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It’s Friday afternoon and Stan is on his way to Kyle’s house. The temperature outside is a biting 15 degrees, but still he walks. First semester finals week has just come to a close, and Stan has no desire to delay his winter break any longer. Though equally enthusiastic about spending the upcoming weeks binging on junk food while marathoning movies on the couch, Kyle mentioned additional plans to work vigorously on SAT prep. Stan wants to catch him while he’s still exhausted from late nights studying for finals, apathetic about picking up another academic workload.
Kyle is dressed in ratty basketball shorts and a too-big sweatshirt when he lets Stan in, seemingly having not left the house all day. He looks so comfortable that Stan thinks about how it might feel to be hugged by him, absorbed by his warmth, still frozen himself from the outdoors. Stan strips off his stiff weatherproof jacket and throws it on the floor with his boots, long accustomed to taking them off at the Broflovski house. Kyle picks up the coat and hangs it on the above set of hooks meant to store his family’s gear.
“How long are they gonna be out?” Stan questions, noting how the foyer is empty of its usual coats and shoes.
“I dunno, a few hours probably. Ike has a hockey game.”
“Oh, sweet.”
“Yeah, seems like they’ve been doing pretty well this year. He still misses you as coach, though.” He smirks up at Stan. Kyle hasn’t been required to attend Ike’s hockey games in years, a fact Stan is thankful for because it means he can come to his football games instead. Ike is in seventh grade now; he doesn’t really care either way. Neither does Gerald, for that matter: the obligation was mainly to appease Sheila who, nearing the finish line of raising one of her two teenage sons, has since decided some things just aren’t worth the battle.
“Ha, yeah, right. No thanks.”
Stan runs to the fridge to grab himself a can of Dr. Pepper while Kyle takes a seat on the couch. Based on the dirty plate and TV remote sitting beside him, Stan figures he was doing the same before he arrived, likely playing the new Call of Duty.
“Hope you weren’t planning on going anywhere today, because I’m not moving,” Kyle calls out to Stan as he enters the living room again. He’s clearly agitated about something, but Stan figures it’s nothing a little downtime couldn’t fix.
“Nah, I’m cool with just staying in.”
“Wanna play Advanced Warfare? We can do split-screen.”
“Sure.” Stan doesn’t quite share Kyle’s enthusiasm for the game, but he’s okay with it. He sits down next to Kyle, leaving little space between them as usual. When Kyle first got his laptop, they realized they had to sit close together, heads nearly touching, if they both wanted to view the flash games and imbecilic YouToob videos displayed on the screen. It became routine thereafter, neither of them seeing a point in restoring a barrier in their friendship.
This time, however, Kyle shifts away so his back is against the armrest of the couch and starts pressing on Stan’s leg with his foot. When Stan doesn’t immediately move, he puts forth a more aggressive shove that reverberates in Stan’s quads. “Move. I wanna lay down.”
“Okay, alright,” Stan defensively concedes. “What’s up your ass today, man?”
Kyle pauses, dramatically lingering his foot in the air mid-kick like a child. Stan just laughs. When he’s pissed off at Cartman, Kyle is a terrifying, fortified, blazing wildfire. When he’s angry with Stan, he’s kind of adorable: dramatic in a ridiculous way that Stan could never feel genuinely threatened by. They know too much about each other; their bond isn’t pressurized by petty disagreements and moodiness. Stan can’t contain his smile when he goes to grab Kyle’s foot and twist his leg in revenge for the harsh treatment.
“Hey, wait, I don’t think I can-“
Overcome with sudden delight, Stan pounces on Kyle and pins him to the couch, close enough that his own heaving chest presses against Kyle’s with each breath.
“Ow! Fuck…”
Stan releases Kyle’s hands and pushes himself off of his legs so Kyle can squirm away. “Oh, shit! Did I hurt you?”
“No! It’s just, I- well, yeah. Sorry...”
“Don’t apologize, um…” There’s something unspoken lingering in the air, making things awkward, tense. Stan doesn’t quite know what to say. It was a rather light push, all things considered, and Kyle has never expressed discomfort with being playfully tackled by any of his male friends, especially Stan. He’s not writhing in pain either, like the kind of reaction one would expect from a dude struck in the balls. Rather, Kyle just seems uncomfortable, a little shy.
“…What hurts?”
“It’s just, um… my chest,” Kyle says softly, almost a whisper, even though they’re the only ones home.
“Like, your heart? Or…” Stan pats his front and back pants pockets in search of his phone, making sure he’s prepared to call 9-1-1 if needed.
“No! My insulin is fine, I checked earlier, it’s… okay, this is going to sound weird, but…”
Stan furrows his eyebrows in anticipation, irritated and slightly offended that Kyle has been keeping some sort of secret and is so afraid to reveal it to him, of all people.
“…you know how girls have… y’know, breasts?”
Stan’s annoyance disappears and is promptly replaced by confusion. Yes, he does know that girls have breasts, and he has become quite familiar with them over the years, thank you very much. Is this some sort of joke? Stan remains silent, waiting for the punchline.
“I, uh, also have them. Um. Breasts.”
What the fuck?
“What?”
(What the fuck.)
“Um, I’m just kind of sore right now, that’s all,” Kyle responds, as if it’s any further clarification for what he just said.
“Sorry, let me just…” if this isn’t a joke, Stan wants to be respectful of Kyle’s privacy, careful not to treat him like some sort of freak. “You have…” Stan makes two cups with his hands and gestures towards his own chest, “boobs?”
Kyle makes an unamused face at Stan’s crude visual clarification implying he has at least double-Ds. Anyone with eyes can tell he isn’t that large.
“I have gynecomastia. It’s a hormonal imbalance that makes me grow breasts, yes.”
Kyle broaches the subject as medically as possible, but his words have the opposite effect on Stan, who feels a weird tingling in his dick at the word “grow”, the implication that Kyle is in a tender, vulnerable state, undergoing an uncomfortable physical transformation and is in need of Stan’s support.
“And it… hurts?” Stan has come to understand that boobs aren’t just lumps of unresponsive flesh through complaints about period pain from Wendy, but ultimately he can’t empathize. Is it different for guys?
“Yeah. It’s sort of like, um… pressing on a deep bruise.”
“Oh.” Stan grits his teeth and tries not to imagine Kyle lying in bed moaning complaints about his sore boobs. Stan would climb in next to him, wrap an arm around his waist, and tell him to take it easy for the day. Maybe even rub his shoulders a bit while teasing his neck with occasional kisses and affectionate licks, trying to keep himself from reaching under Kyle’s oversized sweatshirt to gently fondle his chest.
“Yeah, I usually wear something to compress them, that’s why you can’t see them. But it gets uncomfortable, and we were just planning on staying inside today, so…” Kyle shifts slightly in a way that loosens the front of his sweatshirt away from his chest. Stan assumes this must mean he’s so sensitive that the fabric is irritating his nipples. The tingling is back, stronger this time, and Stan draws his knees to his chest and sits up straighter on the couch to keep any possibility of an awkward hard-on concealed. He’s a little aroused, but fascinated, too, wanting to help Kyle in whatever way he can.
“You wear, like, a bra?”
There’s a little bit of hurt in Kyle’s face at that, like he’s anticipating being teased. “No! It’s uh, it’s called a binder. Here, wait…” Kyle gets up and heads to his room.
Oh god, he’s actually going to show Stan his… binder. Stan didn’t mean to patronize Kyle, he’s just ignorant, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t curious as to what Kyle would look like in gaudy, black, push-up lace like the models in the Victoria’s Secret catalog they flipped through and made fun of the other day after Kyle found it in Ike’s room. Or maybe he’d prefer something a little more practical: a simple, standard, underwire bra that provided enough support while also flattering his feminine curves. Kyle could sometimes be particular about his clothes, maybe he’d be one of those girls who always needed to match with his…
Okay, Stan needs to stop. Kyle isn’t a girl and he doesn’t wear panties.
Kyle returns holding a simple cropped black tank top that looks to be way too small. “Here,” he holds it out when Stan presumptively reaches out for it, “you can touch it. It’s clean.”
Not that Stan would mind too much if it were worn. The binder really isn’t anything special, it just looks like a shirt, maybe something he’d find in Wendy’s closet. Though, it’s small size makes it look uncomfortable to adorn even for someone with a flat chest. “You wear this every day?”
“Pretty much, yeah. Only when I go out.” He reaches out to accept it back from Stan.
“Since when?”
“About sixth grade, I think…”
“Huh…” It tears Stan up inside a little bit to imagine Kyle going through such an upsetting development alone at that age. He doesn’t know how he would feel if he knew about it then, but he hopes he would’ve been there to comfort Kyle and keep his secret safe. No, he knows he would have.
“So, wanna play some Xbox?”
“What? Oh, yeah, sure.” Kyle jumps on the opportunity to change the subject, but Stan needs a minute to recollect, suddenly aware of his breathing. He doesn’t want Kyle to think he sees him any differently, though frankly he does. Should he say something to reassure Kyle? The moment has passed, Stan decides. Kyle is flipping through his games. He seems completely over the conversation.
As they play, Stan instinctively steals short glances at Kyle’s chest, trying to discern any noticeable shape. As Kyle relaxes, Stan is able to pick up some small curves through his thick, baggy sweatshirt, so barely visible that it could be written off as his imagination. Then, Kyle shifts again, discreetly moving the fabric so it can’t conform to his body.
“Can you stop?”
“Huh? Stop wha…” Stan pretends to be immersed in the game.
Kyle hits pause, forcing Stan’s gaze back in his direction. “Stop looking at me, dude.” His emphasis on the word “looking” implies that he knows where Stan is focusing. “Ugh, it’s weird and disgusting, I know. I shouldn’t have told you.”
“Woah, wait, dude. I’m sorry, but I don’t think it’s disgusting or weird or whatever. Promise. Actually… I think it’s kind of cool.”
Kyle relaxes a bit, though still apprehensive. The binder lies between them on the couch: a visual representation of Kyle’s liberation from both the physical confines of flattening his chest and the burden of keeping such an intimate secret from his Super Best Friend.
“Cool?”
“Yeah! I mean, girls have boobs, and that’s cool. Remember when all the boys first noticed Bebe’s boobs? We all thought she was really cool.”
“Sure, I guess…” somehow Kyle doubts the other boys in his grade would regard his breasts as highly as they did (and still do) Bebe’s.
“So… you don’t have to hide it around me. If it’s more comfortable not to wear that thing, I don’t care. I’m not gonna judge you.” Fuck. Stan just wants to see them, that’s what it comes down to. The only other encounter Stan has had with boobs was during a heated makeout session with Wendy in eighth grade while on a “study date” in her bedroom. Stan remembers shoving his hand up her shirt to palm at her through her padded bra. It was lame and juvenile. Stan never got the chance to redeem himself before they broke up the following summer for good.
“Okay, thanks, man,” Kyle mutters in affirmation. He smiles at Stan in a soft way that reaches his eyes. “I’m gonna take this off, then. It’s getting kinda hot.”
Fuck, it sure is, Stan thinks. He didn’t think Kyle was wearing anything underneath the sweatshirt, but he lifts up the hem to reveal a plain white wifebeater, the kind Stan wears to bed and has seen Kenny strip down to during rare occasions when they’re all hanging out at his house. It’s sheer enough to where the shadow of Kyle’s nipples are perceptible through the fabric.
Stan is so turned on he’s going to die.
They’re not big, round, perky pornstar tits by any means: probably A or B cups if Stan had to guess with his limited expertise on bra sizes. They suit Kyle’s otherwise average body, making him look softer, more delicate. Stan has seen Kyle at his most explosive, voracious. For him to expose himself like this to Stan means the entire world. Stan’s perverted mind can’t help but take this complete & utter trust and twist it into a form of submission.
Kyle unpauses the game and they play for a little while, with Stan stealing restrained glances every so often. The room is comfortably heated but not warm by any means: they’re both still in their hats. It doesn’t really make sense for Kyle to have taken off his sweatshirt, but Stan doesn’t pursue the thought any further when he notices from the corner of his eye Kyle’s nipples poking out slightly.
They’re still puffy, not firm in the way he’s seen on girls in the racy pictures Kenny’s forwarded him via Instagram DMs. Stan tries not to think about Kyle’s nipples getting hard from his own interference instead. Lifting up Kyle’s shirt to expose his chest to the cool air. Kissing down his sternum… Kyle squirming from just the tickle of Stan’s breath on his nipples, flushed rosy pink all the way down…
Stan is fully hard now, his jeans tight & constricting in a way they aren’t usually. He wants to leave the room to jerk off, away from Kyle and his beautiful boobies. He also wants to take a picture of them to save for later. There’s a rumpled blanket on the couch to his right. Stan pulls it over himself to cover his lap, faking a shiver when Kyle looks over him in questioning. He feels a jolt of excitement in his groin when they make eye contact. Fuuuckkk…
Kyle doesn’t seem too bothered by the temperature or his pebbling chest. Stan wonders what he would think about his best friend finding his boobs hot. Maybe Kyle already picked up on it, and is pretending not to notice how Stan’s fascination is sexual in nature to avoid any stress in their friendship. Or maybe, just maybe, Kyle has noticed and doesn’t actually mind his wandering gaze, fully aware that his secret is kindling Stan’s most deviant desires. ‘Stan…’ he’d say, dramatically red with arousal, ‘do you want to see them?’
Stan would nod, too afraid to speak and ruin the moment. He envisions a trepid Kyle slowly peeling up his undershirt, so tight it could be glued to his skin, until his little breasts are falling out, wearing his rolled-up top under his armpits. Stan would stare in awe; he would make Kyle understand how beautiful he thinks he is.
He would ask, ’Can I touch you?’
Stan would start at his stomach, wary about moving too fast. He would trace up his ribcage, feeling out Kyle’s response. Only Stan knows that Kyle is ticklish on his sides: he would shiver at the brush of Stan’s fingertips as they slide up each protruding bone.
Maybe Kyle would tell him to get on with it already, hardening in his own basketball shorts from the teasing. Or perhaps Stan would need to look up at him for unspoken permission, a slight nod of the head to let him know it was okay for him to begin groping, starting with the underside of his rounded curves. Stan would caress the perimeter delicately, worshiping Kyle’s chest. Then, only if he were permitted, Stan would take one of Kyle’s breasts in his hand, and then the other, appreciating their petiteness by the way his palm neatly encompasses each tit. He wouldn’t apply too much pressure; he would be careful. The last thing he would ever want to do is hurt Kyle.
Stan’s first boob-grab experience pops back into his mind, an unwelcome intruder to the fantasy. It’s not an entirely different scenario on paper, but to Stan it's a banal memory in comparison. He remembers forcefully pinning Wendy down in a harsh, sweaty display of masculinity, aggressively grabbing at her with clammed-up palms before she could tell him to calm down. Stan wouldn’t be that assertive with Kyle. Unless he asked for it… but Stan gets off on the idea of Kyle being so sensitive that even the slightest of touches drives him wild, completely surrendering to the sensation of Stan’s warm, dry hands brushing over the delicate skin of his breasts.
He’d squeeze Kyle gently for his own gratification, then remove his hands and let the shock of the cool air returning to Kyle’s skin pebble his nipples once again. Stan imagines Kyle making feminine, high-pitched gasps and moans: entirely unrealistic but overwhelmingly sexy. In reality, he’d probably grunt softly, whispering expletives while hiding in Stan’s shoulder. Stan would shrug Kyle’s head up, aching to see his face, and silence him with his lips.
At some point in the fantasy they’ve moved closer. Stan doesn’t know how it would happen, but they’d go from Kyle diffidently lifting up his shirt for a curious Stan to full-on making out and dry humping. The setting has changed from the couch to Kyle’s bed, and they’re in their pajamas, ready for a sleepover. Stan is in flannel pants and a t-shirt, his cock feeling free against the soft, breathable fabric. Kyle has long outgrown his Terrence & Phillip pajamas, but the thought enters Stan’s mind nonetheless. He’d look so innocent that Stan shuts it down right away and makes him wear Stan’s own pajama pants instead. With Stan being a size bigger, they’d sit low and loose on his hips: he’d look good. He’d look great. Stan can wear boxers, or nothing, he doesn’t care too much about envisioning himself, just Kyle’s reddened face, overwhelmed by pleasure and need.
Back in reality, Stan’s dick is still trapped in his jeans, growing harder and sorer with every new turn of his imagination. Kyle seems to have no idea, despite Stan’s awful gameplay. The round ends in their defeat, but Stan hardly notices. He’s planning his getaway to the bathroom to go get off. Will Kyle notice his hard-on? Maybe if he’s quick enough…
“Dude, that was weak. I’m gonna go make popcorn, then we’re going another round. Try not to suck next time.”
Oh, thank god.
Once Kyle leaves, Stan puts his controller down and runs upstairs to the bathroom, Kyle’s bathroom, as it's the only one he’s allowed to use in the Broflovski house. Though, doing this in Kyle’s parents’ bathroom would arguably be far worse. Stan’s fingers scramble to undo the button of his jeans and then the zipper, already feeling relief when he lets them fall to his knees. He slips his boxers down too, letting his cock spring free. Stan wastes no time in wrapping his hand around his pulsing hardness and stroking up and down. He immerses himself in the fantasy once again, Kyle’s voice echoing through his mind.
‘We’re going another round…’
Stan knows it wasn’t sexual, but he can't help but imagine what it would sound like to someone eavesdropping from outside the room. He’s got it now: Kyle would be the aggressive one. Of course. The thought makes his dick twitch, and he can't help but shiver at the image that pops into his head, of what someone could have assumed. What he wished was really happening when they wrestled: Kyle holding Stan’s hands above his head, pinning him to the mattress, begging to be touched. Stan is the larger of the two, but he’d give up easily under Kyle’s sexual commandeering.
There’s lotion on the bathroom counter. Stan eyes it guiltily, weighing the pros and cons of using it to get himself more slick. He concludes that there’s no way Kyle could even notice. Upon squirting some into his hand, he realizes this is what Kyle uses fresh out of the shower: the smell is unmistakable. It smells like Kyle’s sheets, like climbing into his bed freshly washed after a long day of swimming or a grueling baseball match. Stan closes his eyes and smells the lotion on his hand, then brings it to his dick and pumps, long and slow, warming himself up. He thinks of Kyle’s clean skin, moisturized and soft. Maybe he’d let Stan apply it for him one day. He could rub it over his back and shoulders where Kyle couldn’t reach, and then slowly migrate to his chest, grazing his oiled fingertips up Kyle’s most delicate, sensitive parts.
‘Try not to suck next time…’
The word “suck” in Kyle’s inflection lodges itself in Stan’s mind, a treasured syllable to be echoed over and over until it can’t be forgotten. Removed from its context, the insult to his gaming ability transmutes into a forceful command: Kyle ordering Stan to suck on his tits. Stan shudders at the thought of being dominated in this way, ordered to please Kyle in ways he would like to do anyways, even without the verbal instruction. With just a few acute licks, Kyle would yield to Stan’s supple tongue, dropping the tough act and quivering at the feeling of having his nipples played with, biting his fist to muffle his soft, desperate moans.
Stan picks up the pace, jerking himself off with fervor. He’s leaking from the tip, his own pre becoming congealed in the lotion. He imagines Kyle bending down to taste him in curious, hesitant, kitten-licks to the head of his cock.
Having been hard for so long, Stan comes quick, busting partially into his hand and the toilet. He cleans himself up using a wad of tissue, which he flushes. The process feels oddly medical and leaves Stan too aware of his solitude. He longs for after-sex comfort rituals: him wiping both of them clean with a towel, Kyle helping him back into his jeans, still taking advantage of any excuse to touch each other, remain close, share the same air.
Stan buttons his pants, smooths his hat down a bit, and descends back down the stairs. Kyle sits cross-crossed in his same spot on the couch, idly watching the pause screen of the game while picking from the large popcorn bowl resting in his lap.
“Took you long enough,” Kyle remarks when Stan sits down next to him.
“Yeah, I was taking a shit.”
“Dude, gross.” Kyle gives him a playful shove. Is everything back to normal? They’ve fought and wrestled and shoved each other hundreds of times, but it takes Stan a moment to register the contact. Something feels different. The press lingers on Stan’s skin and they lock eyes. Kyle pulls his arm back and shifts away so pointedly that Stan knows he’s registered his discomfiture. He wishes he could read Kyle’s mind, or at least have the courage to pull him closer and plead that he keep touching him and never let go.
Instead, he looks at floor, the TV, anywhere but Kyle’s face, who retires the still-warm bowl of popcorn to the coffee table.
“Um, It’s getting kind of late.”
“Yeah,” Stan concurs pathetically. “I think I might head out.”
“Okay, that’s cool… see you later?”
Stan puts on his jacket and slips on his boots, not bothering to secure the laces. He knows there’s visible cowardice in his eyes, so he barely looks up to nod in Kyle’s direction and wave a curt goodbye. Then, he’s out the door, a fugitive. South Park’s frigid winter breeze hits him like a high-speed freight train derailed. He’s frozen down to his bones, but it’s okay, as long as he knows Kyle will be sleeping comfortably in a well-heated house tonight.