Chapter Text
Kyle is totally drunk when he sees Stan through the window of the bar. That’s the only reason he stops to look, rather than turning away, like he normally would.
It’s press day, which means that everyone who isn’t frantically making last minute copy edits has already walked away from their desks and headed straight for the nearest boozer, the one on the corner of the block, with the tinted windows and the weird smell in the bathrooms.
There is no overtime tonight, not unless you’re a chump. The editor’s credit card usually ends up behind the bar for as long as he sticks around, too, so it pays to get there early and take advantage of the free drinks while they last.
It’s easy to lose your shit on nights like this, especially when you’ve just nailed a deadline, filed a huge investigative report and found that you’re not on diary to cover anything major for the rest of the week. That’s why Kyle gets there quick and hits the drink hard.
His colleagues aren’t that bad, as drinking buddies go. Okay, they might not have the reckless spirit that makes drinking with Kenny a total blast, or offer the same catharsis that a few beers and a blazing row with Cartman can provide. But they can talk shop together, getting down and dirty with the kind of political and cultural issues that Clash magazine is all about.
It’s not like he’d call them friends, but one or two of them would almost make the cut ─ for some time between the sheets, if nothing else.
The new intern looks particularly promising on that front. He’s actually older than Kyle; a mature student, retraining in journalism. He’s also an ex-lawyer, so has an arrogant sense of his own greatness. He thinks that he can change the world, because don’t they all? He’s clearly a dickhead. The guy has been hot and privileged his whole life, knows nothing else and treats everyone around him as if they have been placed there specifically to serve him.
On his first day in the office he had referred to Kyle as a “perk”. Like, of the job. “If I had known there were perks as cute as you I’d have changed careers years ago,” he’d said, smiling like this was an utterly acceptable thing to say in an environment where he was supposed to be learning from his superiors.
Kyle had been so taken aback that he hadn't even reacted to put him in his place. He had just stammered through the rest of his explanation of how to use the coffee machine and only later thought that he probably should have kicked the dude in the balls for presuming too much.
So, yes. Christian is clearly a douche. But he’s also a gay guy who won’t apologise for the way he is, and is completely fearless about letting people know it. That’s really not as common as it should be in Kyle’s experience of living in these parts.
Not only that, but he’s tall and broad and wears black jeans that show off the kind of tight, round ass that make it impossible to concentrate on reworking copy.
That ass has been distracting Kyle for three weeks now. It’s time to nip it in the bud and get the fascination out of his system. He sees the way that Christian stares at him in editorial meetings. It won’t be hard. All it would take is for Kyle to drop his defences long enough to meet that stare and he’ll be getting pounded faster than you can say “fuck me.”
It has to happen, but that doesn't mean that Kyle has to feel good about doing it. And the only way to strike that balance is for him to get drunk enough to switch off his brain and leave himself able to only think with his dick.
So, he accepts every beer and whiskey chaser that someone hands to him. He turns down the offer of a free burger. He waits until the fog descends and he’s able to laugh at all of Christian’s jokes, lean his chin coquettishly on one hand and give the impression like he’s hanging on the guy’s every word, when really there’s nothing much going on behind his eyes except visions of the two of them banging like animals.
He knows his face is an open book, so relies on Christian being able to read it, which he clearly can, because it doesn’t take long for him to start glancing over Kyle’s shoulder at their colleagues like those losers are totally cramping their style.
“I need a smoke,” Christian says, patting down his pockets for cigarettes and a lighter and sliding off his bar stool. “You with me?”
He’s standing so close that he’d be kind of blocking the exit even if Kyle wanted to decline, but Kyle knows the score.
“Sure,” he says, licking the taste of whiskey from his lips and putting one hand on Christian’s arm to steady himself as he hops down from his seat, leaving it there just long enough to make the other man look at him with fresh interest.
That look makes Kyle feel powerful. This shit really is fucking easy once you know how.
He walks past Christian and leads the way outside, pulling his coat tighter around him and gasping at how cold the air is. It is March, and although the days are becoming clearer and brighter, the nights are still bitter. They’re having a late cold snap and snow has been on the ground all week. It reminds Kyle uncomfortably of home.
There are no other smokers outside, so Kyle heads right for the corner of the building, a spot that he knows from experience will provide them with a small measure of privacy. You can see into the bar through a window that gives you a decent view of the whole room. But from the inside, the view out is largely obscured by the light of a neon Coors sign and a crappy imitation of a hanging Tiffany lamp.
Kyle stands with his back to the wall and leans his shoulders against it, to anchor himself against the shifting waves of intoxication that have risen up in earnest on contact with the outside world.
Christian takes his time approaching. He’s already lighting a cigarette, cupping his hand around the flame and bending his head as he walks. He exhales the first breath straight up into the sky and has the cigarette held between two gloved fingers by the time he reaches Kyle and steps right up into his personal space.
If there had been any doubt about the direction things were heading, that all evaporates in Christian’s next foggy exhale, which bounces off the brickwork right beside Kyle’s face.
They don’t bother to speak. Kyle just reaches out and uses a handful of Christian’s parka to pull him closer, tilting his chin so that their lips can touch.
He feels Christian smile, pleased with how forward Kyle’s being, and then he lets the other man take over. It’s obvious that a guy like Christian is going to get off on calling all the shots, and if Kyle’s honest, that’s the way he likes it too.
Of course, it's just foreplay. It's too cold outside for it to be anything more, and especially when Christian has a lit cigarette held just inches away from Kyle's face. But there's something delicious in the enforced restraint. The knowledge that they couldn't take it further even if they wanted to only makes them both more desperate.
It's not long before Kyle is gasping curses and, too turned on for standing out in the snow, pushes Christian away. He uses pretty much all his strength, so Christian stumbles as he's pushed backwards, one foot skidding in the ice. Kyle has to lunge and catch him by the arm to stop him going down.
Christian is breathing heavily, but he gets the message and keeps his distance once Kyle lets go of his arm. He lifts the cigarette to his lips with shaking fingers and looks Kyle up and down in a gesture of habit. Kyle's wearing slim-fitting trousers and boots with hidden snow grip. On top, his heavy coat hides the shape of his body and his scarf fills in the gaps. There's not exactly much to see. But Christian hums his approval all the same.
"Damn. You're the hottest fucking thing I've seen," he says, something which Kyle doubts enormously.
"Okay, champ. Easy there," Kyle says and turns away to look through the window of the bar, checking the editor's whereabouts.
He's still there, a safe distance away, standing beneath a TV screen mounted to the wall. It's tuned to ESPN and showing the highlights. Hockey, Kyle realises. Normally, that would be enough to make him look away, but this time he doesn't, because he's drunk and slow and anyway, what are the chances?
But then, of course, it happens. In the next second, the picture on screen changes to show a close-up of Stan Marsh with a press microphone shoved towards his face. Stan's dark hair is flat from being under his helmet. As Kyle watches, he pushes his fingers into his mouth and pulls out his mouth guard, which is wet with saliva, right in front of the camera. He grins winningly at whatever douchebag is holding the mic. It's disgusting and Kyle feels his own lip curl in response.
It's never easier, never less of a weird shock to see Stan's face plastered all over the TV ─ or in the paper, or social media, or on the side of a goddamn Denver bus ─ when Kyle hasn't spoken to the man himself in five years now.
"Goddamnit," Kyle says out loud, without thinking and Christian steps up behind him, to peer over his shoulder at the TV.
"What's up? They lose?"
"No," Kyle says, "I don't know. I just can't stand that guy, man."
Christian looks at Kyle in disbelief.
"You can't stand Stanley Marsh? What's the matter with you? He's the best thing to happen to Denver in twenty years."
"I'm not into hockey."
"Well, sure. But fucking look at him, though. Are you telling me you wouldn't tap that?"
Christian drops the end of his cigarette, steps on it, and immediately sets about lighting another.
Kyle turns away from the window and squeezes his eyes shut. His head is beginning to hurt. He has just seen a caption flash across the screen, ‘Marsh to retire?’ which makes no fucking sense at all, because Stan’s barely twenty-six, still in his prime, and why the hell would an athlete quit when they’re at the top of their game like that?
Kyle opens his eyes, to find Christian staring at him.
“He went to my school,” Kyle says, “We used to make out.”
“Shit. Is that true? I mean, I’d heard the rumours. Who hasn't? But...”
Kyle wouldn’t, usually. But he’s drunk enough that nothing matters. He has an urge to just say it for once.
“Actually, he was my best friend. Give me that.”
“No shit,” Christian says. But he passes the cigarette, looking more impressed by Kyle than he has so far in three weeks’ worth of interning and ten minutes worth of foreplay.
Kyle exhales, the cold air magnifying his breath into a cloud of white. He hardly ever smokes, so he can’t help letting out a cough along with it.
“Anyway. He’s a douchebag.”
“I can’t believe…” Christian starts, but Kyle interrupts him.
“Okay,” he says, “Enough.”
The cigarette is still mostly unsmoked, but Kyle tosses it aside and steps in close to Christian again, his boots crunching in the snow.
“I’m all the way across town,” Kyle says, “Is your place near?”
“Not too far.”
“Are we going, then?”
Christian pulls his phone out of his pocket. “If that’s what you want. I’ll get us a ride.”
They head around to the front of the bar. Christian’s phone says that there is an Uber just minutes away.
As they go, Kyle can’t stop himself from looking over his shoulder at the TV one last time.
Stan’s face is still there, wearing a serious expression now, his mouth moving as he answers questions about the game. There’s a queasy feeling in Kyle’s stomach, from the liquor and the cigarette, and the fact that he’s about to go home with yet another total jackass because there simply aren’t any better options around.
In the car, Kyle ignores Christian completely, passing it off as not wanting to piss off their driver by gaying out on his back seat.
They are soon climbing out again and taking the elevator of Christian’s predictably fancy new-build apartment block.
The whole thing looks like an office building, but the apartment itself seems virtually untouched. A sterile show-home kind of place, with accents of chrome and glossy black, obviously tended by a diligent maid.
“Nice pad,” Kyle says, when he really thinks the opposite.
Christian doesn't answer that. He just closes the door and wraps Kyle up in his arms, kissing him with lips that taste like smoke and whiskey.
They fuck hard, on Christian’s pristine white sheets.
And if, right before Kyle comes he allows himself to see a flash of Stan’s face behind his closed eyelids, then so what? It’s not like that’s something new; it’s not like it will change anything.
*
In a hotel room in Colorado Springs, a phone is ringing.
Stan stands by the window with a towel wrapped around his hips and stares at the phone until the noise stops. He’s done with talking. All anyone ever wants him to do is talk.
The curtains are still wide open. It was light when Stan got into the shower and he didn’t bother to close them when he got out. He just switched on some lamps and then spent far too long staring out at the city.
Now, he lets his towel drop to the floor because he’s sick of holding it up, and leans one forearm against the glass as he peers out at the drop below.
There are lights moving on the roads. Each pair of headlights belongs to a car speeding a group of oblivious passengers away from downtown. Anyone could be inside. Families, couples, somebody Stan knows, or used to know. The thought makes him sad.
But the team just had a good win. Stan ate a nice chicken sandwich and jerked off in a long hot shower. He has no reason to be sad.
Turning away from the window, he starts picking through his duffel bag, looking for a clean pair of sweats and a T-shirt. He pulls the pants straight on without underwear, then the shirt. He thinks about calling down to room service to bring him up a couple of beers. It’s not like he has anywhere to be tomorrow. Why the hell not?
As he’s lifting the phone from its cradle, the wire catches against the book on the bedside table. It’s The Catcher in the Rye. He picked up a copy on impulse at the airport in Seattle. It's pretty banged up now, from being carted around from place to place for months.
Stan’s finding it kind of hard going, if he’s honest. Like, obviously, it’s a classic, but nothing is happening. He can’t manage to wrap his head around that. How can you have a book that isn’t really about anything?
But, probably that’s the point. Kyle could explain it to him, if he were here.
“Reception. Can I help?”
The voice in Stan’s ear takes him by surprise. He hadn’t even noticed that he had dialled, and now he stumbles over his order and forgets completely what room number he’s in. He has to go to the door and check.
“Okay, someone will be right up with those. You’re so welcome,” the receptionist chirps, before Stan even has a chance to thank her.
He hangs up the phone, then stays where he is, scowling down at the cover of the book.
Kyle is the real reason he bought the fucking thing. It was because he’d been thinking of Kyle at the time, and it seemed like a book that Kyle would choose.
The beers turn up and Stan drinks both of them a bit too quickly. He picks up The Catcher in the Rye and reads two pages before he ends up tossing it aside and flopping back down on the bed instead.
His childhood friends have been on his mind a lot lately. Maybe it’s a quarter-life crisis thing, or maybe it’s been long enough that the distance between them is finally beginning to ache.
For a moment, he thinks about picking up the phone and dialling the Broflovskis’ landline, which, even after all this time is the only phone number besides his own and the one for City Wok Chinese takeout that he has memorised. If he asked Sheila for Kyle’s current cell number, she would give it to him. She’d probably be thrilled to hear from him.
But Stan can’t see how he could make the next part work. There’s no scenario he can imagine that doesn't end with Kyle spitting and cursing and hanging up on him before he even has a chance to apologise.
So instead, he just climbs into bed and turns off the lamp.
He lies in the dark and stares up at the ceiling until he knows nothing at all, and then suddenly it’s daylight and the phone is ringing again.