A/N: This will be a two part story. Here's my first attempt in a long time at Kyle's perspective. So, since it's from his perspective, and Kyle doesn't like Wendy very much in this story, she's portrayed as a kind of crazy villain. At least in this chapter.

They're his teammates, but as he watches them converse quietly up front, Token driving and Wendy in the passenger seat, Kyle realizes the irony in the fact he feels like they're more his rivals than the opposing team- this time, a Catholic school from Colorado Springs. He cares more about hitting the buzzer before they can during rounds one and three than he does about actually winning Matchwits. So far, he hasn't answered any questions incorrectly, and Wendy has once, two weeks ago. She had brushed Token's hand out of the way and slammed the button, shouting "Constantine!" Had the phrase "in the Middle Ages" not been enough of a tip off? Was she an idiot, confusing Charlemagne with Constantine? Kyle really had tried to conceal it, but Wendy knew he was ecstatic that she made a fool of herself on Rocky Mountain PBS, if the stink eyes she gave him over the next few days were any indication. Secretly, he thinks it's possible he even wants to lose, because if they win, South Park High School will be the first school with a girl captain to win Matchwits. She'll be so repulsively smug about it, making some superficial comment about how she couldn't have done it without the help of her teammates. Had the position come down to a vote, he knew Token would certainly have chosen Wendy over him because they're dating and he idolizes her, so Kyle begrudgingly accepted the inevitable and pretended he didn't care who the team captain was.

The three hour drive to Pueblo always really blows. He has a couple of audiobooks downloaded, even though he always ends up watching the mountain tops drift past his window while he listens to the Rolling Stones. Honestly, he doesn't really care for the rough vocals and guitar solos, but Stan recently copied a playlist of his favorites of their songs to his iPhone. He's sure it's not the case, but Kyle likes to think that Stan picked some of these songs specifically for him, since it's at least true there's a place for him between Stan's sheets. Thinking of weekend sleepovers in Stan's warm bed makes Kyle want to nap, even though he's just bored, not tired, but the last time he fell asleep he woke up with Token in his face saying they were in Cañon City, which was sort of embarrassing in a way he couldn't pinpoint.

Two hours of rock and roll later, they're in Cañon City again, where they've made a habit of stopping for a late lunch at McDonald's. Token is always really excited for this, since, he claims, he had never been to McDonald's before the time they stopped here on the way to their first Matchwits game last month. Wendy thought this was cute, and Token bought a Happy Meal (two, actually) by her recommendation that he should experience a taste of "the Americana childhood," which was so fucking dumb that Kyle couldn't hold back a snicker. But Wendy just laughed too, probably interpreting it as shared amusement that Token had never eaten a hamburger that cost less than twelve dollars.

Even though Kyle didn't sleep in the car, the Cañon City McDonald's fluorescent lights make him feel groggy. In addition to a chicken sandwich, he orders an iced coffee to try to perk up and get into game mode. The only thing that's really said at lunch is Token's incredulous trademark observation: "I just can't get over how something so inexpensive can taste so good." Before they leave, Wendy orders a hot coffee, which she adds a half of a packet of Equal to. Stan used to complain that Wendy thought she was such an adult, and Kyle has learned how true this is, what with her coffee habits, pastel cardigans, and neat buns. It doesn't help that Token and Wendy are in the front, like they're his parents and he's the baby in the backseat. Even if he is the youngest, he remembers sourly.

Fifteen minutes away from the TV studio is when Wendy starts getting amped, which is always freaky.

"Are you ready to beat the living shit out of these guys?" she exclaims, turning her neck to get an affirmation from Kyle.

"Of course," he responds evenly, though over the span of the past three hours he's become more and more averse to making this trip again next weekend.

"Did you call Stan to remind him to watch?" she asks, tilting her head back, but not enough to look at him.

"What? Uh, no not yet." What Kyle wants to know is how Wendy found out that he calls Stan to remind him to watch the show, though not until three thirty. He thought the dumpster behind the building was private enough, but evidently, Wendy is a snoop, or an eavesdropper or something. Part of what makes the forthcoming competition so juicy is how much she irritates him when she's all revved up like this. What a nosy bitch! And now she's basically shouting impromptu cheers. Why did she ever quit the cheerleading squad? Token is really into it though, commenting it should be another easy win. It's like baseball all over again, matching uniforms included. Also, was it normal for a person to be this affected by caffeine alone? Kyle tosses his ice-filled cup out the window, and Wendy is shockingly quiet until they arrive, when she gets out of the car and makes sure Kyle sees her toss her own empty coffee cup in the trash bin.

Before they meet the other team at twenty to four and get ready to air, they hang out in the studio's break room where Kyle and Token scroll through random sites on their laptops and Wendy primps in front of the mirror, tugging her hair out of the bun and pulling it up again half a dozen times until she settles on the bun. Their advisor, who's also their AP Bio teacher, a friendly guy in his fifties named Mr. Lindbergh, typically shows up at three thirty. Kyle uses his arrival as an opportunity to make what he thought was a sleek, inconspicuous exit while Wendy and Token brief Mr. Lindbergh on how they think this week's match is going to go.

"I have to make a quick phone call," Kyle says emphatically to no one, then looks at Wendy to let her know, yes, he is calling Stan, and no, she better not say anything because it's not cute, so shut up. Wendy raises her eyebrows with interest, like she thinks Kyle is playing a game that she doesn't understand the rules to. She goes back to rambling excitedly to Mr. Lindbergh and Token, and as Kyle hurries down the bright tile hallway out the back exit, he can hear them laughing, Wendy's voice embarrassingly loud. The second the door bangs closed behind him, he realizes he left his coat thrown over back of his chair in the break room. But he's certainly not going back to get it, so he bears the seventeen degrees, which is really like fourteen degrees with wind chill. He crouches down, back to the rough brick, and whips out his phone. Seven rings, eight rings, You have reached the voicemail box of – Hi, this is Stan Marsh, I'm not here right now, so please leave a message! – At the tone, please leave your message. It's odd for Stan not to pick up this three thirty phone call, but before he allows himself to get irrationally upset, Kyle calls again, and before it even starts to ring, he gets the call waiting signal, and thankfully, it's Stan.

"Hey. Sorry, I was…helping my mom with something," he says, sounding a little out of breath.

"Oh. Well, I'm just killing time before we go on, as usual," Kyle lets out, flicking a rock over the wet concrete with his fingertip.

"Think you're gonna win again?"

"Ugh, probably. I'm so sick of spending my Saturdays out here, with these guys. Wendy's like, fucking crazy about this shit," Kyle complains, lowering his voice and looking over his shoulder for any potential spies.

"Huh." Stan never seems convinced of Wendy's extreme pregame behavior, which is funny, because it's only a few notches above how intense he has definitely seen her get in the past. He shouldn't have brought Wendy up at all. It's been seven hours since he's talked to Stan, and he just needs to be reassured again that it won't be so bad being hatless on live TV.

"Well, you know I'm gonna be watching. Do you still have your hat on?" Stan asks. Sometimes when Kyle is hours away from South Park like he is right now, Stan's voice takes on a sort of fatherly tone. He knows his mom employed Stan to convince him to ditch the hat for the show, it's against the rules anyway, and for once in his life he was more touched than aggravated by his mother's meddling.

"Yes." He wanted to sound irritated, at least jokingly so, but it just comes out sort of pathetically, because it is pretty pathetic to feel so exposed just by having your hair show.

"Take it off?" Kyle does, and groans when the cold air blasts over his head. He knows Stan's smiling.

"Better go back now," he says, getting up and brushing himself off with his hat.

"Go get 'em."

Back inside, he can hear Wendy again, who's explaining to someone how the three hour drive from South Park is so worth competing in Matchwits. Kyle peeks into the break room to see her and Token along with the three boys from the opposing school. They look slightly intimidated.

"Oh!" she exclaims, motioning him into the room. "And this is Kyle Broflovski! Kyle, this is Paul, Jack, and Chris from St. Vincent's High School."

"Hey." He offers a small wave. They're all wearing suits, which is such a joke. Suits are definitely dorkier than the matching red polo's embroidered with the letters SPHS that Token, Kyle and Wendy are wearing, just in a different way. A douchier way. One of the cameramen creeps into the room then, saying they need to make their way to the actual studio now to get set up. Wendy skips ahead of everyone, humming.

During the first couple questions of the round one, Kyle is still distracted by lingering anxiety over his naked head, but once Wendy beats him to a question, he's able to fixate his mind on the game. Kyle beats both Wendy and Token to the buzzer for the next question, which is disappointingly easy, so of course he correctly answers, "the koala." They're crushing these poor private school kids, who are all looking at them suspiciously, like they think they're cheating or something, even though they did manage to claim two points for themselves.

Before he asks the tenth question, the host, a guy in his forties with brilliantly white teeth, says "This match is really heating up!" Kyle notices Wendy's hand is shaking above the table, ready as ever to pounce for the button.

"What gas will evolve when dilute sulfuric acid is added to zinc?" the host asks. Anytime Kyle hears chemistry keywords, he knows he's got the question in the bag, so he slaps the buzzer just as Token's hand begins approaching it.

"Hydrogen gas," Kyle states, leaning forward.

"That is," he pauses dramatically, "correct! Looks like South Park High School wins the first round with eight points! Now we're going to take a short break, but stay with us, because the speed round is coming up next!" The electric scoreboard is updated behind the host's podium, and he collapses on top of it after the smack of the time code clapper echoes.

"Two minute break guys. Two minutes," he emphasizes blearily.

"I'm getting a drink." Wendy scurries off set into the hall.

Kyle doesn't want to make small talk with Token, so he turns to look at the clock behind the cameras, wishing it was quarter after already so they could get a start on round two and get to round three, where he'll have his chance to tally more questions than Wendy. Just then, she returns looking frazzled.

"Are you guys hot in here?" she asks, reclaiming her spot between them at their stand and fanning herself.

"Nope," Token says.

"Kyle? Are you?"

"Not really." It's comfortable on the set, though his head is a little cold because he's hatless. In Stan's voice, he reminds himself not to think about it.

"Aaaand, action!" Then, the snap of the clapper again.

"Welcome back to Matchwits, folks! For those of you just joining us, we're here today with South Park High School, who's facing up against St. Vincent's High School. With a score of eight points, South Park is in the lead!" Even though Kyle's anxious to get to round three, round two provides a relaxing break from the fervent buzzer slamming, since they confer as a team before offering their answer. The screen adjacent to the scoreboard flashes a cheesy, colorful animation with the text "Round Two" bouncing around. These questions are harder, and the other team beats them to the first three. Kyle's pleased another chemistry one crops up that neither Token nor Wendy are sure of, earning South Park the first point in the second round, which brings their score up to a nine, but St. Vincent's scores the next point, inching closer with a score of six. Wendy gets panicky when the scores get close, not that she hasn't been a wreck since the game started. Before the last question of the round, the score is a devastatingly ten to nine, but South Park is still in the lead.

"In what way did Brazil achieve independence that was different from other Latin American countries? You have a maximum of thirty seconds to converse with your teammates." The question appears on the monitor, and the South Park High School Matchwits Team huddles together.

"I have no clue," Token admits first. Wendy jerks her head to the left, her face almost theatrical with how desperate she looks.

"I…I don't remember," Kyle confesses, though he is pretty sure he never knew anything about Brazil's independence.

"Fuck!" Wendy whispers, barely moving her lips. Kyle and Wendy both stare at Token now, who's clearly thinking hard, hopefully dragging fragments of his knowledge of Latin America from the back of his brain. If not, Token is still their best bullshitter when they're screwed like this.

"I don't even know enough about Brazil to think of a good crapshoot." Wendy sucks in a breath through her nostrils, gaping at her boyfriend like she can't believe this shit. Kyle's about to ask which one of them fucking pressed the buzzer when he processes it's not theirs bzzzzz-ing, it's the other team's.

"Unlike most Latin American colonies, which endured bloody revolutions to obtain freedom, Brazil faced little resistance from Portugal in gaining its independence, although the republic's new constitution deposited the King of Portugal's son, Pedro I, as president of the country," the tallest boy explains, folding his hands and straightening himself up in a way that makes Kyle want to roll his eyes. Instead, he tosses a quick glance at the lens, hoping Stan catches it.

"And that's the end of round two! In an exciting turn of events, looks like South Park and St. Vincent's are tied! Let's get started on round three and see how this game ends!" the host blares enthusiastically. Wendy is red-faced, her hands gripping the sides of their table, wide eyes staring at the scoreboard viciously. She's the only participant visibly engaged. The third round is exactly like the first round, which means Kyle still has a chance to one up her in number of questions answered.

"First question is a geography one: In which city would you find the River Thames?" Kyle shoots his hand over the buzzer and is half a second away from actually hitting it when Wendy's hand crashes on top of his. He struggles to free his ambushed hand by pulling his arm out, but it's trapped under Wendy's palm. The BZZZZ fills the room agonizingly now, and Kyle complements it by screaming when the first blast of pain shoots up his arm. Wendy jumps, finally freeing him.

"What the fuck, Wendy!" Kyle shouts at her stunned face.

"Stop rolling!" the host barks to the people behind the cameras.

"I think you broke my fucking hand!" Wendy's gaping at him confoundedly, her mouth open like she's about to say something, but she's speechless. Kyle crouches behind their stand, gently cradling his numbing hand with the other, grunting Fuck! continuously. The unbearable throbbing is up there on the list of worst pain he's ever felt. Mr. Lindbergh appears, asking what's wrong. Was he not watching?

"I-I hit Kyle's hand when he went to answer the question. Oh god," Wendy moans.

"Do you think it's broken? Should we call an ambulance?" Mr. Lindbergh asks slowly, kneeling down and putting a hand on Kyle's shoulder.

"Yes, it's fucking broken!" Kyle bleats, the pain settling in now, making him feel less angry and more defeated.

"Okay, okay, I'll call 911."

Mr. Lindbergh guides Kyle to the break room, where he makes the emergency call and Wendy is waiting with a pack of ice. He ignores her and reaches to snatch his ushanka from the table with his injured hand, but drops it, then curses loudly when another wave of agony gushes over it. With his left hand, the good one, he picks it up before Wendy can and awkwardly smooshes it over his hair, then accepts the ice, glowering at her.

"Your phone rang," she mutters, eyes shifting to his backpack. Kyle retrieves his phone from the front pocket and sees three missed calls in the past few minutes, two from Stan and one from his mom. He calls Stan back.

Stan picks up on the first ring. "Kyle! Jesus! Are you ok?"

"No. Wendy broke my fucking hand," he growls. She's crying now, of course, with Token suddenly in the room and at her side, like she's the one with a broken hand.

"Are you okay?"

"No, ah, fuuuck," Kyle says, touching the ice pack to the back of his hand, which is terrifyingly starting to feel numb. "There's an ambulance coming." The pain is at least distracting him from thinking about the embarrassment factor of getting his dainty bird bones crushed by a girl and screaming at her on live television. Shit, will this be in the news?

"What, you're going to the hospital? Fuck, do you want me to come? I can come, dude. I won't get there till like – ugh, seven, seven thirty?"

"No – don't. Don't, Stan. My mom can come get me. I mean, if it takes a long time. Shit, it's gonna take a long time, isn't it?" Kyle's eyes have been dry up until now, but thinking about spending all night in the emergency room of some strange hospital in Pueblo makes him want to sob. He should just give in, but if he makes Stan drive all the way here, he's going to feel like such an idiot baby. He wipes away an idiot baby tear from his eye before it spills onto his cheek.

"I'll come so your mom doesn't have to. Just try to text me at some point with the name of the hospital, okay?"

"Okay."

"Leaving now."

"Okay," Kyle says again. He's glad Stan knows how he thinks, knew that if he phrased it like he was just doing Kyle's mom a favor, Kyle wouldn't have to feel guilty about the long trip, the cost of gas, the simple aggravation of three hours' worth of driving. He sits down and tries the ice again.

"Kyle?" Wendy implores quietly. He pretends not to hear her and stares out the window for any signs of the ambulance, prodding at his hand delicately with the icepack. "I'm so sorry, Kyle. I am so, so sorry for what I did to your hand."

"Fine," he says, wanting her to go away.

"Mr. Lindbergh is going to go with you to the ER, so me and Token and probably going to head home. Is that okay?"

"Yes," Kyle hisses, still not looking at her.

The ambulance sucks, talking to the EMT sucks, running through his medical history to the nurse when he signs in sucks, and of course, the waiting room sucks a whole fucking lot. However, the sandwich from the hospital cafeteria is surprisingly not that bad.

"You can go home, you know. My friend is going to be here soon," Kyle offers again to Mr. Lindbergh, who's sitting across from him, his face buried in a newspaper.

"It's fine, Kyle," he says, peering over the edge of the paper. It's not that Kyle feels guilty, like he's making his biology teacher keep him company, he just doesn't really want to be around him anymore. It's quarter to seven now, and he still hasn't seen a doctor. Over the past two hours, his hand has swelled into something grotesque and violet, which revolts him every time he looks at it. There's also a sort of fucked up looking bump at the back of his wrist, and he really hopes that it's just swelling too. It still hurts a lot, but a nurse did give him two Ibuprofens, so he isn't rocking back and forth on the verge of tears like he was at the studio.

"Kyle Bro…flawzki?" a woman in a white lab coat who appears from the double doors asks into the waiting room, looking up from her papers for the owner of the name she just butchered. He picks up his backpack with his left hand and follows her into the bright hallway behind the doors, thankful she doesn't ask if she can carry it for him. She leads him past the occupied exam rooms, her sloppy up-do of dirty blond hair bobbing around as she meanders past the medical equipment bombarding the hall.

"Sorry this is taking so long. Admittedly, there wasn't a radiologist on call when you came in, but I'm here now. My name is Dr. Sewell. Before you see a doctor, we're going to have to get an X-ray of your hand. Can you tell me what happened?" she asks politely, opening the door for him into a dark room with giant machinery.

"My friend accidentally hit my hand." He's been abridging the story more every time he has to repeat it. The X-ray is at least sort of interesting, and while he rests his deformed monster hand flat on the table in the dim room, which is quiet besides the ominous humming of the X-ray machine, he realizes how exhausted he is, how badly he wishes he weren't so far away from home.

"Ok, that's all I need from you. You can head back to the waiting room and we'll call you again after I take a look at these," Dr. Sewell says, returning from behind the window and dragging the lead apron off his lap.

When Kyle goes back to the waiting room and sees Stan hunched over in a chair, he's so intensely relieved he wants to drop himself into his lap.

"Kyle," Stan says, about to hoist himself up, but Kyle's already about to sit down next to him. He presents Stan his enormous purple freak hand, which makes his eyes bug out.

"Jesus. Does it still hurt?" he murmurs, lowering his head to get a closer look.

"Well, I'm not screaming anymore, but yeah it still really hurts. One of the nurses said she'd have the doctor write me a script for codeine if I still feel like I need it by the time I see him. I just got the X-rays done, and I've been here for like four hours."

"Oh… Hey, your mom said she doesn't want me driving back again tonight, so she had your dad book us a hotel room. She packed you a bag too, so that's why I was a little late," Stan explains, sounding worn himself. Somehow, it's already quarter after eight. Kyle wishes he could just take the codeine and leave, but he's thinking he's probably going to have to get a cast, which will take God knows how long. Staying in a hotel in Pueblo sounds pretty shit too, even though he has no doubts his dad booked a room in a nice one. He just wants to go home.

"No, it's fine. I'm just glad you're here. So, thanks. Thank you." The noisy, overly-bright emergency room and the throbbing in his hand are a lot more bearable now that Stan's here, but the fact that he's too self-conscious to so much as rest his head on Stan's shoulder is intolerable on a different level.

"Come back with me when they call me, please," Kyle utters quietly fifteen minutes later, leaning on the arm of his chair opposite Stan, holding his head up with his good hand.

"Sure, but uh, don't you think they'll think it's weird? Me in the room?"

"At this point, I don't really give a shit." Kyle closes his eyes, wondering if he has the nerve to shut off the TV since some jerkoff turned it back on to watch the news.

For the most part, they sit without speaking until it's almost nine, when a young nurse calls Kyle back. She's the first person on the hospital staff to pronounce his last name right.

"The radiologist has your X-rays, so she's going to look over them with you. Then the doctor will come in to apply the cast and go over taking care of your hand, so hopefully we'll be able to get you out of here relatively soon," she says over her shoulder to Kyle, guiding both of them down a different hall of exam rooms in the ER. Kyle is disappointed to hear the word "cast," even though was pretty sure he'd have to get one.

"She'll be in shortly," the nurse says smiling, opening the door of a vacant exam room and plopping a thin manila folder onto the desk once they're inside. When she doesn't shut the door, Stan slowly pushes it closed, and Kyle takes the two steps forward to where Stan is standing. He slouches a little, pressing his forehead to Stan's chest.

"I'm so glad you came. I think I would have died if my mom had come and bitched at me all night about ruining that stupid game show," Kyle says in a low voice when Stan settles his chin on top of his hat. Stan's arm moves behind Kyle's torso and he rests his palm over his back.

"You looked so smart though. On TV." Kyle only responds by huffing out his nose flippantly, if anything amused that Stan thinks this, because the game ended with Wendy getting more questions. He wonders if Stan counts like he does.

Kyle jolts when hears the doorknob turning, springing away from Stan's half-embrace. He gives him an apologetic look before the door opens entirely, Dr. Sewell peering in like she isn't sure she has the right room.

"Turns out it's not your hand that's broken," she states, closing the door forcibly behind her, then thumbing open a red file in her hands. Kyle moves backwards, climbing onto the exam table. She acknowledges Stan with a bland expression, and Kyle is glad she doesn't ask who he is or why he's here, then pulls a black sheet from the file and fastens it to the X-ray view box.

"You fractured your wrist, actually. The Scaphoid bone." Dr. Sewell glides her fingertip over where the bones of his arm end, then taps her finger where the fracture must be. Kyle gazes at his illuminated bones wearily, unable to discern any visible breakage. He can see it when she switches the X-ray with a side view one: there's a point where it's obviously snapped, the bone visibly separated. It's horrifying.

"Now," she says, pulling the stool out from under the desk with her foot and sitting down, "the doctor's going to have to set it before he applies the cast. Do you think you'll be able to handle that?" she asks, looking at Kyle gravely behind her plastic red frames.

"Um. Yeah." He isn't sure he will be, but doesn't want to know what the alternative is.

When the doctor, a hefty guy who looks old enough to be a grandfather, presses his wrist bone firmly together, Kyle is sure everyone in the entire hospital hears him scream. He has to avoid eye contact with the nurse stationed at the front desk, where he signs the discharge papers with his left hand. His handwriting is hilariously atrocious, but he doesn't care. The shock from getting the bone set is still reverberating up and down his arm, but he did get the codeine filled.

"Do you want your coat?" Stan asks, pulling Kyle's backpack off his back, getting ready to open it.

"No, I'm ok." He doesn't want to think about shoving his still tender, now-casted forearm through any holes. Plus, Stan would help him put on his coat, which perhaps isn't really embarrassing in itself, he supposes, having a broken wrist and all, but it has the potential to be.

Roughly six hours since he arrived in the ambulance, Kyle's leaving the hospital at last, trudging through the salty pavement of the parking lot with Stan. Now he's relieved they don't have a long trip back to South Park ahead of them, plus it'd be dangerous anyway: it's pitch black outside, almost eleven o'clock, and starting to snow in heavy clumps. The familiar smell of Stan's car and the heat from the vents blowing faintly on his face are so comforting Kyle thinks he might fall asleep.

"Do you know where the hotel is?" Kyle murmurs sleepily as Stan drives onto the entrance ramp of the freeway.

"Yeah. Ten minutes down the highway," he says, reaching over to thumb Kyle's knee, his eyes still on the road.

The check-in at the hotel is quick and easy, something Kyle is glad for, since he was dreading an issue would crop up with the hasty reservation, but his dad had properly organized a one night stay in a room with two double beds. Kyle tries to at least carry his backpack to their room, but he doesn't protest when Stan steals it from him, hoisting it up along with both of their duffel bags like the football champ he is. When Stan catches Kyle smirking wryly, he smiles hugely himself. Kyle unlocks the door with the plastic card and stumbles gradually to the nearer bed, falling listlessly onto the soft comforter. Stan dumps the bags and shuts the heavy door, then kicks off his tennis shoes and joins Kyle on the bed, curling up at his side.

"I'm exhausted," Kyle says, his face buried in bed. He took one of the codeines in the car, and is starting to feel a whole new level of sleepy from the drug. Stan moves one of his fingers over the back of Kyle's sleeve.

"Let's go to sleep then." Kyle doesn't say anything, and he's mortified when he feels Stan get up off the bed.

"I'm gonna change," he hears him say, and Kyle quietly chastises himself for assuming Stan was moving to the other bed. It's something he worries about though, that one day Stan will admit it's too gay and they need to stop. When he hears the sounds of Stan undressing, he wishes he hadn't stuffed his face in the comforter like this, because there's no way he can discretely peek now without shifting his head in a very obvious manner. Then, Stan resumes his position on the bed, scooting closer this time, but still allocating room for Kyle's clunky white cast. Kyle turns his head to look at him blearily, craning his neck to brush the tip of his nose to Stan's.

"Do you really think I'm smart?" Kyle asks, his lids fighting to stay open. What he really wants to know is if Stan thinks he's smarter than Wendy, which is probably a stupid thing to even think about. It's possible Stan doesn't even care. The past three Saturdays of butting head-to-head with Wendy on Matchwits have made him feel humiliatingly unintelligent, despite her Charlemagne fuck up. He was definitely glad he tallied more points than Wendy at the show last weekend, but hadn't felt particularly good about himself.

"Dude, what are you talking about? You're like, the smartest person I know." Kyle sits up and stares at his wrist, prodding the solid cast forcelessly with his index finger.

"Wendy is smart too." He's praying it sounds more like an observation than what he's really trying to say, because he regrets it as soon as her name is out of his mouth.

"Um. Yeah?" Stan says, sounding at a loss. Kyle is quiet, still poking the cast. He mentally reprimands himself thinking, You should've just kept your mouth shut instead of bringing this shit up.

"Kyle?"

"I just – Christ, Stan. Are you really surprised that I compare myself to Wendy? She was your girlfriend for like, years," Kyle fumes, curling into himself and pressing his head to his knees. It's rude to be springing this on Stan after he drove here all the way here from South Park and spent the night in the ER with him.

"I… I didn't know," Stan replies, sitting up as well and tossing his legs over the edge of the bed.

"Yeah. Well." Kyle gets up and rummages through his duffel bag for whatever pajamas his mom packed, bringing them into the bathroom. "Messing around," which is the most appropriate term for what he and Stan do underneath the sheets at night, is the highlight of his week, but every successive Saturday he understands less what it means. After a particularly intense sleepover he'll feel convinced Stan is gay too, until he sees him flirting with one of the girls on the cheerleading squad or something the following week at school. Is he just paranoid? Is Stan just being nice to them? He scrubs his face with the unfamiliar hotel soap, feeling a little more alert from getting revved up and from the cold water on his face. After rubbing the moisture away with the puffy white washcloth, he lifts his shirt off over his head, which takes his hat off too. This fucking hair! he wants to scream. He grabs his hat and shoves it back over his head to hide the fuzz fest. Of course, with only one arm, he can't get his pajama top on, which is just an old T-shirt from basketball camp, so he exits the bathroom shirtless, scowling. Stan hasn't moved, except maybe his shoulders are slumping more sadly now, which is upsetting.

"I wish you wouldn't compare yourself to Wendy," Stan says in a small voice. Kyle wants to say Stan's got him there: he's not even filling her spot as the person Stan's officially with, so he has no right to. Instead, he fishes through his open duffel bag for his glucose meter, grunting irately under his breath when he realizes he's not going to be able to test his blood sugar one-handedly either.

"Kyle – "

"What?" Kyle snaps, turning around to face him, feeling like a truly evil person when he sees Stan's consternate expression morph into honest distress.

"Come here," Stan pleads. Kyle relents and sits next to him on the bed, dumping his shirt and glucose meter in his lap.

"Just- listen to me? Ok?" Stan's practically begging now and Kyle is sort of perplexed why he's so upset over this.

"Ok."

"When I was with Wendy, I felt like I had to always remind myself that is was normal. Uh, I mean, I never had real sex with her, but- Fuck. Like, when I was alone with her, I was always so nervous, but it wasn't a good kind of nervous. She's fucking tiny, and I felt so cumbersome around her, like I was physically too big? But also because, hah, she'd try to get me to do all this shit I didn't want to do, like she was trying to squish me into this mold or whatever she wants a boyfriend to be, and I didn't fit. I didn't fit with her, and then I stopped giving a shit about trying to. Maybe that sounds dumb, but, ah, when it's just me and you, I don't feel…out of place. Because yeah, you're my best friend, but it's because, um, you're a boy too, so when we do stuff together it just feels normal to me, like doubling, or mirroring or something. I don't know. It makes sense in my head."

"You think I fit with you?" As they grew up, Stan steadily shot ahead of him in height and sheer mass and Kyle sometimes thinks he must look sort of ridiculous next to him.

"Yes," Stan responds, nodding, his voice cracking a little. Kyle drapes both his arms around Stan's shoulders and pulls him against his chest, understanding that yes, this fits. He's already overwhelmed with affection from Stan's winding rambling, and now that his breath is brushing over his exposed skin, he's in danger of getting hard.

"I need you to hold this for a second," Kyle breathes, drawing his arms back and giving Stan the glucose meter, embarrassed by how riled-up he sounds. Kyle presses his middle fingertip to the test strip, and Stan winces as he clicks the button and the top of the strip is soaked red. Kyle glances at the reading and tosses the meter into his bag without taking the strip out.

"Do you want to wear that?" Stan asks, eyeing the shirt Kyle still has balled up in his good hand.

"I guess, yeah." Stan takes off Kyle's hat first and puts it in his lap, then pulls the T-shirt over his head and helps him thread his numb hand through the arm. He puts his hat back on too, pulling the ears down. Kyle yawns and Stan turns off the lamp on the nightstand before they crawl under the fluffy comforter. In the dark, Kyle only knows that Stan's face is very near his and he doesn't register it's moving closer until he senses something wet press against his lips, which is confusing, until he comprehends that he's being kissed. His brain is yelling at him to kiss back, but upsettingly, he isn't sure exactly what that entails, and Stan pulls away before he's even able to open his mouth.

"Goodnight," Stan says, and Kyle thinks for a moment he's going to say "I love you," but he doesn't. Kyle wants to stay awake like this, his knees bumping up against Stan's under the blankets, giddily reveling over their first kiss and rehashing their whole conversation, but Kyle's the kind of tired he usually only is at five a.m., the kind that pulls you into unconsciousness before you even have a chance to go over the events of the day.