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“Hey dude, if neither of us are married by the time we’re like, thirty, do you think we should marry each other?” Stan kept his eyes trained on the project in front of him as he asked. He forced nonchalance, but he wasn’t sure why. His stomach hurt a little bit, and he also wasn’t sure why. “Like, as best friends.”
Kyle huffed a laugh next to him and sent the camera shutter going with a click! “Sure man, as best friends. Why not? I hear the girls making marriage pacts like that all the time.”
Stan molded the arms on his little clay figurine, moving them a fraction of a centimeter downward. “Yeah, me too. I think Wendy has one with Bebe, so if they go through with that, then I’m shit out of luck.”
The two of them were working on an end-of-year claymation project for their art class. Stan thought it was bullshit– despite being more artistically inclined, he found the process grating and tedious at best, but Kyle seemed to enjoy the monotonous routine. Stand, move, click! , stand, move, click! -- rinse and repeat. But Kyle only had to man the camera, press a single button over and over and over; Stan was growing bored of moving their little clay figurine incrementally over such a long span of time. He wasn’t sure what the final product would look like, and by this point he wasn’t sure he cared.
Maybe that’s why he had started to steer the conversation in a direction that his dad likely would have called “faggy”-- out of sheer boredom and nothing else. Or maybe it was the heat.
Kyle paused his shutter-clicking to wipe the sweat off his brow, and run a hand through his thick mass of red curls. They had both been forced to forego their hats today; it was nearly summertime, and though the end of spring wasn’t historically hot in Colorado, South Park had been hit by a particularly unruly heat wave halfway through the week. To add insult to injury, the two of them had no choice but to set the project up in Stan’s backyard– not only was the heat stifling, but the constant change in the sun’s position made for some pretty terribly-lit shots.
“I wish we were inside with the fan,” Kyle groaned. Stan nodded and, while distractedly watching his friend’s hair bounce in the sun, accidentally slipped one full finger into the clay figure. “I think our guy is melting a little.”
‘A little’ was an understatement–- the now-shapeless mass of warm clay had begun to stick to the surface of the folding blue card table that served as their set.
“Ugh, dude, this blows!” Stan whined. He flopped backwards onto the grass in resignation; the grass was brown and crispy and handling this heat wave about as well as Stan himself was. The sun beat down on him aggressively. He threw an arm over his eyes in response. “Too hot to be outside. Can’t go inside because of my stupid parents, or because of my stupid sister.”
“Or my brother,” Kyle agreed. Stan felt him slump down onto the ground by his side.
They had initially started out at the Broflovski household, on Kyle’s kitchen table–- but his little brother was at the age where he couldn’t live without being a constant nuisance. After half an hour of Ike trying to fiddle with the camera, or ask questions, or play with the clay figure, Kyle became so fed up that he declared they would be moving next door to Stan’s house.
Stan had obliged, naturally, but the two of them had barely even set up in the Marsh kitchen before Sharon and Randy decided it was the perfect time to get into their daily screaming match. So here they were, outside in the sweltering heat, attempting to get through a project that was due the next day.
“Hey, you know what?” Kyle remarked. Stan lifted his arm to glance at his friend. He was watching a lone cloud float by, and Stan decided to do the same. “I don’t think your sister has even tried to beat on you all year. So I’d call that a win, at least.”
“That’s true.” Stan hadn’t really thought about it. He listened to his parents’ harsh voices carry through the sliding glass door– nowadays, it was him and Shelley against them, not each other.
The two of them laid on the grass in silence for what felt like forever. Between watching the single, thin cloud float lazily across the sky, Stan caught glimpses of Kyle on the ground next to him. Sweat seeped through his best friend’s shirt as well as his own, and Kyle’s eyes were closed against the midday sun. His skin was freckled and pale, and his long, closed eyelashes a unique sort of light brown. His nose was sturdy and curved downward, just like his mother’s. Kyle was kind of cute, Stan supposed for what must have been the third time today. Not cute in the same way Wendy was cute, of course, but still cute nonetheless. Even if he wasn’t quite sure what that difference was.
Stan heard something break in the distance from inside the house.
“Think my mom threw another plate at him,” He groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose and sitting up. He caught sight of his parents inside through the sliding glass door– whatever Randy had done this time (and Stan didn’t doubt for a second that it was his fault), he didn’t look remorseful in the slightest.
“Your dad’s such an ass rammer, dude,” Kyle said from the ground beside him. “I’d say come live with me, but you know my mom’s kind of… overbearing.”
“I wish they would get divorced for real this time.” Despite four (or was it five now?) separations, his parents never seemed to be able to make a split stick. Stan wished they would just get it over with. He added, hesitantly, “Do you think if we went through with a marriage pact, we’d end up like them?”
Kyle cracked an eye open to look at him. His eyes were a deep brown, but caught the sunlight just right to look like liquid gold. “Obviously not.”
Stan’s teeth worried the inside of his lip. “How do you know, though?”
“Because, dumbass,” Kyle sat up and flicked him square in the middle of the forehead. “We’re both boys! Only moms and dads get caught up in that shit. If it’s two dudes, it cancels out– I think Kenny told me that one time.”
“Ohhh…” That made sense to Stan. “Yeah, dude, you’re totally right.”
“Girls are nothing but trouble, anyway.” Kyle stood up and yanked Stan to his feet with practiced ease. His hand lingered on the other boy’s wrist as they stood next to each other, staring unenthusiastically at the ever-melting remains of their art project. A sheen of sweat still lingered on Stan’s forehead, and body, and in all the wrong places common for a twelve year-old boy. Dirt was smeared across their shorts and backs from the ground.
Kyle asked: “Should we, uh… get back to work?” Stan looked at the table, then back to his friend with a grimace. Kyle’s hand was still on his wrist, and Stan’s stomach felt funny again. He wondered if it was something he ate.
“I’m gonna be honest, dude, I would rather die than have to keep working on this thing right now.”
“Wanna skip class and work on it tomorrow?” Kyle’s face looked a bit pink– he was prone to sunburns, Stan guessed. “We could go to Stark’s Pond and go swimming right now.”
For Kyle, of all people, to suggest skipping a class this close to the end of the year, in favor of actually doing something fun? There wasn’t a world in which Stan could possibly refuse.
“Only if we don’t invite Cartman,” He said, swinging their attached arms back and forth as they began to walk away from their project, now all but abandoned. His parents were still going at it in the house– Stan couldn’t give less of a shit at the moment if he tried.
Kyle snorted. “Yeah, dude. Only if we don’t invite Cartman.”
“Good. I hate that guy.”
“Me too.”