StyleIsReal

Stan and Kyle had continued to grow apart during middle school, but when Kyle got so sick at the start of the summer between seventh and eighth grade that he had to be hospitalized, his bar mitzvah postponed “indefinitely,” Stan didn’t hesitate to go visit him as soon as it was allowed. He did bring Kenny with him, hoping this would make things less awkward.

“What’s wrong with him now?” Kenny asked.

“His kidneys again,” Stan said. Saying so, he felt as if he’d been kicked in his own kidney region. Last time Kyle had serious kidney problems Stan had fought tirelessly – ruthlessly – to save him. The thought of going through that again just made him feel sleepy and defeated. Kyle barely spoke to him unless they were making awkward small talk at the bus stop. Stan sat with Kenny on the bus, and Kyle usually sat by himself, his face buried in a book.

“Oh, boys, I’m so glad you came!” Sheila said when she saw them in the doorway. Kyle looked less glad, more indifferent. He was listless in the bed, plugged into a dialysis machine, his eyes half closed. The sight made Stan’s stomach pitch, and he remembered what it had felt like back then, his determination to do anything to help Kyle feel better.

“Hey, dude,” Stan said, his voice shaking as he approached the bed. Kyle turned his head on the pillow and regarded them.

“Hey.” Kyle’s voice was surprisingly strong. His skin looked yellowish up close. “What do you guys want?”

“Kyle!” Sheila said. “Your friends were worried about you!”

“I brought you some of – these.” Stan offered Kyle a stack of the manga comics he sometimes saw Kyle buying from the bookstore. Kenny and Stan had laughed about this privately, wondering if there was porn involved, or just magical girls in short skirts.

“Thanks,” Kyle said, flatly, when Stan laid the books on the bed, near his arm. He looked so skinny. Stan wondered how long he’d been sick; he hadn’t seen Kyle on the basketball court, in Shakey’s, or anywhere since the end of the school year.

“How long do you have to stay in Hell’s Pass?” Kenny asked when Kyle just stared at them like he was waiting for them to go.

“Probably all ******* summer,” Kyle said, and he looked away.

“Kyle!” Sheila said. She sighed. “We’re afraid we don’t know. Kyle’s already been here for a week – the doctors are trying to prevent the need for another transplant. Kyle’s blood type is just – so rare—”

“****,” Stan said, and Sheila didn’t scold him for the curse.

“But it hasn’t gotten all that bad,” Sheila said, and she rubbed Kyle’s arm. He allowed this, still staring at the opposite wall. “They just want to keep him close so they can monitor his levels.”

“You must be so bored, dude,” Stan said.

“Well, I was.” Kyle finally looked at him, coldly. “But now I have a stack of old mangas that I read two years ago, so. Summer is saved.”

“Maybe we should let Kyle rest,” Sheila said, and she touched Kenny and Stan’s shoulders, guiding them away from the bed as if Kyle was a heat source that might burn them. “He’s just found out that he won’t be released this week – he’s a little testy.”

Stan was glad to get away from Kyle’s unfiltered resentment, and his sense of relief diminished when Sheila asked him to stay for a moment and sent Kenny away.

“I think you remember how important it is for Kyle to feel positive and hopeful when he’s sick,” Sheila said. “You’ve helped him so much before, when you two were younger, and he doesn’t – ah. I’m afraid he doesn’t have as many friends as he used to, so. Stanley – I was wondering if you’d be good enough to come visit him again during the summer. It’s hard enough for him to be here, but knowing that all you kids are off having fun without him, well. That was hard for him during the school year, too, even when he was well.”

Stan felt like he was being accused of being cruel. He supposed this all started because of his depression, which might have come off as cruel indifference, but he’d tried so hard with Kyle once he was medicated and feeling semi-normal, and Kyle had been completely closed off. Even when they were getting along, hanging out, Kyle always had his guard up, and he ditched Stan for ******* Cartman more often than not. To Stan it had seemed spiteful, and he put his own walls up. By sixth grade they were only going over to each other’s houses for birthdays.

“I’ll come by again,” Stan said to Sheila, imagining that he might visit in a week or two, when Kyle was less angry. “I’m sorry, I – I didn’t mean to bring him comics that he’d already read—”

“Oh, don’t pay attention to that,” Sheila said. “He’s just lashing out because he feels so isolated. But you could help him feel more included, okay? I don’t think he cares so much about seeing the other boys, but I know he’d like to see more of you, even if he won’t say so.”

“How do you know?” Stan asked, skeptical.

“Because you two were so close!” Sheila said. “I know you’re growing up, but you shouldn’t throw that away!”

Stan felt ****** off as he walked away from the hospital. He hadn’t thrown anything away – even when he was in his darkest places, he’d tried to hang on to Kyle. It might not have looked that way from the outside, but he had tried as hard as he ******* could. Kyle hadn’t tried at all, and what was his excuse? He’d gotten his feelings hurt by Stan’s emotional breakdown? It was true that Stan had never sat him down and explained about therapy and medication, but it was just too embarrassing to talk about, and by then Kyle hadn’t seemed like the kind of friend he could confide in. Stan was afraid Kyle would tell Cartman, and that the two of them would make fun of him behind his back. Kenny was more sympathetic, and he told Stan he’d been depressed, too, but he wouldn’t try Stan’s ***** when he offered them. He said he was sure they wouldn’t do any good.

Stan spent the rest of the afternoon alone at the creek, watching the way the light reflected on the water and flickered through the leaves overhead when the wind tossed the trees around. It was a beautiful day, just starting to get really warm. This was the beginning of his last truly carefree summer: next summer high school would loom, and he would have to face decisions about whether or not he wanted to try out for the football team and which electives to take, the shadow of college hanging over the whole thing. Wendy was already researching which colleges she might attend. Stan just wanted to be a kid for as long as possible. He’d already lost almost a year of his childhood to premature cynicism.

Over the next few days he tried to enjoy his free time and the nice weather, but he couldn’t stop thinking of Kyle in that hospital bed, angrily staring at the wall. Stan was ambushed by Cartman during a water balloon war, and he responded with inappropriate rage, chasing him down and punching him in the stomach.

“What the ****!” Cartman said, and he dropped to his knees, gasping for breath. Butters was quickly at Cartman’s side, whining with sympathy.

“What’d you go and do that for?” Butters asked, and he gave Stan a look of pathetic confusion that made him feel terrible, as if he’d just ripped up one of Butters’ dolls. “He was just playin’ the game!”

“Forget it,” Stan said. “Just – I’m not playing anymore.”

“Yeah, that’s right, ******!” Cartman shouted after Stan was out of punching range. “You get the **** out of here! You can’t play with us! Psycho *******!”

Stan didn’t care about quitting the game. It seemed stupid and immature, though not in the way that everything had when he turned ten. Back then he’d had no reason for his sudden disinterest in the things he used to love, but this time he knew why everything had felt off for the past few days: Kyle was hurting, alone, and it wasn’t fair. Stan found his stash of unused water balloons and took them home, where he loaded a red one and a blue one into an insulated lunch bag. He added some string cheese, juice boxes, and a mini bag of Doritos and headed for the hospital after he’d changed into dry clothes.

When he reached Kyle’s hospital room, he was surprised to see that Sheila wasn’t there, and that there were no nurses poking at him. The room was still and quiet; Kyle was sleeping. Stan walked close to the bed to make sure that he could see Kyle’s stomach rising and falling with his breath. There was only one bouquet of flowers on Kyle’s bedside table, and they looked a little wilted. Stan was looking around for someplace to sit when Kyle moaned and stirred, blinking up at him.

“Stan?” he said, and Stan’s heart cracked open: he didn’t sound angry, just surprised.

“Look,” Stan said. He set the lunch bag on Kyle’s bed and unzipped it, digging out the red water balloon. “We were playing, but it wasn’t fun. I thought, maybe. If you want, you could throw this at me.” He held the balloon out. Kyle stared at it, frowning.

“Are you crazy?” he said.

“Just, if you want,” Stan said, still holding it out for him.

“Okay.” Kyle took it. “Stand back.”

Stan took six steps backward, making sure he was clear of any medical equipment. He held his hands at his sides and pinched his eyes shut, waiting to be hit.

“No, open your eyes,” Kyle said. Stan did. Kyle looked very grave, not smiling. “You’re an *******,” he said, his fingers squeaking on the balloon. Stan was afraid he’d pop it and soak himself.

“You are,” Stan said, and Kyle grinned. He threw the balloon harder than Stan had expected, and it exploded on his chest. “There’s another one in there,” Stan said.

“Why do you want me to throw water balloons at you?”

“’Cause, I don’t know,” Stan said. “Maybe I was an *******. A little. But so were you.”

“So throw this one at me,” Kyle said, digging it out.

“No way, dude. It’ll get on your – stuff.”

“String cheese?” Kyle said, poking through the lunch bag. “Doritos?”

“If you’re hungry,” Stan said. “I mean, if you’re allowed to eat that.” It was what they used to gorge on during summers, in front of the TV at Stan’s house or Kyle’s, during breaks in the outdoor action.

“C’mere,” Kyle said. He was holding one of the sticks of string cheese, picking at the plastic wrapping. Stan walked to him, a little cautious about taking a water balloon in the face at close range, but Kyle didn’t throw it. He scooted over so Stan could sit on the bed.

“But,” Stan said. “I’m wet.”

“Who cares?” Kyle patted the mattress. “I’ve been wetter. C’mon, they’re showing Shark Week reruns on Discovery.”

Stan hadn’t watched anything on Discovery since Kyle had stopped coming over to his house. He climbed up into the bed and opened the Doritos. Kyle did both juice boxes, punching the little straws in carefully. This had always been his job; Stan tended to get overenthusiastic and had often ended up squirting juice onto Sheila’s couch.

“Remember when you’d clean up my juice box spills with club soda?” Stan asked. Kyle snorted. He was peeling string cheese, tipping his head back like a baby bird when he ate it.

“You cleaned up my stuff, sometimes, too,” he said, and he reached into the lunch bag. The only things left in there were the other stick of string cheese and the water balloon. Kyle grabbed the balloon, brought it up to the top of his head, and smashed it there.

“Dude,” Stan said while yard hose-scented water dripped from Kyle’s hair, down into his face. “What the hell?” Stan fished through Kyle’s curls until he found the exploded remains of the balloon, a little piece of shriveled blue plastic.

“Why are you even here?” Kyle said, wiping water out of his eyes. “I’m not, like, dying.”

“I know,” Stan said. There was a box of tissues on the bedside table. He grabbed them and used five to dry Kyle’s face and hair as best he could, feeling guilty. Kyle was staring at him when he finished, looking stunned but soft, the string cheese clutched in his fist. “I miss you,” Stan said. “And you’re trapped here, so I’m gonna come every day and bother you. Okay?”

“Okay,” Kyle said. His face turned pink and he looked at the TV. They watched shark shows for three hours, until a nurse came to kick Stan out.

That night, Stan worried that his promise of visiting Kyle every day would be hard to keep, but it ended up feeling like a default, like it had when they were kids and whoever woke up first would go over to the other one’s house, walk inside without knocking, head upstairs and wake the one who was still sleeping. At least, that was how Kyle had always done it. Stan, often annoyed with himself for being awake so early, would sometimes get into bed with Kyle and fall asleep beside him.

Every day, Stan tried to bring Kyle something summery so he wouldn’t feel like he was missing out. He smuggled in a firecracker just so Kyle could smell the gun powder, and brought him three fat sunflowers he’d stolen from a farmer’s garden, afraid that Kyle would accuse him of being gay. He didn’t, just ordered Stan to dump his old, dead-ish flowers out of their vase and replace them with the sunflowers. When they were little they used to play tag in the sunflower field out by the highway, though it was a long walk from home and they were technically trespassing. Stan had loved the smell that lingered on their skin and their clothes as they walked home.

“Are you sad about missing your bar mitzvah?” Stan asked when it had been a month since Kyle’s thirteenth birthday and he was still in the hospital.

“Not really,” Kyle said. They were sitting across from each other on the bed, a chess board between them. Kyle was trying to teach Stan how to play. “That ****’s kind of embarrassing, anyway. You just get your cheeks pinched a lot. And it’s not like anyone from school would’ve come.”

“I would have come,” Stan said. “And Kenny.” He tried to think of someone else. “Butters, and Wendy.”

“Well. Anyway. Checkmate, see?”

“Oh, ****.” Stan didn’t really see, but he nodded. “I’m not good at this.”

“You’re just not paying attention.”

“Can you go for a walk, maybe?” Stan asked. “Just for some fresh air.”

“There’s a courtyard thing, a garden,” Kyle said. He looked up at Stan, his mouth quirking. “I have to go in a wheelchair, though. It’s their policy. It’s ********. I can walk. I’m not some ******* old man. So I never go outside.”

“I could take you,” Stan said. “In the – thing. It’d be funny.”

Kyle stared at him, twirling the queen he’d captured between his fingers.

“Okay, not funny,” Stan said. “But we could – we could make it fun. I could get in a wheelchair, too, okay, we could race!”

“Stan.” Kyle swept the chess pieces up and dumped them back into their box. “Please.”

“Please what? Don’t you want to go outside?”

“In some stupid hospital courtyard with dying people hanging around? **** no!” Kyle kicked the chess board off the bed and crawled up toward his pillows, dumping himself onto them. “If you want to go outside, go. I’m not stopping you.”

Stan climbed off the bed to retrieve the chess board. He packed it up with the pieces and put it with the stack of other games that Kyle’s parents had brought from home. His parents were usually with him in the morning and at night, but during the day they both had work and chores, so Stan was Kyle’s only visitor. Kyle was turned away from him on the bed, breathing hard, his arms tucked to this chest.

“Outside’s not the same without you,” Stan said. “That’s like – me and you, when we were kids. All that stuff is our old stuff.”

“Like what?” Kyle asked after a few moments of silence.

“Like – swimming, and bikes, and the basketball court, and fireworks—”

“You did that stuff with Kenny and Cartman, too.”

“Yeah, but they’re not—” Stan left off there, because he couldn’t think of anything but you, they’re not you. He climbed back into the bed and stretched out alongside Kyle like he had when they were little, before it seemed weird. It seemed weird now, but he did it anyway, resting his head on Kyle’s pillow. Kyle turned to look at him.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Stan said. “Whatever you’re doing.”

“Oh, really?” Kyle rolled onto his back. “Well, I’m sitting here wasting away with a kidney infection, is that what you’re doing?”

“Sure.”

“You’re a ****,” Kyle said, but he rolled toward Stan, arranging himself huffily. He rested his forehead against Stan’s arm and closed his eyes.

Kyle wasn’t sleeping, but they both pretended that he was. Stan touched his curls, stroking them and thinking about the first day he came alone, when Kyle had smashed that water balloon over his own head. It had impressed Stan deeply and he thought about it often. It wasn’t like Kyle to admit that he’d been wrong, and in that moment it had seemed like that was what he was doing.

Kyle’s condition was stable, and most days he was just weak and tired, but he usually had enough energy to play a game with Stan, have a contraband snack that Stan had smuggled in for him, and talk a little before drifting off. Some days he was more up for it than others. Sometimes Stan came in and found him sitting at the window, staring out at the parking lot and the mountains in the distance.

“Can I open it for you?” Stan asked one day, looking for the latch.

“They won’t let me,” Kyle said. “It’s against policy, bolted shut.”

“Let me take you outside, then,” Stan said. “So you can breathe some fresh air, Jesus. If you don’t want to use a wheelchair – I’ll carry you.”

He didn’t really hear how that sounded until it was already out, and he felt his cheeks coloring when Kyle looked at him with surprise.

“Yeah,” Kyle said. “That wouldn’t be embarrassing or anything.”

“I was joking,” Stan said, though he hadn’t been.

At the end of June Kyle’s infection worsened, and for a few days Stan wasn’t allowed to visit. When he returned the doctors had proclaimed that Kyle was doing better, but he didn’t look it. He had bags under his eyes and he seemed more frail than he had when Stan last saw him. He smiled when Stan came to his bedside, but it was small and battered, making him look older than he was and younger, too, at the same time. Stan grabbed for Kyle’s hand, and Kyle laughed hoarsely.

“I’m still not dying,” he said. “Though I think Cartman’s kidney is trying to kill me.”

“That’s what’s causing all this? Oh, Jesus, I should have known, I’m sorry—”

“Are you seriously apologizing for saving my life?” Kyle asked. “Dude, I was kidding. They’re both *******up. Equally.”

“I brought you something,” Stan said. He was trying not to cry; it was hard to see Kyle like this. He put the paper towel-wrapped bundle that he was carrying on Kyle’s bed and carefully unwrapped in, revealing seventeen four-leaf clovers he’d harvested the day before. He’d stayed out until dark searching for them, and even seventeen didn’t seem like enough. “For luck,” he said as he arranged them on Kyle’s chest, over his hospital gown. He made a star pattern there, and put the extra one, the smallest one, on Kyle’s cheek.

“Now I can’t move,” Kyle said. “Thanks,” he said before Stan could apologize for bringing such a stupid gift.

“When are you going to get better?” Stan asked, unable to stand this anymore, the quiet days inside this room with Kyle and his dialysis machine and endless nights in bed, awake and staring at the ceiling, wondering if Kyle was awake, if he got scared at night when he was alone.

“Soon,” Kyle said. He took the clover from his cheek and rubbed it over his lips like he was thinking about eating it, or kissing it. “I can’t do this much longer, dude.”

“Me either,” Stan said. He got into the bed and Kyle moved over very slowly, careful not to disturb the star shape on his chest. Stan put his hand in the middle of the clovers and shut his eyes.

“Are you praying?” Kyle asked, sounding like he might object to that.

“No,” Stan said. He opened his eyes and something had happened, like a spell that was cast: Kyle looked different. He was still sickly, too skinny, frowning a little, still had the same angular features that were becoming more pronounced as he got older, the same matted red curls that looked like they needed to be washed, but he was something else, too. Stan’s eyes flicked down to Kyle’s lips. The bottom one was kind of fat, a little chapped.

“What’s the matter?” Kyle asked.

“Nothing,” Stan said, but his heart was pounding and he wanted to run.

His next visit to the hospital was different. He’d done too much thinking since he’d seen Kyle last, and he’d thrown up after dinner. Stan sat in a chair instead of on Kyle’s bed, and he had a hard time paying attention to what Kyle was saying about the nurse who they called Jaws, because she was mean and had small, sharp-looking teeth.

“Are you even listening?” Kyle asked.

“Huh – yeah! I just.” Stan shook his head hard. “I think I’m coming down with something.” The previous night had been so strange, and he’d followed something the color of Kyle’s hair through his dreams like a beacon, waking up to chew on the end of his pillowcase, a nervous habit he’d had since he was a baby. He hadn’t done it since he was about seven, because that was when Kyle started spending the night, and Stan hadn’t want to be weird in front of him.

“Well, if you’re sick, come here,” Kyle said, and he moved over, patting the bed. His face got very red when Stan hesitated. “Or maybe you’re just bored,” Kyle said. “You can go if you want, okay, I have books and ****. You’re not – my world doesn’t ******* revolve around you, believe it or not. Even here.”

“I know,” Stan said. “Kyle.”

“What?”

“Uh.” Stan stood up, then sat again. “What are you doing for Fourth of July?”

“Are you serious?” Kyle was glaring at him now, his fists clenched around his blanket. “What the hell do you think? I’m sitting in here alone, staring at the wall.”

“No, I – don’t say that.”

“Why not? Because you don’t want to have to feel sad for me? Oh, sorry. I hope that won’t dampen your enjoyment of fireworks and apple pie and hanging out with your friends.”

“I’ve barely talked to anyone else this summer!” Stan said. “I’ve just been with you.”

“Sorry,” Kyle said. He yanked his blanket up to his shoulder and turned away from Stan. “I know my mom guilted you into it. I heard her, okay, that day when you came with Kenny. Is she paying you or something?”

“Shut up,” Stan said. “You know that’s not why I’m here.”

“I don’t know ****,” Kyle said. “I never know how to predict what you’ll do. One minute you’re my best friend, and I’m your best – person, and, and then—” Kyle pulled his pillow over his head. “I’m not gonna go through this again, dude,” he said, and he sounded more defeated than angry.

“You’re still my best person,” Stan said. He wondered if he should get into bed with Kyle, but he didn’t want to feel like he had the day before, like he’d swallowed bees and the buzzing in his stomach was going to propel him dangerously forward.

“Just go,” Kyle said, and Stan was going to refuse, but it was late, and a nurse was bustling in with Kyle’s evening meal, followed by Sheila. Stan knew he wouldn’t be able to talk to Kyle in front of them. He left without saying goodnight, and later had horrible nightmares that he returned to Kyle’s room in the morning to find an empty bed, a teddy bear lying forgotten on the floor. Kenny was there, and he told Stan that Kyle had died during the night.

Stan woke up at dawn and cried into his pillow, feeling as if he’d really lived that, like it had all really happened. He hurried to the hospital as soon as he could, and when he got there he was told that Kyle had asked not to have any visitors that day.

“He needs to rest,” the nurse said. It was Jaws; she had always seemed suspicious of Stan.

He didn’t give up; that was the mistake Kyle had made, and Stan had done the same when he butted up against Kyle’s defenses in the years that followed. He went home and made a mix on his iPod player, though he was sensitive about his music and especially so around Kyle. The neighborhood parties started early, and Stan wanted to pack up a cooler full of pie and barbecue to bring to Kyle’s room, but that wouldn’t fit with his plan, which was to wear pajamas to Hell’s Pass. All he had room for in his pockets was the iPod and a screwdriver.

He didn’t have to wait long near the doors of the emergency room for commotion to cause a distraction: there were a lot of fireworks-related injuries as darkness began to fall. Wearing the pajamas, he crept through the halls, prepared to tell anyone who caught him that he was a patient who was on his way back to his room after an illicit trip to the vending machines. He wasn’t sure this story would fly, but he didn’t have to use it; apparently being a wandering kid in pajamas in the pediatric ward was story enough. Visiting hours had ended at seven o’clock, and it was approaching nine, the last of the sunset still fading. When he slipped inside Kyle’s room Stan was glad to find him not in bed but at the window, his chin resting on the sill.

“Want me to open it for you?” Stan asked.

Kyle startled and turned. It was dark in his room, and it took Stan’s eyes a moment to adjust, but by the time he’d crossed the room he saw that Kyle was trying to restrain his smile.

“You can’t open it,” Kyle said. “I tried.”

“Did you try with one of these?” Stan asked, and he whipped out the screwdriver, trying to be dramatic. Kyle grinned widely and took it from him.

“Let me do it,” he said, standing. “Nice pajamas.”

“Thanks.” Stan stood behind Kyle while he worked, close. In the dark, Kyle looked like he always had during sleepovers, not skinny or sick. He smelled good, like cherry Jello, and he was wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants instead of a hospital gown, no socks.

“There,” Kyle said, and he handed Stan the screwdriver. They pushed the window open together. Stan had just come in from the oppressive summer air, stolid even after nightfall, but it felt new to him, too, when he watched Kyle breathe it in.

“We should be able to see the fireworks from here,” Stan said. He pulled out his iPod. “I made, uh. Some songs for them. Since we won’t be able to hear the music. And the music they play at the festival sucks anyway.”

“Yeah,” Kyle said, and he accepted an ear bud. They had to stand close in order to share the headphones, and Stan could feel Kyle shaking. He slid his arm around Kyle’s shoulders, slow, like he’d seen boys do to girls during the festival, both of them watching the sky. They put their elbows on the sill and waited, both of them tense until the whine of the first firework ascended into the sky and blasted apart. Stan laughed, and Kyle turned to him, beaming now. Their noses bumped together. Stan’s music didn’t really fit the sporadic explosions; it was too mellow, too soft.

“I’m really glad you’re here,” Kyle said. Stan felt like he could feel every explosion in the sky at the center of his chest. He pulled Kyle closer, nodding.

“You’re gonna feel better soon,” Stan said, and Kyle’s eyes widened. That wasn’t what Stan had meant, necessarily, but he tried to act as if it was a promise he’d intended to fulfill himself, pressing his lips to Kyle’s. The ear buds felt suddenly intrusive, and he pulled Kyle’s out first, then his own. They were both breathing fast, and Stan was sweltering inside his pajamas.

“Do it again,” Kyle said. “I mean, ‘cause – it felt, like, good, so—”

Stan kissed him again, his hands cupping Kyle’s face. He didn’t know what to do with his lips: he pushed them forward and Kyle pressed back in nervous flutters. Stan felt it everywhere, like his whole body was a screen set up to display the firework show, every boom and flash reverberating through him.

“I’ll steal another one for you,” Stan said when he pulled back. The fireworks were so loud, as if they were in the room, raining down onto them. “If you need me to.”

“I don’t need – no, I’m gonna be okay,” Kyle said. He nodded firmly, and Stan believed him. “Just keep doing that, if it’s alright, if you want to, you could keep – mph, yeah—”

They practiced kissing for the duration of the firework show, until Kyle’s legs were shaking and Stan had to help him to bed. After the main show was over they could hear pops and whistles from amateur firework setters through the open window, and every time a new one went off they laughed like it was their inside joke, because everything felt that way when they were like this, all tangled up together.