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The thing about dating is that after a while, you mellow out. If you were already friends, it spikes and wanes, but the theory is about the same. Laying on Cartman’s stomach and reading Times articles on his phone was just as common and comforting as throwing each other on the nearest flat surface and slipping hands up where they don’t belong. He’s warm and sturdy, and only occasionally complains about Kyle’s bony ass (and hips, and knees, and elbows). Kyle, in turn, only occasionally complains about his constant sweating.
Kyle’s got one hand absentmindedly playing with Cartman’s hair while the other taps in numbers to his daily sudoku puzzle. It’s a habit performed with just as much mindlessness required by all the other apps he keeps on his phone to preoccupy himself, and as he finishes another row his attention slides further to the actual person in the room with him.
It’s Cartman’s room, because Liane’s sickeningly fake and overwhelming enthusiasm aside, his house is much easier to deal with than Kyle’s. He can field an airy fake-happy greeting and pretend he doesn’t see her slipping Cartman condoms on their way up the stairs easier than he can stand Ike trying to steal Cartman’s attention away as his dad sits sour-faced in his recliner, waiting until mom decides they’ve paid enough time to social niceties and lets them out of her sight. Even at eighteen with a ride to Berkeley next August under his belt, he’s not allowed to close his door, but Cartman is, which they use to their advantage often enough.
Kyle stops the gentle petting motion and slides his hand down further, fingers gliding over Cartman’s cheek and the corner of an eyebrow. Cartman grunts something intelligible.
It’s warm in the room. Kyle would think Cartman cranks the heat up just to fuck with him if he didn’t know how self-conscious he was about his body. As it is, they’re down to their shirts and boxers and Kyle’s got one foot jammed under the bend of Cartman’s knee. It’s teetering between comfortable and suffocating, but it’s been a week since they’ve been truly alone together, and the skin on skin contact is kind of skewing his judgment.
“Hey,” he says, breaking the silence. His eyes are still trained on his phone, but his ears are focused solely on taking in Cartman’s response. “Wanna make out?”
Kyle finds a perverse amount of pleasure in shutting Cartman up. The way Kyle can get one over in an argument and watch Cartman stutter before trying to save face, pupils enlarged and face blotchy while trying to seem above responding. It sends a satisfied shiver up his spine each time, and for a moment just the thought of it has Kyle wanting to shove his fingers into his boyfriend's mouth just to see what happens.