Yeah, I'm still working on my other story but this just kind of came out and so I'm posting it. Should I continue? Let me know.
When you first notice it, it's a tiny sprinkle of pressure in your chest. It's gone in less than a second; you swear you only imagined it. But for some reason, you replay it a thousand times in your head that same night, secretly enjoying the tickling sensation the strange pressure causes.
The strange pressure becomes a breathless fluttering when he surprises you, taking you into a full, hard hug that lasts half a second too long and causes your heart to do a funny, stuttering sort of halt. You feel dazed, but in a good way after this. It's the first time he's ever done that, and you kind of think you've been missing out.
It's almost every day now that he finds a new way to make heat creep across your skin and the funny quivering in your nervous system to all but take the breath from your lungs. Sometimes, all it takes is the cheery "hey" he sends your way when you pass in the hall ways, or a tiny brush of contact against your leg when he sits next to you in the cafeteria. You feel like you should be resisting the way you are impatient, always to see him again, (he's your best friend; it's never very long that you two are apart) but it's almost impossible. You don't even want to. In a scary way, even the way he makes you nervous feels good.
You like the way he walks, you realize, watching him as he goes up to sharpen his pencil in Calculus class. You like the way he seems to relax into every step, the way he looks careless and easy when he moves. He chews his fingernails as he sits back down, studying the equation you're all suppose to be solving, but you can't find the will power to focus on. Stan looks natural, you decide, watching him gnaw absently at his messy cuticles. And you like that too. He looks like himself, like the Stan Marsh you've known since God-knows-when, and suddenly it occurs to you that you've been staring too long. Stan's eyes are looking back at you curiously, a little self consciously, and he whispers the question, "You okay, dude?" Honestly, you're not sure if you are. You nod anyways, and wince because you can feel your blood rushing up to your cheeks, in a sudden, warm flush.
Kissing is wet and sloppy, and the appeal has never made sense to you. You dislike the feeling of being breathed on, the feel of lips, damp and strange against your own. But your lips are tingling, aching and your heart is speeding like a train on crack because Stan and you are lying, facing each other on your bed and he's close enough to kiss. The moment this occurred to you, randomly as you and Stan spoke softly, closely like always during your sleepovers (which have lasted even though you are both Seniors in High school and your mothers keeps nagging that you are far too old for such things), the thought wouldn't leave your head. Now it's practically the only thing on your mind, and it's starting to become a problem because Stan would almost certainly not react well to being kissed by his male best friend, nor do you want to actually kiss him. You don't, because you don't like him that way. You don't. He's Stan, and you're Kyle, and you're super best friends, but it just doesn't work that way.
When Stan's mittened hand wraps around your own as you two sit on a low branch watching the sunset by Stark's pond, you are completely unsurprised by the electricity that runs through the connection and sends shivers down your body that have absolutely nothing to do with the cold. You are happy, so happy to be holding his hand that it doesn't even occur to you until the sky fades to a dark, purply blue that you are eventually going to have to let go. This realization causes you a reluctant sort of pain as you abandon watching the sky to look at Stan's familiar profile in the dusky light, but he doesn't release your hand after all. Not even when you both stand by unspoken agreement and begin to walk slowly back towards his house, still linked.
It's late in the afternoon and Stan has beaten you at another game of Call of Duty. His house becomes a light shade of orange at this hour, and it makes everything appear lazy and slow. You drop your controller and sigh tiredly; you neck has begun to hurt from hours of leaning forward. Stan glances sideways at you before turning and placing his warm fingers and the base of your shoulders and rubbing them in deep, sure circles that immediately begin to loosen up your knotted muscles. The heat from his touch is wonderful; and you are painfully aware of every tiny movement his fingers make against your skin. You bite your lip to keep from moaning, and as Stan massages your neck, working his way up from your shoulders, you feel your mind begin to wander into very unsafe zones. You sit up panicking, and get up to go. You apologize for leaving so abruptly, but you forgot you promised your mother you'd be at dinner tonight, and you'll see him tomorrow, okay? He looks confused, but you leave without looking back again.
You like him. You like Stan fucking Marsh and his fucking blue eyes that fucking grabbed your heart in a fucking chokehold. You like his smile that practically has you gasping for breath every time. You like the way it feels when he holds you hand or holds you in his arms because it makes the world seems fuzzy and warm and perfect; you like how everything just seems to stop when he's around. You like him. You like him and frankly, it scares the fucking shit out of you. You lay awake at four thirty in the fucking morning, even though there's a test in history the next day you didn't study for, you're pretty sure you won't be able to stay awake in class long enough to take it anyways, but you can't sleep now. You can't sleep because tomorrow you'll have to face Stan again, and you have absolutely no idea what to do about that.
Today is a bad day, you decide. The sky is too blue, it isn't snowing for once, and you passed that stupid history test after all, and today completely sucks balls. Wendy is talking to Stan by his locker; her pretty face and stupid pretty laugh make you want to cover your ears and scream and run away. But you can't. Because all you can do is stare and wish she would drop dead, but at the same time you realize that the sinking in your stomach has more to do with the realization that Stan isn't wishing for the same thing. She twirls a lock of shiny black hair around her finger and smiles like she knows what he's thinking, and you wonder why you even bothered to get out of bed today. Because the way he's looking back at her makes you just want to crawl under your covers and never come out.
You wish you could tell him "no". You think this to yourself for the millionth time, sitting in the stands freezing your ass off while listening to the band badly screw up the "fight" song as Stan scores another touchdown. You can't help but to cheer for him as he throws the ball down and does a little victory dance, and your heart seizes up when he catches sight of you, standing up and waving your arms to catch his attention, and he smiles, sending you a little wave. He looks happy that you came, that you saw him in his moment of glory. You decide you like football games after all.
You're waiting for him to finish practice so you can walk home together. Yeah, it's a little pathetic, but you're too preoccupied with looking forward to spending time with him to care that much. He's so good, you realize, watching him help Token off the football field. Not just at playing football, but he's an incredibly good person. Token twisted his ankle trying to tackle Stan. It looked really painful; Token yelled so loudly that even the coach (who was legendary for his mercilessness) stopped practice to make sure he was all right. Now Token's whimpering like an injured puppy while Stan supports him, limping, to the nurse's office. You can tell even from far away, that Stan is saying comforting things to him, just from the expression of concern and gentleness on his face. He's made that face so many times when you were sad or pissed off or hurt, and he was there to tease you into smiling again or to listen seriously until you had nothing left to say, or to put an arm around your shoulders and assure you with no words at all that everything was going to be okay. Really, he's the best friend anyone could ask for. He's caring and patient and just… far too good for you.
You open your eyes and realize that he is beside you (he spent the night again, and you were so happy that he wanted to stay with you…that he thought you were special, were worth spending his time with). He is lightly snoring, body heat radiating off of him and warming you all the way through. His arm is thrown across your chest, his dark bangs have fallen over his eyes, his face is squashed against the pillow, and a tiny bit of drool is coming out of his slightly open mouth. He looks peaceful and beautiful. You touch his cheek, pink with sleep, and sigh at the feel of his skin. You snuggle closer to him and fall asleep to the steady rhythm of his breathing.