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goldenasters · 12 hours ago

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Two Minutes in Heaven

The music is loud, the air is thick with vape smoke and cheap perfume, and the carpet is sticky in some places. Stan tells himself it’s just cheap wine and pizza grease, but it does little to ease his mind. His shoes make a faint schlck sound every time he shifts his weight.

He leans against the wall, nursing a warm can of PBR and trying to act like he’s not scanning the crowd for Kenny, who he’s been weirdly anxious to see ever since he woke up that morning feeling sick. Not the flu or anything, just... off. Like his body knew something his brain couldn’t remember. He knows he’s being irrational. Kenny’s just been busy. But he hasn’t seen him in over a week, and for some reason, that absence is sitting heavier than it should.

He’s seen Kyle and Cartman since then. They met at Cartman’s house earlier today, to drink and play Cartman’s PlayStation. It was fine. Familiar. But even in the middle of the game, his mind kept drifting. Kenny had said he would meet up with them at Bebe’s because he had to pick up his sister from band practice, which made sense. Kenny’s always looking after his siblings. That’s just how it is. Still, Stan keeps checking the door like a dumbass every few minutes.

By his third drink, Bebe grabs his hand and pulls him into the spin-the-bottle circle forming in the middle of the room. Kyle’s already there, sitting cross-legged beside her, caught in yet another argument with Cartman over something stupid. Stan doesn’t even catch what it’s about this time. Doesn’t matter. It’s always something with those two.

When they were kids, Cartman started every fight, provoking until Kyle snapped. Back then, Stan used to try to break them up. Now he mostly lets it happen. As they’ve gotten older, Cartman’s simmered down a bit and Kyle now starts half of all their arguments. They go at each other automatically, like a weird tradition neither of them wants to give up.

“Why do you even still hang out with Cartman?” Stan asked Kyle once, a couple of years ago. “Me, you, and Kenny could just hang out without him if he bothers you so much.”

Kyle had mumbled some excuse about how Cartman would never let them ignore him. That it was easier this way. Stan didn’t believe it then, and he still doesn’t. Kyle’s his best friend, but Stan’s never been blind. He knows Kyle is smarter than him, sharper in a way Stan never quite managed to be. Like Wendy, Kyle needs people who challenge him, and Stan’s always been a bit too easy.

Cartman keeps Kyle from burying himself in AP classes and volunteer hours, and Kyle holds Cartman accountable in a way his mom never did. They balance each other, even if neither of them will ever admit it. It’s messed up and oddly symbiotic.

He takes another sip from his beer and glances up at the movement at the corner of his vision. It’s Kenny, sliding into the circle next to him. His legs stretch out in front of him, long and lazy, a red Solo cup dangling from his fingers. He’s wearing that half-lidded grin that makes it impossible to tell what he’s thinking.

Their eyes meet, and something sharp and familiar twists in Stan’s chest. Something he can’t quite name.

“You ready for this?” Kenny asks.

Stan shrugs, trying his best to seem chill even though he’s been clenching his jaw all night. “Whatever, dude. Spin the bottle is gay as hell. There are better party games.”

“Oh, totally,” Kenny says, chuckling. “I’ve kissed pretty much every girl in South Park. Plus, like… two moms. Not proud of that one.”

Stan grimaces. “Jesus. Gross, dude.”

Kenny shrugs. “You asked.”

Stan doesn’t really enjoy kissing. He and Wendy used to do it sometimes — during movies, at the park, in the back of Token’s car once — and they’d fooled around a bit before the breakup. Hand stuff, mostly. It never felt... right. Kissing always just seemed like rubbing mouths together, like trying to match someone else’s rhythm in a dance he didn’t really know the steps to. Messy. Awkward.

Spin the bottle’s never been his thing, either. Too performative. Too much pressure to laugh, to make it look like you’re into it even if you’re not. But girls at parties seem to love it, and no one wants to be a buzzkill.

He glances around the circle and his eyes catch Wendy, already seated with a plastic cup in her hand. She meets his gaze for a second before looking away. They haven’t really talked since she dumped him two months ago. Said he had no ambition. That he wasn’t going anywhere. That she couldn’t see a future with someone who didn’t even seem to want one.

She never outright called him a loser. She didn’t need to.

“All right,” Bebe announces, standing up and waving her bottle in the air like a sword. “Everyone playing? Everyone drunk enough?”

“This fatass needs a whole bottle before he feels anything,” Kyle slurs, elbowing Cartman.

“Shut up, Jewboy!” Cartman shoves him back, but he’s grinning. They’re both clearly drunk enough already.

“Okay, then,” Bebe says, ignoring them both. “I’ll go first.” She spins and lands on Red. Kenny sets the timer for two minutes, leans back, and enjoys the show like he’s watching a movie he’s already seen. Stan watches too, hazily. Red and Bebe go for it with exaggerated moans, clearly feeding off the attention.

Kyle kisses Nicole. Cartman lands on Wendy, who visibly flinches before enduring the kiss with tight lips and clenched fists. Cartman plays it up, just to piss her off. He pretends he’s into it, and it works. She keeps her eyes open the whole time. Her glare could cut through concrete.

Stan thinks he should feel jealous as he watches them, but all he feels is a hazy, dull numbness. Maybe it’s just the alcohol.

And then it’s his turn.

He reaches for the bottle with trembling hands and gives it a spin. He watches it go, heart thudding in his chest for reasons he doesn’t want to explore right now.

The bottle slows. Wobbles. Stops.

Right on Kenny.

“Aw!” Stan whines, too loud. “Come on, I want to kiss a girl.”

He hears the way his voice cracks, childish and defensive, and immediately regrets it. Cartman bursts into obnoxious laughter. Kyle rolls his eyes.

“You know the rules, Stan,” Bebe says, voice lilting, already amused. “No re-spins. I had to kiss Red, so you have to kiss Kenny.”

Stan’s cheeks are burning and he can feel the liquor warm in his belly, which flutters at the memory of Bebe and Red’s passionate kiss. He feels slow and stupid, and he’s too drunk to come up with a better argument than ‘it’s just too awkward to kiss one of my closest friends in front of all these people.’

He looks over at Kenny, who is leaning forward to rest his chin in his palm. He’s wearing a lopsided grin that makes Stan’s stomach flip. He feels like he might be sick, but there’s a part of him that’s always wondered what it would be like to kiss a boy. Just a stupid teenage whim, but he knows Kenny is probably the best to try things out with, since he’s experienced with boys and so chill that he’s unlikely to hold this against Stan. To ask him questions or make things awkward later.

Kenny simply shrugs and crawls forward on his knees with that easy confidence that makes it impossible to tell if he’s actually drunk or just effortlessly seductive. He tosses a wink over his shoulder at Red and Bebe, who are already whispering and giggling like they’re watching the opening scene of a porno. Stan knows the three of them hook up sometimes—Red once joked about being honorary trailer park royalty—and Kenny has always been down for a little spectacle.

Stan isn't sure whether he wants to be part of the performance or not. But it’s too late to back out now.

“F-fine,” he mutters. His voice cracks, which only makes Cartman cackle louder. Stan ignores him and scoots forward, knees brushing Kenny’s. His palms are clammy. He wipes them on his jeans and forces himself to breathe.

Kenny is already waiting, sitting up straighter now, his hands resting on his thighs. He leans in close, close enough that Stan can see the slight flush on his cheeks and the way his lashes catch the light. He raises one hand and cradles Stan’s jaw with practiced gentleness. His thumb brushes along Stan’s cheekbone.

“Okay?” Kenny whispers. His voice is low, coaxing, eyes flicking between Stan’s mouth and his eyes.

Stan’s throat is dry. He tries to nod without visibly shaking. “Y-yeah,” he says. “I’m good.”

Kenny smirks just slightly. “Cool.”

And then he kisses him.

At first it’s light—just lips on lips, a soft press that could almost be mistaken for innocent. But then Kenny deepens it, his other hand coming up to cup the back of Stan’s neck, fingers sliding into his hair. Stan tenses. His lips are still locked tight, body stiff with the weight of everyone watching.

Kenny signs and pulls back, but Stan can still feel Kenny’s breath against his lips. He leans forward to whisper against Stan’s ear. “You okay? We can stop.”

The whisper sends a jolt straight down Stan’s spine. It hits him then that Kenny just kissed him. Will keep kissing him, if Stan is okay with it. “No,” Stan whispers back. Kenny starts to pull away, but Stan grabs him by his jacket and meets his gaze with a heated, determined look that makes Kenny’s eyes go wide. “Don’t stop.”

Kenny nods and kisses him again, and this time Stan is a little more prepared. He kisses harder this time, letting his mouth move, letting himself feel it. He wraps one arm around Kenny’s neck and pulls him close, their mouths sliding together in a way that’s clumsy but electric.

Kenny groans softly and slips his tongue across Stan’s bottom lip. Stan hesitates for just a second, and then opens up for him.

Kenny kisses like he’s done this a thousand times and never got bored of it. He tastes like cheap vodka and cherry vape juice. Stan moans quietly into the kiss as Kenny’s tongue brushes along his own, teasing, slow, almost playful. His hands slide down to Stan’s hips, fingers pressing into the creases of his jeans.

Stan shifts, chasing the friction, and Kenny chuckles against his mouth, his breath hot against Stan’s cheek. “Easy, tiger.”

But Stan doesn’t want easy. He wants more.

He groans in frustration and grabs at Kenny’s hoodie, tugging him closer by the front. Kenny goes easily, crawling into his space until they’re chest to chest, knees touching, breath mingling.

Stan’s hands slide tentatively up Kenny’s sides, Kenny makes a low sound in his throat that sends a pulse straight through Stan’s gut. One of Kenny’s hands lands on Stan’s thigh, fingers curling into the denim, and Stan doesn’t stop himself. He hooks an arm around Kenny’s waist and pulls him into his lap.

Kenny hums in approval, straddling him now, their mouths never breaking apart as Stan’s back arches into him. Kenny rocks his hips down just slightly, teasingly, and the pressure pulls a gasp from Stan that’s more desperate than he meant it to be.

The girls giggle behind their hands again. Kenny barely acknowledges them—his focus is locked on Stan.

They’re kissing like they’ve done this before, like this was always inevitable. Kenny nips at Stan’s bottom lip, and Stan groans, tangling one hand into Kenny’s messy blond hair and tugging—not rough, but enough to keep him close.

The shift happens slowly—Kenny’s weight, the unbalanced position, the way Stan’s spine curves with every pulse of pressure—until they’re both off-kilter. Stan starts to fall back and Kenny moves with him, adjusting his hands so he can follow Stan down.

Now they’re on the floor, fully pressed together, hips flush, legs tangled. Kenny’s hands brace on either side of Stan’s head, and Stan wraps his arms around Kenny’s back, pulling him down into a deeper kiss.

Stan rolls his hips once, experimentally. Kenny groans, head tipping forward to rest against Stan’s.

Then Stan does it again—more confidently this time—and Kenny grinds back into him.

The heat between them is dizzying. Stan is barely aware of the room anymore. He doesn’t care if people are watching—doesn’t care about Red and Bebe’s squealing or Cartman’s crass commentary. He’s completely caught up in the wet slide of Kenny’s tongue, the pressure of their bodies pressed together, the way Kenny’s thigh slots perfectly between his legs.

They’re both too drunk to actually be getting off on this, but God, it feels good. Kenny is solid and heavy on top of him, grounding him in this moment.

Kenny shifts his hips again, slow and firm, and Stan’s breath catches. He bucks up, chasing the sensation. They do it again, and again until they’re panting into each other’s mouths, just trying to feel something.

It’s clumsy and hot and overwhelming, and Stan never wants it to stop.

Eventually, the timer goes off and Kenny pulls back, his breath ragged, lips shiny and red. His blond hair is mussed, a few strands sticking to the sweat on his forehead. He looks wrecked in the best way.

Stan stares up at him, breathing hard. Neither of them speaks for a beat. Their foreheads almost touch.

Then someone in the circle coughs.

The moment shatters.

Stan blinks, dazed. Kenny shifts off of him and sits back on his heels, smirking.

“Well, ladies,” he says, patting Stan’s thigh with mock gentleness. “You wanted a show.”

Cartman lets out an exaggerated whistle. “Niiiice.”

Stan sits up, still flushed, and wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. His fingers come away wet. He feels like he’s floating—half-drunk, half-electrified.

Across the circle, Bebe and Red are whispering again, eyes wide and glittering.

Kenny shoots them a wink, then casually takes another sip from his cup like he didn’t just make out with one of his best friends in front of a room full of people.

Stan just sits there, heart racing, mouth tingling, unsure whether he’s about to throw up or kiss him again.

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