"Dude, what is up with you tonight?"

Kyle was losing - again - and didn't even realize it… again. He tried to mash the buttons on his controller a few times for good measure, but he knew the damage was done. Stan was staring at him, controller limp in one hand, eyes wide.

"Dude, what the fuck?" he shrugged. "You've been zoned out like.. all damn night." Kyle couldn't find words to explain or say. He felt tongue-tied, and humiliated, and terrified. Why the fuck was Stan doing this to him all of a sudden? He hated feeling like this. Stan was always the best friend he could count on, the one person he never had a problem talking to. So why now? Why the hell was he stowing up all of a sudden?

"Dude…" Stan shook his head in disbelief before chunking his controller on the ground and flopping back against the edge of his bed, arms strewn across the sheets over his head. "Worst match ever." A quiet sigh, then he was sitting back up again and dropping his hands on his lap.

"So… what's up?" he shrugged. Kyle could feel himself physically receding, and curling back into his arms with deafening force from the look Stan was giving. It was just a look, but he couldn't help but see every painful detail - the eyes that had refused to look at him earlier.

"Nothing," he blurted a little too quickly. Stan knew - Stan could already see the uneasiness in his features, the dark circles under his eyes. Even in the dark gloom of the bedroom, he probably looked like a corpse. "Just-" he tried to say, then stopped, shaking his head and looking away. "Nothin' dude, don't worry about it," he grumbled before pulling his knees up to his chest and staring across the room.


Stan's hands were on him before he could react. He felt the wind knocked out of his lungs as his back hit the floor and he felt the weight of Stan's arms pinning him down. He was left staring, horrified, up at Stan hovering over him with a smile on his face.

"Fuck you dude," he laughed, tilting his head to one side. "You are shit at lying to me."

"Tell me about it.." Kyle muttered without thinking.

There was a pause, then.

A too-long, friends shouldn't do this pause where Kyle became painfully aware of where Stan's hands were, and just how close in proximity they were to one another. This wasn't right. Regular guys didn't do this - he didn't think? Did they? Fuck, what was he doing?

Stan, to his horror, realized this too, yet did not move. They were left in a perpetual position of frozen shock and awkward touching where Stan's hands were on his bare arms and all he could think about was how damn hot it was all of a sudden and oh my fucking hell he was getting hard. This was.. Not. Happening. Shit. Shit. Shit.


Like a bright, screaming beacon Stan's eyes followed Kyle's, right to the this-is-not-happening beginning to press against his jeans. Stan's head whipped back to face Kyle's, now ridden with shameful embarrassment that he'd witnessed it, too, but they were still touching and fuck if he wasn't about to do something really, really stupid. Worse than last week, worse than-

Stan's mouth was on him. Hot, molten breath and lips and tongue suddenly thrust into his mouth without his consent.

He made a garbled, shrill noise before feeling the release of pressure on his arms, and instead moved to his hips. He was so abruptly concerned with the fact that he was probably dreaming - again - that he didn't realize his best friend was shimmying his hands under his shirt and oh god his hands were on his stomach, now.

Muffled, quiet noises of protest died in an instant as he felt his body respond, and hands needily grasp at the back of Stan's shirt once he connected his long-aching desires to the sudden, present offering that was pressing up against him with every forceful inch of movement. His mouth was rough and passionate, greedily taking and giving all at once. Kyle lost himself in a blur of heat and breath, of a hot, persistent mouth and grasping hands.

This isn't happening..

He could hear it in the back of his mind, nagging, as they stumbled and crawled backwards onto the bed. He felt his body fall against the cushion of pillow and sheets. Stan paused over him, briefly, with a fire in his eyes unlike any other, before ripping his shirt off and hungrily returning to his rightful position over Kyle's mouth.

He was lost in a violent, passionate daze of hands grabbing at whatever flesh he could, and awkward, rushed wiggling as Stan yanked off his jeans with animalistic force.

This isn't happening, you'll wake up now.

You'll wake up.

He could feel the hot, rasping breath on his neck. A hard boner pressed up against his stomach, making his hips turn up and his throat gurgle a groan of pleasure. Fuck he wanted him, he wanted him bad, but this couldn't be real. It couldn't be right.

He's going to regret this.

He wanted so badly to shut the fuck up. Please, for the love of god, for once just enjoy the dream while it lasts. It was the best and most blissfully real dream he'd ever had. He wanted to drink in every second of it, every damn, hard, heated, wild second of it.

Nothing good ever happens to you.

Shut the fuck up.

Stan was at his hips now, yanking off the boxers with impressive force as he tried yanking his own jeans off.

This is just a dream.

Shut the fuck up.

He was back in an instant, mouth and tongue shoving their way forcefully, needily into his own. Kyle could see the sheer frustration on his face for not being able to get undressed quickly enough. He reached up with quiet, nervous hands and began to unbutton his pants. Stan stopped.

Their eyes finally met - for the first time since touching him on the floor, Stan actually looked him in the eyes. He paused like a deer caught in the headlights as the scene finally caught up with his conscious and he stared down at Kyle, stupefied, and heaving his chest in and out for breath. Kyle could see him already regretting it - he could see the doubt and fear and loathing in his eyes as he prepared to get up and leave.

Kyle hated that look in his eyes.

He opened his mouth to apologize, to tell him he was sorry and it would never happen again. Tell him he would go back to normal, and he would never have to worry about him.

Stan's hands wrapped around Kyle's - hands that had been injured, receding back to his chest - and brought them up to his face. He pressed his lips against the tips of his fingers and let them linger there, the breath of his nose relaying heat over his knuckles. He could feel the warmth of Stan's cheeks against the back of his hand, and felt his entire posture loosen.

"Please, don't be afraid," he mumbled into his hand. Kyle could feel his expression tightening into shock as he simply stared, breathless, up at the sight before him.

"Please.." he whispered into his hands, before turning his eyes on him. He leaned down over Kyle then, rejoining him on the bed as he laid back down and felt his bare chest press against his skin. He shuddered, eyes shutting briefly.

"I-I'm not," he murmured out in a rough, breathless whisper. Stan rested his forehead against Kyle's and shut his eyes, sighing. Kyle could feel his body shaking slightly, and slid nervous hands over his back.

"I'm not afraid," he breathed into his hair.

That was all Stan needed to hear.