instilled in the Marsh boy was indescribable.

"Open your window, my sweet bran muffin!"

"Fuck off, Kyle!"

"...What?"

"I said fuck off." Stan whisper-yelled, enunciating each word as clearly as he could.

"You don't mean that. Just open the window for me, baby."

"No! Go a—"

"Please? I have something important to tell you."

Kyle sounded sincere, but...

"It'll only take a second. I promise."

"I don't—"

"Please. Just a few moments. Give me that much."

Goddamn it. Kyle really knew how to prey on Stan's inherent kindness.

The dark-haired boy grumbled to himself and shoved his blankets away in irritation. He pretended not to notice Kyle's gaze travelling up and down his half-naked form, as he generally only wore boxers to bed.

What the fuck did he do to deserve this?

Kyle looked positively giddy as his friend opened the window, just a few inches to be safe.

"I couldn't get to sleep. I was laying in bed, and all I could do was think of you and the moment of passion we fell into at Stark's Pond—"

"It didn't happen that way, asshole."

"—and I just had to come by to see you."

"Okay. You did, so...goodb—"

"It's alright to be afraid, Stan."

What?

"Our love is as controversial as Obama's healthcare reforms. But it's okay. We will persevere through the obstacles in our way if we have each other."

Stan began mentally debating on whether or not it would be morally acceptable to shut his window down on Kyle's wiggling fingers. Decided the piercing scream that would inevitably wake his family wasn't worth it.

He was beginning to feel desperate. He was grasping at things in his mind, even past advice from Randy on such subjects.

"There comes a time in every boy's life when he begins noticing some...changes—a stirring in his loins, if you will. And then the teacher calls him up to the board—an awful scenario, I know, but it will happen to you someday."

No, no, that wasn't it...

"You see, son, the clitoris is just a mini version of the penis."

No, that wouldn't help, either.

"Never shave your ass hair. Do you have any idea how itchy it gets when it grows back?"

Fucking Randy and his good-for-nothing advice. Shit.

"What the hell are the frozen waffles doing on the kitchen floor? Stan, I don't know if you've noticed, but that's not where we eat."

"Hey...hey, Stan," Kyle was whispering. "Let me in."

"No."

"Please? We don't have to make love. We can just cuddle."

Stan glared at the blurred patch on his window from Kyle's breath, as it was all he could see of the redhead at the moment.

"I mean, it's Valentine's Day," he whined. "And I brought you a Raffelsia plant."

"I don't want your Raffelsia plant! Shove it up your fucking ass!" he snapped heatedly. He was beyond caring about Kyle's feelings at this point.

"Well," Kyle chuckled. "if that's what you want, you kinky bastard—"

"No!" Shoo, bad mental images! "I don't want that! I don't want you! Please fuck off. Just...please..."

He could not deal anymore. He just couldn't. This desperation, this urgency to be free...it was so pressing. He had to put an end to this.

"Well, fine!" Kyle growled, his tone suddenly darkening. "I'll just go get Kenny to suck me off!"

Oh, thank god...

"You didn't have to be such a fucking asshole about it, Stan!"

A few moments...a few mercifully silent moments...and then he was quite sure the enraged little redhead really had fucked off.

Stan grinned to himself. Maybe he wouldn't have to come to terms with his obvious homosexuality, after all.