hollyhark:

This story is basically just a lot of explicit Kyle’s ass porn, but I also hope it’s funny and kind of cute. I got the idea from a story someone described on ONTD.

What happens in the wacky 24 hours after Stan gives Kyle a large zucchini from his personal garden? Read to find out! Truly a fic to set the tone for the new year.

Also available for reading on AO3 and Livejournal!

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“So this is my pride and joy,” Stan says when he leads Kyle out into the backyard. They’re both carrying wine glasses, though neither of them can legally drink. It’s Stan’s mother’s wine. She’s joined Randy in Texas for a geology conference, and Stan insists that she wouldn’t mind them drinking her wine, even if she was home. Stan’s twenty-first birthday is only a few months away.

“This?” Kyle says when they come to stand beside the backyard garden, and then he feels badly for his tone. “No, but it’s nice.”

“You should have seen it at the start of the summer,” Stan says. “All of this was just – seed packets!”

“Wow.”

It’s an eight by four section of the yard, marked off by railroad ties and overflowing with leafy produce. Kyle toes one of the railroad ties and imagines Stan hefting it back here: hoisting it up onto his shoulder, grunting and sweaty.

“I thought you’d appreciate this,” Stan says, squatting down to fondle a tomato. “Since you’re a chef now.”

“I’m not really a chef. I’ve only had three months of real training, and I’ve got another year of school–”

“Well, you know what I mean.” Stan is still touching the tomato, squeezing it gently. “You could pick something, if you want. To cook. I guess they have better produce in California.”

“Not necessarily.” Kyle sits on the railroad tie that lines the front of the garden, the smell of the tomato plant’s leaves and the recently mowed lawn reminding him so strongly of their summers here as children that he feels like he’s in a swoon. He remembers sitting up in the tree house and watching Stan mow the lawn when he was eleven, the first year he was trusted to do it himself. Stan had a spreading V of sweat on the back of his t-shirt, and Kyle had felt badly for not helping, but it wasn’t his yard, and Stan was the one who got ten dollars when the job was done, though he did spend some of it on ice cream that he shared with Kyle. “Is that thing still structurally sound?” Kyle asks, looking up at the tree house, which is sort of dark and foreboding in the fading sunlight.

“I don’t know,” Stan says. “The roof’s all rotted.”

“That’s sad!”

“Eh.” Stan rises to his feet and surveys the garden. It’s almost eight o’clock but still hot outside, a humid early August, and Kyle can smell Stan’s sweat, faintly. “See anything you want to cook?”

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