Archive of Our Own ^beta

Kyle / 7 / Spring 

Kyle has always hated his birthday.

Well, hate is a strong word. It takes dedication to hate the day that pronounces your very existence, not to mention one that guarantees cake. It might be more accurate to say Kyle has never enjoyed celebrating his birthday. 

Truly, there’s no one to blame. He’s never been deprived of gifts or neapolitan ice cream, and he certainly hasn’t experienced any significant birthday-trauma. (Unless walking in on his Great-Aunt Marge french-ing her newest geriatric fling counts, which it should. ) 

It’s just that birthdays are too much pressure. The laundry list of unspoken etiquette makes his head spin. Between all the fake smiles and cheek pinches from relatives so distant and old they’re practically Israelites, he feels like he’s suffocating. 

After all these years, Kyle has made peace with the fact that birthdays aren’t for him, but this birthday has been his worst hands down. Hell, it’s topped the chart for Worst Days of His Natural Born Life , even surpassing the day Ike pushed him off the tire swing and fractured his pinky. 

Nothing has gone right all day. 

His mom made him wear this horrible green sweater his Bubbe sent in the mail. It’s itchy and smells like mothballs. The gruff fabric has rubbed a rash against his throat, leaving his scent glands raw and smarting. All the other boys are wearing baseball tees and Broncos hoodies. Kyle sticks out like a sore thumb.

To make matters worse, he’s been drooling buckets since this morning. Even now, his mouth is full of saliva. The kind that comes right before you’re about to puke and doesn’t let up no matter how many times you spit. 

His mom says it’s normal. She says it’s something all young alphas go through when their permanent fangs are coming in, but Kyle is starting to seriously doubt her credibility. There must be ten alphas from his class at his party right now that aren’t salivating like starved hounds, but he digresses. The drool doesn’t hold a candle to the ache in his jaw. 

Currently, Kyle is sitting at a dingy picnic table surrounded by mothers. They’re playing cards. Bony fingers, short and long, dart across the table. It’s something complex with too many rules and far too much counting. 

Kyle has his head down, resting his throbbing cheek on a plastic baggie full of ice. Distantly, he can hear the sounds of his friends playing a pick-up game of baseball behind him. It’s the kids versus the dads, Stan’s idea. 

There’s the clink of a bat. The scuffle of shoes. A rising, shrill chorus of, “ Run, Stan, run! ” 

Jealousy coils in his chest, venomous and writhing, like an agitated snake. He doesn’t like his birthday, but it’s his , damnit. It should be him catching pop-flys and hitting home runs, not Stan, or anyone else. 

A pulse of pain radiates through Kyle’s jaw. He whines and presses more insistently against the ice. He ignores the angry pins that prickle beneath his numbing skin. Kyle startles when his mom’s hand comes to rest in the center of his back. She drags her long nails in a nonsensical, winding pattern up and down the notches of his spine. 

Kyle shivers once before the tension bleeds from his muscles. He shifts closer to her, chasing the familiar, instinctual comfort. He doesn’t lean too close, though. He’s getting too old for that, or at least, his dad thinks so. 

The conversation halts above him as his mother’s fingers trail higher, carding through the shorter hairs at the nape of his neck. She presses the cold pads of her fingers to the angry skin of his gland. It feels incredible. A pleased, chirping noise rattles its way up his throat. It doesn’t occur to him to feel embarrassed. 

“Are you feeling any better, Bubele?” his mother croons. 

Kyle is fine. He swears he is. There’s no logical explanation for the tears suddenly welling up behind his eyes or the thickness clogging his airway. Kyle tries to speak, to assure his mom, but his words come out as a muddled sob.  

“Oh, dear,” his mother dotes, “I know it hurts. Is the ice helping at least?” 

Kyle nods mutely, blinking away hot tears. His mom squeezes him closer with an arm around his trembling shoulders. She plants a feather-light kiss on the crown of his head. 

“Growing pains are a bitch,” she whispers mischievously. 

Kyle giggles wetly, never failing to find humor in his mother’s carefully timed swears. He turns his head, peeking up at his mom. 

Soft sunlight filters through her wild curls. Each shift and shadow accentuates the almond shape of her eyes and the curve of her rouge-tinted cheeks. Not for the first time, Kyle thinks his mother must be the most beautiful woman in the world. 

“A bitch,” he whispers back. 

It’s barely a breath, meant only for his mother’s ears. She normally wouldn’t allow him to curse, but he knows somehow it’s okay, just this once. 

His mom laughs, flashing mature omega fangs. Kyle watches them come in and out of view with inexplicable fascination. They’re pearly and small—almost dainty—but it’s a facade. He learned that firsthand. A shiver runs up his spine as phantom pain sprouts in his arm. He resists the urge to rub at the marred skin of his forearm where his faded dam mark resides. 

“You know, this definitely comes from my side of the family. Your uncle Joey had the same problem when he was your age, but God, he was a mess back then. My father,” she shakes her head and smiles, clearly remembering something, “told your uncle that the pains were little devils poking his gums and the only way to get rid of them was by eating his vegetables.” 

“Did it work?” Kyle wonders. He paints the scene in his mind: His uncle, bearded and grown, in overalls, pouting at the dinner table with green beans piled high on his plate. It’s an absurd thought. 

His mother snorts. “Oh, God, no, didn’t you hear me say he was terrible? No, your uncle Joey decided to try and burn the little suckers out with hot sauce!” 

She was laughing now, full-on. His mother always laughed with her entire body. It was infectious. 

“‘Course that only made things worse. The poor thing was running around the house hollering. He ended up stripping in the backyard and drinking straight from the garden hose.”

“Are you serious?” Kyle giggled. “Uncle Joey?” 

“Yup,” she popped the ‘p’ loudly. “But you know, you’ve never given me any trouble about eating your peas and carrots, so I think the little devils shouldn’t take long to chase out.” 

Mrs. Black’s voice chimes from across the table. “I should share that story with Tolkien. See if that’ll get that little you-know-what to finish his plate.”

Kyle’s cheeks burn at the reminder of their company. Quickly, he detaches himself from his mother’s side with a downcast gaze. God, he was being such a pup. 

“You know, Kyle,” Mrs. Marsh prompts, tone delicate, like a bell, “your mother and I could really use some help with this game. We haven’t won a single round. Could you join our team?”

“Or, you could join the side of the winners,” Mrs. Black teases, wagging her manicured brows. 

“Nope, too late!” His mother interrupts. “We called him, right, Sharon?” 

Mrs. Stotch, seated on his left, explains the rules matter of factly. Her mousy blonde hair is pulled back effortlessly in a clip, revealing the white scar of a mating bite on her throat. It draws his attention for a fleeting moment, though he’s unsure why. 

The game commences. Kyle isn't sure his mom is doing any better with his help, but his mood has lightened. He can still hear the sounds of his friends laughing behind him, but it’s easier to block out when he’s trying to count cards. (His dad would call that cheating, but his mom just winks at him conspiratorially.) 

“Let us know when you’re ready to cut the cake, Bubele,” his mom reminds him. 

Kyle works his jaw, feeling out the extent of the remaining pain. He opens his mouth to speak when a voice interrupts him from behind.

“Mrs. B,” Stan calls reluctantly, poking her in the center of the back with a tiny finger. 

Kyle’s spine straightens with a jolt, and his pulse quickens. All of a sudden, he’s intensely aware of the dried tear tracks lining his cheeks. His hands shoot up to wipe them away. 

“Can Kyle come play?” 

At the sound of his name, Kyle turns around to face Stan. The older boy is standing behind Kyle’s mom, posture stiff and unsure, but sporting a look of fierce determination. 

Icy panic floods Kyle’s stomach. Frightened eyes meet his mother’s. He can’t face his friends, not after he’s been pouting all afternoon. A look of understanding crosses her face. 

“I’m sorry, hon, but Kyle isn’t feeling well,” his mom replies with a shake of her head. “His teeth are bothering him.”

“His teeth,” Stan parrots, voice lilting in confusion. His eyes squint, concentrated, like he’s sounding out a too-long word. 

“It’s alpha stuff, Stannie,” Mrs. Marsh tacks on.

Her sentence hangs heavy in the air. No one voices the unspoken, You wouldn’t understand.

Stan’s eyes do something funny at that. His mouth presses into a thin line of dissatisfaction. There’s nothing Stan hates more than being left out. 

“Oh,” Stan mumbles, rocking on his feet. “Well, can I watch, too?” 

“Of course, baby,” Mrs. Marsh huffs fondly. 

Stan takes a careful step forward. He blinks at Mrs. Stotch owlishly, eyes expectant. She laughs and scoots over, making space for Stan to squeeze in beside Kyle. 

Stan smiles and mumbles a hasty thanks. He swings one leg over the bench and then another, settling himself flush to Kyle’s side. He leans in close, flashing a lopsided smile. 

“Hi,” Stan whispers. He ducks forward, laying his head down on the table. His eyes—deep blue, like a summer storm—glitter in the light. 

“Hi,” Kyle parrots back with a huff of laughter. He mirrors Stan’s posture, propping his chin up on his folded arms. “You left the game.”

“Yeah, baseball sucks without you,” Stan says with a wrinkled nose. 

“Yeah?” Kyle breathes out. His heart skips and flutters as a pleasant warmth fills his stomach. 

“Especially with my dad. He’s such a dork.” Stan frowns. “He made one homerun and started slinging his shirt in the air like a lasso.” 

“That dumb,” Kyle mirrors his frown. “He’s like forty.” 

“Exactly, he’s so embarrassing.” Stan sighs. It ruffles his bangs. “Your dad was dumb, too, though.” 

“Oh God, what did he do?” Kyle winces. 

“Oh, nothing much, he just had a full-on meltdown when Butters made him strikeout. He chucked the—” Stan pauses and purses his lips. He offers a sly smile and cuts his eyes towards Mrs. Stotch. In a whisper, “I’ll tell you later.” 

Silence lapses between them. Kyle watches as Stan presses his fingers into the now half-melted baggie of discarded ice. The water shifts with each poke of his little finger. 

Kyle uses the quiet moment to study the other boy. He traces the curve of his cheek and the curl of his spidery lashes. There’s a smattering of pale freckles across the bridge of his nose and an ugly scab on his chin from when Shelley shoved him off his scooter earlier in the week.  

His hair is straight and long—the longest Kyle has ever seen it. The strands fall flat against his forehead, easily overtaking his brows. They’re sticking to his skin now with sweat.  

Stan is an omega, but you wouldn’t know it just by looking at him. 

He’s a boy, for starters, which is an anomaly. His mom explained it to him once, something about birds and bees and mutated chromosomes, but he didn’t understand. Stan is also missing the degree of softness other omegas hold. His features are all angles, pointy and abstract, like a Picasso painting brought to life. 

Stan is different from any omega Kyle’s met. He doesn’t wear pink or worry about the grass stains on his knees. He plays the same as the rest of the boys, rough and mean, with stinging nips and jerking elbows. He’s never lost a game of street hockey, and he holds the neighborhood record for biggest loogie.

It’s easy to forget that Stan is different, but sometimes, in moments like these, Kyle can tell there’s something more to him. Something alien. 

It’s that same something that lets Stan off easy with their teachers and parents. That gets him picked first for Truth or Dare and kickball. That makes it impossible to be the first to break eye contact or let go of his hand. It’s ingrained in Stan, entirely innate. Something he doesn’t exploit, hell, doesn’t even see . 

Abruptly, pain flares in Kyle’s jaw, drawing a pitchy yelp from his throat. He winces in embarrassment as he rubs the tender flesh. He startles hard at the cool press of the bag against his skin.

Looking up, Kyle freezes when his eyes meet Stan’s. His heart beats wildly in his chest and the world around them fades to nothing. It’s only them. 

Head cocked, Stan watches him with blatant concern etched into the furrow of his brow. His fingers flex on the bag as he brings another hand up to push back the thick wave of Kyle’s curls. 

There’s a tenderness to his movements that calls to Kyle’s very soul. His teeth itch fiercely with a desire to have and to keep. Instinct drives him forward. 

He crashes into Stan, shoving him backwards and off the bench. They hit the ground hard. Stan lets out a rattling breath as the air is knocked from his lungs. 

Kyle dives forward and buries his teeth deep in the meat of Stan’s shoulder. His mouth is flooded with a copper twang. He sucks once, digging his fangs further. There’s a pleasant buzz ringing in Kyle’s head. He feels right, aligned, but before he can fully catalog the feeling, he’s being violently shoved back. 

His head cracks against the ground, causing his vision to tilt. Stan appears above him, crawling into his lap. The unnatural look of fury on Stan’s face makes his skin crawl. Hackles raised, Kyle bears his teeth instinctually, letting out a reedy puppy growl. It does nothing to deter Stan. 

The omega draws his fist back and socks Kyle in the nose. There’s a sharp snap. Immediately, a nauseous feeling turns his stomach, and Kyle knows it’s broken. 

He howls in pain and writhes beneath Stan’s solid weight. How the fuck is he this heavy? The older boy is still swinging as their mothers fight to separate them. His bony fists land sloppy hits to Kyle’s chest and face. 

Adrenaline keeps Kyle tense as he watches Stan get snatched away by the scruff of his neck. His ruined nose burns hot as tears flood his vision. The taste of copper sits like lead on his tongue. In the next second, Kyle is jerked up by his own mother. 

“What the hell has gotten into you,” his mom spits. Her hands are tight, digging into the flesh of his upper arms. It hurts. “Answer me!” 

She shakes him a little as she speaks. It’s scary. She’s never spoken to him like this before. 

“I don’t know,” Kyle mumbles, indignant by default. He sniffles hard and yelps at the pain. The sound morphs into a drawn out whine when his mother presses a bundle of napkins to the sore appendage. 

“Hush,” she shushes him harshly. “You’re lucky he didn’t do worse.”

“He didn’t have to hit me,” Kyle grumbles, peering over his mother’s shoulder, trying to catch a glimpse of the other boy. 

Stan is standing with his family by their car. His mom is kneeling in front of him, wiping his tears and running soothing fingers through his hair. Jealousy burns in Kyle’s stomach, along with something else—something stinging that he can’t quite identify. 

The older boy is crying hard. Even from this distance, Kyle can see his blotchy face and hear the ghost of his strangled breaths. Stan’s always been an ugly crier. He’s gripping the loose fabric of his mother’s skirt, and Kyle almost rolls his eyes at that. He’s acting like such a baby. 

“Oh, yes he did,” his mother snips, dragging him back to the moment. She exchanges the soaked napkins for a second bundle. “You are going to call the Marshes tonight and apologize to that boy.” 

“Mom,” Kyle moans, mortified, “that is so not fair. He hit me, too!”

“Yeah, in self-defense,” his mom argues. “You bit the hell out of him, the poor thing.”

Kyle scoffs at that. Fresh tears swell in his eyes. “This is such bull. Ike bites me all the time and you never—”

“Ike doesn’t even have teeth,” she growls. “That is apples and oranges, Kyle, and you know it. You are calling him. End of story.”

“But all I did was bite—” 

“And that’s exactly how you get little omegas pregnant! You so much as graze their throats with one of those fangs, and you could knock them up.” She jabs an accusatory finger into his chest. “Is that what you want for Stan? For your poor mother? To be neck-deep in diapers raising another pup?” 

“What, no,” Kyle sputters, face warming.

“Then you’d better keep those teeth to yourself.”

//

When he tells Kenny about it later, he laughs long and hard. 

It’s muffled and tinny over the phone, but it stings nonetheless. Kenny’s always has a way of making him feel completely stupid with zero effort. 

“That’s not how you get an omega pregnant,” Kenny reassures him. 

“Well, what the hell do you know,” Kyle hisses into the receiver. 

“I know that I’ve given hickies to, like, four fourth grade omegas, and none of them are preggers.” 

A blush rises on Kyle’s face. “Nuh-uh, you’re such a liar, dude.” 

“Am I lying?” Kenny mocks. Kyle can practically see the blond’s gapped-tooth, Cheshire smile. 

“Yes,” he deadpans, “and don’t say ‘preggers.’ It makes you sound like a pervert. See you, Monday, jerk.”

Whatever Kenny was going to say is cut off as Kyle slaps down the phone. Distantly, he can hear the sound of a baby wailing on the television downstairs. Must be one of his mom’s hospital soaps. An image burns in his mind’s eye. A pale throat and bloodied collar. 

He shivers. What does Kenny know anyway?

///

Stan / 11 / Summer

Stan has never really been the jealous type, but he’s taken a turn for the worse this summer. Kyle is getting a basement room, and Stan swears his complexion is actually turning green with envy. He’ll be Grinch-green by August. 

Basement bedrooms are cool. It’s a simple fact of life. The sky is blue, snakes are icky, and basement rooms are badass. Dark and secluded, albeit mildewy, they’re every teen’s wet dream. They’re also a sign of maturity, or at least, Kyle says so. 

His parents started the process of converting their basement early in the summer right before school let out. Kyle has been completely unbearable throughout the whole process, bragging every chance he gets.  

Still, Stan hasn’t given him any shit for it. Mainly because the Broflovskis are paying him ten bucks a day to help declutter and repaint. Plus, he only has to carry the light boxes. Mr. B’s antiquated sense of morality has long-since excused Stan from anything remotely resembling manual labor. 

After six weeks, they finally have the basement finished. Stan is coming over tonight to celebrate with their first sleepover in Kyle’s new room. He’s excited to see the final touches they’ve added since he’s last seen it, but he’s mostly excited to eat Mrs. B’s cooking instead of his mom’s bland stroganoff. 

It’s a short bike ride from his place to Kyle’s. The summer sun is hanging low on the horizon, ushering in the night. Lightning bugs blink, and crickets chirp in nearby trees. Dark clouds amass, filling the air with the electric scent of rain. 

Stan turns off the sidewalk to cut through the Donovon’s yard. He coasts down the drainage ditch that connects to Kyle’s backyard. His tires splash in the trickling stream that flows at the bottom, smattering his socks with muddy flecks. 

He drops his bike in the grass at the bottom of the Broflovski’s porch. He takes the protesting steps two at a time. Warm light from the kitchen is scattered along sun-kissed planks. Through the screen door, Stan can hear the tinny sound of an old radio and Mrs. Broflovski’s singing. 

Stan delivers two swift knocks to the door frame. He enters at Mrs. B’s careless call, “Open!”

“Hey, Mrs. B!” Stan greets cheerily as he crosses the threshold. He toes his tennis shoes off on the worn welcome mat and inhales the all-too familiar scent of spices and washing powder. 

“Oh, hey, hon!” Mrs. Broflovski grins at him from over her shoulder. It’s Kyle’s same wrinkle-nosed smile. He’s seen it a trillion times, but still, his heart stutters. “You been doing alright? How’d that swim meet go?” 

“Oh, you know,” Stan shrugs and fights back a smile, “same as usual. Broke a record, won a medal. Nothing to write home about.” 

“Oh my God,” she cheers. She steps away from the stove, abandoning her stirring spoon with a rattling clank. “That’s amazing, sweetie! I’m so proud of you.”

Stan opens his mouth, a thank you poised on his tongue, when warm arms wind around his shoulders and draw him forward. In a blink, Mrs. Broflovski is pressing her cheek to his, scenting him affectionately. 

Stan’s face lights up. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to the tactile nature of Kyle’s family. It should be second nature to him by now, all the touches and casual scenting, but it never fails to shock him dumb. 

She leans back as her fingers brush faintly along the sides of his throat. “Gosh, I’m half surprised you’re not hiding gills in this mess of hair!” 

Stan swallows thickly. “Well, it’s really more my webbed fingers that give me the advantage.” He holds up his hands and wiggles his fingers for emphasis. 

“Ha!” Mrs. B snorts as she steps back towards the stove. “Well, Aqualad, I’m not sure baked salmon is going to agree with you.”

Stan peers over her shoulder and eyes the simmering dish. He hums thoughtfully before shrugging again. “I guess I can compromise my morals for an evening.”

“Well, I’m glad,” Mrs. B shakes her head fondly. “It’ll be ready soon, so go downstairs and get Kyle, would you? I’ll wrangle up the rest of these lazy oafs myself.” 

She winks at him conspiratorially, like this is some kind of scheme and all they’ve got is each other. It’s an odd thing she does, but Stan likes it. 

“On it, cap’in,” Stan salutes. He turns on heel and exits the kitchen. He heads towards the stairs and is suddenly struck with the most bizarre memory. 

It comes to him in pieces. Kyle camped out in front of the basement door. Blankets and sheets, patterned with cowboys and race cars, stretched out and draped strategically in a fort. 

Kyle’s dad let them rent the first Predator movie from the video store the night before, and they were reenacting the good bits. They were pretending to hide from the monster, wielding Mrs. B’s curling iron and hairdryer as machine guns. God, they got chewed out for that, but they were just pups then, with twin sunburns and Kool-aid stained mouths. 

Stan smiles at the memory. His chest is practically glowing as he descends the stairs. At the bottom, he spots Kyle lounging on the dingy blue couch they bummed from a yard sale back in June. 

From this angle, all Stan can see are Kyle’s socked-feet and corkscrew curls peeking from opposite ends of the couch. There’s a faint, metallic hum of music, and Stan knows he must be listening to the scratched up Doors cassette they found in the crummy cushions. 

Stan creeps closer on his tippy toes, dancing around creaky floorboards. He glances over the back of the sofa. Kyle is lying on his side, blaring Jim Morrison and reading a thick novel. 

Stan watches him for a breath, cataloging the delicate rise of his chest and the pretty notch where his spine meets his neck. Then, like a prowling leopard, he strikes. 

He leaps over the back of the couch and lands hard on his unsuspecting victim. Kyle yelps in surprise and chucks the book across the room. It hits the wall with a resounding thud. 

Kyle’s eyes—shocked wild and so, so green—soften when they register their attacker. His mouth contorts into a lazy grin, flashing canines and pink gums. He arches his back into a deep stretch, letting tension roll from his shoulders in waves. He rolls onto his back and shoulders Stan’s weight easily. 

Shedding his headphones, Kyle croaks, “What’s up, dude?” 

“Oh, you know, nothing much,” Stan simpers, stupidly proud. His fingers latch onto Kyle’s wrists and pin them loosely to the arm of the couch. “I just can’t believe, after countless hours of hard work and dedication, I finally scared you.” 

Kyle scoffs. Still grinning, he shakes his shaggy curls from his eyes. “You didn’t get me. I heard your fat ass coming a mile away.” He punctuates that thought with a series of pokes to Stan’s stomach and teasing thump, thump, thump . “Not to mention, super-best-friend ESP, remember?”

“Oh my God,” Stan groans, batting the offending finger away.  

“Just earlier, you were,” Kyle closes his eyes, feigning concentration, “flirting with my mom in the kitchen.”

“You’re so full of shit,” Stan argues. “I totally got you just now. You sent that book flying, which,” Stan mirrors Kyle’s scrunched expression, “I’m getting signals was…lebsian erotica.” 

“Yeah, you’re right,” Kyle nods morosely, “I got it from your mom’s nightstand when I was looking for the magnum—” 

That last part comes out muffled as Stan slaps a hand over his mouth. The sweet reprieve of silence is cut short by the predictable poke of a tongue laving against his fingers. 

“God, you’re disgusting,” Stan groans, wiping his slobbery hand on Kyle’s shirt. 

“I can’t believe you thought that would work knowing I’ve got a little shit like Ike for a brother,” Kyle sniggers, eyes squinting, like a content cat. 

“Yeah, well,” Stan sniffs, doubling down, “Whatever, I still got you just now.”

“Nope,” Kyle pops the ‘p’ loudly, “that’s just what I’m letting you think.”

“Yeah, okay,” Stan rolls his eyes. His fingers flex on Kyle’s wrists, and he offers him a smug smile. “Anyway, aren’t you gonna ask me about my weekend?” 

There’s silence for a beat. Stan blinks as Kyle’s face does something complicated that he can’t quite follow. The younger sits up a little, leaning back on his elbows. Stan’s face warms under Kyle’s scrutinizing gaze. Panic sets in when an odd smile curls Kyle’s lips. 

“What are you looking at?” Stan mumbles, suddenly embarrassed. 

His hands itch to cover the pimple on his upper lip or wipe at imaginary dirt on his nose. He can’t explain why he’s nervous. It’s never mattered how he looks, and it shouldn’t now. It really, really shouldn’t. 

“It’s just,” Kyle hesitates, that same strange look gleaming in his eyes, “you’ve got something.” He trails off again, making a vague gesture with his hand.

“Where?” Stan demands. 

Kyle’s seen him through every botched haircut, stomach bug, and peeled sunburn. He’s seen him naked, for Christsakes, but somehow this is worse. 

“Right here,” Kyle laughs. 

In a blink, the younger boy darts up. The swiftness of the move throws Stan off balance, causing him to fall onto his back with a grunt. Warm fingers latch around his wrists, pinning them by his head. 

“See,” Kyle smirks, “Right where I want you.”

Stan doesn’t answer. He can’t. God, he can hardly breathe. 

Kyle is a vision above him. Copper lashes frame his eyes, pulling flecks of amber from the fields of green. His lips, chapped and pale, are curled back in a smile, and Stan steals a glimpse of all-too familiar fangs. 

A phantom pain sprouts in his shoulder, throbbing. His mind takes him back to that day. To the park and the high sun, to the tearing of flesh and the hot spill of blood. Something in his face must reveal where his mind has gone. 

Kyle’s gaze flicks between his wide eyes and chest, nearly searing a hole in his shirt. Kyle opens his mouth, but whatever he was going to say is interrupted by a banging knock on the door. 

In an instant, the moment is gone, scattered like foam along a wave. Kyle pulls back, sitting up and out of Stan’s space. In his wake, his scent hangs heavy over Stan’s prone form. 

Taking his first real breath in what feels like an eternity, Stan can practically taste him, cinnamon but hot, crisp like spiced cider on a cool morning. The scent is something new, only a few weeks old. Its intensity still takes him by surprise. He doesn’t know how he’ll ever get used to it. 

Ever the overachiever, Kyle was one of the first in their class to develop his scent. Slowly, everyone has fallen in line, including Stan himself. He doesn’t know exactly what he smells like, but he knows it can’t be anything good with the way people have been staring. 

Just the other day, his older sister was complaining about his scent stinking up the whole damn house, turd . Their mom scolded her, which had felt good, but then, she turned around and gave him an uncomfortable heart to heart about his blossoming into a handsome young omega , which had felt decidedly less good. 

Half dazed, Stan trails after Kyle to the stairs. He stays quiet at the table, feeling more out of place than usual. He’s never quite fit in with the Broflovskis, though not for lack of trying. There’s been summers where he spent nearly entire weeks at the Broflovski house, only going home when his mom demanded proof of life. Still, no amount of exposure could alter the structure of his bones and blood. 

The rain starts midway through dinner. It comes down heavy, making a tinny racket against the back porch awning. Stan watches through the tiny window over the kitchen sink as wind tosses the old tire swing in the backyard to and fro. The screen door is still open, inviting in the familiar scent of wet asphalt and ozone. 

“We’ll have to call your mother, Stan,” Mr. Broflovski tuts as he clears the table. “You can’t go home in this weather. You’ll be washed away.”

Stan sort of figured that was a no-brainer, but he hums in agreement anyways. He crosses the room, grabbing the receiver from the landline on the wall. The corkscrew cord is bent all out of shape in some places, from Ike, more than likely. 

“Do you think your mom will be okay with you staying over?” Kyle asks, brows pinched with worry.

“Why wouldn’t she be?” Stan asks in return, confusion coloring his words. 

He and Kyle have been having sleepovers since before they could talk. Maybe not lately, what with Kyle being between rooms and Stan’s time being split between his mom and dad, but still, nothing has changed. 

“Well, cause,” Kyle gnaws on his lip, looking apprehensive, “you know.” 

A cold feeling washes over Stan. He knows why Kyle’s nervous. They never really talk about it, Stan’s presentation. 

It’s not that it’s a touchy subject for him—because it’s not , okay?—but even so, it’s hard to be different. To be alone. To be the only boy in class who has to change in the girl’s locker room or sit through the omega health and reproduction class. 

When he was little and his parents dragged him to mass, he used to pray for God to change him. To make him an alpha, like all his friends, or even a beta, like his mother. He knew it wouldn’t happen, that presentations don’t change, but he still prayed for the impossible. It was a bitter pill to swallow when it never came true, and it never quite went down right, still lodged in the pit of his throat. 

“She won’t mind,” Stan mutters. The phone rings three times before his mother picks up. He explains the situation, twirling the rubber cord between his fingers. “Mrs. B, my mom wants to talk to you.” 

He hands off the phone freely and takes a few slow steps backwards, finding Kyle’s eyes across the kitchen. He offers a small smile, willing away his sullen mood. 

With the tilt of his head, he slips from the doorway and heads towards the stairs. He passes by familiar furniture and photos lining the walls. There’s the sound of footsteps and the tell-tale rattle of plates in Mrs. Broflovski’s china cabinet. 

“So,” Kyle’s hushed, eager voice calls out from behind, “did your mom say yes?”

At the door of the stairs, Stan looks over his shoulder with a fond eye roll. Teasingly, “What do you think?” 

“Oh yeah,” Kyle snarks, counting off on his fingers, “I forgot you’re completely spoiled and have never been told no in your life.” 

“That’s not true,” Stan argues as they descend the stairs. “You tell me no all the time. You told me no when I asked you to pass me the potatoes, like, ten minutes ago.”

“Okay but,” Kyle persists, “you can’t tell me you’ve never noticed how people treat you.” 

Stan blinks, bemused and only half-interested. He collapses into the couch, ignoring the dig of stray springs against his spine. Kyle disappears from sight to root around his closet for the movie binder. 

“Like a few weeks ago,” his muffled voice chimes, “when you were home late and missed Shelley’s game, your mom swore she was gonna ground you the rest of the summer, and lo and behold, you were back outside the very next day bullshitting around with us.”

Stan frowns up at the ceiling. He remembers his mom being pissed. She’d never screamed like that before. Something about family coming first. He thought her eyes were going to pop out of her head. Still, he didn’t remember exactly what he’d said to get out of it. 

There’s a sound of triumph from somewhere behind the couch that signifies Kyle’s success. In the next moment, he tosses the dusty goliath onto the cluttered coffee table. 

Stan rolls onto his side and tugs the binder closer. Immediately, he flips to the back where he knows all the good horror movies are tucked away behind Mr. Broflovski’s black and white films. 

“And just yesterday, at the library,” Kyle continues, sitting cross-legged on the other side of the table, “that bitchy librarian didn’t charge you a cent of your late fee for that comic book even when you returned it with nasty-ass Cheeto fingerprints.” 

“Okay, firstly, that wasn’t me. That was Kenny. You know I don’t even like cheesy puffs,” Stan counters half-heartedly. He pulls out a few disks while he speaks, weighing his choices. Corny slasher or psychological nail-biter? “Secondly, what’s your point?”

“My point is,” Kyle sighs, like it’s obvious, “you’re this town’s Boy-fucking-Wonder. No one can tell you no. It’s, like, not even in their vocabulary when it comes to you.” 

“You’re joking,” Stan deadpans, eyes incredulous. 

“No, actually,” Kyle huffs out a laugh, “I’m not.” 

Stan searches his gaze, finding nothing but sincerity. He flops back on the couch and refuses to blink as tears spring in his eyes. His chest feels simultaneously tight and blown open. God, he hates this. He hates feeling like this, sucker-punched and so, so stupid. 

He remembers all over again that he and Kyle are different, as different as night and day. That Kyle can know him—his favorite songs and each line in his palm—but he can never understand him, not in any way that matters. 

It’s quiet for a long time. 

Kyle must sense that he’s struck a nerve because he doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move, either. He just stays where he is—firmly planted on the floor opposite of Stan and a world away. 

He’s never been good at saying sorry, and Stan hates him for it sometimes, even if he doesn’t even want an apology right now. 

“I lied to you when I told you I didn’t make the football team,” Stan says to the swirling divots of the woodgrain ceiling. His voice is thick and ugly, and he hates that, too. “When I showed up to try-outs, the coach laughed at me. Told me there was no place for an omega on his team. That my talents would be better suited for the sidelines. That the cheer squad,” he spits, “was looking for another base.”

“But that’s not true. You’re a fucking natural,” Kyle hisses. “You’re telling me Crybaby-Clyde Donovan,” he spits the taunt like a curse, “made the team, and you weren’t even allowed to try-out? That’s bullshit. You deserve a spot on that team.” 

“Don’t you think I know that?” Stan shouts. “I know I’m better than half the knotheads on that team. Hell, I beat their asses in real-fucking-time at Cartman’s block party last Fourth, but my hard work, my merit, is meaningless. At the end of the day, I’m still just a goddamn omega.” 

This heart throbs and threatens to shatter as bitter memories resurface from that day. The coach’s lecherous, wandering gaze, the crimson burn in his cheeks, the laughter from the other boys, his friends . How he’d sobbed in his mother’s arms that night, inconsolable despite her whispered words and petting hands. 

“That's all I am,” he continues, voice wrecked. He wants to stop, but the words spill out against his will, like a rusty pipe that finally ruptured. “All I’ll ever be. No one is ever,” he chokes on the bleak realization, “going to see me .” 

Stan nearly jumps out of his skin when clammy fingers intertwine with his own. They squeeze so hard it hurts. His head jerks to the side. Kyle is hovering close now, having crossed the chasm of the coffee table. 

“That’s not true,” Kyle’s voice is hoarse and insistent, like he’s begging to be heard. “I see you. I see you .” 

Stan’s heart seizes in his chest. His face crumbles at a fresh onslaught of tears. He wants to speak, to kick and scream out, but all the air has been sucked from his lungs. Kyle’s eyes—wide and startlingly innocent—capture his own, demanding that he listen, that he believe the impossible. 

His traitorous mind is stuck—spinning helplessly, like tires in mud—on one thought. One dangerous thought. Like lightning, Stan comes to his senses. He clamps down on that thought, those feelings, and buries them deep, somewhere between his kidneys and gallbladder. You can live without those, right?

Shame courses through him. He can’t entertain those feelings. Not here, in the dim basement, drowning in Kyle’s scent and reckless passion. It would be too easy to ruin. To cross that line and discover what those chapped lips feel like against his own. 

So Stan swallows it. He falls back and lets habit take the wheel. He paints on his best, most placating smile, and hopes it doesn’t read as stale as it feels. 

// 

They’re about ten minutes into their second movie when Kyle succumbs to sleep. 

Stan can’t blame him, honestly. There’s only so many times you can watch some fucked up little leprechaun chase people before it gets old. Plus, Kyle wasn’t even paying attention. 

He was engrossed in that book he’d been reading earlier. He missed all the good bits, even rolling his eyes when Stan excitedly alerted him of the titty shots. 

The room is somehow quieter without the turning of dog-eared pages and subtle shift of limbs. Everything is dark aside from the glow of the television and the clip-on reading light Kyle has for his book, the nerd. 

Blue-white flashes from the screen cast shadows across the younger boy’s face, pronouncing the jut of his brow and sharp chin. His wire-framed reading glasses have slipped down to settle on the hook of his nose. 

With a half-glance at the movie, Stan pads across the room to the bed, snagging the extra sherpa blanket that’s tangled in the unmade sheets. Carefully, he removes Kyle’s glasses and sits them in the book as a placeholder. He tosses the blanket over the other boy, causing a faint puff of air that ruffles his curls. It makes Kyle’s nose twitch.

He looks peaceful like this, with his brows relaxed and face slack. He looks innocent, angelic. It’s not a side that Kyle shows often. 

He’s always wound up and quick to snarl, like a one man army against the entire world, but not here, not with Stan. The idea shoots something warm and pleased through his gut, making his omega preen and purr.  

In the quiet, Stan allows himself to revisit that earlier thought. He unwraps it and prods at it. Memories surface. Kyle’s smile, the line of his collarbones, the way his cheeks chubbed that time he ate packaged cookie dough like a burrito. 

The thought is so clear in his mind, and Stan slips. He can help but think Kyle is the most handsome boy he’s ever seen.

///

Kyle / 14 / Winter

Mr. Marsh has always been an enigma.

He was fun when they were little. He kept a big collection of comic books in the garage that he always let them raid, and he could always beat the Sonic levels when they got stuck. 

Mrs. Marsh says he never learned how to grow up, which Kyle thought was true. He wasn’t like the other adults. He was more like a big kid. 

But for all the times he was fun, he was also cruel. He would get into these moods where nothing could make him happy. An egg-shell person, as Kyle’s mom would call him. 

He yelled a lot when Stan was young, especially at Mrs. Marsh. He was hard on Stan, too. Mr. Marsh never hit him, but he had a way of saying Stan’s name that made it sound like the official title for Colorado’s biggest loser. 

Stan is staying with his dad this weekend, and Mr. Marsh is in one of his moods. Kyle is sitting by Stan on the creaky leather sofa in the living room. 

With their feet propped on the coffee table, the boys are polishing off the Friday night pizza that Stan’s dad always orders. Wordlessly, they trade toppings—banana peppers for olives—to the sound of shouts and slamming cabinet doors.  

As per another Friday night tradition, Shelley and Mr. Marsh are fighting. Loudly. Their spitting words are laced with vitriol. Pressed beside him from shoulder to thigh is Stan. 

The older boy is staring vacantly at the game show droning on before them. An idiot contestant says something predictably vulgar, the camera pans to Steve Harvey’s slack-jawed face, the crowd cheers, the usual brain-rotting drivel. Stan usually loves it. 

Tonight he looks blank, entirely ambivalent, but the twinge of distress tainting the air gives him away. Kyle wants to squeeze his knee and draw his face into the nook of his shoulder, but they aren’t eight anymore, so he just presses closer and worries. 

“What the hell, Dad!” Shelley’s voice booms from the next room. Kyle swears it shakes the glass in the window panes. “You can’t just spring this shit on me. I have plans tonight.” 

“Oh, yeah right,” Mr. Marsh scoffs. There’s an indignant cry accompanied by the sharp clattering of dishes dropped too harshly. “And your brother just sprung it on me, so don’t pin this on me. Now, cancel your ‘plans’ because you’re going. End of story.” 

“But this isn’t fair!” Shelley shrieks. “He’s fifteen fucking years old. He can go to the movies by himself. Mom’s been letting me go alone since middle school for Christsakes.” 

“That is exactly why he cannot go by himself,” Mr. Marsh bites back. “That theater is crawling with knotheaded little shits who are only thinking about one thing—” 

Kyle freezes mid-chew at the insinuation. He can feel his face growing hot. His stomach twists, and suddenly, he wishes he hadn’t started this last piece. The crusts on his plate are making him nauseous. He drops them onto Stan’s covertly for him to finish. 

“Trust me, I know, I remember what I used to get up to in that very theater,” he continues, unperturbed by Shelley’s disgusted groans, “I can read the mind of every little alpha prick in this town, and I’ll be damned if I let Stan get taken advantage of on my watch.” 

“Oh, please, like you give a shit. If it matters so much to you, why can’t you take him?” 

There’s a beat of silence that stretches just too long to be comfortable. 

“Well, ‘cause I’ve got poker night with the boys,” Mr. Marsh justifies in a grumble, sounding almost, almost guilty. 

“Oh my God,” Shelley says, apparently shocked at the sheer stupidity of the situation. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

In the next second, Shelley is storming out of the kitchen, leaving a skunky trail of acid behind her. Mr. Marsh follows close behind, nipping at her ankles like a yippy dog. 

They continue to bicker as Shelley practically rips her coat from its hook by the door. The abrupt move almost knocks over the coffee table, causing the little Charlie Brown Christmas tree on it to teeter precariously. Mr. Marsh dives for it with a yelp. 

“I need some air.” Halfway out the door, she barks at Stan, “If you’re not ready in fifteen, I’m leaving your sorry asses.” 

She doesn’t wait for a response. The door slams closed, flooding the room with a bitter breeze. The sound echoes in the deafening quiet that follows. 

Mr. Marsh stares after her for a long moment before dropping his head. He pinches his brow and rubs a tired hand down his face, looking, all of the sudden, every bit his age. 

“That kid is gonna be the death of me.” Mr. Marsh sighs to himself, walking towards the couch. From behind, he cradles Stan’s cheeks and tilt his head back. He smacks a wet kiss to his forehead. “Don’t ever treat me like your horrible sister, okay, Stanley?”

“Aw, Jesus, Dad, quit it,” Stan half-whines, glowering as his dad heads back to the kitchen, for a beer, most likely. His cheeks are tinged a handsome pink. It makes Kyle’s heart flutter stupidly. 

As if reading Kyle’s mind, Mr. Marsh continues from the doorway, “She better be back to get you boys, or I swear she’s grounded ‘til—’til I say so.” 

“Dad, please, don’t piss her off anymore than you already have. We don’t even need her to come.” Stan leans forward to drop his plate on the coffee table, leaving the crusts behind untouched. “I’m not meeting anyone at the theater, okay? It’s just gonna be me, Kyle, and the zombies. I promise, okay?” 

“Oh, the zombies are great and so’s Kyle.” Mr. Marsh meets his eyes over Stan’s shoulder and doubles down. “You’re great, kid, really, but my point still stands. Your sister is taking you, or you’re not going. I can’t take any chances. I’m still in my prime—way too young for grandbabies.”

“Oh my God, Dad,” Stan shouts, horrified. He drops his head back against the cushion and sinks down a little. He covers his face with his hands to hide his face, the picture of mortification. Muffled, he pleads, “Please, don’t ever bring that up again.” 

Mr. Marsh shrugs as he reaches for the remote. Chanel surfing, he complies half-heartedly, “Done.”

There’s a prolonged pause, filled only by the short snips of infomercials and TV dramas as the station flips. The surfing comes to an abrupt halt, settling on some fix-it car show. Stan peeks out from his hands wearily, hopefully, only to be brutally knocked down. 

“So long as you take a vow of celibacy and join a monastery.”

“You’re insane,” Stan scoffs with the same cadence as Shelley before, one part shocked and the other resolute. “Certifiably insane.” 

Mr. Marsh scrutinizes him silently, one bushy brow cocked, unimpressed. Blandly, “I’ll take that as permission to continue.” 

// 

Shelley does end up coming back, fifteen minutes on the dot. 

She bursts in the door with flushed cheeks and a scowl. Wordlessly, she grabs her car keys from the same set of hooks and ducks out again. Stan and Kyle share a look and scramble to follow her. 

They pile into her beat up car and tear out of the parking lot. Kyle slides on the cracked leather backseats with each jerking turn. He grips the handle of the door and winces when his fingers brush something sticky. 

The music is loud and angry, bass booming. Shelley and Stan are having some kind of conversation in the front, but Kyle can’t follow it. 

They arrive at the theater entirely too quickly. Shelley comes to a stuttering halt outside the entrance. She pulls out a carton of cigarettes from her middle console and barks at them to get out and don’t you dare tell Dad.  

They scamper out under threat of Shelley’s wrath. The line outside the ticket booth is long but moving sluggishly. They hop in at the end, hands burrowed in their coat pockets to stave off the cold. Beside him, Stan is rocking on his feet restlessly. He raises to his tippy toes periodically to examine the line ahead, eyes searching. 

“You excited?” Kyle wonders aloud, bemused by the older boy’s uncharacteristic impatience. 

Stan doesn’t respond. His gaze remains steadfastly forward, far away, like he didn’t even hear him. Kyle leans sideways and bumps his padded shoulder into Stan’s. 

“What? Huh,” Stan blinks, startled. His eyes are wide, lashes spidery, from where they peek out behind the thick woolen scarf Kyle’s mom knitted him last winter. 

Kyle snickers softly. “Eloquent. I asked if you’re excited.”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Stan replies shortly, his eyes drifting back to the front of the line. 

Kyle stares at the side of his head, expectantly. Stan is the one who suggested they come to the movies tonight, for God’s sake. Frustration weighs his brows and the corners of his lips. When no further response comes, he opens his mouth, the question of what the hell Stan is looking at poised on his tongue, but before he can speak, Stan interrupts. 

“Who’s working the booth?” He leans in close and whispers, “I can’t see past this dude’s fat ass head.”

Stan’s breath kisses the exposed skin of Kyle’s ear. His scent—warm and surgery, like vanilla—fills his lungs. It sends shivers down his spine and filthy thoughts across his mind. He blinks hard and coughs stiffly. It takes him a prolonged second to register Stan’s words, and the older boy is starting to look at him funny.

“Uhh,” Kyle stalls, craning his neck around to see. His heart drops to his stomach. He sighs, “Damn, it’s that pizza-faced motherfucker from the other day.” 

“Oh,” Stan says, biting down a pleased smile. “That’s good, then. We’ve got a chance of getting in. He’s chill.”

“You’re joking,” Kyle deadpans. He drops his chin, kicking the soles of his shoes against the cobblestone ground. “He’s anything but chill. He fucking hates me, man.” 

“Yeah, he hates you ,” Stan emphasizes with a truly impressive eye roll, “and Cartman, for good reason, mind you. He likes me fine. He used to let me have the good prizes at the arcade, even if I was short on tickets, remember?” 

“Hey, that fight was not my fault, dude,” Kyle argues, “and—and I can’t help that none of the employees knew where the fire extinguisher was. All those singed eyebrows? Not my fault. That was all Cartman.” 

“Still, you’ve gotta admit, they’ve got a right to be a little pissed,” Stan shrugs, ever the Devil’s advocate. “Either way, just shut up and let me do the talking, okay?”

“Yeah whatever,” Kyle sniffs in annoyance. 

Now only a few people from the booth, they’ve slipped into a comfortable silence. Kyle’s head is tilted back, idly watching moths and bugs weave around buzzing marquee bulbs. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Stan checking his own reflection in the glass of a poster frame. He turns his attention to the older boy, watching in utter confusion as he soothes his wild hair. 

“What the hell are you doing? Playing salon?” Kyle shoves at his shoulder, causing him to stumble a few paces. “If Wendy is in there and this is some elaborate scheme to spy on her or get back together, I swear to God I’m gonna kill you.”

“Oh, shut up,” Stan glares, pink tinging the highs of his cheeks. With an upturned nose, he declares, “Me and her are so over.” 

“Sure, man,” Kyle scoffs, unable to mask his resentment. “Exactly like how you were over a month ago, and three months before that, and another before that.” 

“I’m serious this time,” Stan doubles-down. He’s aiming for nonchalant, but his eyes are giving him away. “She called me and told me she’s going out with Tolkien tonight, and I didn’t even feel a thing. Still don’t.” 

“That sucks, dude,” Kyle frowns. His hand moves on its own accord, pulling the older boy in for a side-hug. “That really, really sucks.”

“It’s whatever,” Stan dismisses, leaning into Kyle’s touch easily. His head rests shortly on Kyle’s shoulder, fine black hairs tickling his jaw. He grumbles, “If she can move on then so can I.” 

Kyle freezes at those words. Something like hope warms his chest. 

Stan could have chosen anyone to take him out tonight. Anyone, really. They’re getting older, and whether he notices it or not, Stan’s been getting a lot more attention lately. From the clerk at the movie rental store, the lifeguard at the pool, even their fucking geometry teacher, the damn pervert. 

Kyle can hardly stand to go out with him these days. It’s torture—like actual car battery on your nuts torture—to watch. He’s sure it’s why Wendy has been so flighty this past year. Omega or not, it would get under your skin if every alpha in a six-foot radius was drooling over your boyfriend. 

They step up to the window then. The cashier greets them with a dry drawl, head tilted down as he shuffles through the money in the drawer. Kyle opens his mouth to speak but snaps it shut when Stan pinches his wrist. 

“Hey,” Stan calls. His words come out in a puff of white, low and a little breathless. Kyle turns his head to watch him, incredulous. 

The cashier jerks his head up at the sound. Curious eyes fall on Stan immediately. They flick up and down once, lingering on the hint of skin where his jaw meets his throat. A half-smile graces his features, baring braces-lined teeth. 

“What can I do for you?” The teen cocks his head, the picture of nonchalance. 

“Can we get two tickets for Zombie Samurai ?” Stan stumbles through his words. His nerves permeate the air through the thick layer of his scarf. The scent is like a warning bell, causing the hairs on Kyle’s neck to stand. 

“Two tickets, huh? You guys together?” The teen trails off. His bright eyes find Kyle for the first time, like he’s just noticed his presence. 

“Us?” Stan laughs a little too hard for Kyle’s liking. “No, we’re just friends.” 

“Okay,” the cashier—Greg, the name tag reads—snorts. “I meant, are you guys paying together?” 

“Yeah, we are,” Kyle grinds out through clenched teeth. 

“Hm, I don’t know,” Greg tilts his head, considering. “I’m not sure if you guys are mature enough. You’re supposed to be 17 or older.” 

“We’re old enough,” Stan assures. His shoulders relax, and he flashes a lopsided smile. “C’mon, do us a favor. Please?” 

There’s silence for a beat. Greg blinks a few times in rapid succession before shaking himself from his stupor. It’s an expression Kyle knows from experience. He glances over his shoulder and sighs out something like a chuckle. With a shrug, he punches numbers into the register with his knuckle. 

“Fine,” Greg concedes. “It’ll be seven each, and don’t come out screaming and crying if it’s too scary.” 

Kyle rolls his eyes at that. With a scowl, he tosses a crumpled wad of cash onto the counter. Greg raises an unimpressed brow and counts the money slowly. His eyes, twinkling with mischief, hold Stan’s gaze as he surrenders two tickets. 

Jealous burns through his veins like liquid fire. He bites his tongue as a rumble hums in his chest. He grabs Stan’s wrist and tugs the older boy towards the entrance. They make it two steps before they’re interrupted. 

“Hey, kid,” Greg calls out. “Some day, and that day may never come,” his voice dips into a ridiculously bad accent, “I’ll call upon you to do a favor for me.” 

There’s something ugly in his words. An underlying implication that weighs on Kyle’s stomach like rotten milk. It stokes the flame in Kyle’s chest. He spins around and snarls. Spitting words are poised on the tip of his tongue. 

“Oh my God,” Stan says, “was that Don Corleone? Dude, I love the Godfather.”

As he speaks, Kyle’s heart drops to his shoes. His eyes are drawn to Stan’s dazzling smile and flushed cheeks, and the sick realization that Stan likes this—likes Greg —washes over him. Humiliation tightens his throat and brings hot tears behind his eyes. 

The sound of Stan’s laughter draws him from his thoughts. It’s an ugly, barking sort of laugh, and Kyle’s heart wrenches because it’s real . Stan freezes—eyes wide, like a deer in the headlights—and the flush in his cheeks intensifies. Then, it’s Stan grabbing Kyle’s forearm and dragging him desperately towards the entrance. 

It’s hot inside the lobby. The thick scent of popcorn and butter wafts from the concessions. Stan pauses to look at the posters lining the walls, and Kyle averts his gaze to dab his eyes covertly with his sleeve. He feels like such an idiot. Together, they slip through the concessions line and head for the theaters. 

Guarding the hall is a red eyed Craig Tucker. He doesn’t look up once as they approach. Instead, his attention is kept steadily on his phone. Stan clears his throat testily. Without so much as a glance, Craig makes a vague shooing gesture towards the left hall. Stan remains firmly in place. His eyes narrow. 

“Might want to look up once in a while, Fucker,” Stan remarks snidely. “We could be psycho murderers for all you know.” 

“Might want to not be a fucking dick once in a while, Marsh,” Craig drones. His phone chimes twice, filling the stilted silence that follows. 

“Oh, shut up,” Stan hisses. His face wrinkles up with annoyance as he storms past Craig. He usually puts up more of a fight. He’s off his game, Kyle notes as he trails after him. 

“Ouch, another clever zinger,” Craigs deadpan drawl echoes down the hall. 

Kyle spins around and cups his mouth: “Up yours, hamster fucker!” 

That gets Craig’s attention. Steely eyes burning, Craig drops his phone and shoots two birds their direction. Kyle turns back around, satisfied. He knows he’ll pay for that later—Tweek’s got a mean right hook—but even so, it feels good to have gotten a reaction. 

As they walk, Kyle trains his eyes forward on the back of Stan’s head. He can’t look down because the stained carpet is printed with hideous 80s swirls. It makes his head spin. 

Stan’s inky hair is cropped short. The cut reveals the pinkened nape of his neck. Kyle hasn’t seen it like this since they were young. It arouses wispy memories of buck teeth and bony ribs. Mrs. Marsh must be overjoyed at finally getting her way. Idly, Kyle wonders if she made good on her threat to cut it in his sleep. 

Stan reaches the theater door first and hefts it open. The room is dark and sparsely populated. Kyle can make out a few familiar faces as they find seats in one of the middle rows. 

He sinks into a worn out chair and tries hard not to think about all the people who have sat here. The springs creak with each shift Kyle makes, but he doesn’t ask to swap chairs. It wouldn’t make any difference—they all squeak. 

Once settled, the boys shed their winter layers and pull out piles of contraband candies. Kyle takes out a bottle of Coke from his inner coat pocket and slips it into the sticky cup holder. 

Stan groans at the sight. “Shit, I forgot a drink.”

“It’s cool, man,” Kyle bites the end of a Twizzler decisively, “We can share.”

Something flashes across Stan’s face, but it’s too dark to distinguish. “Oh, cool. Thanks, man.” 

Kyle's heart skips as the lights dim and the projector blinks to life. He would never tell, but the previews are his favorite part of going to the movies. They’re special. Well, when he’s with Stan, at least. 

They always whisper jokes and steal sips of each other’s slushies. At the end of each clip, they rate the movie on a scale of one to ten, which they usually wholeheartedly agree on. 

Kyle turns to grin at Stan. His heart sinks when the smile the older boy returns is like cardboard. He shakes away the feeling, though, as eerie music resonates from the speakers. 

The screen blinks images of a girl running through the woods, panting and whimpering. She trips on mangled roots and can’t regain her footing. She stumbles, slow as she turns around, panic rising. The camera zooms in on her face, tightened in fear, and there’s the sound of tearing flesh and a shrill scream. 

Then, the frame pans to a cute, bunny-like creature nibbling on her dismembered hand. It pauses, looking right at the lens with big, dumb eyes. Its face opens, revealing rows of teeth, and it leaps at the camera. The screen turns bloody red and the title flashes Bunny from Hell: You Can Hop, but You Can’t Hide . 

Kyle throws his head back and cackles at that. “Oh my God, zero out of ten, what the hell was that?” He tosses a fist full of Skittles into his mouth. “I hate when movies do that cute but evil thing. It’s so overdone.” 

When Stan doesn’t say anything, Kyle peels his eyes open and looks at him. Stan is staring off into space, biting his nubby thumb nail to the quick. He must feel the force of Kyle’s gaze because he startles hard, jerking his head to meet Kyle’s eyes but his own wide set. 

“What’d you say?” Stan swallows, and Kyle watches his throat bob in the blue-white light of the screen. 

“I said, I hate when movies try to make cute things creepy, like dolls or animals. It’s stupid.” 

“Um,” Stan blurts, “yeah, me too.” 

Frustration warms Kyle’s cheeks. Again, his mind reminds him that it was Stan who wanted to come to the theater, and now, he’s not even participating in their movie rituals. 

Irritated, “So, what do you rate it?”

The question catches Stan as he’s craning his neck to glance at the back doors. His lips scrunch to the side in thought. Eyes still glued to the door, he mumbles, “Same as you.” 

Suddenly, he’s sure Stan lied before. Wendy must be up there, buying popcorn and chocolate for some gushy rom-com with Tolkien. That’s why he wanted to come tonight. He didn’t care about being with Kyle. Not one bit. 

It stings, worse than anything Kyle’s felt before. Tears fill his eyes, and he sucks on his trembling lip. 

“Hey,” Stan whispers, oblivious, “I’m gonna run to the concessions real quick.”

Kyle knows it’s useless, but still, he tries, “What? But the movie’s about to start.” 

“I gotta pee,” Stan shrugs. His warm hand finds Kyle’s and squeezes. “I’ll get you a slushie, ‘kay?”

Robotically, Kyle reminds him, “Blue and—”

“Coke,” Stan snorts, “I know your order, you freak.” 

Those words ring in his ears. Kyle feels like his chest has been blown open. With his guts spilling out, he wonders how Stan could possibly speak so fondly when he doesn’t even like him. He lets out a wobbly sigh and drops his chin, feigning annoyance. 

“Well, then, shoo,” he mumbles. It’s wet and half-choked, but Stan doesn’t notice. 

He’s already long gone, disappearing down the dark aisle. 

//

Stan has been gone for twenty-five minutes when Kyle decides he’s had enough. 

Tearing his eyes from the bloodfest on the screen, he stumbles towards the double doors at the back of the theater. He pushes hard, stepping into the dim hallway. He looks left and right, half sure Stan would be walking back right now, with two large slushies and a wicked story to tell, but the hall’s a ghost town. 

Kyle takes off towards the lobby. He dips into the restroom on the way, bending at the hips to check the shoes in the stalls. With no luck, he turns the final corner towards the lobby, walking past Craig’s now abandoned post. There’s no signs of life, besides the occasional worker darting around behind the counter, sweeping and restocking. 

Kyle spins in a slow circle, combing every inch of the room with his eyes. Panic starts to set in as he heads down the opposite corridor in a last ditch effort. His chest is tight, pulse jumping in his throat. He’s almost to the end of the hall when he hears a noise—a breathless sound, halfway between a whimper and an exhale. 

Kyle’s ears perk up at that. He crosses a shadowed alcove between the final theater and a storage closet. That’s where he finds Stan. 

The older boy is being shoved against the wall by that asshole from the ticket stand. His arms are wrapped around the teen’s shoulders, blunt fingernails bunched up in the guy’s uniform polo. The teen has one hand up Stan’s shirt and the other down the front of his pants. 

Stan’s head is thrown back against the wall as fucking Greg nips at his throat. He’s flushed and sweating, causing his bangs to stick against his forehead in waves. His eyebrows are pinched, and his mouth, spit-slick and bitten red, is hanging open, stuck in an entrancing ‘o’ shape. 

Kyle’s vision tunnels. He watches, frozen, as the teen’s wrist twists behind the jut of Stan’s fly. His stomach lurches, and his limbs feel numb, like they’re full of TV static. 

Stan lets out a sharp gasp that dissolves into a weak, pitchy moan. “Oh, God, yes,” he pants, “that’s—Don’t stop.” 

“What the fuck,” Kyle blurts out, mind reeling. 

At the sound of his voice, Stan startles hard. His hands scramble to pull the teen off his neck. In unison, the pair set their wide eyes on Kyle—one set dazed, the other horrified. 

“Kyle,” Stan whispers, ashamed. 

He takes two steps towards Kyle, moving slow, like he’s approaching a corner animal. His fly is still undone. Plaid boxers peak out. 

Kyle’s stomach turns again, and oh God, he’s going to hurl. He’s going to hurl all over Stan and this dog-shit carpet. 

He turns on heel, darting down the hall to the nearest restroom. He can hear Stan’s frantic cries echoing down the hall, but he doesn’t look back. He keeps running until his palms hit the door, and he shoves his way inside.

The air in the restroom is freezing against his burning cheeks. Restless, Kyle paces the room once, twice, before a bout of dizziness hits, and he has to lean heavily against the wet counter over a sink. He heaves, eyes watering, but nothing comes out. 

He tries to calm down, but his racing thoughts are like a hurricane. He can’t close his eyes without seeing flashes of flushed skin and Stan’s perfect mouth. He rubs his nose furiously, chasing away the cloying scent of arousal, tainted by the musk of an unknown alpha. 

He can’t even get a grasp on what he’s feeling. His heart is torn between feelings of anger and betrayal, anguish and hurt. The door behind him swings open with a clattering boom. He doesn’t have to look to know it's Stan. 

“Kyle,” the older boy utters, hoarse. 

Kyle didn’t know what he was feeling. It was more than he could express, spilling from every stitch that holds him together. He settles for what’s easy, for what he knows, like the tide knows the moon. 

“What the fuck was that, Stan,” he explodes, whirling around to face him. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” 

Stan’s face is frozen. His brows are pinched up almost ridiculously, like those sad clown paintings, and there are tears swimming in his eyes, making them appear impossibly blue. The sight doesn’t deter Kyle—not in the slightest. Instead, it fills him with a wicked sense of satisfaction. 

“My whole life, you’ve been different. You’ve never been like the rest of them. You’ve never cared about alphas, let alone what they think of you.” Kyle’s mind conjures images of a tiny, belligerent Stan winning every race, besting every record, and punching any alpha in their grade who had a damn thing to say about it. “I never thought you would stoop to this level. I never thought you would act so—so desperate,” Kyle snarls, disgust evident in each syllable. 

Stan visibly flinches. Chin wobbling, he stumbles back a step as if he’d been struck. He shakes his head slowly, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. Stan’s mouth hangs open to speak, but nothing comes out. The look of horror draws something twisted and ugly from parts of Kyle he didn’t know existed. 

“You and Wens have been on and off all year.” Kyle stalks closer, giving in to that predatory spite like a crutch. “The instant,” he snaps his fingers and revels in Stan’s wince, “you two end things, you’re off spreading your legs for any zit-faced alpha who gives you a second glance.” 

Stan finds his voice at the accusation. It’s a trembling, pitiful denial. “I haven’t.” 

“There’s no point in denying it now,” Kyle shouts, fierce words echoing against the tiles. He gestures harshly to the molten bruises scattered across Stan’s throat. “The saddest part is that they don’t even like you. Not really, I mean, how could they? That idiot is in Shelley’s grade. Do you seriously think he’s interested in someone our age for anything more than a naive fuck?”

Stan lets out a sob at that. He buries his face in his hands. Somewhere, deep down, Kyle knows this is going to end badly, but he can’t find it in himself to care. Stan’s silence triggers something in the back of his mind. That childish part of his alpha, the part that tells him to bite and claw and pull pig-tails until he gets a reaction. 

Kyle presses on, twisting that knife. “I just never thought you’d act like this,” he hesitates, searching, “like such a slut.” 

And there it is. 

Stan’s head jerks up at that. “I’m not a slut,” he says, sounding as fractured as Kyle has ever heard him. 

The look on Stan’s face is enough to shake Kyle from his enraged tirade. Hot guilt burns in his veins. Stan is really crying now. His broad shoulders are curled in and shaking with it. His arms are wrapped around his chest, hands covering his throat to hide the bruises, or maybe his soured scent. His breaths are strangled and wheezing, like there’s something lodged in his throat. 

Kyle’s mouth opens, an apology hanging from his lips, but he can’t get it out. He steps closer to close the distance between them. He brings his quivering hands to soothe, console, but the older boy jerks back violently. 

“Don’t touch me,” Stan hisses, baring little omega fangs. His jaw twitches, his fury palpable in that burning gaze. “You’re different than I thought, too. I thought you were the one person I could trust to never hurt me. I thought you,” his voice breaks as his eyes radiate unadulterated betrayal, “You told me you saw me .” 

Something breaks in Kyle, and he knows it’s them. 

“I was wrong to believe you. Naive, I guess,” Stan laughs like shards of glass. “You’re just like the rest of them, like everyone else in this shithole town.”

Hopelessly, Kyle finds his voice. “I’m sorry.”  

“Don’t,” Stan whispers. “Just leave me the hell alone.”

With that, the older boy ducks from the room, leaving only the ghost of his words and scent. 

//

Kyle calls him anyway.

He tries every day for nearly two weeks. Stan doesn’t pick up a single time. 

Winter break has been lonely. Kyle’s never gone this long without hearing Stan’s voice. It’s starting to eat at him. He’s spent most of their time off in bed with a loathsome pit in his stomach. 

He hasn’t seen much of their friends. He wonders if Stan told them what happened. In his shame, he agonized over it despite knowing Stan would never run his mouth about something like this. He’s always been rather private. 

It’s early Christmas morning, which for the most part, doesn’t mean much to Kyle. His family doesn’t celebrate, obviously, but there is something, someone, Kyle waits for in the early hours of the morning. 

It’s been a little tradition of theirs for years. Stan always calls, tipsy off the punch from his mother’s holiday party, and giggles through dramatic recounts of his family’s often tumultuous reunions. 

Kyle has been up all night waiting. The call never comes. The morning light is now creeping through his window. Morning birds chirp in the trees just outside, and Kyle hates them viciously. Hurt radiates in his chest, worse than anything he’s felt before. He knows he doesn’t deserve it, but selfishly, he’d prayed for a call, an end to this radio silence. 

With shaking fingers, he dials those familiar numbers. Trying because, God, he has to. He presses the receiver to his ear and listens as it rings and rings. He resigns himself to the familiar rejection of the voicemail tone when suddenly the line crackles to life. 

Kyle’s heart sputters at the sound of soft breathing. 

“Hello?” He says in an exhale. 

“Hey,” comes Stan’s sleepy reply. 

The sound of his voice is a salve to the wretched hole in his chest. His heart races as his pulse throbs in his throat. There’s nothing but silence. Kyle’s mind scrambles for something, anything, to say, but he comes up short. 

Quite unexpectedly, Stan saves him. 

“So my dad and Shelley got into this big screaming match at the table last night,” Stan whispers, “Shelley hops up like she’s gonna come across the table and claw his eyes out, but then, she’s grabbing the bowl of mashed potatoes and just slinging spoonfuls at my dad.”

“No fucking way.” Kyle laughs for the first time in weeks. “What did your dad do?” 

“He grabbed his wine, right, and he’s about to chuck it in Shelley’s face,” Stan’s voice is twinkling, and Kyle aches to see his face, “but then, my mom steps in to stop him, and he accidentally tosses it on her .” 

Kyle’s mouth gapes open in shock. 

“So then, it’s just my mom and Shelley both screeching at him and throwing every dish they can reach in his face.” His sweet laughter is tinny and warbled through the speaker, but Kyle knows it by heart. “It was awesome. I wish you could have seen it.” 

Stan’s laughter stops short as he registers his own words. The line goes quiet. Kyle wants to sob in its wake. He aches to keep the conversation going, to avoid that horrible truth, but he knows it’s hopeless. 

“You hurt me,” Stan whispers. His pain and confusion are evident in the raw admittance. 

“I know. I’m sorry.” Kyle can’t contain the tremble in his voice. Shame and fear constrict his lungs like a starved boa. “You have to know, I didn’t mean a thing I said. I was out of my fucking mind to speak to you like that. Please, Stan,” he begs, “forgive me.” 

It’s quiet for a long time. Kyle can't help the tears welling in his eyes. He bites back his shuddering cries. He doesn't want, deserve, sympathy.

“Okay,” Stan acknowledges, “but you’ve got a lot of kissing up to do.” 

 “Anything,” Kyle promises, “anything you want.”

“Come over tomorrow,” Stan orders, leaving no room for argument. “I’d rather have a gun go off in my mouth and ass simultaneously than watch It’s a Wonderful Life with my mom again.” 

“Yeah,” Kyle snorts, stupidly happy, “yeah, okay.” 

And it’s not okay, not anywhere close, but it’s a start.

///

Stan / 16 / Fall 

Stan has never been one to care about his appearance.  

Frankly, it wasn’t an option for him as a kid. He wasn’t the cutest pup, what with his too-big teeth and droopy eyes. And more than anything, he wanted to fit in. He was too busy chasing his friends to care about the spaghetti stains on his shirt or dirt on his nose. 

But this is too much, even for him. 

Currently, Stan is lying on his stomach in bed. He isn’t under the covers, but his head is buried under a mound of pillows, shrouding his world in darkness. His hair, still wet, is wrapped in a thick towel, like his mother taught him. His scalp is tingling and sore. 

In the heavy silence of his bedroom, there’s nothing to do but sulk. Behind closed eyelids, horrific scenes from the last hour of his life replay. Him and Kyle in the bathroom. The clinical stench of bleach. Gloved fingers weaving through his hair. The rumbling purrs that threatened to escape his throat at that. 

Frustration bubbles in his chest. He tears his eyes open and glares at his pillow case. He snarls at it childishly, staving off angry tears. 

It only works for a moment. With wet cheeks and a trembling chin, he curses himself for being such an idiot. He curses Kyle and Wendy, too, while he’s at it. For letting him and making him behave like one. 

This all started last week. He and Wendy were doing great, or at least, Stan had thought so. They were fucking more and fighting less, which seemed like a good indication. He was proven soundly wrong when she broke up with him for a final time in the library of all places. 

Stan knows it was a calculated choice. He despises public scenes, and she knows everything about him.  

Stan had been getting his ass kicked by a trig problem when she blindsided him. She reached across the table and intertwined their graphite-smudged fingers. 

It’s not you, she’d told him, it’s me, Stanley.  

She gave a truly nightmarish speech, littered with cliches and soulful eye contact. She blamed their incompatibility on their presentations. Two omegas would never work in the long run, she had reasoned. Someday, they’d both want more—mates, pups, families. 

As she spoke, it became clear that he knew her. He knew the birthmark nestled between her thighs. He knew her pizza order and her favorite books. But deep down, he’d never really understood her, and she hadn’t understood him either.  

It’s been a few days since then, and Stan hasn’t been handling it well. He hasn’t been sleeping, and when he tries to eat his stomach knots up, like he’s going to puke. It’s like he’s been stuck, frozen in time, waiting for her to call and take it back. 

It clicked this morning in the middle of his shower. Right away, he cried like a little kid. Then, he got out and called Kyle. They drove to town, bought a box of hair dye for seven bucks, and ruined his life. 

Stan’s ears perk up at the muffled creak of floorboards beyond his door. He waits with bated breath. There’s the click of his door knob turning and the low squeak of hinges. 

“I’m back,” Kyle’s voice calls, sending ripples through the stale air. His spiced scent cuts clean through the distress permeating the room. 

Stan grunts in greeting. In lue of a wave, he lifts one foot and shakes it. He hears Kyle drop his keys on the nightstand before he feels a heavy dip in the mattress. 

“Dude, have you seriously not moved?” Stan makes no effort to respond and receives a firm poke in the center of his back. Kyle continues dryly, “I’ve been gone for nearly an hour.” 

Again, Stan refuses to answer. He’s unreasonably mad at Kyle. He knows the bleach was his idea, but Kyle is at least half at fault for entertaining his stupidity. 

Kyle is undeterred by his silence. His finger pokes up and down the notches of his spine. 

“Like bumps on a log,” he sighs out, like he’s the one who’s annoyed.

Stan’s temper flares. He sits up on his palms and twists his torso so he’s facing Kyle. With a spitting hiss, he snatches Kyle’s hand and shoves it away harshly. 

Kyle’s eyes narrow to slits. An ugly frown twists his lips. There’s the barest glint of a canine that sends warning signals down Stan’s spine. He steadfastly ignores them, puffing his own chest to appear larger. 

“The fuck is your problem?” Kyle spits. 

“My problem?” Stan sits up fully and gestures wildly to the towel adorning his head. “I’ll give you one fucking guess, short bus.” 

“Hey, this was your stupid-ass idea.” Kyle’s scowl deepens impossibly. “It’s not my fault your roots look like fucking skidmarks.” 

Stan chokes at that. Tears well behind his eyes again as anger dissolves into hurt. He drops back onto the mattress and covers his face with a pillow. Maybe if he stays like this long enough he’ll smother. 

“Shut up,” Stan croaks belatedly. It’s a hideous, wet thing. 

There’s a prolonged pause where silence prevails. Stan knows Kyle must be uncomfortable. He never knows what to do when people cry. Stan can picture the look on the younger boy’s face—pinched and absurdly constipated. It’s almost enough to make him laugh. 

“You’re blowing this way out of proportion, honestly.” Kyle tugs at the pillow and tosses it backwards. “I don’t remember it being that bad.” 

Stan squints as his eyes adjust to the overhead light. He blinks hard, chasing away spots. His heart flutters as his vision comes into focus. 

Kyle is sitting close, so close that Stan can feel the warmth radiating from him like a space heater. He’s leaning over Stan with his lips quirked into a stupidly charming, earnest smile. Backlit by the fluorescents, he looks like a dream, haloed and soft. 

Stan flinches as lithe fingers move to unwrap the towel. Kyle freezes when his wet hair is exposed. He watches as Kyle’s eyes bug. The redhead licks his chapped lips and sucks his cheeks in a blatant attempt to suppress a laugh. 

“See, not so bad.” Kyle offers a strained, funny smile. 

They stare at each other for a beat before Stan rolls his eyes. He looks away, unable to stop the pout that purses his lips. It’s a mean one, the one that makes Shelley really flip her shit. 

“Whatever,” Stan grumbles, “just go ahead.” 

“Oh my God,” Kyle folds immediately. 

His laughter rings in the air, and Stan has to look, like a moth drawn to a flame. Kyle’s face is all scrunched up, with smile lines and crow’s feet. Something twists in his chest at the sight. 

“You know,” Kyle chokes out, “it’s not Halloween yet, Hey Arnold. ” 

“Oh, hardy-har,” Stan scowls, cheeks ablaze. He covers his face with his arms. “You can leave anytime today.”

“Oh, c’mon,” Kyle snorts. “Don’t be such a baby.” 

“I’m not being a baby,” Stan snaps back immediately. “You’re being an ass.”

“I’m joking, dude, Jeez -us.” Kyle’s fingers wind around his arms and pull them back. “You’ve got to stop taking everything so personally.”

“Oh, please,” Stan bites back, “How else am I supposed to take that?”

“Like a champ?” Kyle offers with a shrug. “Like a bit—”

Stan raises his brows, daring him. Kyle grins again, but it’s less charming this time. More infuriating. 

Undeterred, the younger tries again. “I mean, like water off a duck’s back?” 

“God, you’re such a weirdo.” Stan looks away and bites down a smile. 

“Yeah, well, this weirdo just spent ten bucks on toner to fix your bum-ass hair.” 

“Toner?” Stan frowns, bemused. 

“You’re hopeless,” Kyle snorts. He brings both hands up to ruffle Stan’s hair. “Completely hopeless.” 

“Yeah, well, that’s what I’ve got you for.” Stan freezes immediately as the words leave his mouth. He flounders, “You’re the smart one here. You’re supposed to be my voice of reason, my Jiminy Cricket. You’re supposed to keep me out of stupid shit like this, and you completely dropped the ball.” 

Kyle throws his head back and laughs at that. 

“You’re right,” Kyle nods somberly, “I failed you.” 

“Don’t let it happen again,” Stan doubles down, heart still racing. 

Kyle looks at him for a long moment. It’s a lifetime before he speaks.

“I won’t,” Kyle says. His eyes—summer green and soft—are gleaming in the afternoon light. “You’ve got me.” 

// 

Stan hasn’t been this tired in God knows when. 

His hair is dripping sweat into his eyes, and his feet feel like they’re made of lead. He can’t even get the energy to pretend to block Tolkien as he brushes by him, leaping up for another layup. 

“Better wake up, pretty boy,” Tolkien grins over his shoulder, flashing pearly whites. His beta fangs are blunt and a little crooked but handsome nonetheless. 

Stan scrunches his nose in return, flipping him off wordlessly. He’s careful not to push it. The guys had just died down on their jokes about his hair. 

It took his mother’s expertise, an entire bottle of toner, and a Hail Mary to lighten the locks into something half presentable. After three days of staring himself down in the bathroom mirror, Stan’s starting to get used to his new look. Still, his pride can’t take another hit. 

“Don’t be such a pig, T,” Kyle chimes in from his spot on the bleachers. He’s watching with a spark of interest, looking up from where he’d been lacing his shoes. 

He’d arrived only a minute ago, late from dropping his kid brother off at hockey practice across town. There’s a half-smoked cigarette dangling from his lips. It’s unfairly attractive.  

“Oh-ho-ho,” Kenny calls out, mischief twinkling in his eyes. “Careful, Tolkien, or you’ll awaken,” cue jazz hands, “the New Jersey Devil.” 

“I told you to quit calling me that,” Kyle narrows his eyes, having none of it. He stands, stamping out the cigarette, and steps onto the cracked asphalt of the court. 

“We call Kyle,” Clyde declares, jogging over to meet the redhead. He throws an amicable arm over Kyle’s shoulder, causing them to sway. 

“Aye, no way,” Cartman buds in. His eyes—dark, like pools of tar—are glinting with indignation. “You can’t have two basketball players on your team. That’s fucked.” 

“I’m the only one on the team here, fatass,” Kyle spits. 

“Yeah, but they’ve got Tolkien, and his people are biologically—” 

“Oh my God,” Stan groans, pinching his brow, “don’t be a fucking idiot, Cartman.”

“Hey,” Cartman hisses, “I don’t remember asking your opinion, Polly Pocket.” 

“Okay, okay,” Kenny jumps in, voice smooth, despite its hillbilly twang. “You guys can keep Kyle.” A catlike grin stretches his cold-pinkened features. “We’re still gonna kick your asses.” 

“Oh, you’re on.” Clyde dribbles the ball slowly. “Losers buy dinner.” 

“Deal,” Tolkien nods. “But if we lose, I’m not getting Cartman’s. He’d blow my trust fund and still have room for dessert.” 

That startles a laugh from Stan along with the rest of the boys. He looks up from his scuffed shoes to find Tolkien already watching him. He’s got a funny look on his face, pleased, like a dog who’s been thrown a bone. It makes Stan want to turn tail and run. 

“Alright, alright,” Kyle says once his laughter wanes. He claps his hands together derisively. “I didn’t come here to stand around and freeze my ass off. Let’s play.”

And so they did. Despite Cartman’s complaints, it’s a close game. They might not have had any actual basketball players on their team, but they had Kenny, and he’s one tenacious motherfucker. Not to mention, he’s fast. 

The game stretches on to its last points as the sun begins to set behind the mountains. The coming night is accompanied by the shrill squeak of soles against asphalt. There’s a cold seeping over the park, but it goes unnoticed. It’s game point for Kyle’s team. 

Stan swallows around the lump in his throat as he watches Kyle unzip his baggy hoodie and toss it onto the bleachers. Underneath, his soaked tee sticks to his sweaty back, offering a whispered outline of coiling muscles beneath his skin. 

Kyle is bouncing the ball as he approaches the center court. His keen eyes are flittering between people, evidently running the numbers. His eyes meet Stan’s and settle, causing his pulse to spike in his throat. God damnit.  

Stan’s vision tunnels as Kyle increases his pace to a jog. The world around him goes dim and dull as Kyle nears. Through the roar of blood in his ears, he bends his knees and holds his arms out, poised to block. 

But as the younger boy approaches, Stan finds his mind sticking to all the wrong things. The slope of his shoulders. The stubble on his jaw. The subtle bulge of veins in his forearms. 

Then, all at once, Kyle is there, directly in front of him. He’s smiling so wide his eyes have gone all squinty. There’s the smell of smoke and spiced cider sharp in his nose as Kyle’s shoulder collides with his, knocking him square onto his bottom. 

His eyes are closed when he hits the ground. Pain erupts from his tailbone and shoots up his spine. He lets out a muted grunt on impact. Stan’s almost sure the sound went unnoticed, but still, he looks around discreetly. He’s got an image to uphold for Christsakes. 

The world is quieter from below, separate and a little odd. He allows himself to relax. He reclines onto his elbows and kicks his legs out. The asphalt is ice beneath his feverish skin, but he ignores it in favor of watching the sky turn hibiscus orange. 

He cracks a smile when Kenny appears above him. The blond’s face is twisted into a ridiculous frown. His pointy nose bumps Stan’s as he throws himself forward. Skinny, flailing limbs wrap around his neck, and his nose is flooded with the muted beta scent of sweat and summer grass. 

“Why, Stan? You were our last line of defense!” Kenny’s knobby fingers latch onto his shoulders and shake. “What happened? What the hell happened?” 

“I’ll tell you what happened,” Cartman interjects. “Stan can’t keep his pea-sized brain ,” he punctuates this insult with a poke of his pudgy finger, “out of his sick little omegan fantasies. Is your heat coming up? ‘Cause you’re drooling.” 

Stan swats the probing fingers from his face. “Fuck off you—”

“Shut up, asshole,” Kyle barks from across the court. “You’ve got no room to talk. You didn’t even touch the ball.” 

Cartman’s eyes gleam dangerously. “Oh, you’d know about touching balls, wouldn’t you, sweetcheeks?” 

“You are so dead, fatboy,” Kyle replies, deadly calm. 

The redhead takes two threatening steps forward before Kenny leaps up to block his path. 

“Enough, Cartman,” Kenny throws him a meaningful look, “let it go.” 

“Yeah, I mean,” Tolkein pipes up, “Kyle sort of charged you, Stan.” He reaches out and pulls Stan to his feet. His hands are wide and warm. “It was kind of a cheap shot.” 

“Yeah, cheap like that dye job,” Cartman simpers. 

Not even Kenny can stop Kyle from chucking the ball at Cartman’s face. 

// 

The drive over to Stark’s Pond is swift and familiar. 

Stan could close his eyes and know each curve in the country road. From the passenger seat of Kyle’s beat up Kia Soul, he watches as they pass dark clusters of woods and vast stretches of farmland. He presses his head to the cool glass. 

They’ve been going to Stark’s Pond since they were pups. He and Kyle, along with Kenny and Cartman, would pitch tents and camp out overnight. They spent their days swimming and fishing, and their nights basking under the stars, cooking hotdogs and s’mores over a crackling fire. 

It feels different this time, and Stan supposes that’s because it is different. 

They’re older now, of course, evidenced by the length of their legs and the bottle of whiskey rattling in the backseat floorboards, and they really aren’t supposed to be doing this. 

Over the past year, Stan’s parents have become more insistent that he not be alone with Kyle, especially not at night. God, they’d skin him if they knew he’d snuck out. 

When they pull in, Kyle parks perfectly between the lines, and he doesn’t use one of the handicap spots, even though it’s past midnight and there’s no one coming. The action is so ridiculous, so utterly Kyle , that he almost laughs. 

The park is quiet at night, Stan notices as they step onto the pier. In the summer, there would be crickets and frogs singing in the surrounding forest, but in the bleakness of fall, the squeak of the sun-bleached boards and lapping water is the only audible sound. 

They walk to the end of the planks and sit, dangling their feet over the edge. Above them is a single lantern hanging on a post. It’s a decade old and solar-powered, so the light it emits is dim and sparse. 

Out in the open, sitting in the still darkness, Stan would say it’s eerie here. He would, that is, if he didn’t know these woods like the back of his hand. 

Beside him, Kyle voices his exact thoughts. It makes him wonder, not for the first time, about the validity behind the younger boy’s childhood claims to ESP. 

“It’s fucking creepy out here, isn’t it?” Kyle asks. He draws his long legs up to his chest. There’s tension in his broad shoulders as his eyes scan the area. 

“Yeah maybe,” Stan shrugs, leaning back onto his elbows casually. 

Silence relapses. Stan can feel the weight of Kyle’s stare searing his cheek. He ignores it soundly, electing instead to watch the subtle rocking of the black waters below. Kyle makes a sound somewhere between a sigh and a snort. 

“What?” Stan finally caves.

“It’s just,” Kyle starts, “that you’ve got absolutely no survival instincts.”

Stan tilts his head to shoot Kyle an unimpressed glance. “What the hell are you talking about?” 

“Well, for starters, we’re out here alone, in buttfuck nowhere,” Kyle makes a sweeping gesture, “at fucking two in the morning, and you’re completely unphased.” 

“Okay, Mr. Glass-Half-Empty,” Stan shifts, twisting his torso to face Kyle fully, “did you ever consider that maybe I have superior instincts?”  

“ Superior instincts ,” Kyle crows. 

“Yup,” Stan pops the ‘p,’ nodding firmly. “Superior instincts that tell me there’s nothing to be afraid of and that are now telling me…” He presses two fingers to his temple. “That you should go to the car and get my Coke.” 

“Oh, you mean the Coke you left in my car two months ago?” 

“You haven’t cleaned your car in two months?”
“You’re the one who left it!” 

“Argh, my instincts.” Stan clutches his head dramatically. “They need nourishment. They need Coke—Jack and Coke.”

“You realize that’s gonna taste like shit right?” Kyle deadpans. 

“Hurry, Kyle,” Stan howls.  

“Okay, okay, Jesus fuck,” Kyle concedes with a laugh. “I’ll get your fucking drink, man.” 

// 

As it turns out, Kyle was right. 

Flat Coke and whiskey don’t mix. Still, Stan isn’t picky. He drinks enough to turn his mind pleasantly fuzzy and draw pools of blood beneath his cheeks.

Kyle is drunk, too. He has been for a while now. Stan can tell because his tongue is looser. He’s letting things slip that he’d normally bite down. And he’s wearing that smile. The twinkling one that Stan’s memorized backwards and forwards. He only smiles like that when he’s drinking. 

Beside him, Kyle is rooting in his jacket pocket for his lighter. He’s been smoking since his grandmother died a few months ago. Stan doesn’t remember much about her—he only met her once or twice—but he knows Kyle misses her like hell. 

The passage of time is an odd thing, Stan thinks. When he looks at Kyle, he sees him all at once. He sees Kyle at fifteen with a learner’s permit, at eleven with braces and a wicked lisp, at seven with his father’s cigarettes in hand, hiding them and begging him to quit. 

It’s hard to reconcile. To see Kyle change so much, yet so little. It rocks him, twisting his stomach and wetting his eyes. He wonders how he’s changed, if anyone can even tell. 

Kyle finds the lighter after a couple seconds of fumbling. He flicks the starter and draws the flame to the stick. The light brings a warm glow to his cheeks and underscores the ugly bruise blooming beneath his eye. 

“Does it hurt?” Stan asks. He runs his thumb along the edge of the bruise. “Looks painful.” 

Kyle’s eyes slip closed and flutter under paper thin lids. “No, s’alright,” he jokes, “You shoulda seen the other guy.”

“I did,” Stan nods, retracting his hand. “You realize Cartman’s not gonna let this whole chipped tooth thing go. He’s gonna be unbearable for the next six weeks.” 

“He had it coming,” Kyle shrugs and offers that wrinkle-nosed smile. “Honestly, I think I’ve been letting too much of his bullshit slide lately. He’s getting way too comfortable.”

“Yeah,” Stan agrees with a snort, “by my books, you owe him, like, ten ass kickings.” 

“Well, shit.” Kyle drops his head back and exhales bitter smoke. The move accentuates the delicate curve of his Adam’s apple and sends Stan’s omega howling. “Guess I’ve got some catching up to do.” 

“Yeah, well, make sure I’m there when you get even.” Stan swallows thickly and directs his eyes to the waters below. “I wanna make a tribal necklace from his teeth.” 

There’s silence for a beat before Kyle speaks. 

“You know, you’re a real creep sometimes.” 

“Oh, shut up,” Stan groans, rolling his eyes. “It was a joke, dickhead. I didn’t realize I was the only person here with a sense of humor.” 

“Well, this just in,” Kyle announces, his voice pitched deep and low, like an old-timey newscaster, “half of our listeners found your joke, and I quote, strange and sadistic.” 

“Oh my God, you’re such a dork,” Stan guffaws, bowing forward. Hazy images dance behind his eyes. “You haven’t done that voice in a thousand years. I almost forgot about,” he frames the name with jazz hands, “Kylie B., investigative reporter.” 

“That’s my name, kid. Don’t wear it out.” Kyle leans forward, too, crowding into Stan’s space. He flashes his best Blue Steel. “Bring back any fond memories?” 

Stan holds his breath at the onslaught of cinnamon and whiskey. “Oh, definitely,” Stan grins, “the fond memory of you running around in hot-as-balls July in your dad’s tweed fucking coat.” 

“Hey! I’ll have you know,” Kyle squawks, “it was the height of fashion at the time.”  

“Sure,” Stan goads. His chest feels light and warm. He’s been smiling so long his cheeks are aching. God, he loves this feeling. 

“Not to mention,” Kyle continues, “my reporting saved the lives of at least two gerbils and the integrity of our school lunches. It’s thanks to my service we were allowed to keep the whipped cream and sprinkles on our jello cups.” 

“You know, you’re right, Kyle.” Stan inches closer until their noses brush. “No one ever thanked you properly for your selfless humanitarian aid.”

In a blink, the mood has shifted. Something dense, nearly tangible, settles in the air around them. It’s heated and electric, like the calm before the storm. Stan can practically feel the static dancing along his arms. 

“I gotta ask…” Stan hesitates. He opens his mouth before biting his bottom lip, playing coy. 

“What?” Kyle urges, half breathless. His eyes are wide and so dark they’re nearly black. 

“Were the lives of those gerbils worth the summer-long swamp ass?” 

“Oh, you fucking dick!” Kyle’s mouth gapes open. He nearly loses his cigarette. “Why don’t I shove you off this pier and teach you something about swamp ass?”

“Don’t you dare,” Stan yelps as Kyle reaches for him. He scoots away slowly, maintaining eye contact. “Kyle, you better fucking not.” 

“I won’t, I won’t.” Kyle puts his hands up in surrender. “Now who’s the one who can’t take a joke?”

“Still you,” Stan sneers, turning his nose and barely resisting the urge to stick out his tongue. 

Stan snags the whiskey from between them. The bottle is light in his hands. He takes several long, burning gulps. It’s then—with his head back and stars swimming in his vision—that the thought occurs to him. 

“You know,” Stan starts, “It’s been years since we last went swimming.” 

Stan lets the thought hang there for a beat. He swings his legs and pretends for an instant that he’s on the ledge of a skyscraper a thousand feet in the air. Just another inch and he’d fall. When the silence drags on, he turns to meet Kyle’s incredulous stare. 

Kyle offers him the facts: “It’s freezing.” 

“Yeah,” Stan nods. He stands and sheds his hat and scarf. “You scared?” 

Predictably, Kyle bristles. “ As if. ”

Stan continues to strip, letting his coat hit the pier with a muted thump. The night air prickles his skin, raising the hairs on his arms and neck. His fingers find his belt, and there’s a pitchy noise from below. Stan looks down to find Kyle watching him with spooked eyes. 

“What are you waiting for?” Stan raises a brow and drops his jeans. “A gold plated invitation?” 

Immediately, Kyle hops up. The boards below squeak and whine in protest. He holds Stan’s gaze with burning eyes as he methodically strips, revealing inch by inch of freckled skin. 

When they’re both down to their boxers, Stan takes two steps forward. He bites his lip to suppress a shiver. From this close, Stan can feel whispers of warmth emanating from Kyle, like a space heater. Kyle has to look down to keep eye contact, and that drives Stan a little crazy. 

Stan’s pulse throbs in his throat. His adrenaline spikes, and God, he feels like an animal on the run, or maybe, on the hunt. He draws one hand up to cover Kyle’s eyes and lowers his other to drop his boxers.

“No peeking,” Stan whispers. 

He hears Kyle’s breath stutter and stall. In the same instant, he turns and leaps. 

The water is so cold it burns. It knocks the air from his lungs brutally. He’s gasping when he resurfaces, but he can hardly catch his breath. Still, with chattering teeth, he shouts for Kyle to jump in and quit being such a pussy.

And that does the trick. Kyle comes jumping down after him. The impact sends rippling waves of icy water that overtake Stan. He’s swept under for a beat before breaking the surface again. 

Stan shakes his head, like a dog, to unclog his ears. He watches, panting, as Kyle throws his head back and cackles. He can’t hear it well, for the water, but the familiar sound rings in his mind anyway. Warmth swells in his chest despite the chill. 

“You jerk!” Stan tries to laugh, but it’s more like a shiver. 

“Hey, don’t blame me,” Kyle struggles to speak around his smile, “this was your idea, man.” 

Stan lunges forward and dunks Kyle’s head underwater. There’s a split instant, where he feels gratified, before a set of arms wind around his stomach. Then, Kyle is emerging from the water with a wicked grin. His heart drops because he knows that face. 

“No, wait!” Stan cries. “Don’t!”

He kicks and squirms, but he doesn’t have a chance. With an iron grip, Kyle lifts him easily, pressing their chests snug together. Then, the younger jumps and throws their weight to the side, plunging them both under. 

Beneath the surface, they wrestle in a cloud of bubbles. Kyle tightens his grip impossibly and spins them, once, twice. It’s an old move, from their childhoods. Kyle dubbed it his Alligator Death Roll. 

After an eternity, Kyle’s grip relinquishes. They breach the surface together. The quiet night is filled with wet coughs and strangled gasps. Stan pinches his nose and clenches his teeth at the searing burn in his nasal cavities. 

When the pain subsides, Stan cracks his eyes open to find Kyle wading before him. He spares an instant to take him in. His skin—lily pale—is nearly glowing in the moonlight. His dripping curls are three shades darker wet, more auburn than copper. 

Stan’s heart clenches. He’s beautiful. And, Stan realizes with a blush, his headlights are on.
They’re only a breath from each other. Stan brings his hands to Kyle’s shoulders, arousing green eyes to open. Kyle grins when he sees him, stretching chapped lips taut. Stan’s eyes catch and stick on those perfect lips. 

When he blinks himself back, to them, to now, he finds Kyle watching him, too. His eyes are lidded, his brows furrowed in thought. Stan doesn’t know who leans in first, but they’re closer now. 

Their mouths brush. Stan tilts his head to press closer, to chase the feeling, when Kyle lets out a sound so shrill, so bizarre it’s hard to process. Stan startles when Kyle jerks back, out of his hands, putting miles between them. 

His heart doesn’t have time to shatter before it all clicks. 

“Holy shit!” Kyle screams, diving for the pier. He pushes himself up, shivering. “Something touched my leg, something slimy touched my fucking leg!” 

“Dude, chill,” Stan snorts, “it was probably a fish or algae or some shit like that.” 

“I don’t give a fuck what it was,” Kyle declares. He tucks his legs to his chest and rubs at his right foot. “It was fucking freaky.”

“Alright, you big baby,” Stan teases. 

He swims forward to the pier and rests his chin on folded arms. Stan’s vision is filled with long legs and dewy skin. He flushes and hopes it can be chalked up to the cold. 

Kyle frowns. “I don’t wanna hear it from the guy who refused to walk in grass after seeing Snakes on a Plane .” 

“That was different,” Stan objects. “I was young and impressionable. You are grown and pissing your pants over algae.” 

“Shut the fuck—”

“Oh my God!” Stan widens his eyes and clenches onto the pier dramatically. He kicks one leg backwards, flailing. “The algae, it’s got me! Oh, the humanity!”

Kyle, for his part, gives him an unimpressed look and shoves him hard into the water. 

//

They head back to the car after a while. 

Kyle turned the heat on high, reclined the driver’s seat, and promptly passed out. With lidded eyes, he told Stan to wake him in fifteen minutes. It’s only been five. 

The music is humming low and staticky through the back speakers. It’s an old song, some 80s hair band, with drums and a long guitar riff. Stan might know the chorus if he could turn it up, but Kyle’s a light sleeper, so he doesn’t. 

Stan is curled up in the passenger seat, legs drawn tight to his chest. The car blanket—the one Sheila insists upon—covers him from his toes to his shoulders. It smells like Kyle, cinnamon and spice, and Stan revels in it. 

In the quiet of the car, Stan finds himself watching Kyle. His eyes trace the corkscrews of drying curls and the flutter of his eyelids. He sleeps with his mouth open and his neck bare. He sleeps like a kid, like he’s always been safe. 

Stans thinks back to earlier, to the water and the electric brush of their mouths. He can remember it clearly, the warmth of his breath and the soft give of his lips. He wonders if Kyle will remember. If it meant something, anything, to him. 

He watches the steady rise and fall of Kyle’s chest and wonders.

///

Kyle / 18 / Spring

It’s a crisp Saturday morning, and Kyle is awake. 

To be clear, this is unusual. Miraculous, even. Anyone who knows Kyle knows he isn’t a morning person. In fact, he leans more towards creature of the night . 

But this morning is different. 

He received a phone call—at an hour so ungodly he doesn’t even want to speak its name—from Stan. He can’t remember the specifics of the exchange, but he can remember the soft, sleepy rasp of Stan’s voice asking for Kyle to come over, and God, did that have his alpha thumping its back leg. 

He had been powerless to resist. 

This brings him to his current position at the foot of Stan’s twin-sized bed. The familiar room is quiet save for the persistent hum of the space heater in the corner and the fluttering turn of pages. 

Stan is sitting opposite of him at the head of the bed. In the nook of his crossed legs, the omega is balancing a chemistry textbook. 

He underlines portions of passages lightly with his mechanical pencil. From this angle, Kyle spots doodles in the margins of the worn book, but Stan didn’t draw them. The lines are too precise and heavy-handed. 

Kyle has been watching him on and off since he arrived. He knows he’s been little help, but he suspects Stan wasn’t actually looking for help so much as company (and a caffeine fix) when he called. 

School has always come easy to Kyle. Things have a way of clicking in his mind, but he isn’t good at explaining what he knows. The steps get all jumbled in his head. He was never one for playing teacher. 

The older boy knows and—Kyle suspects— loathes this about him, so Kyle stays out of the way. (Stan is volatile when he’s pissed, and he isn’t keen on being thrown out to the wolves.) 

For the last hour, Kyle has been reading one of Stan’s beloved Steven King novels. It’s the absurdly thick one he keeps on his nightstand with all the dog-eared pages. Kenny always snatches it when he comes over and recites random pages in a shitty Eminem voice. It drives Stan crazy. 

There’s a sharp sigh from the other end of the bed. The sound jars Kyle from his thoughts. He looks up to find Stan already watching him. For an instant, he gets the funny feeling that Stan read his mind and is about to chew him out. 

The omega’s gaze doesn’t falter at being caught. His eyes go soft and wrinkle in the corners as his lips quirk into a crooked smile. The sight makes Kyle’s thoughts go a little hazy and stupid. 

Stan closes his textbook with a solid thump and tosses it to the floor. He slouches backwards against his pillows and stretches deeply. His spine arches into the motion. Kyle’s eyes are drawn to the curve of his lower back. 

“It’s official,” Stan grunts out as he relaxes. He smacks his lips. “I’m dropping out.” 

“Sounds like a plan. We can live in your mom’s basement forever.” Kyle chases a sliver of bare skin above his waistband. “We’ll spend our days eating Cheetos and our nights humping body pillows and playing World of Warcraft.” 

“ Hell no, man,” Stan cackles. The sound is throaty and unabashed. It sends tingles of satisfaction through Kyle. “I’m not gonna be one of those cave-dwelling-loser dropouts. Clearly, my next viable option is stripping.” 

“Stripping,” Kyle barks out a laugh. He tips over onto his side and presses his face into the duvet to smother his giggles. Gasping for breath, he chokes out, “With that ass?” 

“Hey,” Stan cries out. Through his squinted vision, Kyle sees him grab a pillow and shuffle closer on his knees. “What’s that,” he punctuates each word with a thwack of the pillow, “supposed to mean?” 

“It means,” Kyle grins and catches the pillow. He tugs forward roughly and destabilizes Stan. The omega comes crashing down on top of him with a startled yelp. “Don’t quit your day job, Flat Stanley .”

Stan hovers above him with his forearms bracketing Kyle’s head. His mouth gapes open in shock at the insult, and Kyle’s nose twitches at the sharp scent of coffee on his breath. It should be gross. It would be, really, if it were anyone else. 

It dawns on him then just how close the omega is. Their noses brush faintly as Kyle catalogs the shades of blue in Stan’s irises. He notices a little freckle hidden in the crinkle of his eye. It’s faint and nearly heart-shaped. His throat tightens. 

Years of desperation bubble to the surface. God, what he would do to have this, to have him. Anything , his mind rings, anything. His mouth is dry, but he manages to choke out a strangled: “Can I?” 

“ Yes .”

Kyle draws one hand up and buries it in the waves at the base of Stan’s skull. He tugs the omega forward, and their lips collide in a rush of breath. It’s a clash of teeth and caught lips until Kyle digs his fingers in and steers Stan’s head ever-so slightly to the right. 

The shift is like magic. Their lips slot together seamlessly, twisting in a dance as familiar as the stars in the heavens. Warmth ignites in chest and settles in his stomach.  

Kyle pulls back when his lungs begin to howl in protest. Stan chases his retreating lips, pressing quick stolen kisses to the corners of his mouth. His lips trace further to deliver a swift, possessive bite to his chin. 

Kyle chuckles as he drops his head back against the mattress, lifting his smarting chin to accommodate Stan’s relentless descent. The omega traces his pointy nose along the line of Kyle's jaw and leaves another firm kiss to his jack-rabbiting pulse. Stan’s teeth graze over the jut of his Adam’s apple and mouth at the juncture of his neck and shoulder.

The room is sweltering now. The heater hums from the corner. Beads of sweat dot Kyle’s brow and leave the collar of his shirt clinging to his neck. Stan’s lips are molten hot, like a sautering iron against his feverish skin. Distantly, he hopes they burn so hot they sear his flesh with a permanent claim. Something painful, tangible and true. 

Their scents diffuse and entangle in the air. Kyle’s nostrils flare at the onslaught of spiced cinnamon and cloying vanilla. It sings to something primal and needy in the back of his mind. He blinks, dazed, at the ceiling and hopes their scent seeps into the walls, the molding, like cigarette smoke. 

Cool hands find the hem of his shirt. Kyle hardly has time to register their presence before delft fingers are infiltrating the thin fabric and tracing the canvas of his chest. Kyle arches his back in a shivering gasp as blunt nails scratch down the length of his sides and circle his pebbling areolas. 

Those hands settle on his flared hip bones. Teasing fingers run along the elastic band of his sweats. Stan dislodges himself from Kyle’s throat and sits back on his haunches. The movement causes him to brush against the growing tent pitched in Kyle’s pants. The alpha strangles back a whimper, but only just. 

When Kyle opens his eyes, his mind stutters and stalls at the sight before him. Stan is the picture of debauchery. His face glows an alluring red. His eyes, framed by those fluttering, spidery lashes, are wide and dazed. His lips, hanging open to reveal those maddening fangs, are sinfully spit-slick and swollen. 

Kyle nearly jumps out of his skin when those cold, cold fingers breach the waistband of his pants. They pet down the thickening trail of hair that blankets his navel but delve no further. Stan’s watchful eyes are boring into Kyle’s. Asking, waiting. 

Kyle opens his mouth to answer, but his throat is wrecked. His airways are clogged. If he tried to speak, he knows it would only come out as a garbled mess. Saliva floods his mouth, and God, he feels like a pup again with sore gums and budding fangs. He swallows thickly and nods. 

His heart clenches at the blossoming smile Stan offers in return. It wrinkles every feature of his face. Scrunching his nose and eyes into something achingly beautiful. And there goes that freckle, disappearing into the crow’s feet. 

Stan tugs at the sweats, dragging the fabric down to expose Kyle’s boxers. His grin turns feral, predatory, as he runs his palm over the bulge. The hairs on Kyle’s neck raise in a sick mixture of alarm and anticipation. The omega grinds down with his heel until he tears a pitchy, rattling moan from Kyle’s throat. 

Stan yanks Kyle’s shirt up and trails kisses from his belly-button to his sternum. His hand slips beneath his boxers and wraps around the base of his dick. Kyle meets his glittering eyes as he instinctually cants his hips up, chasing the contact. 

Stan’s grip is firm as it slides from base to tip. The jerk is dry and borderline painful. A keening whimper sings from his lips, and Stan offers him a toothy smile as he leans down and spits directly onto the head. Kyle heaves as his eyes tunnel on the slick glob until it disappears beneath Stan’s fist. 

Kyle’s head falls back as Stan finds a rhythm. It’s fast and tight, and fuck, he’s good at this . His face is flush as sweat forms on his brow. He gasps, hips spasming, when Stan’s thumb dips into his slit and drags against the sensitive glands on the underside on his tip. 

“God, you’re gorgeous,” Stan purrs into his ear. His pace slows a fraction, grip remaining tight, as he asks, “You think you can fuck me, or are you too close?” 

He sees stars and coats Stan’s hand with white. 

When he comes back to earth, Stan is smiling at him, wide if not a little smug. He wiggles his soiled fingers. “I guess that answers that.”

“Shut up,” Kyle bristles. His shivers, cock twitching, as he recalls the heady ghost of breath against his ear. “You can’t say shit like that and expect me not to nut.” 

“Nut?” Stan snorts. His hips rotate in an unabashed grind against his thigh. “Such a creep.” 

“A weirdo- o ,” Kyle sings a little, playing along. His hands brace Stan’s waist, encouraging the little circling motions. He wrinkles his nose as Stan wipes his waste on his stomach. 

Stan tuts and slides those same fingers into the messy curls framing his face. He offers a sharp grin and tightens his grip, demanding. Kyle allows his head to be tilted back, his throat to be bared, ignoring the hissing, spitting alpha in the rear of mind. He moans softly when Stan rewards him with a sweet kiss to the corner of his mouth. 

Stan relaxes his grip and slides his hand down to cup Kyle’s jaw. Instinctually, Kyle leans into his palm and plants a chaste kiss to the scent glands on his wrist. Stan shudders, hips stuttering, as he lets out a rumbling purr. 

“You’re too much,” Stan grumbles, cheeks flushed as he bites the noise short. Eyes thoughtful, he drags his thumb against Kyle’s bottom lip. His free hand lowers from Kyle’s sternum to entangle with the fingers at his waist. 

“Me?” Kyle crows. 

Stan hums in confirmation. He tugs Kyle’s hand loose, drawing it down the flat expanse of his stomach to the waistband of his pajama bottoms. Kyle’s hand feels clammy against the fuzzy bottoms. They’re Christmas themed with little weiner dogs on bobsleds. Kyle thumbs at one of the dogs, smoothing down the fur. 

Stan’s voice is silky when he asks: “Have you done this before?” 

Kyle blinks at him, caught off guard. Images flash across his mind in a flurry. Tweek lying below him in a dark bedroom, pounding music beyond the door. Hasty kisses and sandy blond hair framing his face like a halo. They didn’t make it past first before Tweek burst into drunken tears. He and Craig had broken up…again. The night ended with Kyle foraging for a bag of Doritos in the kitchen and playing relationship therapist, like he knew fuck-all about it. 

His silence must have been damning. Stan freezes. His eyes dart between Kyle’s wide set. His lips purse as he cocks his head. It would be innocently disarming, if Kyle didn’t recognize the thinly veiled distaste in his eyes. 

Stan snags Kyle’s thumb, halting the rhythmic petting. He asks, blunt as a kitchen knife, “Who?” 

“Tweek,” Kyle admits in an exhale. Stan’s eyes widen in surprise. “But we didn’t fuck. Just kissed.” 

Stan stares, processing, before he nods. “You owe me the rest of that story.” Kyle winces. “But for now,” Stan’s hand covers his again, “I don’t want any dude’s name on your lips but mine.” 

Kyle’s breath catches as Stan guides his hand beneath his bottoms. Stan tugs him down the inseam of his boxers until his fingers meet the heat between his thighs. Kyle shudders out a moan as he drags his middle finger along the fabric clinging to Stan’s drenched cunt. 

“Oh shit,” Stan gasps. He rests both hands on Kyle’s chest for balance. “Oh my God.” 

“You’re so wet,” Kyle praises, awestruck at the easy glide of his finger along the seam of his lips. He puts pressure on that bundle of nerves nestled at the top and grins, stupidly giddy, when Stan thrusts his hips into the touch.  

“Shut up,” Stan hisses, glaring down at him with hazy eyes. “God,” he jerks his hips again, frustrated, “could you be any slower?” 

“You’re gonna have to help me out here,” Kyle admits, blushing a little. ( A lot .)  “I’ve never…” He tapers off, refusing to verbalize that he’s only ever seen this in porn. “Just tell me what you like.” 

Stan blinks at him rapidly, cheeks darkening. Understanding softens his features. He offers him a crooked, almost sheepish smile as he leans forward and kisses him deeply. The knots in Kyle’s stomach loosen at the unspoken apology. 

His mind is muddled when Stan pulls back. He traces his lips across Kyle cheek until he reaches the juncture between his jaw and ear. The omega worries the skin between his teeth, sucking what’s sure to be a mark into the sensitive flesh. 

“Okay,” Stan whispers, breath hot against his ear, “put your middle and pointer fingers on that spot at the top, the one you touched earlier. Good,” he practically purrs when Kyle follows instructions, “now make a circle, just like that .” 

Kyle's heart thunders in his chest as Stan goes quiet, nuzzling into his throat. He presses his fingers more firmly against the mound, taking Stan’s little noises as approval. So close, the omega’s obscene scent makes his head spin and his alpha croon. 

“Oh shit,” Stan whimpers, his legs twitching, “touch me, please.”

“What?” Kyle asks, a little dumbfounded. 

Stan doesn’t wait for him to process the request. He brings a hand down, again, to coach his movements. Stan snags his wrist and tugs it under the drenched boxers. He arranges Kyle’s hand so his palm covers his swollen clit and his fingers are grazing the edge of his entrance. 

“I need you inside me,” Stan’s teeth graze his ear lobe, “Start with two,” he commands with a nip, “I’m loose enough for two.” 

“Shit, yes,” Kyle whimpers. God, he feels like his brain is melting. “You’re so fucking…”

He slips two fingers inside Stan’s burning heat. Stan’s hips thrust forward, still holding Kyle’s wrist, as he ruts against his palm. The omega’s cries fill his ears and muddy his mind. His dick throbs against his stomach untouched. He ignores the ache as his fingers plunge faster into the slick heat, eliciting those addicting little squelching notes. 

“I can’t,” Stan whines, “I can’t. Oh fuck, don’t stop.”  

The muscles in his stomach tense against Kyle’s forearm as the omega chants out a series of oh, oh, oh’s. His cunt spasms as wetness coats his palm. Kyle keeps curling his fingers, watching Stan’s pinched expression and pinkened cheeks with depraved fascination. He doesn’t stop until Stan claws at his wrist with a hiss.

Stan sits back on his haunches. He places one hand over Kyle’s racing heart and the other on his stomach. Lightly, he fingers the coarse hairs that lead to Kyle’s dick. Kyle would believe the action to be absentminded, if not for the gleam in Stan’s fucked-out gaze. 

The omega tugs down and shucks off his truly soaked bottoms and underwear. Kyle’s mouth goes dry. He drags his hands along the pale expanse of his thighs, from knee to waist, mesmerized by the fine hairs and supple skin. 

He startles when Stan’s lithe fingers breach that tangle of coarse hair and reclaim their tantalizing grip on his dick. The omega pumps him loosely before running the tip along the lips of his cunt. Kyle shouts out a moan when it catches on Stan’s entrance. He watches, enraptured, as the head breaches and disappears into that velvet heat. 

Kyle latches his hands onto Stan’s narrow waist. He stares unblinkingly as the omega sinks flush to his pelvis, swallowing his cock with ease, like it’s the perfect fit. Stan’s walls twitch and tighten around him, drawing a breathless cry from his wrecked throat. 

Stars twinkle behind his eyes as Stan spreads his thighs and lifts in a slow ascent. Just as soon as he rose, his hips sunk back down, welcoming Kyle home into that tight channel. After a series of careful rises and falls, Stan’s face begins to relax, those pinched brows loosening and obscene lips parting in a pleasured gasp. He picks up the pace then, fucking himself with precision. 

“You feel so,” Stan drops his head back, stretching the cords of his throat, “ fucking good.” 

Kyle tracks a bead of sweat from his hairline down those tight muscles jumping in his neck. The bead disappears down the collar of his shirt, and his alpha rages because, God , why was his omega wearing a damn thing? He relinquishes his grip on his waist to tug brutally at the offending garment. 

Stan catches on swiftly and sheds the top. Kyle groans and drags his hands reverently across the plains of his chest. He’s seen him countless times, but not like this, not with the permission, the insistence , that he touch, mark, claim. He presses the pad of his finger over the faded chicken pox scar under his heaving left pectoral. 

He trails his gaze up, up, up until he sees it. The old scar from all those years ago. The skin, pale and risen, had never quite healed right. It hadn’t been deep enough for stitches but only just. It stands out against his otherwise unblemished shoulder, a rakishly grotesque reminder of their lifelong entanglement. 

Kyle’s mouth waters. His fangs itch to realign with those old indentions. To latch down and leave another mark, wider and deeper. He holds back, though, as his treacherous mind recalls how the omega had cried and cried. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, hurt him, but fuck, fuck , it would be enough for Stan to mark him in return. To give as good as he got. An equivalent exchange of ache and pain and possession. 

“Stan,” Kyle pants. His hands abandon Stan’s waist and latch onto his cheeks. He tugs him forward and plants sloppy, wanton kisses to each crevice of his face. “Bite me,” he manages, “mark me, please.” 

His knot swells at the mere thought. His half-lidded eyes meet Stan’s spooked set. 

“What? But that’s not…” He trails off with a bewildered, near hysteric, laugh. His eyes find Kyle’s freckled shoulder, and he wets his lips, pupils dilated and wild. “You want me to…”

“God, yes,” Kyle begs. It’s so close he can taste it . He chants, “I want it, I want it.” 

Stan mouth gapes. Kyle whines desperately at the sight of those delicate little fangs. The plea poised on his tongue dies as Stan dives forward and buries his canines into the meat of his shoulder. It’s agony, it’s everything. His vision whites out as his knot throbs, flares, and bursts. 

He’s gone for a brief moment, suspended in time, neither here nor there. When he comes to, the omega is lapping at his smarting shoulder, cleaning the oozing blood with a diligent tongue. Kyle's head is full of cotton. He lies there, boneless, as his body rides the waves of his aftershock. When he regains control of his limbs, he brings a hand up to pet through Stan’s sex-tangled locks. The omega hums a pleased, purring note. 

He props himself up on his forearms and grins crookedly down at Kyle. His teeth and gums are bloodied. It turns his head fuzzy and makes his heart race. Stan bumps his pointy nose into Kyle’s and whispers:

“ We match. ”