The sun rises early Sunday morning, its light pouring into the room through the open blinds, gently shoving Kyle into semi-consciousness. He gradually processes that it feels like his heartbeat is in his hand, that the texture of the bedding is foreign, and that something hard is nudging him in the lower back. These preoccupations are forgotten when Kyle recognizes it's Stan pressing against him, and he huddles closer to the warmth of his heavy body before drifting back into sleep.

A dull but loud ache in his hand wakes Kyle up four hours later. The pain is frighteningly bizarre until he looks down to see the hard white cast, and he swiftly recollects the nightmare that yesterday was. As soon as he's feeling more awake, he'll get up and take another one of those pain pills, though it will probably just make him more tired. He moves his fingers a little and decides he'll tolerate it for now, because he treasures waking up with Stan as much as going to sleep with him. Plus, he can still feel Stan's morning wood grazing his butt and he enjoys it a lot more than he has the audacity to admit. When Stan wakes up, he'll be embarrassed and pull away. Every time it happens Kyle tells himself the next time he'll object, reassure Stan it's fine, that he really doesn't mind that his dick is incidentally pressing against his ass. In the meantime, he relishes it, deems it an example of Stan's concept of "fitting together," but then he feels foolish and guilty, because if Stan were awake their position might seem a precursor to a more explicit act, something Stan surely mustn't think about just because he's more comfortable jerking off a guy than doing whatever the hell he used to do with Wendy. Two years ago, when Stan and Wendy were last together, Kyle had been naïve enough to convince himself that there was no way those two were actually having sex. He feels sort of betrayed, if only because Stan never told him before. Deep down, he wants to believe Stan had found vaginas terrifying and revolting too.

When Kyle feels Stan shift into wakefulness and move away from him, he opens his mouth to begin that objection, but only a quiet sound of frustration comes out. Stan gets out of bed and Kyle hears him go into the bathroom, the door creaking as it closes, but he only hears it tap the metal, not click.

"Kyle? You up?" Stan whispers when he comes back, sliding under the covers again. Kyle only grunts affirmatively. With his eyes still closed, he rolls onto his back and envisions Stan's face hovering over him. It reminds him of Sleeping Beauty, or Snow White, being out of it like this, wanting to be brought back to life by being kissed, and maybe if he can relax his face muscles enough Stan will think he looks delicate enough, kissable. He'll just blame the codeine for this pathetic, girly type of thinking, ignoring the fact that since his hand hurts, the effects must have worn off. Stan doesn't kiss him, but he does brush his fingertips over the hair peeping out from under his hat, essentially petting him.

"It killed me, seeing your face on TV when Wendy broke your hand," he says softly, his thumb gliding over Kyle's eyebrow now.

"I don't think we're gonna be allowed to go back. You know, to compete. Ever," Kyle murmurs, laughing sadly. He hasn't heard anything concrete about South Park High School's continued eligibility, and Mr. Lindbergh didn't mention anything about this to him in the ER, but Kyle's guessing as much.

"I'm sorry."

"I was getting tired of it anyway." Kyle regrets that he was starting to detest the trips to Pueblo for Matchwits, because now it does feel like a loss. Not a big loss, but the disappointment – not to mention the guilt – is beginning to manifest. He's not going to think about any of that crap right now though.

Kyle takes half of a codeine and determines he'll find some coffee remaining from breakfast downstairs, or buy some elsewhere, otherwise he worries he'll be so doped up from the drug he'll pass out on the way back home. While Stan's feeling motherly toward him, Kyle needs to take advantage of the three hours in the car to prod him for more info on the definition of their relationship. Although this could also be a bad idea, especially because Stan's been taking care of him, since he might just tell him what he wants to hear. But Kyle needs something more cut-and-dry than the disjointed, metaphor-laden explanation that Stan provided last night. His blubbering had been sweet, yes, but Kyle was too flattered by it and too tired from the day to be assertive and inquire further. And what would he have said, So are we dating now? like some chick? There was hardly a pragmatic way to go about this.

They grab a quick lunch and then stop for gas, and while Stan fills up the tank, Kyle trudges over the slushy pavement to the convenience store to get coffee, the sugary vanilla stuff that he's gotten really into lately. Using his left hand for everything is quickly becoming a big pain in the ass. He feels vaguely sticky all over, desperate for a shower, but that will require profusely saran-wrapping and sticking his hand in a plastic freezer storage bag, which sounds like an even bigger pain in the ass.

"Ready to head home?" Stan asks when he hops back into the driver's seat after snapping the fuel door cover closed.

"Yeah. I mean I sure as hell don't want to be here anymore, but going home means I have to face the aftermath of this bullshit. We have those Matchwits meetings on Mondays too. And fuck! My mom too! Did she seem pissed when you went over there yesterday?" The best way Kyle knows how to deal with his mother is by trying his absolute hardest to tune her out so he won't hear her say some condescending remark that will set him off. He doesn't feel like he's equipped to block her out today.

"She seemed stressed. She was worried." For his mom, "stressed" means freaking the fuck out. Kyle hopes it wasn't too terrible for Stan to stop by before he left for Pueblo.

"Well, we'll see when I get home," Kyle mutters, taking a long sip of the warm coffee.

He's trying to appreciate how sunny it is for January, but he's not really in a fantastic mood. He wishes he were though, is trying to pretend he and Stan aren't going home, they're heading somewhere like the beach for vacation, just the two of them. Completely opposite to his feelings yesterday, he's enjoying the car ride at least, still relishing the fantasy they're going somewhere fun or important while they make idle conversation about passing billboards. It's peaceful, the heat in the car a perfect temperature too, but Kyle's getting nervous watching the time speed by on the electric clock, wishing Stan would bring up last night at the hotel instead of proclaiming his whimsical dreams of being a farmer as they pass farmhouses buried in fresh snow. An hour into the trip, Kyle's downed all the coffee, and although he still feels vaguely drowsy in a weird way, he's also worked up enough that he has the gall to revive last night's discussion himself.

"Hey, let me ask you something. What does the stuff we do together um…mean. To you?" Stan better get what he means by "the stuff we do together," because if he doesn't, Kyle's worried he'll just give up and say, "Never mind, forget it."

"It means a lot to me." Yeah, but that wasn't the question. "Why, do you not want to do it anymore?" The pitch of Stan's voice is odd, like he's trying to level it out as he speaks.

"No. I, ah- I still want to do it. Just, you do know that I am probably actually gay, right?" It's the first time he's ever said so out loud and it instantly sounds absurd, unquestionably ridiculous to verbalize such a thing. Now instead of teetering between meager confidence and slight apprehension, he's outright uncomfortable, too self-conscious to speak in the daylight about their nighttime fornication sessions.

At least twenty whole seconds later, Stan simply says, "Oh." Kyle clenches his jaw forcibly and turns his body towards the window so he's not facing him as much as possible. What a fucking embarrassment. He should have foreseen this.

"I still want to keep doing it too though," Stan adds cautiously.

"Why?"

"Kyle, what? What do you mean, 'Why?' Because I like you and it feels good! Jesus Christ!" Stan's outburst actually makes him really angry, but Kyle sighs as if he's mature and composed enough to be taking it in stride, something he knows will make Stan mad.

"I'm just saying I think we both know that I take it more seriously than you," Kyle states as calmly as possible, feeling disgusted by the way the dialogue has developed. Stan jerks the car out of the lane onto the side of the road, and at first Kyle thinks Stan's trying to save the life of some poor little squirrel, until he punches the breaks and the car stops completely.

"How the fuck would you know how seriously I take it! Do you think I'm just messing around with you because I'm bored or something? Do you know how long I thought about touching your dick before you let me?!" Stan shouts, and Kyle's legitimately taken aback, not so much by Stan's volume and intensity, but because he knows Stan's telling the truth and he can hardly digest what it might imply.

"I – " Kyle begins, because he feels he needs to say something, allay the tension, although he isn't even sure what to think yet. What he needs is for Stan to go on, because Kyle has never allowed himself to make inferences from anything Stan's said about their evolving relationship.

"What else do you want me to say? Sometimes I feel like you're the only person in the whole world who I don't hate, and God, do you realize how much it fucking stresses me out when we fight? It feels like it's been happening a lot lately and I hate it. I really fucking hate it." Stan has his forehead pressed against the steering wheel now and Kyle hopes he isn't crying, but judging by how wrecked his voice sounds, he probably is. Had they really been fighting that much? At the moment, Kyle's having a hard time thinking of any other recent fight besides last night at the hotel, maybe.

He reaches out to lay his good hand on Stan's back and God, he's shaking a little. Kyle feels like a fucking monster. "Stan – I'm sorry. I guess, Christ, all this competing with Wendy in Matchwits – I just keep thinking, she was your girlfriend, and it's retarded, but fuck, I just wanted to look as smart as her, and it made me feel like I was losing my mind on that goddamn show, like if I couldn't beat her ass on those questions I wasn't worth like, replacing her old spot as the person you were with. And the part that made me feel worst was that I was so sure I'd never get that spot," Kyle tries to enunciate, but regretfully, he's tearing up too. Stan lifts his head and leans into Kyle, pressing their foreheads together.

"Kyle. Kyle. You can have that spot. It's yours, dude. It kind of always has been." Technically, Kyle isn't sure that's true, but Stan must mean something beyond "dating"– the comfortable joy in the unique situation of falling for your absolute best friend, who you grew up with: having a playmate because your little brother was too young, knowing you have someone to walk with to class with, to eat lunch with, to wait in line with, to get a souvenir for when you go on vacation, to share a bed with on Saturday nights. He feels overwhelmed by how much he loves Stan right then, like the feeling of drinking tea that's just cool enough to not burn your mouth, except it's like the water is running back and forth from the tip of his head down to his toes. It's such a relief that he doesn't have to hesitate to press his lips to Stans', which are wet and salty from his tears. Stan opens his mouth slightly, and Kyle thinks, no, I can't do that, not yet, but when they pull apart for a second, panting and sucking in the car's hot air, Stan looks so good, his face flushed and eyes lidded, some of his lashes still slicked together from the tears, and Kyle wants to absorb everything he is. It's sort of crazy, being in someone's mouth like this, but it feels good, and Kyle kind of never wants to stop. He's really, really hard, and it's grating, uncomfortable since he's twisted towards Stan while still wearing his seatbelt. Just kissing is nice though, because he's wanted this for so long, long before they started messing around under the covers in the early morning hours. Stan is the one who pulls away, breathing in harsh pants, trying to catch his breath.

"So yeah? You'll be my uh, boyfriend or…um. Ah. Yeah," he says, letting out a quiet, anxious laugh.

"Yeah. Yeah, of course," Kyle answers, biting his lip or else he'll smile too hard.

They kiss for a while longer, their lips getting raw, and Kyle's pretty pleased when he notices out of the corner of his eye that Stan's hard too, tightly wedged between his thigh and his jeans. He wants to touch it, badly, but just making out is a stretch by his standards while cars are regularly passing by. Being kissed by Stan in broad daylight feels like the wordless touching in the dark is being compiled into a meaningful part of their history; he doesn't have to tell himself it's just about getting off anymore.

"Let's go home," Stan says eventually, thumbing Kyle's cheek bone. For the next two hours, they catch each other staring, breaking out into the kind of smiles which progress into relentless, giddy laughter over nothing.

In front of Kyle's house, Stan twists the keys slowly from the ignition, then pauses, getting close to Kyle's face and brushing his lips quickly, childishly, against Kyle's mouth. He pops the trunk and gets out of the car, hoisting Kyle's stuff onto his shoulders.

As expected, in the house, Sheila Broflovski is a mess. "Kyle! Why didn't you return my calls!" she cries upon answering the door, letting them in from the wintery wind.

"My phone died," Kyle lies. It was almost dead, anyway. Stan drops the duffel bag and backpack near the door, offering a small wave and heading back outside to the car. Kyle doesn't blame him for fleeing an incoming Broflovski family argument.

"Why couldn't you use Stan's phone?" his mother questions.

"Oh. I didn't think of that." She inhales starkly and presses her lips together, clenching her eyes shut.

"Let me see your hand." Kyle gingerly lifts the cast.

"What did they say? How long will it take to heal?" she asks, her voice softening considerably.

"Six to ten weeks." His mother sighs loudly and shakes her head.

"Well, bubbeh, I think you should know Mr. Lindbergh called all the parents to tell us the studio has, ah, not allowed you kids to go back to the show. Ever. Your father's very upset about all this. With that young lady, too."

"Oh Jesus…I can't deal with that right now. We're not suing anyone, ok? That would be stupid. I'm going to take a shower." Kyle stoops to grab his duffel bag at least, leaving the backpack there, and blocks out his mother's grating voice as she goes on about his father's plans to contact the PBS headquarters. Before he heads upstairs, he bolts to the kitchen to grab the saran-wrap and a freezer bag from the kitchen and prepares for the first taste of how tedious bathing is about to become for the next two months.

Besides making a short appearance at the dinner table, Kyle spends the rest of the night holed up in his room, working himself into a fit over how bad his handwriting looks on the French homework he's trying to finish up. Even if Wendy still does have the Matchwits meeting tomorrow after school, he's decided he's not going to go, because there's no point if they're banned from the studio. Listening to Wendy moan and complain about the studio's decision, or worse, hearing her offer constant apologies, would be a really shit way to end what he can already feel is going to be a bad Monday. He gets ready to go bed at quarter to eleven, which is exceptionally early for him, but he doesn't feel like being awake anymore and he took another whole codeine after dinner, so he's sleepy enough.

His bed feels all the better after he hasn't slept in it for a night, the thick blankets comfortably familiar. Under the covers, Kyle thinks about kissing Stan's salty lips and the taste of the inside of his mouth. Three days of not masturbating usually produces sex dreams, really fucked up ones, but two days of simply being around Stan so much, not to mention the feverish make out session, makes it feel like it's been at least five days. His left hand is all wrong though, and after ten strained minutes he's not even into it anymore, which always really aggravates him, but he does pass out afterward.

The next morning when Kyle wakes up, he doesn't feel as rested as he thinks he should be for going to bed so early. His morning routine is a struggle with one hand, but he's out the door by seven twenty regardless. No one else in his family wakes up until at least quarter to eight, and he's more grateful than ever that he has quiet as he spends five whole minutes trying to tie his boots properly. He's really not in too bad a mood though: his hand only hurts a tiny bit and he's ecstatic to see Stan today. When he locks the front door behind him, the sun is just peeping over the mountains, shining away the last traces of night. Kyle trudges a path through his own snowy backyard, into his elderly neighbors', the empty lot, then up through Stan's. Even though the sliding glass door to Stan's kitchen is always unlocked for him in the morning, he has to knock first, because otherwise, there's a chance for it to be super uncomfortable: strolling right into the Marshs' kitchen to observe a barely conscious Randy in his underwear and robe, pausing from his breakfast to gape at Kyle like he has no clue who he is or why he's in his house. So, he raps on the cold glass two times, just loud enough, then drags the dinged wooden handle away from him and steps onto the mat inside. Randy is digging inside the fridge, shifting things around like he's looking for something, so Kyle shoves his snowy boots off and sneaks upstairs before Randy has the chance to acknowledge his presence and possibly offer some sort of commentary on the sorry state of his wrist.

Toward the end of middle school, Stan became habitually late to school, not showing up at the bus stop and arriving just before homeroom ended. When they entered high school, it became typical for Stan to miss entire days- he'd say he just wasn't able to get out of bed. Kyle can't remember when exactly he started going over to Stan's in the morning to wake him up, though he thinks it must not have been too far into their freshman year, at which point Stan was regularly absent from school once a week. His grades went from average to abysmal, so he was put on temporarily probation from the football team, which depressed him even more. Some days, Kyle really had a hell of a time convincing Stan to wake up, and there were even a handful of mornings he gave up and left for school. Gradually, the difficult mornings became less frequent. Stan came back to life in the early spring and was reinstated on the freshman and sophomore team for the coming fall, though as running back instead of quarterback. Secretly, Kyle likes to hold himself vastly responsible for Stan's revival.

Kyle opens Stan's door, then gently presses it closed behind him. Normally what he does is boot up Stan's old desktop and kill some time on Facebook while he tells him he really needs to get up now unless he wants them to be tardy again. But today he sits on Stan's bed and leans down, brushing away his bangs, which are getting long.

"Hey dude. Wake up," Kyle says, barely whispering. Stan sleeps like a rock, so he'll have to shake him soon, which is always sad to do, because Stan looks so serene while he sleeps, curled up on his side, his chest rising and falling evenly with quiet breaths.

"Stan. Wake up," he repeats, his voice normal speaking volume. Stan murmurs incoherently behind his closed lips, and Kyle sighs, climbing under the dark blue comforter.

"I'm so tired." Stan says some variation of this every morning before school, but today it's painful how exhausted he sounds. All the driving this weekend must have taken it out of him, Kyle concludes, and he feels pretty bad, but if Stan doesn't make it to class today, Kyle will be even more loath to go. Not that he's thinking about skipping.

"Let's skip today," Stan murmurs flatly. Instead of responding, Kyle eases open Stan's hands. Stan tends to sleep in a fetal position with his arms to his chest, fingers wrapped together almost like he's praying.

When Kyle started coming by to wake him up, Stan would suggest they play hooky at least once a week. Any time Stan made this proposal after ninth grade, he was just trying to be funny. Kyle never agreed when Stan had been serious though, but he's frivolously thinking if they were to ever skip a whole day of school, a Monday in January of their senior year wouldn't be a bad day to do it. Maybe he deserves a sick day for his wrist, anyway. So he can get better at writing with his left hand.

"Well. Ok," Kyle responds, sweeping his thumb over Stan's fingers. He must have cut his nails last night- the edges are particularly angular and boxy.

"What, really?" Stan asks incredulously, flitting his eyes open halfway, his voice still abrasive from sleep. "I was sort of joking."

"No you weren't."

"Hah, I know. But it's ok, because I've only missed two other days this year, and one was for a funeral. And we only have like two tardies, right?" Stan shuts his eyes again, his brow crinkling shallowly.

"Yeah," Kyle says, smiling at Stan's honest defense of his perfectly adequate school attendance record.

"Get under the covers with me."

"I am." Kyle's really just under the first layer though, the comforter.

"I meant like, more," Stan clarifies, raising his arm and limply trying to pull Kyle into his dark cocoon of heavy winter blankets. Kyle wants to chastise himself for scooting closer with such unashamed eagerness, but he lets it go when Stan immediately wraps his heavy arm around him, sighing so deeply it might have otherwise sounded theatrical.

"Did you not sleep well?" Kyle whispers into Stan's chest, inhaling the scent of him. Once in a while, he gets a text from Stan just past midnight saying he has no idea why, but he's too nervous to fall asleep.

"Yeah, after I did go to sleep, at like one."

"Couldn't fall asleep?" Stan hadn't texted him.

"Oh, no, it wasn't that. Uh, I was kind of jerking off all night," Stan admits, tossing in a casual laugh.

"All night?"

"Well like, multiple times, yeah. You really riled me up yesterday," Stan mutters.

"Yeah?" Kyle asks, positively delighted by Stan's confession. He presses his open palm to Stan's solid hip, over the drawstring waistband of his flannel pajama bottoms. Thinking of Stan lying on this bed in blacker darkness, his knees maybe bent as he touches himself with fervent determination, makes Kyle really need to kiss him at least, so he pushes himself up to his level and experimentally touches his mouth to Stan's. Despite the intensity of yesterday in the car, he's still hesitant, overly cautious in taking the initiative. At first, their kissing is lazy, but it bubbles in scaling intensity, becoming less calm, less careful. The garage door thunders below them, and they hold their breaths until the abrupt noise of the door making contact with the pavement jolts the now-empty house, serving as their mutually understood signal to fully grab each other.

They pass out late in the morning, their fatigue freshly renewed, until shortly after two thirty, when the sharp ring of the doorbell surges Kyle into bleary cognizance.

"Stan?" He realizes not only the bed, but the whole room is empty. When he sits up, feeling lethargic and crusty, he's panicked that he can very clearly hear Wendy's dramatic soprano rambling on about something downstairs.

"Fuck, shit," he grumbles, remembering he's not only naked, but also half coated in dried cum. He makes a beeline to the attached bathroom and takes the fastest shower of his life, scrubbing himself one-handedly, his right arm pivoted outside to avoid the cold water. By the time he rushes down the stairs, he's mostly put together; wearing his own shirt and a pair of Stan's old gym shorts, but the fabric is clinging to him on his back, where he neglected to completely dry his skin.

"What's going on?" he blares at Stan and Wendy, who are sitting at the kitchen table across from each other, a large white box between them. Their wide-eyed stares almost make him want to turn around and shoot back up the steps: he must look and sound absolutely outrageous, booming down the steps as if he expected to encounter a felony in progress. Hell, he probably still has flecks of dried cum in his hair too. And Christ! He forgot his hat upstairs!

"Wendy brought you a cake. She stopped at your house first, but no one was home and since we weren't at school today, she figured…" Stan explains, trailing off. He says "cake" very cautiously, regarding Kyle with pleading eyes. Kyle's about to ask him why the hell he let her in, but then he remembers this is Stan's house.

"Oh." The self-conscious awareness of how goddamn crazy he must seem to both of them really sets in with the relatively simple explanation.

"How's your hand?" she inquires pleasantly, but Kyle can hear the wary undertone. Instead of offering a real answer, he lifts his arm and shows her the cast, looking at Stan bitterly.

"It turned out he broke his wrist, not his hand," Stan tells her.

"I didn't break my own hand." It's horrible of him to be such a shit when it's obvious Wendy feels genuinely awful, but bringing a cake! Really! He shouldn't blame her for this, since very few people know he's diabetic, but it still revives his anger. Kyle tugs the white string off, peeping into the box. Inside is a cake decorated with a pattern of blue and white alternating diamonds with little shiny beads at their corners that looks good enough to be on the cover of one of those magazines they have in the checkout line at Michael's.

"Woooow," Stan says, looking from Wendy to Kyle with raised eyebrows, nodding his head just slightly. When Stan's trying to mediate situations, notoriously those between Wendy and Kyle, he sounds like a dumbass. In neat script, the blue icing reads, "I'm sorry, Kyle."

"Where'd you get this, Wendy?" Stan asks her very friendlily.

"I made it." She says it coolly, instead of as if she's very flattered, as Kyle was expecting her to. He admits it is freakishly impressive- he's never seen a cake in real life that looks as good as this one.

"Well, I need to get going. But, Kyle," she begins, turning to look at him very intently, "I am so sorry. I know you don't forgive me or anything, and I understand. I don't think I would either, but- I really need you to know how sorry I am. And if you need anything, please tell me? I mean, I kind of figure you won't, but please don't hesitate to ask. Ok?" God, he feels bad now.

"Ok. Yeah- uh, I will."

Her face breaks into an immensely relieved smile. She grabs her coat, then waves to both of them as she's heading out the door.

"I had to convince my dad not to sue anybody over this shitfest," Kyle groans half-heartedly, dropping himself on the couch once Wendy's car zooms away. Stan instantly scurries to the living room too, piecing himself around him, and without really wanting to, Kyle can't stop another one of those goofy smiles. Sometimes Stan is unbearably adorable.

"What?" Stan asks like he missed something.

"Oh – nothing. You can have that cake if you want. I don't want to bring it home and have my dad be all, 'Kyle, don't think you can't still sue this young lady just because she made you a cake,'" he says, imitating his dad. Stan shorts into his shoulder.

"Ok. It kind of looks too perfect to actually eat though."

"How is it that Wendy's able to make me feel like the bad guy here?" Kyle gripes, returning the subject to the cake's creator.

"I don't know. She's good at that stuff. But she is really sorry. I'm sure she hates herself for this. She's really bent out of shape. And dude, I bet if you called her up and asked her to do, like, all your homework or something for the next six to ten weeks, she'd do it. That's how bad she feels." Stan clutches him tighter, trailing his fingers under the hem of Kyle's shirt.

"I'm not mad at her anymore," Kyle lies. "I just wish she'd leave me the fuck alone."

"I feel like she thinks you guys are friends."

"That's sad." It's probably true though. He feels like an ass.

Stan gets up to grab a blanket from the hall closet, springing back to wrap it around them, and they cling to each other like they're hesitant to see what will happen if they detach again, speaking into the other's skin about innocuous, mediocre topics like what they might do the coming weekeyand, how far away spring break is, and upcoming movies, things less troublesome than Wendy or Kyle's broken Scaphoid bone.

Of course, everyone in their small high school who cared to know knew who broke Kyle's wrist and how she broke it. The one great relief was that Cartman kept his mouth shut, because people still talked about how Wendy beat the living shit out of him in fourth grade. The Matchwits Club disbanded officially after their next and final meeting, a get together at Harbucks coordinated by Mr. Lindbergh, who, while dunking his black tea bag in his cup of steaming water, said, "Rocky Mountain PBS can go fuck itself," which made Kyle's eyes water with how hard he laughed. His wrist didn't hurt anymore, but it was still hard to write, so he got permission to bring his laptop to school. Cartman was vocal about this though, frequently declaring Kyle was cheating by looking up the answers in a hidden browser window. A lot of people asked Kyle if they could sign his cast, but he didn't want anyone like Bebe, of all people, to scrawl some girly, loopy handwriting onto his very arm. Besides, it would look sloppy, and it wasn't like he could take the cast off if he felt like it. He certainly would if he could, because it got really fucking itchy sometimes. The only person he let sign his cast, per Kyle's own request, was Stan, who inked his tiny initials, "SRM," at the top, inside his palm. Those two weeks after the incident, Kyle felt more upbeat than he could ever remember consistently being in his life, ready each morning to get through the six hours of school, because after seventh period, he and Stan would be home free to fool around in Stan's unmade bed until at least five, when Randy came home.

Late in the afternoon on a Tuesday that Randy's working late and Sharon has one of those late night nursing shifts, Kyle's sitting between Stan's legs in a freshly drawn bath, his arm flopped over the side of the tub, hastily wrapped up in saran-wrap just in case.

"Happy Valentine's Day," Stan says, pressing his chin tiredly to Kyle's shoulder and gliding his arms around his stomach, under the water.

"Hah, thanks." Kyle sinks into the hot water, sliding down Stan's chest. Upon flipping through his planner last week, he had a fleeting concern he was supposed to do something for Valentine's, like get Stan a present, but he decided that would be dumb. Also really gay. Some girls at school today had received huge stuffed bears from their boyfriends, which was perplexing. What would they do with those things? He could commend Token for getting Wendy earrings, since jewelry was at least sort of practical.

"Hey, um. I love you," Stan murmurs, his lips pressed to Kyle's damp skin, voice low and careful, though certain. Of course Stan would use Valentine's Day as an opportunity to tell Kyle he loves him. Because this is Stan, it's almost distressingly sweet instead of cheesy.

"I love you too, dude. You know that." He can say with conviction he's loved Stan almost his entire life, and now it's like he's progressed to a more intricate level of loving Stan, where not being around him is hard to tolerate instead of just being boring and un-fun.

After drying off and getting dressed, they put together a joke of a dinner of leftovers and freezer food, then eat sugar-free Klondike bars for dessert.

"I feel like going somewhere," Kyle states, wrinkling the wrapper from his second Klondike bar and tossing it in the trash next to the fridge.

"Where?"

"Nowhere. Anywhere. I just feel kind of antsy." Stan's house has always felt so much more exciting than his own, and he can avoid his mother's rampages here too, but they've done little else but roll around in Stan's bed for the past two weeks. Which has, of course, been incredible beyond definition, and Kyle's gloriously elated to know that it means something now, but a drive at least does sound ideal.

They drive out past Kenny's part of town, then past the farm, where the houses grow farther apart and the pines closer together. The sun glows harshly, coating the sky and the snow orange, like a grand finale before it drops quietly behind the mountain tops.

"Want to head back?" Stan asks as they're approaching the next county.

"Guess so, yeah." Kyle yawns, though he's not especially sleepy.

"Hey. I love you." Stan takes his eyes of the road for about a second to look at Kyle very seriously, like he's afraid he may have thought he was joking in the tub.

"I know. You told me," he says, biting his lip to combat another one of those conspicuous, uncontainable smiles.

"I'm gonna say it a lot now though. Maybe even every day. Just so you don't forget." Stan shoots him a short glance, his eyes reflecting the last shreds of the day's light.

"I won't forget," Kyle assures him, though he's blissfully contented Stan wants to make sure he's reminded of just how much he's loved on a daily basis. It's consuming him, how overwhelmingly loved he feels right now in Stan's car, driving back to the little town where they grew up together. He holds his left hand out, palm up, for Stan to interlock with his right. He thinks, maybe, he's the kind of person who needs to be told frequently that he is loved, because hearing the words from Stan's mouth complements perfectly how much he can feel Stan cherishes him.