Herbert Garrison's Night School for Unwed Fathers Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/436507. Rating: Explicit Archive Warning: Choose Not To Use Archive Warnings Category: M/M Fandom: South Park Relationship: Kyle Broflovski/Stan Marsh, Eric Cartman/Wendy Testaburger, Kenny McCormick/Butters Stotch, Token Black/Clyde Donovan, Craig Tucker/Tweek Tweak Additional Tags: Mpreg Language: English Collections: Its Pretty Gay If You Ask Me, South Park Recomendations, Parsonsaj's Best of the Best of the Best, Favorite South Park Fics, Fics I will reread forever, Favorite AO3 Fics, Epic style stories!, South park stories! Stats: Published: 2012-06-17 Chapters: 17/17 Words: 198135 Herbert Garrison's Night School for Unwed Fathers by hollycomb Summary Pregnant and jilted, Henrietta places a vengeful spell on the senior class boys, wanting them to feel her pain. Stan and Kyle are just two of the unwitting victims. Chapter 1 At first, the idea of being pregnant with the Antichrist was a kind of consolation. If she had to go through this bullshit and end up with an even fatter ass than the one she'd barely managed to slim down to a size twelve, at least her baby would like, put an end to the complacent lives of all the phony conformist assholes who currently populated the earth. Then Damien, who couldn't really be trusted but seemed to be telling the truth, informed her that the kid he'd knocked her up with wasn't even the fucking Antichrist. “I'm the Antichrist,” he said. “I suppose if the little bastard were to grow up and kill me, he would inherit the title. So, here.” He gave her a white envelope. She opened it and scowled at the contents: five new-looking one hundred dollar bills. “What the hell is this?” Henrietta asked. “Money for an abortion, genius.” He was smoking a cigarette and drinking a Diet Coke out of one of those old-fashioned glass bottles, looking at her like she was exceptionally slow, which used to be kind of hot. “Is this even real money?” The idea of an abortion depressed her, though she didn't want a fucking kid, either. “It's real in a sense,” Damien said. “Real enough for Planned Parenthood.” “What if I told you I'm keeping it?” She was almost afraid of him but not quite. If he wanted to hang out on earth, he couldn't kill or maim, at least not without a decree from his father, who was more interested in hosting wine and cheese parties with his boyfriend than world domination. Damien drank the last of his Coke and rolled his eyes. They were hanging out in the parking lot of the Village Inn, and Wren was watching them through the front window, still hunched over his coffee in their usual booth. Henrietta kept catching sight of his hair flip from the corner of her eye. “If you want to keep it, that's your problem,” Damien said. “But I'm not going to keep giving you envelopes full of money, so. Take that into consideration.” “Excuse me?” She wasn't sure why she was surprised. All of her online friends had been so jealous when she started going out with the actual Son of Satan – the ones who believed her, anyway – and Wren and Ferris had been jealous, too, but Damien had never really treated her like a girlfriend, and half the time he'd seemed more interested in bumming cigarettes than fucking her. “Look, I'm not gonna be around that much anymore,” Damien said. “Oh, what a coincidence.” “It's got nothing to do with you and your – situation,” Damien said. He squinted at something in the distance, probably thinking about how hot he looked. He was the vainest motherfucker she'd ever met, and it sucked to be one of the people who understood why, because she wanted to drop her panties for him even now, sort of. “I met someone,” Damien said. Henrietta snorted. “Someone? Some chick?” She tried to appear indifferent. Damien shook his head. “He's more like a catamite,” he said. “Turns out I'm into that. Fucking you helped me understand that, so thanks.” “A cat – a boy?” “Technically he's our age,” Damien said. “It's complicated.” “Uh? How so?” “Well, he's dead,” Damien said. “He's downstairs, in my neighborhood. Anyway, it's pretty serious, so I'm not really planning on coming up top again, like. Ever.” “Not even for cigarettes?” Henrietta was decimated, trying to figure out how she was going to report this to Wren, who already thought she was a fool. It was easy for him to say – he was just another gay South Park boy. There were eight thousand of them for every girl, and now, apparently, Damien had gotten gay with kids, too. “I'm going to quit smoking,” Damien said. He threw the cigarette down and ground it under his boot. “Pip doesn't like it.” “Pip? That's his fucking name? Oh, Jesus – is this – Pip Pirrup? Bradley's friend who died?” “We met in South Park,” Damien said. “Years ago. If he was friends with your brother, well, that's unfortunate, but it's irrelevant now. Alright, you've got your money. Thanks for the smoke. I'll be seeing you. Or, not, actually, but you know what I mean.” “Excuse me, no!” she said, feeling the weight of her own futility as he started to walk away. “You can't just – what the fuck is wrong with everybody? You're like the tenth or eleventh South Park fucker who woke up one day and decided he'd rather just fuck his buddies. What the hell is going on? Am I on crack?” She wanted to drop down to her knees and sob into the pavement, but no way was he going to get the pleasure of seeing that. Damien turned back and gave her a heavy-lidded stare. “I don't know what to tell you,” he said. “But there's definitely one advantage. All the unprotected sex you want and none of this pregnancy nonsense.” “This pregnancy nonsense? Fuck you! This is your child!” She gestured to her stomach, though she wasn't showing yet. “You're being very conformist right now, Henrietta,” he said, and he smirked. “But hey, cheer up. While you're pregnant with my kid, I'm pretty sure you'll have actual powers. So have fun with that for a few weeks, get the abortion, then get on with your life.” Before she could tell him to go fuck himself he disappeared into thin air, leaving behind the smell of motor oil and gun powder that she'd once loved. Back inside the Village Inn, she tried to hold it together as she walked to the table where Wren waited, his posture horrible. She was glad that it was only him here and not the other two bastards, but it was still hard to meet his eyes when she sat down, and not just because hers were watering. “Fucking typical,” Wren said, scooting across the half-moon booth to sit close to her. “Whatever,” Henrietta said. She sniffled and dabbed at her eyes with a coffee-stained napkin. “It's not like I thought he would help me. Fucking – conformist – chauvinist – male – asshole.” “Seriously,” Wren said. “Fuck him. He's such a sorry fucking excuse for the son of Satan. What a disappointment. Like everything , Jesus.” He gave her a fresh napkin, and she cursed when she saw the ugly black residue of her eye makeup on the first one. “What's that?” Wren asked, nodding to the envelope on the table. “Five hundred dollars,” Henrietta said, her voice steadying a little. “It's counterfeit, though, I think. That asshole wouldn't even put the energy into robbing someone for me.” “What's that supposed to be, like, child support?” “No, Wren.” She rolled her eyes. “He wants me to get, you know. Rid of it.” “Oh.” Wren stared down at the envelope nervously, as if an abortion was happening within it. For someone so obsessed with death and despair, he could be really fucking naive and sentimental, which was actually why Henrietta preferred his company to that of the others, if only so she could seem dark and world weary in comparison. “You know why, too?” she said, scoffing, and she blew her nose into a napkin, not caring that she was being disgusting. “He wants me to kill it so that it can't kill him. If my baby grew up it would totally kill his ass and be a way better Antichrist. That's what he's afraid of. Fucking coward. Oh, and guess what? He won't be on earth for a while, because he's found himself a dead boyfriend.” Wren stared as if waiting for the punchline, and did his slow blink thing. “Are you fucking kidding me?” he said. “I wish.” Henrietta crumpled the napkin and threw it down. “I guess he caught the South Park disease.” She felt bad after saying that, even though Wren pretended not to be gay for some reason or other. It had always been obvious to her that he was, even when they were kids, whereas the jock assholes at Henrietta's high school had all started pairing up and fucking each other sometime around sophomore year, presumably because they could do it without condoms or consequences. “Well, maybe he'll get his boyfriend pregnant, too,” Wren said. “Since he's got, like, a demon dick or whatever.” “It was a normal dick,” Henrietta said. “At least, it looked normal, and felt, well, better than the others I've had, but not—” “God, okay,” Wren said, shuddering. “Don't tell me about his dick.” “You're the one who brought it up.” “Whatever, Henry, fuck. What are you going to do?” She sat staring down at her hands on the table, chipping some of the already half-gone black nail polish from them. Damien had been her first love, in a way, though of course she didn't believe in love or monogamous relationships or any of that fairy tale bullshit. He hadn't been her first lay, but he'd been the first guy she'd been with who was good at fucking. She'd never even had an orgasm before him, and the ones he gave her had made her stupid and weak, the kind of dumb cheerleading squad pollyanna who believed a guy when he said that half-demon sperm couldn't impregnate human women. Now he had the fucking nerve to claim that he must have been misinformed, probably just lying to cover his ass. It was always hard to tell, with him. “He told me I'd have powers while I'm pregnant,” she said to Wren, who was staring at her mournfully. “What kind of powers?” “I don't know. He probably just said that to fuck with me.” “Try to do that fire in the palm thing,” Wren said. “Like the way he lights his cigarettes.” Henrietta opened her palm and they both stared down at it. She envisioned fire, moved her fingers a little, narrowed her eyes. Nothing happened. Wren sighed. “I know one thing he said was true,” Henrietta said. “I know he wants me to get rid of this kid. That's why he was acting all cool and like it wasn't a big deal. He doesn't want me to know that he fucked up and he's scared that this kid could grow up and hurt him. Maybe he really didn't know he could get a girl pregnant.” “Fuck what he wants,” Wren said. “What do you want?” “I'll tell you what I want,” Henrietta said, making her hands into fists on the tabletop. “I want to have this kid and raise it to be some bad ass demon warrior who will smite his ass into a fucking pile of ashes. Pip's, too. Though I guess he's already dead.” “Yeah,” Wren said, brightening. He never dared to smile when Ferris was around to make fun of him for it, but Henrietta could bring it out of him sometimes. “That'd be fucking killer, Henry. You could be the mother of the Antichrist. You could like, rule the world.” “All the assholes at school who make fun of us would be our slaves,” she said, bringing her hand down to her stomach, though it was much too soon to feel any baby-related stirrings. “Shit, you know what else would be awesome?” “What?” “If we found a spell for male pregnancy and made all those dickholes at school know how it feels.” “Oh, my God.” Wren's eyes went wide. “How fucking sweet would it be if Craig Tucker's little crack addict boyfriend got pregnant?” Craig was Wren's most adamant tormentor, next to Eric Cartman, who tormented everyone adamantly. “How sweet would it be if Craig Tucker got pregnant?” Henrietta said, grinning for the first time in maybe, like, a year. Wren laughed and held his hand over his mouth. Henrietta had only been joking about world domination and male pregnancy, and even, to some extent, keeping the baby, but when they got back to her house Wren went right for the spell books, paging through them and looking for male pregnancy spells. “You get acne when you're pregnant, right?” Wren said. “I don't know,” Henrietta said, touching her cheek. Her breakouts had finally calmed in the past few years. As if pregnancy wasn't enough of a pain in the ass humiliation. “Find anything in there?” she asked, her rage renewed. “No,” Wren said. “I was just thinking about how great it would be if Craig broke out and gained fifty pounds and – oh my God. What if they all got tits , too? Big, leaking tits.” “If that happened,” Henrietta said, “I would sell my fucking soul.” She thought of Kyle Broflovski, who traipsed around the school in Stan Marsh's junior high football jerseys in order to communicate to the student body in no uncertain terms that Stan was fucking him on a regular basis. Kyle was always bitchily correcting her in Honors Lit class when he disagreed with her interpretations of poems, as if he'd written them himself and was personally offended. Stan had been Henrietta's childhood crush, and she knew that deep down he still hated life as much and as profoundly as she did, and that he was a sensitive boy who this world full of hollow-eyed conformists did not deserve. Kyle Broflovski certainly didn't deserve him, and it enraged her every time she saw Stan smiling down at bony, not-even- cute Kyle like he was under some kind of succubus' spell. She imagined Kyle getting fat, saddled with E cups and hysterical with hormones. “Hey, look,” Wren said after they had both been quiet for a while, Wren flipping the pages of the spell books while Henrietta fantasized about Stan being too grossed out by pregnant Kyle to continue fucking him. “I think I found something.” “Seriously?” Henrietta scooted over on the bed to make room for him, and he laid the book across their thighs. He had it open to a spell from a rare book they'd pooled their money to buy last year. Ferris had claimed he would contribute, but he didn't really believe in magic the way that Wren and Henrietta did, and had reneged on his offer after they paid for the book, suddenly claiming to think the whole thing was stupid. “This is Latin,” Wren said, like Henrietta didn't know that. She was on vocational track, but only because she hated school and planned on dropping out as soon as she'd saved up enough money for a car. Wren was in AP classes and always did his homework, even while claiming that he believed the world was a pointless waste of space that would inevitably sink into the black hole of humanity's filth. “It's not for male pregnancy specifically,” Wren said. “But you can tailor the spell to your needs. We could just add some fertility stuff to the potion. The spell is called The Equalizer, and it was invented by a witch who wanted the men in her town to bleed for a week like she did every month. It says here that it worked, but they didn't grow vaginas or anything, they just bled out their asses.” “Sweet,” Henrietta said. “It's worth a try,” Wren said, shrugging. “If it's true that you really do have powers while you're pregnant with his kid, this could actually work, and if it doesn't we're only out some powdered horn of ox and chicken blood. All this other stuff is easy to find.” “So it's just a potion?” Henrietta said, pulling the book closer, though she couldn't read the words. “How do we get them to drink it?” “We could dump some into the punch bowl at the next party Bebe Stevens throws,” Wren said. “Those things are so crowded, and everybody gets so wasted – I bet nobody would even notice if we showed up.” “Yeah,” Henrietta said, cringing at the thought of setting foot in one of those lame ass parties where all the little sheep at her school drank Coors Light and screwed each other in dark corners. “But what if girls drank it?” “It says here that the witch tried to drink some so that it would have the opposite effect on her, you know, no more medieval-style sanitary products, but it did nothing. And who fucking cares what happens to the girls? You hate them, too.” “It's true,” Henrietta said, tugging on her bottom lip. She thought of the girls who attended Bebe's parties – Wendy Testaburger, class president and foremost ass kisser of every teacher in school, who pretended to be all about feminism and self respect, even though everyone knew she'd let that bigoted misogynist fuck Eric Cartman eat her out on the class trip to the Grand Canyon two years back. Rebecca “Red” Hale went to those things, too, and she was the most insufferable, J. Crew-wearing asshole in the tri- county area, also captain of the cheerleading squad. Bebe was the only one Henrietta could stand, but just barely. She smoked cigarettes, drove a pick up truck, and had once complained to Henrietta, in the girls bathroom at school, that every hot guy in the senior class was turning gay, and that if she didn't get laid soon she was going to have to resort to the humiliation of fucking juniors. “Let's do it,” Henrietta said, and Wren smiled for the second time that day, which made her smile, too. “Should we tell Ferris?” Wren asked. “Fuck no,” she said. Ferris had dropped out of school back in September when a teacher caught him smoking in the boys room and tried to discipline him. He'd been an asshole to Henrietta ever since she'd started sleeping with Damien, and he'd always been an asshole to Wren. “And don't tell him I'm pregnant, either,” Henrietta said. “You're going to keep it?” Wren said. She groaned. “At least until some motherfuckers on the football team get pregnant, yeah.” Chapter 2 Stan was a little drunk before they even arrived at the party, and he was wishing that Kyle was, too. Kyle had gotten in a fight with his mother just before they left his house, and he was still in a combative mood, finding fault with Stan in lieu of his mother. "Why can't you wait until we're at the party to start drinking?" Kyle asked when they had almost reached Bebe's house. They could already hear the music: "Nothing's Gonna Stop Us" by Starship. It was an 80's theme party, and Kyle had already barked at Stan for refusing to dress accordingly. It wasn't, as Kyle accused, that Stan thought he was too cool for costumes. He was just so goddamn tired of all this nudge wink nostalgic irony that nobody could talk him into an 80's getup, not even his vintage Elway jersey. To wear it to this shit would have been sacrilege. "These parties are boring," Stan said. "I can't even get through five minutes of them without a buzz. We could have just stayed home and watched movies," he said, pining for the couch in his basement and the Netflix DVD he'd just gotten in the mail that afternoon: Revenge of the Scorpion King. He missed bad movie Fridays with Kyle. It used to be their tradition. "Watched movies my ass," Kyle said. "You know what would happen if we stayed in. You'd start molesting me during the opening credits, I'd consent to getting fingered, we'd fuck and end up asleep twenty minutes later. This is our last year of high school, dude. These relationships are important to me! We have to be at least a little social." "What relationships?" Stan asked, trying to think of anyone who would be at this party who Kyle didn't secretly loathe or frequently complain about in the privacy of his or Stan's room. "Well, you know, our friends," Kyle said, though he seemed to be at a loss to name any particular person. "Kenny!" he said after a moment's consideration. "We just saw Kenny at lunch," Stan said. "He ate half my chicken fingers and talked about a video he saw of a walrus masturbating." "I remember," Kyle said, cringing. "But—" "And you know he's gonna be wasted, and he'll get all emotional about how Butters wasn't allowed to come to the party because he's grounded, and he'll start reminiscing about times they fucked—" "God." Kyle had no further rebuttal, probably because he knew it was true. "Well, um. Maybe Jimmy will come." "No, he won't, because it's Friday night, and Jimmy spends Fridays with his girlfriend. That's what normal couples do, Kyle." "Yeah, old married couples! Dude, I love you, I want to spend every minute of my life with you, and I mean, you know this, but we're only seventeen." "I turned eighteen last week," Stan said. Low on money, Kyle had given him a little book of coupons: one free massage from Kyle (20 minutes), one pan of the Broflovski family chocolate bread pudding recipe that Stan loved, one pre-school blowjob in Stan's car (pending the availability of private parking), and so forth. Stan hadn't redeemed any of them yet. "You know what I mean!" Kyle said. "We can't spend every weekend on the couch rubbing each other's crotches under your mom's old quilts. That's what we're gonna do for the rest of our lives!" "Promise?" Stan said. Kyle grinned and shoved him. "Duh," he said. "But in the meantime, we're young, we should be, like, partying." "Says the guy who doesn't drink." "There's more to being social than getting shitfaced and puking on people's shoes! There's, you know, music, and conversation, and – themed outfits, for those of us who are polite enough to follow our hostesses' instructions." Stan rolled his eyes. Kyle had dressed in a vintage neon shirt that had belonged to his mother back when she was a Jersey girl and tight purple jeans that he'd bought just for the occasion, because he'd take any excuse to show off his ass, especially if the girls who admired it sadly from afar would be present. He was hoping to outdo Craig, who usually had the most expensive and flamboyant outfit at these things. Craig would have Tweek decked out in a complimentary getup as usual. Stan wasn't that kind of boyfriend. He would do anything for Kyle, except let Kyle tell him how to dress. "Token," Kyle said, gesturing to a black Lexus that was parked on the street near Bebe's house. "What about him?" Stan asked. "He'll be there! You like Token." "Yeah, but he'll be with Clyde, and Clyde is fucking obnoxious when he's drunk, plus he attracts the presence of Craig and Tweek." "Do you think they're fucking?" Kyle asked, pausing at the end of Bebe's driveway to retie one of his shoes. "Craig and Tweek? Uh, yeah. Did we not see Craig plowing Tweek last Saturday at Token's thing? Did I hallucinate that?" "Not them." Kyle stood, groaning. "And yes, we did see that. I still say it was intentional. Who leaves the door unlocked when they fuck somebody in the bathroom at a crowded party?" "Not me," Stan said. "But no, I meant Token and Clyde," Kyle said. "Token's so sort of – careful with him, have you noticed?" "No," Stan said. "God, first Kenny and now Token? Everybody's just jealous of us. That's what I think." "Yes, they're not actually gay, they just want to try to recreate the Stan and Kyle magic." Kyle rolled his eyes when he said this, but he was smiling, and Stan knew this was his secret theory. "But, no, if Token was emulating anybody, I guess it would be Craig." "Why would anyone emulate Craig?" "Well, he does know how to dress, and so does Token, actually. Won't you at least put these on?" Kyle asked, pulling a pair of squarish sunglasses with neon green frames from his back pocket. "It's nighttime," Stan said, and Kyle groaned. "Put them on your head." "Why?" "For the theme!" "If it will make you happy," Stan said, because he didn't want to spend the whole party with his tail between his legs while Kyle pretended to be some kind of social butterfly. He wanted to have a few more drinks and endure the party with Kyle in his lap, wanted to squeeze Kyle's ass and know that at least a few people in the room were envying him. So he put the sunglasses on his head. "Thank you," Kyle said. Stan put his arm out and Kyle took it. They walked up the stairs to Bebe's front porch this way, some of the last people to arrive. The party was crowded and noisy, and Stan was sweating by the time they made their way into the kitchen, where the makeshift bar was set up on the counter. Cartman was there, sweating profusely and mixing whiskey with Diet Pepsi. His signature drink. "Goddamn, Kyle," Cartman said, eying him while Stan helped himself to some vodka and Sprite. "You've really out-fagged yourself this time." "Jesus, you are like, dripping," Kyle said, holding up a hand to warn Cartman to keep his distance. "Don't tell me you were dancing." "Um, no," Cartman said. "Like I would dance with any of the stuck up bitches at this school." He looked into the living room while he said so, as if to direct this to some girl who might be listening, but nobody was. "Defecting to our side, then?" Stan said. He made a drink for Kyle without asking him if he wanted one, and Kyle accepted it with a sigh. "Your side?" Cartman scoffed. "Yeah, no thanks. The guys at this school who take it up the ass are bigger bitches than the chicks." "Oh, everybody's a bitch or a fag, that's right," Kyle said, glaring at Cartman. "It's not that you're insufferable company. And getting fat again, seems like." "Hey, hey," Stan said, because he actually felt kind of badly for Cartman. He'd dropped a ton of weight when he got his first major growth spurt at thirteen, and more when he got taller during their sophomore year. For two years he was kind of built and strong, a defenseman on the football team and actively pursued by younger girls who didn't know better, but something seemed to have shifted in his metabolism in the past year. He was rapidly developing an adult-sized beer belly and a renewed double chin. "Whatever, Kyle," Cartman said, his drink sloshing around dangerously when he gestured. He already seemed pretty gone. "Nobody really likes you. People only tolerate you because you're Stan's come bucket." "Fuck off," Stan said, shoving Cartman, his sympathy evaporating. Cartman fell back against the counter with a grunt, some of his drink spilling onto his shirt, which was not 80's themed, just the usual untucked button-down that was meant to hide his girth. Cartman glowered at Stan and stood up straight, towering over him. He was almost half a foot taller, six foot six if he spiked his fringe up with gel. "Aw, are you guys already fighting over Kyle?" Bebe said, walking over with Wendy. "And not even an hour into the party." "I'm not fighting over the Jew," Cartman said, drunk enough to take her bait. "I'm just reminding him why people bother to talk to him." "Fuck you," Kyle said, but he didn't seem particularly invested in the argument, scowling down at his drink. "Stan, this is way too strong, God." He put the cup on the counter, and Stan shrugged, picked it up, and dumped the contents into his own cup. "Here, Kyle, have some punch," Bebe said, ladling some out of a bowl near the liquor bottles. "I made it really sweet. You can't even taste the liquor." "That sounds dangerous," Kyle said. He accepted a cup of punch and looked down into it like it might rear up and bite him. "Just try it, Kyle," Wendy said. She always jumped at the opportunity to point out what she viewed as Kyle's wimpier qualities. "It's a party." Stan put his arm around Kyle. He actually liked it that Kyle didn't drink, most of the time. It meant he was smart, strong enough not to need to erase the parts of life that Stan sometimes couldn't bear, and that he had principles. Stan kissed Kyle's cheek when he drank, and Wendy wandered off. "That's not bad, actually," Kyle said, and he drank more. "Kind of yummy, wow." "How shocking," Cartman said. "The Jew likes the girlie booze. God, it's pink and everything." "What do you put in this?" Kyle asked, ignoring Cartman. He was almost chugging the drink now, as if it was quenching some profound thirst. "Champagne and Sharkleberry Punch," Bebe said. "And a little vodka." Kyle finished his drink and asked for another, which made Stan laugh. He waved to Kenny, who seemed relatively sober, for Kenny, as he pushed through the crowd and entered the kitchen. "You slut," Bebe said when Kenny stood beside her, watching her ladle more punch for Kyle. "I didn't even know you were here." "I just got here," Kenny said. He kissed Bebe's cheek. They had dated through junior high and for part of freshman year, and apparently they'd had most of their sexual firsts together. Stan got the feeling Bebe was still in love with Kenny, though Kenny said it couldn't be true. He was with Butters now, which nobody understood. It was a recent development, and suddenly Kenny was no longer kissing and telling, not even to Stan, who told had Kenny plenty about Kyle. "Where's your little girlfriend?" Cartman asked Kenny as he fixed himself a drink. "Grounded," Kenny said, offering no objection to a reference to Butters as his girlfriend. "He got a 96 on a math test." "That delinquent," Bebe said, but Kenny didn't smile. "Aw, well, poor Butters," she said. "Are you going to go see him later?" "Yeah," Kenny said. "His parents go to bed at eleven. They haven't barred the window yet, fingers crossed." "I could make you a to-go thermos of punch for him," Bebe said, petting Kenny's back. "Poor thing could probably use a drink." "I've always wanted to get him a little drunk," Kenny said, grinning. Meanwhile, Kyle was helping himself to a third cup of punch. "Dude, slow down," Stan said, squeezing his shoulder. Kyle scowled at him and drank. "Coming from you?" he said. "That's funny. No, hey, be my designated – uh. Escort, tonight, would you? I like this stuff. I feel like being the drunk one for once." "You changed your tune fast," Stan said, slightly worried. Kyle shrugged. "Try this," he said. He pressed his cup to Stan's cheek. "It's delicious." "No thanks," Stan said, leaning away. "Champagne gives me headaches. Let's go sit down for a minute, okay?" "I actually kind of feel like dancing," Kyle said as they headed into the living room, where some corny Billy Ocean song was blaring. Stan made a disapproving noise. "I don't really dance, dude," he said. "And you don't, either." He wasn't going to let Kyle embarrass himself; he'd never forgive Stan if he did. Kyle sighed and allowed Stan to pull him down onto an unoccupied section of the couch, where Stan kissed him, which proved a good distraction. Kyle quickly dropped the dancing idea and started running his fingers through Stan's hair, kissing him more deeply and enthusiastically than he usually did in public. "Gonna fuck you so hard when we get home," Stan murmured in Kyle's ear, and he felt Kyle do a sort of full body shudder thing. Kyle nodded and knocked his forehead against Stan's, peering down into his eyes. "I feel so –" Kyle said, and he left off there, moaning a little. "I want more of that stuff." "What, the punch? Jesus, did she put a little crack in there, too? No, just – chill with me for a minute, c'mere." They kissed again, and Kyle threw himself into it, seeming to forget his plan to get a refill just as easily as he'd abandoned the goal of dancing. Most people who knew them thought that Kyle bossed Stan around incessantly – Wendy thought this, anyway – but Kyle was easy to reign in if you knew how to pick your battles, and Stan's major talent was picking battles, particularly where Kyle was concerned. Eighties clothes for a stupid party were a no, but the sunglasses were fine, and in fact had already been knocked off of his head by Kyle, who hadn't seemed to notice, his hands still sliding through Stan's hair. He had a fetish for Stan's hair, which worked out well, because Stan had a fetish for Kyle's short fingernails sliding across his scalp. They fit together this way in almost every respect: