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Alcohol and nicotine. You can practically see him dying.
That’s what Kyle thinks as he stares at Stan, his eyelids drooping, his fingers tapping out an irregular rhythm against the stick between his fingers. Eventually, the redhead figures, he’ll get tired of this. He’ll stop, he’ll go home but he hasn’t yet, and something in Kyle knows that he won’t.
Fuck, you don’t owe him anything. Kyle needs to tell himself this, otherwise, he’d break under the simple misery he’s watching. He shouldn’t be up here, he should be down there, but he can’t make himself move down to that table, down to the reason he can’t decide whether to muddy his own liver or just leave this stupid place and never look back.
He should be over it.
He isn’t.
“You gonna drink anything?” the bartender gruffly mumbles around his perpetual frown.
Glancing down at his empty glass of water, Kyle dazedly shakes his head. The man spits in disgust, but moves away once more, leaving Kyle to turn back to Stan.
The man had said he’d be here, and here he was. Kyle had almost blocked his number, but in the end, with his finger hovering over the button and his jaw trembling, he’d only thrown the phone to the table and cursed at the ceiling. No, he hadn’t ignored the message, he’d come, but he hadn’t said a damn word. Eventually, he prays, Stan will just get up and leave. But he hasn’t yet, and he won’t.
Because he’s just that damn persistent, and Kyle’s just desperate enough to stay.
He can still hear those words that Stan had said the night before, words that shouldn’t be said between friends. Especially not friends that had been friends this fucking long. They echo around in his skull cruelly. Like bells or gongs, he can’t be sure.
“I’m not fuckin’ with you,” Stan had slurred, his eyes even more murky than they were tonight. “I mean it.” Why couldn’t he have known that this made it all the worse. Friends is what Kyle keeps repeating in his head, even though he knows that it was never true. Not since third grade when they slept in the same bed. Not since fourth grade when they sat next to each other every goddamn day. Not since sixth grade when they’d held hands. Not since high school where they’d both fucked around with other people and tried to find something that felt right, only to fall back to each other, friends but only in name.
And now, they’re paying for that feigned ignorance. Paying with way more than just their pride.
Fist tightening around his glass, Kyle’s body sags and his red curls tumble into his face. Fucking Stan Marsh, fucking Stan fucking Marsh, always getting drunk and doing shit that Kyle couldn’t forget. Fucking drunk-ass idiot who just said what he meant and meant every word when he was too smashed to remember it the next morning. Fuck him and the way he’d lead Kyle on for years before crushing him. Fuck him for doing this now, when Kyle had finally gotten over him.
Fuck Stan.
So why is he still sitting here, thoughts mired in a fog that just won’t lift an inch.
Stan orders another drink, and from the corner of his eye, hidden as he is, Kyle watches with a jolt of pain as the man blearily looks around for him before slumping back and fixing those soft blue eyes on his cigarette. One drag. Two. The cloud of smoke that is exhaled obscures his face, and Kyle finally yanks his eyes away. Just go home Stan, go home so I can know that you’re the piece of shit I’ve convinced myself you are.
How selfish of him.
But it hadn’t been he who was the selfish one, had it? Who was the one who’d spent all of high school getting drunk off his face and then saying things like I think I love you Kyle when the redhead had been at his most vulnerable. Who had turned around the next day and hung off his girlfriend’s every word like she was a goddess and Kyle was nothing but dirt. Fuck him, fuck Stan for being able to make Kyle remember pain he’d buried years ago like it had been yesterday.
But now he’s trapped, and Kyle can’t help but think back to one evening in particular.
Stan’s got his head in Kyle’s lap, and he’s trying to reach for the vodka bottle that Kyle’s tiredly holding out of his grasp. He says it’s lazy, but he knows that it’s just a ploy to keep Stan where he is, with his stupid hat falling off and his hair brushing over Kyle’s thighs, just past the shorts he’s wearing. Swiping at the bottle once more, Stan lets out a pathetic whine, and Kyle just raises an unimpressed, yet still soft eyebrow.
“You’re not getting anymore,” he repeats, his tone quiet so he doesn’t upset the headache Stan had been moaning about earlier. “I don’t care how much you whine at me Stan, you’re fucking puissant drunk. So stop acting like I’m going to take pity on you.”
“You’re such a bastard,” Stan slurs, his gaze wobbly. “Did I ever tellyou how much I like that?”
Kyle’s heart does that flop, he hates when it does that.
“Yeah, many times. But flattery is going to get you nowhere.”
“I don’t care,” Stan mumbles, attempting to sit up. Kyle just holds the bottle a little further, making sure to keep Stan away from it. “I like it when you’re all gruff wiv’me.”
“Oh?” Kyle askes, unable to stop himself from tucking in his bottom lip and pursing his mouth together.
“Yeah, it’s hot,” Stan says in that candid way he only can when he’s drunk.
Kyle’s about to attempt a response when Stan cuts him off. But it’s not with more slurred words, it’s with a pair of lips, tainted with vodka and things he shouldn’t be saying. Suddenly, Kyle’s being kissed, and he can’t think past the fact that it’s the first time Stan’s done this to him, and hell it feels good.
He sort of expects it to be a ploy to get the alcohol back. Kyle almost readies himself for the inevitable Hah! Of triumph and Stan completely forgetting this in favor of ruining his insides that much more. But he doesn’t. The Raven does grab the bottle but it’s so he can lean it against his bed before grabbing for Kyle’s hand. Unable to fully breathe, the redhead moves back and stares at Stan, who has something in his eyes that Kyle’s never seen before.
“You-” you just kissed me, is what he wants to say. But instead, he blurts out, “You have a girlfriend.”
“Yeah,” Stan agrees, shifting his position so he’s sort of straddling Kyle, his knees pressing into the red-head’s hips, keeping him still. “But I don’t love ‘er, I love you.”
Then they’re kissing again, and it’s exactly what Kyle’s wanted for so so long. Stan’s hands burn as they trail over his skin, and his breath comes hot as he’s pushed against the side of the bed and kissed within an inch of his life. There’s nothing left in his lungs but Stan and he doesn’t want anything else there. This is all he’s ever needed.
Yanking himself out of the memory, Kyle feels frustrated tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. The next time he’d seen Stan, the boy hadn’t remembered a moment of what had happened. Hadn’t remembered, and hadn’t cared. That night had been the one time that Kyle had felt like he had a chance, and then the next time Stan had gotten drunk, he’d said he wasn’t interested. Just like that.
So fickle, the bastard.
Drawing in a shuddering breath, the man shakes his head and orders another water. He’s not going to give into this- this madness. This stupidity. Stan is a fucking jerk who gets drunk and can’t remember the shit he does, and Kyle’s put up with it for too long.
But maybe, it’ll never be long enough.
Because he can’t get those eyes out of his head. The words from last night, the way Stan’s expression had twisted into a desperate mask as he’d let that cursed phrase drip from his lips.
“I’m in love with you damnit, y’don’t get to tell me ‘m not!”
But Kyle had every right to say that Stan was lying because that’s what he’d done before. He’d broken Kyle’s heart into pieces and he hadn’t given a shit because he hadn’t known. Not consciously. Somewhere in his mind, maybe he remembered, but when he was sober, he didn’t give a shit. Which is why he’s here drinking, because that’s the only time he can tell himself the truth.
Except… Except he’d come sober. He’d only ended up in this state after a solid three hours of drinking, waiting for Kyle to appear. Which he should do, make himself known, or get out. Not sit here in the corner, hoping that Stan will leave so he can rain insults down on his head, and say that he always knew that the Raven didn’t mean a word of it.
Yeah, well you didn’t mean it either, did you? Growling under his breath, Kyle drags his hands through his hair and pulls hard. It’s so stupid but it’s so indicative of how things have gone.
“I don’t care!” he’d yelled at Stan, rubbing at his lips furiously to get the taste of the other man off of them before he could recall it from all those years ago. “We’re friends Stan, but you just kissed me. You’re fucked up.”
He was sorry, was he? But he still cared? Kyle didn’t know how he could possibly believe that entire text.
For the first time that night, Stan pulls out his phone. Finally, Kyle thinks, the man is impatient. He actually is going to kill time, then he’ll leave, because that’s how these things-
His phone buzzes, and he feels his stomach drop.
Reaching for it, Kyle bites back the choked feeling at the back of his throat.
[You know Ive been thinking bout wha happened lst night a lot] then [I really am fucked up aren’t i?]
Kyle wants to text him back, but he can’t make his fingers work, and even if he could, what would he say? That Stan should fuck off? That it didn’t matter cause he’d wanted it anyway? That he’d lied, because deep down, he-
He loved Stan too…
The phone goes off once more.
[ive been so fucked up lately Ky, I cant think straight]
[I remember shit, bits and pieces of stuff I did years ago with you. Or did I not.?]
Kyle feels his breath catch. It’s not fair, it’s not fucking fair that it hurts this much to see words he’s been wanting to hear for years. He’s just desperately wanted to know that he’s not the only one that knows what happened.
And now he does, but it’s not like he imagined at all.
[I loved you back then too but I got scared] [I shouldn’t have gotten scared] [I’mscared right now Ky]
Looking up and across at the man texting him, Kyle can see the way Stan’s hand trembles. It’s a miracle he’s able to type at all.
[Im scared and drunk because I don’t wanna remember this tomorrow I don’t want to remember thiss pain] [it hurts so much Kyle] [its hurt for years, why has it hurt this long?]
Rubbing at his chest, blinking back the stupid tears that are welling up there, Kyle struggles not to break down completely.
[you blocked mnumber youre not showing up]
There, he’s won. Stan doesn’t think he’s coming, he’s given up. Kyle is right, the man is a complete bastard. But then he sees Stan’s head slump down against the table, and his shoulders start shaking. He can feel the pain that shouldn’t be there in the base of his jaw, and in the sides of his throat, and in the constricting tightness of his chest.
Kyle’s fingers swipe over the screen, and he stares at the delete button. Just wipe the slates so he doesn’t have to look at these words anymore. Callously, he hits accept and watches as it vanishes.
He’s not crying, he’s laughing or something. He’s fine, maybe he’s just passing out. He’s always been an emotional drunk, get up and stop thinking about it.
Then Stan picks up his head a fraction of an inch and with shaking fingers types something into the phone. Kyle’s forced to watch as the message appears.
[is it fucked up that Ive loved you since we were kids]
[is it fucked that I still love you]
[I deserve this pain]
[you loved me]
[but you don’t love me anymore]
Kyle lurches forward in his chair as the tears start to fall for real. “You fucking bastard,” he mutters under his breath hoarsely as he stumbles to his feet. Stuffing his phone back in his pocket, scrambling to get around people when he can’t even think straight or see through the water in his eyes, Kyle trips down the stairs and only just catches himself on the railing.
No, he shouldn’t love Stan anymore.
But that didn’t mean for a second that he doesn’t.
Throwing himself towards the table that Stan’s seated at, Kyle wishes he could go back to last night and take back what he’d said to the drunk and desperate raven-haired man. But he can’t. So this will have to do.
Stuttering to a stop in front of Stan’s table, almost falling onto it, Kyle stares at the man as his head comes up and his tear-stained face freezes before his mouth falls open.
Softly, Stan says, “I- I’ve ‘ad too much t’drink.”
Like he doesn’t even believe that Kyle’s real.
But that doesn’t stop Kyle for a second from reaching over the table and seizing the bloody stupid man by the collar and yanking him over the countertop. Stan tries to speak, but the redhead’s already kissing those words off of his lips before he can say anything else that’ll make Kyle hate himself more.
Stan all but drags Kyle around the booth with fumbling fingers, and then his hands are fisting in Kyle’s shirt as he clings to the man like the Raven’s worried he’ll vanish. It doesn’t matter that Stan’s drunk and Kyle can’t see, because the redhead can feel the way Stan’s heart beats against his own, and it’s powerful enough to send a wave of pure emotion through him that shouldn’t have been possible.
But it is.
It really is.
“You’re such a fucking idiot,” Kyle murmurs against Stan’s lips, his whole body trembling with the force of what’s happening. “You’re so goddamn stupid-“
“I love you,” Stan interrupts, his eyes turned upwards, so fragile, still filled with tears, yet adoring. Strong.
“I- I…” Kyle can’t speak, he just presses his lips to Stan’s once more, praying that it’s enough. And by the way Stan responds, winding his hands through tangled red hair and holding him close, Kyle’s pretty sure the man understands.
Hopefully though, he’ll have plenty of chances to say it properly later.