Happy Birthday Sekrit 2013: The Fic

[formerdinosaur]

Here it is, fisting Atlanta brunch fic! Thank you to Sekrit for inadvertantly giving me the idea (and also for the original 'write Kyle the way the people who cry over his disrespected obvious virile masculinity hate' request) and for listening to my thoughts and rants on fandom and everything else, going to brunch places with me in Atlanta, and for having been one of the major reasons I was inspired to stick around and write substantive (well, hopefully) fic for this fandom.

Title: Be Prepared to be Harshly Teased by the Wait Staff
Pairing: Stan/Kyle
Word Count: ~5k
Summary: During a weekend visit to Stan's Atlanta apartment, Kyle surprises Stan with a particular sexual request. Things do not go as planned, making for an awkward brunch the following morning.
Note: There is no actual fisting in the fisting fic.



On the worst morning of Stan's life, he wakes up to a face full of Kyle's hair. There's a piece in his mouth, on his tongue, which is a gross feeling, and he sits up, stuffing his fingers into his mouth in attempt to get rid of it. As soon as they're touching his tongue, he wakes fully and remembers where his fingers have been recently. Feeling panicked about this in a way that he never has before, he hurries into the bathroom to wash his hands and brush his teeth thoroughly.

His head is pounding: they were so drunk last night. So, so drunk, and combative in a passive aggressive way during sex, which is never good. Stan has never before had sex with Kyle without either of them reaching orgasm. They just fell asleep, on opposite sides of the bed, though Kyle apparently moved onto him at some point during the night. Stan looks down at his morning wood guiltily. He wants to beat off, his balls still heavy with unspilt come, but it would be rude. Kyle is out there, waiting. For what, exactly, Stan is a little afraid to find out.

When he returns to the bedroom, Kyle is pretending to be asleep. Stan can always tell when Kyle is faking something. It's a talent he's had since grade school, and how he knew that Kyle was gay even after he consented to show his penis to Bebe in eighth grade, which resulted in the two of them 'dating' in a way that infuriated Stan and told him a lot about his own sexuality.

"It's like eleven o'clock," Stan says, standing between the bed and the bathroom. Kyle makes a soft sound, feigning sudden wakefulness, and looks over his shoulder at Stan.

"So?" he says.

"So I thought you wanted to go to that brunch place."

"Ugh," Kyle says, and he turns away from Stan again, his head on the pillow. "Fine, just give me a minute."

"Are you--" Stan scratches at the back of his neck, not really wanting to talk about it, but suddenly very worried. "Sore?"

Kyle glares at Stan as if he's insulted the integrity of his asshole.

"No," Kyle says. "We didn't even--"

He leaves it at that, and Stan feels like a failure all over again. Kyle had wanted to try fisting. Stan was horrified by the thought, but he pretended not to be, because Kyle lives in New York now and certainly knows all sorts of great gay sex stuff that Stan hasn't learned in Atlanta, where he's been living for the past year, doing an internship with the CDC. There are plenty of gay men in Stan's city, too, but it's increasingly clear to him that they aren't up to Kyle's new standards of New York gayness.

"Well, I'm glad you're not hurt," Stan says, bitterly. "That could have gone really poorly, with both of us so drunk."

"Why are you saying that like it's news to me?"

"I'm -- not, Jesus, are you mad at me?"

"No," Kyle says. He groans and throws the blankets off of himself. Stan wants to scan the sheets for blood. He got four fingers mostly in, and the tip of his thumb, and at that point he had to tell Kyle he couldn't do it, that he didn't have the skills or the stomach to pleasure him in such an exotic way. Stan's cock had been completely soft by the time the third finger was introduced. "I'm having a shower," Kyle announces, prancing past him.

"May I join you?" Stan asks.

"Nah," Kyle says, and he shuts the bathroom door in Stan's face. He's definitely mad -- no, disappointed. He's surpassed Stan's meager sexual education, and they don't fit together anymore. Stan sits naked on the bed, feeling so miserably lost that he wonders why he can't seem to manage any tears.

Kyle emerges half an hour later, wrapped in one of Stan's generously sized towels. He's got another towel wrapped around his hair, and Stan knows it will be at least an hour before they're out the door to brunch. He's hungry.

"What is going on with your shampoo?" Kyle asks.

"Uh. In what sense?"

"Pert Plus? They still make that shit?"

"I like the way it smells."

"Well, you've got naturally beautiful hair. I guess you could wash it with dish soap if you wanted to -- and you essentially are. It's lucky I brought my toiletries bag."

"Yeah," Stan says, thinking of that overstuffed thing sitting on his small bathroom counter, bursting with Kyle's supplies. "Good thing."

"Don't make fun of me," Kyle says, turning from his unzipped suitcase.

"I'm not! I love your hair."

"Who said anything about my hair? It's perfectly fine, as long as I use the right products."

"That's -- yeah, I think so."

"Are you still drunk?" Kyle asks. He turns back to his suitcase, pulling out the thong he was apparently looking for. Stan's cock reawakens at the sight. He's been in love with Kyle's fucked up underwear collection since high school. He's been in love with Kyle himself for much longer, though they haven't managed to spend much time together since leaving South Park for their respective colleges. Now they're twenty-five, and Stan is still obsessed with the way a thong that probably cost upward of thirty dollars splits Kyle's doughy white ass cheeks so beautifully. Suddenly he thinks he might cry after all.

"You know I don't like it when you watch me get dressed," Kyle says.

"Why not?" Stan asks, though he does know that and can guess why.

"All my imperfections are exposed, and I have to like, bend over, and I get the stomach roll."

"It's a small roll, though. An attractive one."

"You have an erection, Stan." Kyle smiles, which makes Stan smile, too. His hand goes to his cock.

"It would seem so, yes."

"Why are you just sitting there naked? What are you wearing to this place?"

"I don't know." Stan is still stroking himself, watching Kyle's cock get bigger inside the tight confines of the thong front. "A t-shirt. Jeans."

"It's not -- I mean, there's not, like, a dress code?"

"No?" Stan has never actually been to this brunch place. Kyle apparently read about it. He read, apparently, a lot about the 'scene' in Atlanta prior to his first trip here. Last night they went to a gay club, though Kyle's flight had arrived late and he'd seemed tired. Stan was drunk, having waited for a long time at an airport bar, and can't really remember the club, except that Kyle kept shouting criticisms about how it was different from New York in his ear while massaging his crotch in a distracted way.

"I think a t-shirt will make you look like a male escort who was unlucky enough to be invited to brunch with last night's client," Kyle says.

"What the hell are you talking about, dude?"

"Me!" Kyle says, flinging a shirt at Stan. "Wear that. Otherwise we won't match, is what I'm saying."

Stan obeys, though Kyle's shirt is too tight and looks like it came from the sale rack at Anthropologie, which Kyle has been known to peruse. It's mustard yellow, a terrible color for Stan's skin tone, and is an odd combination of button-up and tunic. Stan is at least allowed to wear his own jeans -- the black ones, Kyle suggests.

"I look like I'm going to a Georgia Tech game," Stan says when he's dressed in this color combination.

"I don't know what that is," Kyle says.

"Kyle. It's a school. C'mon, you know Georgia Tech."

"Uh, no, I don't. I'm not in the sciences, and even if I was, I doubt I'd keep track of the technical colleges of the South."

"It's reputable. People know of it."

"You're acting like you went there!"

Stan actually went to Washington University -- the one in St. Louis. He stayed there for grad school, despite disliking St. Louis, because their immunology and infectious disease program is renowned. Kyle went to Stanford for his undergraduate degree in history, and to the University of Michigan for his grad degree in sociology. Everyone warned him that he wouldn't find a job, but now he's writing for some magazine called Next that Stan doesn't read and living a glamorous New York life that Stan has so far refused to visit upon.

"Well, I guess this is as good as it's going to get," Kyle says an hour later, palming his hair cautiously. "This humidity, Jesus Christ. Why did I visit you in summer?"

"Because -- I don't know. You couldn't bear to live without me for another second, seasons be damned."

"You sound so gay," Kyle says, muttering. "Who have you been hanging out with?"

"Mostly my co-workers, and I should tell you: I am gay, actually."

"Yeah, but you're like, that straight-seeming guy in gay porn gay. You know the one, with the punishing cock."

"My cock is punishing?" Stan says, hurt. He thinks again of his fingers and his pitiful attempt to squish them all into Kyle's ass.

"Well, of course not, that's the whole idea, right? The bottom is actually loving it."

"Oh," Stan says, confused.

They head to brunch, and Kyle remarks on how weird it is to take a car to brunch in the city. Stan likes his car, the same one he's had since college. It's a Jetta, and he bought it new, making the payments with grant money.

"You're impressed with yourself for having a car," Kyle says.

"No, I'm not," Stan says, though he is. He also has a nice apartment, though Kyle didn't say so last night or this morning.

"No, it's cute," Kyle says, reaching over to stroke his thigh. "You're adorable, as always. Oh, God, but why did I give you that shirt? It's not really your color."

"Should I go back and change?" Stan asks. Kyle shrugs as if it was a serious question.

"I'm too hungry," he says. "God, why do I even own that thing? Why did I bring it, of all shirts? That shade of yellow looks terrible on me, too. Maybe on everyone."

"You look good in that," Stan says, referring to Kyle's outfit. It's a light blue blazer with the sleeves rolled up, a loose white shirt underneath, and tight gray pants. "Those pants look expensive," Stan says. "If we're discussing things we're clearly impressed with ourselves about."

"Oh, well. Pants that work with my ass are an investment."

Stan is hurt by that, because the pants probably help Kyle pick up men. He doesn't use Facebook himself, but he obsessively stalks Kyle's public page, hating everyone in the pictures. The guys Kyle hangs out with are usually ugly in an attractive way, like they know they make up for their plain faces with other, better qualities.

The restaurant is called 'Babs,' and it's crowded. Kyle warns Stan on the approach that one of the Yelp reviews said to "be prepared to be harshly teased by the wait staff." Stan has no idea why Kyle then decided to go to this place, but whatever. Maybe Kyle is looking for a fight. If he's looking for a fist up his ass, there's no telling.

"You're sore," Stan says, blurting this as they're seated. Kyle glares at him and accepts his menu from the host. "Sorry," Stan whispers when the guy leaves. "But I saw you wince when you, uh. Sat."

"Of all places to say something like that!"

"Why not here?" Stan looks around. There are a few tables of women, but it's mostly men in their thirties who are trying to look younger.

"Because -- just -- the context!"

"Well. Are you, though?" Stan asks, leaning over the table, concerned.

"No!" Kyle says, and he rolls his eyes. "Christ, you barely got in there. It's not like we actually -- did it."

"Uh, what? I barely got in there? You looked like you were giving birth."

"What?"

Kyle says this loudly enough to attract attention from several nearby tables.

"Because you were in so much pain," Stan says. "I mean."

Stan is glad when the waiter arrives before Kyle can respond. Kyle orders a Bloody Mary, and snorts derisively when Stan asks for the prosecco raspberry lemonade.

"What?" Stan says. "That sounds awesome."

"You're so South Park," Kyle says. "And I don't mean that in a bad way. It's sweet."

Stan doesn't appreciate being called 'sweet,' 'cute,' 'adorable,' or 'South Park.' He feels like all the cuddly adjectives are a passive aggressive comment on his failure to fist.

"God, look at these men," Kyle says, muttering. "They're so -- Southern."

"How so?"

"I don't know, the tight t-shirts, the belts."

"Belts are out? No belts in the New York gay scene?"

"Well, of course belts are fine, if they're the right belts. I'm actually not as snobby about clothing as you think I am, okay? I buy from chain stores."

Stan makes a mock horrified face. "How scandalous. Do your friends know?"

"I don't have any friends," Kyle says, muttering, and he grabs for his drink when it comes.

"What?" Stan says, but Kyle is ordering.

"I'll have that special, the bird's nest," Kyle says. Stan pictures a bundle of sticks with baby birds chirping at the center. "With pastrami. What kind of bread do you use for the toast?"

"Wheat," the waiter says. He's closer to their age, and cute. Stan checks to see if he's wearing a belt, but he can't tell. His t-shirt is hanging over his waistline.

"Wheat?" Kyle says, as if he expected a more flowery description. "Can I replace the toast with biscuits?"

"I could do one biscuit," the guy says, letting a hint of bitchiness creep into his tone. "In exchange for two pieces of toast."

"Fine," Kyle says, snapping his menu shut. Stan orders the hash brown omelette and a side of bacon, knowing Kyle will eat some of it.

"What do you mean about not having any friends?" Stan asks when the waiter is gone.

"Oh, don't look so sad," Kyle says. "I was joking."

"You're still my best friend," Stan says, and then he feels pathetic. "I mean -- you know what I mean." Kyle looks wounded by this for some reason, or maybe just sad for him. Stan wonders who Kyle's New York best friend is. Do they sleep together? Probably.

"Is it hot in here?" Kyle asks, fanning himself with the drink menu that the waiter left behind.

"A little," Stan says, though he's perfectly comfortable. "So, um." Suddenly he can't think of anything to say, and Kyle is quiet, too, looking fretful. All Stan can think about is the awful visual he had the night before, between Kyle's legs, the way his ass looked when it was straining around all those clumsy fingers. Stan had felt like he had at least eight fingers on his right hand, last night. Lube everywhere, in vain.

"We should do something touristy after this," Kyle says. He's already drained most of his Bloody Mary.

"Okay," Stan says, though he was hoping to go back to the apartment for better sex and a long afternoon of TV and cuddling. "What would you like to do?"

"Well. Isn't the Margaret Mitchell house near here?" He says so as if he didn't thoroughly research and plan this whole afternoon, starting with the gay brunch.

"Yeah," Stan says. "I've never been."

"Perfect. Let's do that. Then we can go walk in the park or something."

"Alright," Stan says, though it's disgustingly muggy out, and he doesn't like any of the nearby parks. They seem so charmless compared to the parks out west, with mountains in the distance and wildlife everywhere. He knows that a city park is not that kind of park, but they still disappoint him. When his food comes, he orders a beer.

"You're the best looking guy in here," Kyle says, whispering this over the table. "I'm so pleased."

"Um - thanks!" Stan decides not to mention that their waiter is at least comparable to him. He digs into the omelette, which is weird and soggy. Kyle's 'bird's nest' appears to be basically just a big pile of food, mostly potatoes, with two eggs on top.

"Oh, goddammit," Kyle says. "They gave me toast. I asked for a biscuit."

"Yeah, you did. Want to flag him down?"

"No, God, he was giving me such a look when I dared to ask about the bread. Supposedly part of the charm of this place is that everyone's a dick. Or that they have dickish tendencies. Can I have a piece of that bacon?"

The meal is increasingly awkward as Stan sits there wondering if they should talk more about the fisting and what went wrong. Will Kyle expect him to try it again tonight? Probably not, since Stan has proven inadequate in that area. Even more troubling is the idea that Kyle wants a whole fucking fist up his ass. Why? How could it possibly feel good? He always feels so tight, to Stan.

When the plates are cleared, Kyle asks for a to go cup for his water, and proceeds to dump the remains of his third Bloody Mary into it. Stan finishes off his beer and grabs for the check when it comes.

"I'm treating," he says. "Since I'm your host."

"Fine," Kyle says, and he sips from his to go cup. "You seem well paid, anyway, for an intern."

"I'm still getting grant money for my research."

"You're so impressive," Kyle says. He seems distraught about this. "All I do is write these stupid little articles."

"They're not stupid," Stan says, though he hasn't read them. He doesn't like the haughty voice Kyle puts on when he writes nonfiction.

"They are, Stan. And I have roommates! At my age!"

"Lots of people have roommates in their twenties."

"You don't."

"Rent is cheaper here! By far."

"That's true," Kyle says, and he seems comforted by this. Stan leaves a good tip, though the service wasn't great. Kyle gets out his phone and starts up a map program that will tell them how to walk to the Margaret Mitchell museum. Stan feeds the parking meter before they go.

"You actually have cash!" Kyle says. "Coins, even!"

"Will you stop acting like everything I do is so quaint?" Stan says, and that puts Kyle in a dark, quiet mood for the entire walk. He finishes his to-go Bloody Mary and pitches the cup into a trash can before they enter the museum, which is in an old house that Stan has noticed before, two stories with a manicured little lawn.

"This city smells," Kyle says. "Not that New York doesn't, but this is an odd smell, on the streets here. Like decay. Or mildew."

"Hmm," Stan says. "I hadn't noticed."

Inside the museum, they're ushered into the gift shop to await the start of the next tour. The Gone With the Wind theme is playing overhead, and the place is cluttered with kitsch related to the movie, which is playing on a TV screen near the check out desk. Stan examines some Tara Plantation snow globes while Kyle scoffs at a themed cookbook, drawing the stares of a few old ladies who are circulating while awaiting the tour. So Kyle is drunk again: great. Stan kind of wishes he was, too. He's only seen Gone with the Wind once, with Wendy, and she talked about how offensive it was the whole time. Stan fell asleep before the Intermission.

"Christ," Kyle says, coming over to Stan. "This place is dark."

"Do you want to leave?" Stan asks, though they've already bought tickets for the tour.

"No! I love it. It's dark in a hilariously appropriate way. Jesus, look at these women." He seemed to be referring to the portly lady behind the register. "What if this was your life?"

"Don't be mean," Stan says. Kyle turns to examine the snow globes. When the tour guide calls for the group to gather at the entrance to the main part of the house, Stan tugs on Kyle's elbow. His stomach drops when Kyle turns to face him, his lip trembling. He looks like he's about to burst into tears. "Dude?" Stan says, squeezing his arm. "You okay?"

"I just -- I know I'm being mean." Kyle pinches his eyes shut and shakes his head. "No, Jesus, no. I'm not breaking down in the middle of the fucking Gone with the Wind gift shop."

"What's wrong?" Stan asks. "Do you want to go? It's okay--"

"No," Kyle says, and his eyes are still red, but the imminent threat of sobs seems to have passed. He sniffles. "Let's go, let's do some fucking touring."

"You can make fun of these old ladies if you want," Stan says, confused. "I don't really care."

"Yes, you do. You do, because you're a good person. And I'm not. C'mon."

"Kyle--"

The whole tour group is staring at them, and Kyle seems determined to join them. He marches over to stand in the semi circle of women who are gathered around the tour guide.

Stan can't pay attention to the tour, though he doubts it would interest him anyway. The rooms where Margaret Mitchell lived are small, full of antiques and replicas. Stan wanders around behind Kyle sheepishly, watching him touch things that they've been instructed to please not touch. Does Kyle really think he's a bad person? Why? Stan wants to take him home and make sweet love to him for the remainder of the day. Extra sweet, to make up for those crammed-in fingers and the threat of a whole hand. He shudders, remembering it too vividly yet again.

Kyle is clearly fighting back tears for the entirety of the tour. Stan tries to comfort him with little touches to his back and brushes of his hand against Kyle's. He figures the Margaret Mitchell museum has seen its share of tipsy gay men who've just come from brunch at Babs, so he might as well be obvious, but Kyle is not receptive to his touches, and won't even look him in the eye.

"Are you mad at me?" Stan asks when they finally leave. He feels like they were in there for hours. Kyle groans and looks up at the sky.

"Jesus, Stan. Why would I be mad at you? I'm mad at myself."

"For making fun of a Gone with the Wind enthusiast?"

"No! Yes -- I don't know. It's representative of how I am. How I've become. And I'm so fucking mean to you. I'm hideous."

"You're beautiful," Stan says, pulling Kyle's hip against his while they walk. "Don't talk like that. It's been a little tense between us, but that's not your fault. I never should have tried to -- put my hand in you."

"It was my idea!"

"Yeah. Why? I mean, can you explain to me what you like about it?"

"I've never actually done it!" Kyle says, giving him a scandalized look.

"Oh. So you just wanted to try it, um. With me, 'cause you trust me?"

"No! Well, of course I trust you, but no. I don't think -- this is disgusting and childish, but I wanted to see what you would say. How far you would get with it before you called my bluff."

"Dude! That's awful!"

"I know! Okay, I know. I was drunk. It was stupid. Let's try to forget it."

"Why do you want me calling your bluff? You know I just want to give you everything you want. Um, in bed, I mean."

Kyle is silent in response to that, sniffling again. They reach the car, and Stan feels awkward once they're closed inside it together. He wishes he knew what to say.

"I felt like such an idiot," he says once they're on the road, headed back toward his apartment. "When I couldn't do it."

"I'm sorry," Kyle says, and he sobs once. Stan reaches over to squeeze his thigh.

"It's not your fault, Kyle. I'm just insecure. I -- I wish -- I wish you were my boyfriend, okay? I hate that you aren't."

"I am, though!" Kyle says, and Stan turns to look at him, frowning.

"Huh?"

"I -- we -- I think of you as mine. I know you sleep with other people, and I do, too, but you're -- oh, Jesus. All this time I thought we were both just waiting until we lived in the same state again."

"I'll probably be here for a while," Stan says, glumly. "And I know what you mean. Ugh, God, I just want to possess you."

"That makes me hard," Kyle says. He sounds glum, too. "Though fundamentally I of course object to the idea of being anyone's possession."

"Of course."

"You just make it seem so appealing, the idea of being yours."

"I would treat you so right, Kyle."

Kyle groans in response to that, and Stan glances over to see him unsubtly kneading his crotch.

"What?" Kyle says, blushing. "You started it."

"I'm gonna take you up to my apartment," Stan says, reaching over to squeeze Kyle's dick through his expensive-looking pants, "And I'm gonna take such good care of you. All night long, you're gonna be mine, just mine."

"Your boyfriend," Kyle says, his voice a little squeaky with shame. "Say it, okay?"

"You're my boyfriend."

Kyle moans and nods, lifting his hips, trying to fuck Stan's hand. Stan gets honked at in his building's parking garage for driving like an idiot, and he parks unevenly. As they jog for the elevator, laughing at themselves, he's reminded of high school, how unrestrained they were at last, always in a hurry to get somewhere private and put their hands down each other's pants. It feels that way again as soon as they throw themselves into Stan's apartment, Stan kicking the door shut behind him, not even bothering to lock it. They end up half in the kitchen, half in the foyer, using olive oil for lube.

"You like that," Stan says, a lot, maybe too many times. It's not a question, and he watches Kyle's face, unblinking, while he drags his dick out slow and shoves it back in with a snap of his hips that makes them both grunt. "You like that, Kyle."

"Ahhh, I do, I really do, Stan-"

"I know you do. Who knows what Kyle likes?" This a weird sub-branch of dirty talk, but Kyle moans as if he approves.

"Stan does, hahh, only my Stan does."

"That's right. Mhm-hmm, just like that, that's what you like."

It might be the most nuts they've ever sounded during sex, but no one is around to hear them. When they're done, breathing hard with their legs in the kitchen and the rest of them stretched into the small foyer, Kyle rolls against Stan and roots at his chest like a baby animal who needs coddling. Stan is so very good with baby animals. He entered college thinking he would be a vet, but he's never been able to stomach the raw insides of anything, especially if it's something cute and fragile that he loves.

"I feel oily," Kyle says.

"Well, sure. You've got oil, uh. All over your thigh and ass area."

Kyle snorts and grins up at Stan. "You're the only person who ever truly made me enjoy that area," he says. "Even when it's an oily, come soaked mess."

"We can shower," Stan says, not sure how else to respond.

"No, let's bathe. That's so much more - Stan, you know, I'm a writer."

"Yeah, I do know that."

"I don't need - ah. I don't need to be in New York in order to write for this magazine. I mean, I think they'd prefer that I stay there, because it's the center of the universe and I'm supposed to know what goes on in the universe, centrally, and - fuck, from what I've seen so far, this city is an icky, weird, no public transportation nightmare, but. Shit, I don't know if I'm trying to talk you into this or me out of it."

"How 'bout this," Stan says. His mind is always uniquely clear after great sex, and this has only ever happened with Kyle. He's come to the conclusion that there is just no great sex without Kyle. "How about you stay here for longer than a weekend. Try a week, or a month. If you miss New York and hate Atlanta, you can go back for a while. And then you can come back here."

"That's so environmentally irresponsible."

"Kyle, somebody's going to use the jet fuel. It might as well be you."

"Stan!" Kyle sits up, grinning, and attempts to fix his hair, getting oil and come into his curls in the process. "How unlike you to be so callous about the planet. And anyway, I can't - I'd be wasting rent money on the apartment in New York while I turn into a roly poly here on your couch."

"How come you'd be a roly poly?"

"I don't know - all the breakfast potatoes!"

"Dude, they totally have those in New York."

"Yeah, but not as - egregiously, I don't know. Not in these portions, and no one takes me to brunch in New York anyway. Okay, no, I just - I need to wash this oil spill out of my ass before we continue this dialogue."

They take a bath together, bringing each other off again in the lukewarm water. Kyle falls asleep on Stan's chest, leaning back against him, worn out. Stan holds Kyle and lets the water start to cool, wondering if they'll talk more seriously about Kyle moving here when he wakes. It seems insane: Kyle, here, going to Lenox Mall and eating biscuits with gravy, melting in the heat, buying a car? Stan can't see it, but then again: he's picturing it, vividly, by the time Kyle wakes up and asks Stan what's happening.

"You're in the bath," Stan says. He sits up, pushing Kyle upright along with him, and tugs the drain open. "You fell asleep, but now you're all clean. Ready to get out?"

"Ready," Kyle says, and Stan helps him to the bed, where Kyle sleeps for another two hours while Stan catches up on work-related email. Kyle has sent him an Outlook invite: REMINDER: Dinner at Bacchanalia, 8pm. Stan hasn't tried this place yet, but he's heard about it. He's impressed that Kyle has done this much research, and it kind of seems like he knows the city better than Stan has managed to in almost a year here. Stan eats sandwiches from the Starbucks in his building lobby for about fifty percent of his meals, and sleeps through brunch on Sundays. Having Kyle here would make it different, though Stan suspects Kyle will want to flee for a glitzier location sooner or later. It's the magic of the two of them that they have fled, and fled, and fled, and clawed their way back together at every available interval.

(the end)