The Scenic Route

Chapter 13

"You did not." Stan sounds fine. Not wrecked, not wanting. Tears burn behind Kyle's eyelids, and he keeps his lashes closed over them.

"Did too," Cartman says. "Check this out."

"Holy shit!"

"Hey, Kyle, wake up! Look at my money."

"Leave him alone." Now Stan is all predatory; this is what he likes. Protecting Kyle, keeping him in mint condition, unused on Stan's shelf.

"Whatever, dickwads. I'm gonna go get my own room. A super awesome suite, and you guys can't come."

"You're going to blow that money on half a night in some cheesy hotel room? Cartman, you asshole. You should give that money to Kenny."

"Fuck no! Are you crazy? I earned this with my amazing card playing skills. That broke piece of shit and his little lap dog can find their own way."

"You're going to hell," Stan says. Cartman laughs.

"Yeah, okay. See you there, homo. Have fun taking pictures of Kyle while he sleeps. I'll be up in my suite, watching title fights on a 60-inch flat screen. See you in the morning, fags."

"Maybe you can find your own fucking way home!" Stan shouts, but Cartman just slips out the door, disappearing again. Kyle wipes away the only tear that escaped before Stan can see it. His chest is jittery with the effort of holding the others in, but he can do it, he has to.

"Can you fucking believe him?" Stan says, huffing. Kyle doesn't respond. When Stan reaches for his shoulder, Kyle slaps his hand away.

"Don't touch me," he says. His voice is stronger than he expected. He's proud of himself.

"Kyle. I'm sorry, that was –"

"I know you're sorry. I've heard it. That's good, you should be. Now leave me the fuck alone. I'm tired."

Stan says nothing. Kyle can feel him sitting up in bed, watching him. After a few long minutes, Stan turns out the light beside the bed and settles in for sleep on the other side, far from Kyle.

Kyle sleeps easily and without dreams, pulled under by the alcohol, blacked out. He wakes up to flat darkness, heavy silence. He feels like he swallowed a bowling ball, an evil thing in his stomach that won't be easy to purge. His head hurts, and he's coated in sweat, shaking. He closes his eyes again, tries to sleep it off, but the shaking only intensifies. He wants to get up and go to the bathroom, to try to drink some water, but he can't move. Minutes pass, and his heart pounds as his teeth begin to chatter.

"Stan?" he says, weakly. Stan sits up quick, like he was waiting to hear his name.

"Yeah? What's wrong? Are you okay?"

"N-no. I think. Something's wrong."

Stan puts the light on, and Kyle pinches his eyes shut against it, his head pounding. He has vague memories of the evening: Stan licked him, they fought. It all seems far away now, this pain the only thing that's real. Stan is touching him, feeling his forehead.

"You're burning up, dude."

"I'm not. I'm cold."

"You're cold? God, Kyle, you're shaking really hard. Shit – fuck. You've never drank that much before?"

"You know I haven't. Oh, God, Stan, it really hurts."

"What hurts?" Stan rolls him onto his back, and Kyle groans.

"My stomach. My head. I don't know."

"Do you have your insulin thing?"

"The meter? Yeah, it's in my bag. But this – you think the alcohol fucked up my blood sugar?"