Scrap post
PairingL S/K
Rating: PG
Summary: Literally 1384 words about Kyle needing to have an abortion
Stan is usually excited to hear from Kyle at any time, but not - not like this.
“I need your help,” Kyle breaths into the phone, voice hollow and shaking. “Can you come over here?”
Stan still lives in the dorms, but Kyle has an apartment he shares with two guys, theater majors. It’s possible they’re a couple. Kyle met them through Butters and Kyle is decidedly not their friend. “What happened?” Stan asks, but he’s already tying his shoes.
“I … can talk about it in person,” Kyle says, sounding like he’s holding back. “Just, can you come over? I need a favor.”
“Are you okay?”
“For the time being.” Kyle swallows. “Just - please? I’m really - I really need-”
“Okay!” Stan is already slamming his door, phone wedged between his shoulder and his chin while he pats his pockets for his keys. If he forgot them, he’d have to let it go. Very little compels Stan like Kyle. If Kyle tells Stan that he is needed, Stan is coming. That’s final.
Stan is relieved to find that Kyle’s roommates aren’t in. One of them is Swiss and he gesticulates like a stewardess indicating the emergency lighting that will illuminate the aisle in the event of a power failure. His name is Gaetan and he wears T-shirts that intentionally do not reach the fly of his green pants. Once he lectured Kyle for an hour about how Swiss German is a totally different language! Stan was there to suffer that indignity alongside Kyle, Gaetan shaking his head and waving his hands and drawing his fingers across his neck. Stan is really glad that guy’s not there when Kyle opens the door. The other is Cliff and that guy is perfect. He has blond hair and very straight teeth and ice skates. Well, speed skates. He used to hockey but not anymore. He’s from Pittsburgh via Cincinnati. This is what Kyle is forced to contend with, Stan reminds himself, as he takes off his shoes. He wonders if the three of them got into some kind of fight.
“What’s wrong?” Stan asks, not waiting for Kyle to offer him a drink; he knows where the corkscrews are. There’s legally gotten pinot noir on top of the fridge (Gaetan is 23) and it’s Stan’s belief that any conversation is better with a cocktail. He pours two glasses and slides one to Kyle, who comes and sits on a stool at the counter, head in his hands, elbows on the laminate.
“I’m not thirsty,” Kyle says, without looking up.
“Seriously.” Stan swirls the wine around in his glass. “You’re worrying me.”
“I’m worried for myself.”
“Dude,” Stan starts, “you can tell me-”
Kyle interrupts. “I need you to take me to get an abortion.”
“Ha.” Stan is running the pads of his fingers along the rim of the glass, making it sing.
Kyle looks up. “If I were joking, Stanley, I’d want a more amused response than that!” Now Stan can see how red Kyle’s eyes are; how his voice hitches. “I don’t know who else to ask; they make you bring someone to drive home, an escort-”
“What?”
“I already went once and they told me to come back with someone who could drive me home!” Now Kyle folds into himself and he starts to cry.
“Oh my god!” Stan’s delayed reaction is setting in; he feels like the floor is disappearing under his feet.
They can’t go to tonight, but there’s a Planned Parenthood in Stapleton that Kyle knows will accommodate him if he’s there at 8 tomorrow morning. “They’re not open Sunday,” Kyle mumbles, like this is something he might like to put off to Sunday.
“The lord’s day,” Stan says, by way of explanation.
“That’s not helping,” Kyle wails, and he starts crying again, on the couch. It takes a lot of gentle stroking of Kyle’s hair to get him to calm down, and then Stan blunders again by asking where the roommates are. Apparently they are at some club where some other Swiss German Kyle doesn’t get along with is DJing. Stan wants to ask, “Where do you meet all these Swiss Germans?” but it comes out more like, “Is it mine?”
Just like that all of Stan’s patient shushing and hair-petting is dismantled and Kyle is incoherent again, crying into the collar of Stan’s flannel. “I suppose this is what I deserve,” Kyle sobs, and thought Stan doesn’t contradict this, he doesn’t leave, either. “Just my fucking luck,” Kyle explains, “it’s been 17 weeks and we slept together over New Year’s, so the timing doesn’t match up.”
Stan remembers New Year’s, a raucous party at Token’s parents’ place in Vail, where Stan and Kyle were the only ones brave enough to tip-toe across the snowy deck to the hot tub. It had been stupidly romantic or romantically stupid, fucking as the snow fell, all whispered sweet nothings and fierce kisses at the bridge of Kyle’s nose. It wasn’t the first time it had happened, but those other times had been in early high school, and in between there had been multitudes, at least for Kyle. Stan had paid a chick with a dick to blow him the summer he graduated (this was the death knell of his mostly academic interest in women) and again paid for sex at a bathhouse in Amsterdam that overlooked a greenish, murky canal. Maybe because it had been so long, Stan just wanted it more now. Or, maybe, Kyle had learned how to take it without coming immediately.
“That’s the last time I go home for Christmas,” Kyle had already decided the next day. Apparently that was his resolution. Stan felt there was something a bit hurtful to it. He woke up in legitimate pain and got a waffle from a diner with Kyle, Kenny, and six girls he didn’t remember graduating high school with. Kyle was eager to get the hell out of there the next day. Anyway, it was late May now.
~
The procedure is being performed in the nick of time; had Kyle waited until Monday, he would have been out of luck, referred to a surgeon. As it is, the abortion costs nearly $900 and it is due up front, in cash. As Kyle is given a pelvic exam (“I had one yesterday!” he protests), Stan goes down to the bank on the corner and empties his savings. He’s not pressing Kyle on the identity of the father, and dares not suggest that maybe that guy should pay for at least half of it. But Stan cannot stand the thought of Kyle carrying someone else’s child to fruition, so he ponies up the cash himself. Kyle swears up and down that if he uses his credit card, his parents will certainly notice. Stan can’t imagine them minding, really, but as Kyle argued in the car, it’s better if they don’t know. And Stan agrees that’s better, though only to the extent that Kyle never lets it happen again. Once is a reprieve, Stan figures; twice is a problem.
Anyway, Stan’s not the father, so he sits in the waiting area for four hours while Kyle is subject to - whatever it is. Stan tries to think about how and why he didn’t notice something was wrong. For over three months Kyle has been carrying this around, literally, and Stan didn’t know. Stan has lusted over Kyle, missed him, silently cursed every guy Kyle crossed paths with. Once Stan stiffed a waiter on whom Kyle’s gaze had lingered just a moment too long as they listened to an explanation about how the enchilada combination plates did not accommodate substitutions. Then Stan is angry at Kyle, wondering what kind of asshole lets a guy pay for his enchiladas, then goes home and fucks someone else without protection? Flipping through a month-old issue of Time, Stan whips himself into a fury, talking himself into hating Kyle, into simply dropping Kyle’s woozy post-procedure ass on the curb with a curt, “Say hi to Gaetan for me” before peeling off. Maybe Stan should sleep with Gaetan. That seems like the sort of thing that would leave Kyle needing a good amount of therapy. The perfect “fuck you,” and all it would cost Stan is $890.
Rating: PG
Summary: Literally 1384 words about Kyle needing to have an abortion
Stan is usually excited to hear from Kyle at any time, but not - not like this.
“I need your help,” Kyle breaths into the phone, voice hollow and shaking. “Can you come over here?”
Stan still lives in the dorms, but Kyle has an apartment he shares with two guys, theater majors. It’s possible they’re a couple. Kyle met them through Butters and Kyle is decidedly not their friend. “What happened?” Stan asks, but he’s already tying his shoes.
“I … can talk about it in person,” Kyle says, sounding like he’s holding back. “Just, can you come over? I need a favor.”
“Are you okay?”
“For the time being.” Kyle swallows. “Just - please? I’m really - I really need-”
“Okay!” Stan is already slamming his door, phone wedged between his shoulder and his chin while he pats his pockets for his keys. If he forgot them, he’d have to let it go. Very little compels Stan like Kyle. If Kyle tells Stan that he is needed, Stan is coming. That’s final.
Stan is relieved to find that Kyle’s roommates aren’t in. One of them is Swiss and he gesticulates like a stewardess indicating the emergency lighting that will illuminate the aisle in the event of a power failure. His name is Gaetan and he wears T-shirts that intentionally do not reach the fly of his green pants. Once he lectured Kyle for an hour about how Swiss German is a totally different language! Stan was there to suffer that indignity alongside Kyle, Gaetan shaking his head and waving his hands and drawing his fingers across his neck. Stan is really glad that guy’s not there when Kyle opens the door. The other is Cliff and that guy is perfect. He has blond hair and very straight teeth and ice skates. Well, speed skates. He used to hockey but not anymore. He’s from Pittsburgh via Cincinnati. This is what Kyle is forced to contend with, Stan reminds himself, as he takes off his shoes. He wonders if the three of them got into some kind of fight.
“What’s wrong?” Stan asks, not waiting for Kyle to offer him a drink; he knows where the corkscrews are. There’s legally gotten pinot noir on top of the fridge (Gaetan is 23) and it’s Stan’s belief that any conversation is better with a cocktail. He pours two glasses and slides one to Kyle, who comes and sits on a stool at the counter, head in his hands, elbows on the laminate.
“I’m not thirsty,” Kyle says, without looking up.
“Seriously.” Stan swirls the wine around in his glass. “You’re worrying me.”
“I’m worried for myself.”
“Dude,” Stan starts, “you can tell me-”
Kyle interrupts. “I need you to take me to get an abortion.”
“Ha.” Stan is running the pads of his fingers along the rim of the glass, making it sing.
Kyle looks up. “If I were joking, Stanley, I’d want a more amused response than that!” Now Stan can see how red Kyle’s eyes are; how his voice hitches. “I don’t know who else to ask; they make you bring someone to drive home, an escort-”
“What?”
“I already went once and they told me to come back with someone who could drive me home!” Now Kyle folds into himself and he starts to cry.
“Oh my god!” Stan’s delayed reaction is setting in; he feels like the floor is disappearing under his feet.
They can’t go to tonight, but there’s a Planned Parenthood in Stapleton that Kyle knows will accommodate him if he’s there at 8 tomorrow morning. “They’re not open Sunday,” Kyle mumbles, like this is something he might like to put off to Sunday.
“The lord’s day,” Stan says, by way of explanation.
“That’s not helping,” Kyle wails, and he starts crying again, on the couch. It takes a lot of gentle stroking of Kyle’s hair to get him to calm down, and then Stan blunders again by asking where the roommates are. Apparently they are at some club where some other Swiss German Kyle doesn’t get along with is DJing. Stan wants to ask, “Where do you meet all these Swiss Germans?” but it comes out more like, “Is it mine?”
Just like that all of Stan’s patient shushing and hair-petting is dismantled and Kyle is incoherent again, crying into the collar of Stan’s flannel. “I suppose this is what I deserve,” Kyle sobs, and thought Stan doesn’t contradict this, he doesn’t leave, either. “Just my fucking luck,” Kyle explains, “it’s been 17 weeks and we slept together over New Year’s, so the timing doesn’t match up.”
Stan remembers New Year’s, a raucous party at Token’s parents’ place in Vail, where Stan and Kyle were the only ones brave enough to tip-toe across the snowy deck to the hot tub. It had been stupidly romantic or romantically stupid, fucking as the snow fell, all whispered sweet nothings and fierce kisses at the bridge of Kyle’s nose. It wasn’t the first time it had happened, but those other times had been in early high school, and in between there had been multitudes, at least for Kyle. Stan had paid a chick with a dick to blow him the summer he graduated (this was the death knell of his mostly academic interest in women) and again paid for sex at a bathhouse in Amsterdam that overlooked a greenish, murky canal. Maybe because it had been so long, Stan just wanted it more now. Or, maybe, Kyle had learned how to take it without coming immediately.
“That’s the last time I go home for Christmas,” Kyle had already decided the next day. Apparently that was his resolution. Stan felt there was something a bit hurtful to it. He woke up in legitimate pain and got a waffle from a diner with Kyle, Kenny, and six girls he didn’t remember graduating high school with. Kyle was eager to get the hell out of there the next day. Anyway, it was late May now.
~
The procedure is being performed in the nick of time; had Kyle waited until Monday, he would have been out of luck, referred to a surgeon. As it is, the abortion costs nearly $900 and it is due up front, in cash. As Kyle is given a pelvic exam (“I had one yesterday!” he protests), Stan goes down to the bank on the corner and empties his savings. He’s not pressing Kyle on the identity of the father, and dares not suggest that maybe that guy should pay for at least half of it. But Stan cannot stand the thought of Kyle carrying someone else’s child to fruition, so he ponies up the cash himself. Kyle swears up and down that if he uses his credit card, his parents will certainly notice. Stan can’t imagine them minding, really, but as Kyle argued in the car, it’s better if they don’t know. And Stan agrees that’s better, though only to the extent that Kyle never lets it happen again. Once is a reprieve, Stan figures; twice is a problem.
Anyway, Stan’s not the father, so he sits in the waiting area for four hours while Kyle is subject to - whatever it is. Stan tries to think about how and why he didn’t notice something was wrong. For over three months Kyle has been carrying this around, literally, and Stan didn’t know. Stan has lusted over Kyle, missed him, silently cursed every guy Kyle crossed paths with. Once Stan stiffed a waiter on whom Kyle’s gaze had lingered just a moment too long as they listened to an explanation about how the enchilada combination plates did not accommodate substitutions. Then Stan is angry at Kyle, wondering what kind of asshole lets a guy pay for his enchiladas, then goes home and fucks someone else without protection? Flipping through a month-old issue of Time, Stan whips himself into a fury, talking himself into hating Kyle, into simply dropping Kyle’s woozy post-procedure ass on the curb with a curt, “Say hi to Gaetan for me” before peeling off. Maybe Stan should sleep with Gaetan. That seems like the sort of thing that would leave Kyle needing a good amount of therapy. The perfect “fuck you,” and all it would cost Stan is $890.