Part I

[sekritomg]

Title: Birds and Fruits
Author: sekrit_omg
Summary: An ode to inter-faith gay relationships, and consumerism.
Author's note: imaginaaation beta-read this for me, I think because I whined sufficiently enough about getting dumped by my beta. WAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Nov. 1

 

Stan and Kyle had a cat. If you asked Kyle when he was in a bad mood, however, Stan had a cat; the cat arrived at the beginning of the relationship with Stan. Stan, however, was not really a cat person. In fact, he was a dog person, and had always wanted a Doberman. Kyle had this theory that people who grew up with pets had the need for pet-ownership ingrained on them. And since he’d never really had a pet, unless you counted his brief possession of an elephant, he found them sort of superfluous. Nevertheless, when he and Stan decided to move in together, Kyle found himself living with a cat.

 

Kyle found the cat embarrassing for a number of reasons. For one thing, its name was ‘Chastity.’ If that wasn’t bad enough, it was a male cat. Furthermore, it was a Persian, with a ridiculous coat of shining white fur and a face flatter than a pancake. Overall, Chastity the Persian was a fairly low-key creature; he mostly kept to himself, although he did on occasion present Stan with mouse carcasses, which Kyle felt was endearing. Of course, neither of them liked disposing of mice.

 

The problem, really, was that that there was something rather effeminate about a man owning a fluffy white cat with the name ‘Chastity’ which also happened to be male. The first time Stan brought Kyle back to his apartment, he paused at the front door, and sighed deeply, and said, “Now, okay. I have to warn you…” and he trailed off, leaving Kyle to wonder where the bodies were hidden. But it just turned out that Stan was embarrassed, because Chastity really wasn’t him. And after that stammering explanation, Kyle reasonably asked, “Well, so, why do you own the gayest cat ever?” To which Stan calmly found himself explaining that it had been abandoned by a breeder, and Stan had read a story in the paper about it, and yes, of course, that was just the sort of insignificant thing that often got reported on. So, being a bleeding-heart liberal animal lover, Stan ran out that morning and adopted Chastity on the spot. They’d been together ever since, which was seven years.

 

The morning after Halloween, Stan was sitting on the living room floor, brushing Chastity out. The damn cat shed like a motherfucker, but he screeched when Stan had him shaved, which he and Kyle really preferred. Stan had a job — not a very interesting one, but it was a weekend, and he figured he might as well spend it grooming the cat. Last night was kind of blurry, but with every stroke, details returned: They made an early dinner, carved a pumpkin, Kyle roasted the seeds. Children came by trick or treating; they put a lobster costume on Chastity, but he didn’t like it, so they took some pictures of him looking annoyed by the jack-o-lantern before taking it off. Around 9 p.m., the last kids trickled through; they were barely even wearing costumes; they were older. After that, Kenny came by, and they all got high. Stan paid Kenny for the weed, Kenny left, and they went to bed — which, of course, was a euphemism for hooking up.

 

Now it was morning, and Kyle was still asleep, or had been when Stan got up, started eating pumpkin seeds, and noticed the giant clumps of white fur littering the living room carpet. He’d found the cat, picked him up — there was some protest, Chastity mewling in upset the whole time. But if Chastity didn’t want to be sheared, he was just going to have to suck it up and deal with being brushed. Stan loved the way his cat looked when he was disappointed, like he was kind of droopy, and his eyes narrowed. Kyle still hadn’t gotten up, and Stan figured he was probably pretty tuckered out from the foreplay last night. And indeed, that was all it had been, and all it ever was. But Stan felt pretty good about the whole thing. Good enough, in fact, to whistle at his cat, and coo, “See, Chas? You’re much prettier when you’re all groomed, aren’t you? Doesn’t that feel better?”

 

The cat, being touchy, narrowed his eyes further, and then closed them entirely. It was like he wasn’t listening at all.

 

Stan sometimes felt guilty about personifying his cat.

 

Not amused by Stan’s ministrations, Chastity dashed off as quickly as he could, leaving his owner in a pile of cat hair. Stan sighed, and leaned back on his palms. It was hard to believe it was already November.

 

He was thinking very carefully about whether he should drag Kyle out of bed when, to his great surprise, Kyle marched into the living room, dressed, and apparently ready to go somewhere. Stan knew it because Kyle had a bag slung over his shoulder. For Kyle, leaving the house was always kind of a production. He worked from home, and when they’d just been dating, Stan hadn’t really realized that this meant Kyle spent most of his time sitting at a computer, sometimes naked, usually biting his nails. He was a content manager for the Park Country office website, and had been for about 18 months, which basically meant he spent a lot of time writing XML and cursing. But he got to do it while getting Cheesy Poof fingerprints all over his underwear, so that was something. Since they’d moved in together, Stan had become painfully aware of just how ridiculous this off-site freelance stuff could be. For example, no one was really keeping track of Kyle while he was working, and no one he was working for really understood what he was doing on a technical level. The few times Stan decided not to go into work for one reason or another during their year and a half of cohabitation, he’d been honestly unsettled by the fact that there was now someone hanging around, other than the cat.

 

“Happy November,” Stan said sweetly, pushing himself up off the floor. “I had no idea you were up.”

 

Kyle clasped his hands together, smiled about as widely as he ever had, and said the 13 words Stan hated the most when strung together in that exact order in the English language: “Well, of course I’m up! It’s time to start getting ready for Christmas.”

 

“Oh, no,” Stan groaned. “Really? This? Again?”

 

“Stan, please,” Kyle sighed, crossing his arms. Stan didn’t know how he could look so good this early in the morning, he really didn’t. He glanced at the clock on the wall and discovered it was actually 10:30 a.m., which wasn’t that early, really, when you thought about it. “Target’s got their stuff out; I know, I called ahead. I am a man on a mission.”

 

“And what mission would that be?”

 

Kyle rolled his eyes and said, “To buy Christmas stuff,” as if that were the commonly shared goal of just about everyone waking up with a jack-o-lantern still sitting on their front steps. Hell, Stan wasn’t even sure if he remembered to blow out the candle. For all he knew, the damn pumpkin was still glowing.

 

“Isn’t it, you know, really early for that?”

 

“You tell me,” Kyle implored. “I’m a neophyte when it comes to your delightful customs.”

 

“Yes,” Stan informed him. “It’s early, dude. Really early. Why don’t you take that purse off, and I’ll make you some eggs?”

 

Kyle reddened. It looked stupid with his hair, but Stan found it charming. “This is not a purse, it is a bag, and I can’t have eggs, I have to go.”

 

“Kyle…”

 

“I have to beat the rush.” Kyle evasively ducked out of Stan’s grasp, making a beeline for the little row of hooks by the front door where they kept the car keys.

 

“What rush? Anyone else looking to buy Christmas decorations is still trying to bring their kids down from a sugar high!”

 

“That’s a good idea,” Kyle mumbled. He grabbed a plastic pumpkin from where it was sitting on the floor by the front door. “Here,” he said jovially, handing it to Stan. “I think there’s some leftover Kit Kats. Do something with that, will you, so the cat doesn’t get into them?” Stan looked down into the pail, and then back at Kyle. Kyle looked like he meant business. Stan grimaced. “Sure you don’t want to come?” Kyle asked.

 

“I’m … I’m still in my pajamas,” Stan sputtered.

 

“Well, that’s a shame, I’m in a hurry, the store opens at 11.” Leaning forward, Kyle pressed a quick kiss to Stan’s still lips. “Don’t miss me too much, I’ll be back soon. Bye.”

 

Stan pressed his nose to the glass as he watched Kyle run down the stairs of their townhouse, get in the car, and drive away. He sighed, and closed his eyes. For months now, he’d been deluding himself with the idea that maybe once Kyle had just one Christmas, then maybe, just maybe, he’d get it out of his system. This was a bad time for Christmas, it really was, and not only because Christmas was not technically for two months. Christ, Thanksgiving was over three weeks away.

 

But Stan knew these hopes were in vain; he always had. In his shared history with Kyle — a past that dated back about 25 to 30 years, nearly to infancy — Stan had learned the following about Jews:

 

1. Jews loved bargains. Stereotypical, and yet true, and yet completely understandable. Life was expensive.

 

2. Jews did not really follow their own rules. They weren’t supposed to eat pig, weren’t supposed to work on Saturdays, and weren’t supposed to suck cock. Kyle did all of that, often at the same time. In fact, all of the Broflovskis were rule-breakers; Stan knew for a fact that Kyle’s parents drove to synagogue on Saturdays. Maybe God was unaware when he made these stupid rules that Jews would one day be living in snowy, suburban Colorado. But then, supposedly God knew everything, so why didn’t God put a synagogue near the Broflovskis? Probably because the Broflovskis were supposed to live nearer to their synagogue.

 

3. Jews became enraged when you suggested breaking their rules. Stan would never forget the irate glares he got when he asked, during the first seder he ever went to, why they couldn’t just start eating while talking about Jew stuff. For that matter, he would never forget the chewing-out he got from Kyle after they left. Following, they went back to Stan’s place, and Kyle gave him a blow job. Stan didn’t point out the irony.

 

4. Jews loved Christmas.

 

That last one was debatable. Maybe it didn’t go for all Jews. But it sure as hell went for Kyle, who went sort of insane with feelings of Jewish inadequacy from the time he was 8 years old, wishing he could do the things his friends were doing, eating candy canes and waking up to open presents. When Stan and Kyle had started dating, which was during a soggy June six years ago, one of the first things Kyle asked was, “So, do I get to go home with you for Christmas?” At first this bothered Stan, because they’d been on three awkward dates, two of which were to movies, and the third was at the batting cages. To be completely honest, Stan had to admit that at this point, he was not even sure they were dating; he was half-certain their mothers had suggested they reconnect as friends or something. Maybe it was that ridiculous Christmas question that got Stan thinking about the prospect of Kyle in his future. And not a future in which they met up for drinks and a movie every couple of weeks, but a future in which Stan would bring Kyle home for that most sacred of traditions.

 

It was only with the introduction of that idea that Stan began considering his old friend in a sexual way, wondering if Kyle’s ass always looked that good, or if it was only when he was straddling home plate, holding a baseball bat. Kyle was not Stan’s ideal man; his type or whatever was more sentimental, and definitely more athletic. Moreover, he knew a few guys in college who were staunch proponents of the “redheads are demons in the sack” school of seduction, a theory which Stan had always been dissuaded from, possibly because his best friend through high school had red hair, and the idea was disturbing at the time. It did not occur to him, really, until the first time he actually saw Kyle without his pants on that maybe he had always been a little bit into him, and just didn’t want to admit it.

 

Whatever the reason, it was irrelevant. They were together now; their relationship had marched on steadily, from batting cages and movies to embarrassed hand-holding under the table at the diner down the street from Kyle’s apartment, to the first time they kissed, almost mistakenly, while watching Cheers reruns and making fun of Kirstie Alley’s hair. It didn’t even make any sense. “She was in Star Trek, you know,” Stan announced, apropos of nothing, and Kyle grabbed him by the ears and kissed him. That was cool with Stan, because he found Star Trek trivia to be a turn-on of kink-like proportions. Kyle blushed and ran out, and then when they were having dinner two weeks later, they found themselves playing footsie under the table like retards. It just kind of progressed from there, until the aggravated fight they had in which Kyle told Stan he was leaving the city and moving back to South Park to take this horrible-sounding website job.

 

“You know,” Stan said breathlessly; they’d been screaming at each other for a couple of hours at this point. “Maybe if we pooled our money we could, like, afford buying a place?”

 

“Your job is Denver,” Kyle reminded him.

 

“So? I’ll just commute. It’s no big deal.” Actually, it was a big deal, a really big fucking deal. Stan hated driving. But, whatever, it was worth it, totally, if only because they now had the opportunity to fuck every single morning and night.

 

Which they never did, actually. Six years into the relationship, and they’d only properly done it, like in the butt, three times. Three. Once on their first anniversary; once after Kyle got seriously drunk on punch at Stan’s sister’s baby shower and pulled Stan on top of him in the bathroom immediately after vomiting; once when they closed on the condo.

 

Never at any time had Stan regretted giving up the joys of an easy commute for the joys of possibly having sex every morning and not doing it because they both liked dry-humping more. The closest he ever got to genuine regret was exactly a year ago, when Kyle slyly asked if they were going to have a Christmas tree. “I don’t know.” Stan shrugged. “I guess? My parents live like a mile away, that’s where we’ll go for Christmas.” Before he knew it, Kyle was forcing him to string lights and pine garlands up the staircase.

 

Standing in line for a ham on the Monday before the holiday so both of their entire families could come over for dinner.

 

Stuffing a stocking full of the fancy shaving cream Kyle liked, an eighth of an ounce, and a couple of cock rings.

 

Listening to nonstop Christmas carols from Kyle’s carefully curated Christmas carol playlist.

 

Whatever; it was over. The morning after Christmas, Kyle woke up to read the newspaper and immediately began ranting about the Israeli parliament. They took down all the Christmas decorations and Kyle suggested they have knishes for dinner the next night. Satisfied that Kyle had gotten Christmas out of his system, Stan breathed a sigh of relief, and went back to his daily, non-Christmas life: horrible commute, blintzes, mutual masturbation, and making fun of bad movies while high. As the year went on, they talked about their life together, about their plans, about children. Soon it was St. Patrick’s Day — which Kyle marked by passing out after throwing up green all over Kenny’s corduroys. Kyle didn’t drink a lot, true, but he was sort of a binge-drinker when he did. The next morning, Stan made baked beans and fed them to his severely hung-over boyfriend in bed.

 

While he was doing this, Stan had a dramatic realization: He was married. He didn’t know when he had gotten married, or why. He didn’t have a ring or a legal arrangement or a religious contract, but as Kyle complained about how the beans were making him nauseated (“Of course you’re fucking nauseous,” Stan shot back, “you’re fucking hung over”), Stan tried to internalize this revelation. There was no way for two men in their position to actually be married, but Stan knew it all the same, from the way they had sides of the bed to the way he was willing to take a day off work to spoon-feed Kyle beans. The weird thing was, as he was thinking this, he didn’t feel weird about it at all.

 

A few weekends later, they were at a Sabbath dinner at Kyle’s parents’ house. After discussing some current events, the topic of conversation turned to children. “We’ll have some, totally,” Kyle told his parents. “Probably. Eventually. Like, in four years.”

 

Stan kind of nodded along with that. “Yeah,” he finally agreed. “Being together for the long-haul, and all.”

 

“Isn’t that nice?” Sheila asked aloud, in that tell-tale not-really-asking way. “You boys should get a domestic partnership, or something. Gerald can do it for you, it’s really simple.”

 

“Sure,” Stan said, nodding.

 

“Yeah, whatever,” Kyle mumbled. “Dad, do you want to pass the potatoes?”

 

Sheila’s last statement on this was, “I should telephone and tell your brother,” who was on the East Coast, finishing college.

 

 A week after this, she called Stan up at work, which was odd, and invited him to lunch.

 

~

 

When Kyle got to the checkout, he began dumping piles of decorations on the belt. He thought that the checkout boy was looking at him funny, which really annoyed him, because he was excessively paranoid that anyone who looked at him thought he was gay. Naturally, if ever someone looked at him oddly when he was with Stan, he always made sure to ask, “Do you think they think we’re gay?”

 

To which Stan would usually answer, “Well, we are, aren’t we?”

 

But it still bothered Kyle. He couldn’t help it. Up through his second year in college, he was sure that everyone thought he was Jewish. One time at a deli, a man sitting next to him asked him if he was a gay Jew, which really annoyed him, because all he wanted was to drink a cream soda and eat his matzoh ball soup in peace. The way the man at the cash register was staring at him reminded him of this. He didn’t think he looked that gay, or even that Jewish. So why was he begin inspected like this?

 

“Hey,” the checkout boy said casually. “I know you.”

 

Kyle frowned. “Well, I don’t know you.”

 

“Yes, you do.” The Target employee flashed a crooked smile and pointed to his name tag, which said “Craig.” “It’s Craig, man,” he added uselessly. “Craig Tucker.”

 

“I’m sorry.” Kyle blushed. “Maybe you have the wrong person?”

 

“No, you’re Kyle Broflovski. I definitely know you.”

 

“I wish I could say the same.”

 

“We went to school together for 12 years.” Kyle shrugged. “We were in a Peruvian flute band together.”

 

“I’m sorry. I just really don’t remember you.”

 

“Your fat friend fucked my sister in 11th grade, and I chased him down the street with a shovel, and he wanted you to let him into your house to get away from me, but you wouldn’t open the door and I beat him with a shovel.”

 

“Ohhhhhh.” Recognition spread across Kyle’s face. “Oh, Craig Tucker. Yeah, I remember you.”

 

“That’s great.” Craig handed Kyle a plastic bag full of tinsel garlands. “That’ll be 304 dollars, and 49 cents.”

 

“So.” Kyle reached into his bag and began to feel around for his wallet. “What have you been up to, man?”

 

“Uh.” Craig looked around suspiciously, like he couldn’t understand why Kyle was asking. “Working at Target.”

 

“Oh, that’s cool.” Craig rolled his eyes. “Sorry. I always lose my wallet in here.”

 

“Take your time. I certainly don’t have a line of six other customers waiting to pay for their purchases while you grope around in your stupid purse looking for your wallet.”

 

“Great,” Kyle replied, not bothering to turn around and catch the glares of everyone waiting for him to pay for his Christmas decorations. Blushing as he tried to find his wallet, Kyle sheepishly said, “So. Um. Seeing anyone?”

 

“No,” Craig replied icily. He looked down at his red vest and picked off a piece of lint. “Find that wallet yet?”

 

“Huh? Oh. Uh, I think maybe it might be in the car.”

 

Craig rolled his eyes. “I have a lot of customers, sir, maybe you’d like to step to the side so I can—”

 

“Found it!” Kyle held up the leather billfold triumphantly. “I knew it was in there somewhere.”

 

“Great,” Craig muttered, running Kyle’s Discover Card through the machine. While he was waiting for the printout, he asked, “What are you doing buying all this shit anyway?”

 

“What do you mean, what am I doing? It’s Christmas.”

 

“I know what it is. I just remember you being, like, Jewish or something.” The receipt finished printing out, and Craig handed it to Kyle, along with a pen. “Here’s a pen,” he said helpfully.

 

“Yeah,” Kyle mumbled in agreement, scribbling his messy signature. “The person I’m with, they’re not.”

 

“Okay.” Craig snatched the receipt and the pen back. “You want your copy in a bag?”

 

“Actually…” Kyle grabbed the receipt and shoved it in his purse all wadded up. “The person I’m with, it’s Stan.”

 

“Stan … Marsh?” Craig asked, raising an eyebrow. “Oh my god. You’re dating Stan Marsh?”

 

“We live together,” Kyle said, as casually as possible.

 

“I had no idea Stan Marsh was gay.”

 

“Neither did I,” Kyle confessed.

 

“So, you’ve been dating the same guy since you were like, 8.”

 

“No!” Kyle shouted. Then he grinned, and composed himself, and said, “We sort of lost touch in college, then I moved back to Denver when I started working, and, uh, I guess our moms set us up.”

 

“Oh. Uh, cool.” Craig blinked. “So, that would make you a gay Jew.”

 

“I guess so.” The woman in line behind Kyle cleared her throat aggressively.

 

“A gay Jew buying 300 dollars of Christmas decorations at Target the day after Halloween.”

 

Kyle looked around. “I guess so.”

 

“Well, that’s awesome. Thanks for shopping at Target.”

 

“You’re welcome?” Kyle asked, understandably confused. He stood there next to his overflowing cart for a moment, waiting for Craig’s response, but he was already listening to the next customer’s complaint about the wait.

 

~

 

“You’ll never guess who I ran into at Target,” Kyle said casually over dinner, which was vegetable lasagna.

 

“Who?” Stan asked. He was very involved with trying to peel the label off of his beer bottle.

 

“Craig,” Kyle enthused, like this was sensational. “Craig Tucker.”

 

“Ohhh.” Stan stopped fiddling with his beer. “Who the fuck is that?”

 

Kyle shrugged. “I dunno,” he confessed. “Some guy we went to school with?”

 

“Was he short? Blond hair? Twitchy?”

 

“No, he had dark hair.”

 

“Was he black?” Stan asked.

 

“No,” Kyle sighed. “He was just kind of … plain.”

 

“Well, whatever.” Stan stood up with his empty plate. “What are your plans for tomorrow?”

 

“Uh.” Kyle thought for a minute. “I think I should go down to the grocery store, reserve a Christmas goose.”

 

Stan’s dish clanked in the sink. It always annoyed Kyle went Stan didn’t put his dishes directly into the dishwasher. “Jesus, dude, I hardly think you need to do that. It’s two months away.”

 

“It’s November! It’s next month!”

 

“Well, suit yourself.”

 

“Do you want to come?” Kyle put his elbow on the table and his chin in his hand as he was asking this.

 

“No thanks. I’d rather watch football.”

 

“You don’t want to spend time with me?”

 

Stan hesitated, and then Kyle gave him that look, so he said, “I have lunch plans. Also, football. You can’t trade a Christmas goose for the Broncos, Ky, you just can’t.”

 

“You’ll be glad I think these things out when you’re enjoying my savory Christmas goose,” Kyle theorized.

 

“I’m sure I will.” Stan grinned. “I could stand to enjoy your savory Christmas goose tonight, too, though.”

 

Kyle rolled his eyes. “God, you’re corny.”

 

“I know. But I think it’s why you like me.”

 

Stan paused on the way out of the room to kiss Kyle on the top of his head, as he was still sitting. Even though he didn’t wash his tangled mess of hair everyday, Stan still thought it smelled like rosemary and violets. “You have to admit, it was a weird thing to say, savory Christmas goose. It’s very unfortunate you weren’t born into some tight Baptist family or something. They’d have you trussing hens and whatever. Making pinecone candelabras and shit.”

 

Kyle blinked. “Should I make one of those?”

 

“Goodnight, Kyle. I’ll see you in the morning when you’ve fallen asleep over Martha Stewart’s Christmas cookbook.”

 

“Oh, I’m coming to bed,” Kyle said with a wink. “I want my goose trussed or whatever.”

 

“Suit yourself!” Stan gave a wave and left.

 

 

Nov. 24

 

It was in the lead-up to Thanksgiving that Kyle decided he needed two trees.

 

“Two?” Stan asked. He was hunched over The Joy of Cooking, trying to figure out how to make cornbread. It was all his mother asked him to bring for Thanksgiving, and that had him a little bit down. He knew he could give her so much more than cornbread, but that was all she wanted. So here he was, looking at recipes. Chastity was nuzzling against Stan’s shins, and he knew he’d need to go over his corduroys with a lint roller as soon as he got up. All of this evaporated, however, as soon as Kyle dropped the two-trees bomb. “What the fuck could we possibly need two for?”

 

“Do you really want to know?”

 

“It’s nothing weird, is it? It’s not, like, some alien-death thing, is it? Because I can’t take that right now, Kyle, I really can’t.”

 

Kyle soured on this. “Shit, sorry, didn’t realize you were having such a hard fucking time deciding on a cornbread recipe.” Stan shot him a look, and Kyle batted his eyelashes remorsefully, clearing his throat and continuing: “I wanted to do a theme tree, okay?”

 

“Oh, no.” Stan sighed, and shut his cookbook. “Can you get any gayer?”

 

“Shhh, I’m talking. Where was I?”

 

“Theme tree.”

 

“That’s right,” Kyle nodded. “I wanted to do a theme tree. But, you know, I couldn’t decide on a theme.”

 

Stan rolled his eyes. “And those themes are…?”

 

“Winter wonderland,” Kyle informed him. “And birds-and-fruits,” he added quickly.

 

“Okay, winter wonderland, I understand. Like, what is that, a white tree? With white lights? And white stuff?” Kyle nodded. “But, this other thing, birds-and-fruits. I need clarification.”

 

“It’s exactly what it sounds like.” Kyle smiled, trying to look appealing while he sold this idea. To his relief, Stan cracked a smile, too. Then, to his horror, Stan burst out laughing.

 

“That’s ridiculous!” he cried out. “Oh, no, that’s just pathetic. Birds and fruits? Who are you? Where the fuck did you even get that idea, a Dynasty rerun or something? Like, I don’t even know where you’d find a bunch of fucking Christmas birds and Christmas fruits.” Stan wiped his eyes. “I take back everything I’ve said about not being gayer than me, dude. This is phenomenally gay. This is, like, pink-sparkly-butt plug gay.”

 

“Shut up!” Kyle crossed his arms. “It’s really elegant, okay? I’m just trying to make things classy around here.”

 

“Yeah, because when I think classy, I think ‘birds and fruits.’ And how the hell do you explain the other one, the white supremacist power tree?”

 

“It’s a winter wonderland tree, and that one’s just kitchy.” Stan was still chuckling, and the cat had climbed into his lap. “Oh my god, it’s supposed to be fun.”

 

“Kyle’s gone nuts, Chas,” Stan said brightly, stroking white fur. “Don’t make any sudden moves around him.”

 

Kyle stood up and pushed his chair back toward the kitchen table. He pointed a finger at Stan accusingly. “I hope your cornbread is dry and collapses in the middle!”

 

“Yeah, okay,” Stan laughed. “You have to eat it, too.”

 

“I will have my two trees, damn you,” Kyle seethed. “Then you’ll see what’s classy.”

 

“Right, right,” Stan kept chortling as Kyle stormed out. “Birds and fruits, dude.”

 

“I hate you!” Kyle called behind himself.

 

Stan looked down at the cat. “Do you think I should tell Sheila about this?” he asked him. Chastity yawned, and hopped off his lap only to stalk out of the room after Kyle. “Yeah, I’m not sure it’s such a great idea, either,” he shrugged, slamming his hand on The Joy of Cooking. “Birds and fruits,” he laughed again. “Oh, brother.”

 

Shutting the cookbook, Stan got up and walked out of the kitchen. He ducked around the living room and the dining room, only to find Kyle sitting at his desk upstairs, obviously typing something.

 

“You’re not pissed at me for making fun of your trees, are you?” he asked.

 

“What?” Kyle looked up, obviously distracted. He sighed, and scratched his head. “Look, I … I know it’s stupid,” he confessed. “But it makes me happy, okay? Why do you have to make fun of something that makes me happy?”

 

“I just think two trees is excessive, is all. Don’t you?”

 

Kyle grinned. “Maybe a little.”

 

Returning the smile, Stan bent over and pecked Kyle on the cheek. “I have something to tell you,” he whispered.

 

Swallowing, Kyle tensed. “Can it wait? I mean, that doesn’t sound good.”

 

“No, it’s fine,” Stan swore. “Just, hear me out.”

 

“Can’t it wait? I’m kind of busy here, I’m trying to get some work done.”

 

“Okay,” Stan sighed in resignation. “I think you’d get more work done during the day if you weren’t busy thinking about Christmas and jacking off.”

 

“I’ve only done that that one time,” Kyle scoffed.

 

“Whatever, honey.” Stan squeezed Kyle’s shoulders, and left him to work.

 

 

Dec. 4

 

“I have an objective,” Kyle announced over dinner.

 

“I hope it’s not getting me to get the cat shaved,” Stan deadpanned. “Because, for the last time, he hates that, and I can’t do that to him.”

 

Kyle scoffed. “What? No. I love your furry cat, Stan. I love it like I love your furry ass.”

 

“So … you’re ambivalent about it?” Stan really wasn’t sure what the hell Kyle was talking about. He was just trying to eat his linguine with clam sauce in peace, without any further discussion about Christmas, or the cat. Earlier that evening, in the middle of a particularly fraught bedroom makeout session, Chastity had come in and hopped on the bed. At this point in their relationship, Stan and Kyle had gotten used to the cat intruding on their sex life, such as it was.

 

This time, however, Chastity took the opportunity to get in between them, which was especially distracting, and then cough up a big hairball. If that wasn’t disgusting enough — one hairball was all it took to send Kyle running to the shower and soften Stan’s erection on contact — further inspection of said hairball revealed it to be comprised partially of hair, and partially of tinsel. When he got out of the shower, Kyle stepped into the bedroom with a towel draped over his shoulders, only to be greeted not with a conciliatory kiss, but with a protracted discussion about the correct and incorrect locations for tinsel placement.

 

“On the tree, fine,” Stan instructed, “but for the love of god, keep it on the higher branches, okay? Like, maybe a couple of feet up from the bottom? Where the cat can’t get to it?

 

“But that looks so stupid,” Kyle protested.

 

“It looks stupid anyway!” was Stan’s final assessment of the situation. “I don’t know what kind of warped childhood you had that made you think a white fucking fake Christmas tree would look any stupider with tinsel unevenly distributed, but let me assure you, nothing could make your precious winter wondertree look any more retarded.”

 

“I refuse to believe you don’t know exactly what kind of warped childhood I was subjected to.”

 

So now they were eating pasta, and Kyle was thankfully not discussing Stan’s dismal opinion of his Christmas trees, plural, or the fact that their cat had ruined their last three attempts at hooking up by barfing regurgitated tinsel all over them. Now, however, Kyle seemingly had some new contrivance in mind.

 

Despite having met him on several occasions and finding him rather pleasant, Stan was really beginning to wish Jesus had never been born. Not that this Christmas bullshit had anything to do with Jesus, he had to remind himself. Kyle didn’t worship Jesus. He had shellacked their front steps with fake show (redundant, really, since South Park was already as snowy as it was ever going to get, which was to say, incredibly snowy) not for Christ the lord and savior, but for some other reason, some feelings of childhood inadequacy, or something. Stan was still trying to figure it out, and was still no farther than ‘Jews love Christmas.’

 

“Here,” Kyle said unceremoniously after clearing Stan’s pasta bowl. He fished something out of one of the kitchen drawers, and dumped it in Stan’s lap.

 

Stan, after studying the cover, flipped through the book without enthusiasm and asked, “What the fuck is this?”

 

“A recipe book,” Kyle told him. “The 25 Best Christmas-Themed Martinis.”

 

“Twenty-five?” Stan exclaimed disbelievingly. “I can’t think of one.”

 

“Red food coloring,” Kyle suggested.

 

“If that’s what’s in the book, I think you got ripped off.”

 

“No, that is not what’s in the book,” Kyle snapped, snatching it out of Stan’s hands. “You just said you couldn’t think of one.”

 

“Why would I want to? The concept is revolting.”

 

“Really?” Kyle asked. He sat back down at the table across from Stan. “A…” he began flipping through the pages. “…Gingerbreadtini doesn’t sound good to you?”

 

“No. It does not.”

 

“How about a Bethlehemtini?”

 

Stan looked at Kyle for a moment. Then he asked, “What the fuck is even in that?”

 

Kyle glanced down at the pages. “Pomegranate,” he said slowly. “And … tahini. And gin.”

 

“It just sounds bad,” Stan decided. “Did you say you had an objective in mind with this?”

 

“Yeah, I did. I’m going to make every martini in this book before Christmas.”

 

“Well.” Stan stood up and stretched. “Good luck finding someone to drink them all, honey.”

 

“Christmas dinner,” Kyle informed him. “Everyone at Christmas dinner gets a different themed martini.”

 

“Oh, I can see your parents really going for that. For that matter, I can see everyone being really into that. Who’s not hot for a gross Christmastini?”

 

Kyle wasn’t listening. “Eggnogtini with a chocolate-lemon swizzle stick,” he read aloud. “Brandy or rum with flavored vodka makes this drink perfect to share with that special someone. I’ll give you this, Stan, their copy is dismal.”

 

“Whatever.” Stan fidgeted, and sat back down. Reading across the table, he grabbed one of Kyle’s wrists mid-page-turn. “Hey,” he said softly. “Why don’t you put that book down for a minute?”

 

“I know I’m a product of this horrible consumer culture,” Kyle was saying. “But goddamnit, these martinis look amazing.”

 

“Yes, amazingly bad, or amazingly gay, or a little of both. Kyle. We need to talk about something.”

 

“What?” Kyle snapped, dropping the book. “Can’t I have five minutes to think about Christmas martinis? It’s not like I got to grow up drinking them like you did.”

 

“Trust me, I didn’t.”

 

“Well, why must we talk now?”

 

“Because I’m so goddamn sick of having to complete for your attention with a holiday you shouldn’t even be celebrating!”

 

“Don’t tell me what to celebrate,” Kyle insisted. “I am so sick of being told what I can and cannot get off on.”

 

“I want you to get off on anything your little heart desires. But we really, really need to talk.” Stan paused. “Really.”

 

“I don’t want to get dumped over the holidays,” Kyle moaned. “Can’t it wait until after?”

 

“Well, it could, but I don’t—”

 

Kyle got up. “Excellent.”

 

“I’m not dumping you, Kyle, it’s good, I just want you to listen to me instead of thinking about Christmas every damn moment.”

 

“After Christmas,” Kyle said reassuringly, putting his arms around Stan’s neck. “You may have all of my love and attention and oral skills after Christmas is over. Or until Chastity stops coughing up tinsel. Whichever comes first.” After a kiss to Stan’s temple, Kyle left the room.

 

“Well, godammit,” he sighed, smacking the table.

 

Continued here.