Fandom: South Park
Word Count: ?
Pairing: eventual Kenny/Craig

If there are stones, Kenny skips them. If there are beers, Kenny drinks them. If there are boobs, Kenny kisses them, revels in their softness and squeezes the silk of skin.

(Although Kenny loves the smooth hardness of well-formed pecs too; he's not a very picky guy).

There's no need to second-guess his actions. No psychoanalysis for him, no deeper thoughts - it's always been about him and his instincts and his wants. It keeps things simple. It keeps things clean.

Kenny's had enough dirt (in his floors, on his face, covering his hair, choking his throat, coating his hands) to last centuries, and no, he doesn't want to talk about it. Talking just makes the filth pour from his mouth like Stan after Wendy and suddenly the dirt's not just inside of him, it's all over his front too.

So yeah, he really, really doesn't want to talk about it. He thought he'd made that perfectly clear when Kyle had barged in his room babbling about completely unnecessary things like intervention andantisocial behaviors and self-destruction, goddammit Kenny, stop chain-smoking when I'm talking to you.

Kenny had put down the cigarette long enough to tell Kyle to butt the hell out. Which in retrospect was not the best way to reassure Kyle that he was perfectly under control, but how the fuck was he supposed to know Kyle was actually serious about putting him in professional counseling?

Jesus Christ. He doesn't have time for this crap. In between setting up crap games, making sure police didn't find out about said games, and pacifying the police when they did find out (which was pretty much never because Denver police, while not as stupid Officer Barbrady, were still pretty incompetent), Kenny has his hands full. No matter what the Jewish mother hen might think, ("being a full-time criminal is not a job, Kenny") Kenny's a busy guy.

The psychiatrist is unfazed by Kenny's explanation of why he needs to leave ASAP, damn him. He scribbles something on his clipboard that looks suspiciously like illegal activities before he looks up at Kenny's bloodshot eyes.

"Yes Mr. McCormick, Professor Broflovski clarified your situation for me." Kenny opens his mouth, but the psychiatrist continues. "He also stated that on no accounts should I let you leave this room, so I suggest you refrain from asking to go to the restroom."

Kenny shuts his mouth and does not ask to go to the restroom, even though he knows perfectly well that he can probably wriggle out the tiny window in the men's bathroom.

"Now, Mr. McCormick - "

"Kenny." Kenny says shortly, because being called McCormick makes him sound like a can of spices, goddammit.

"Kenny." The psychiatrist leans forward. "What would you like to talk about?"

Kenny lifts an eyebrow at the idiot in the chair. Isn't it obvious he doesn't want to talk?

The psychiatrist sighs and puts the clipboard down. "Alright then, Kenny. Let's start with something else. Why do you think Mr. Broflovski recommended you to me?"

Because he's an asshole. Because you two probably drink sparkling wine over the weekends and chat about your respectable jobs and my name came up like some kind of charity case during one of your get-togethers. Kenny rubs his palms on his jeans until they're raw.

Because he's observant. His hands are abraded, and Kenny doesn't notice.

The psychiatrist follows the up-down movements of his hands for awhile before lightly tapping Kenny's fingers with his pencil. Kenny jumps.

"Kenny," the psychiatrist starts. "Kenny. Is this something related to what Mr. Broflovski was worried about?"

"No." Kenny just wants out. Out of this small, suffocating room with the small, suffocating man and this small, suffocating chair. Fuck if he was supposedly the best psychiatrist in Denver - the man was doing jack shit for him.

Kenny concentrates on breathing in and out, horribly uncomfortable under the stark fluorescent lighting. He suddenly thinks about the parka he wore until ninth grade and yearns for its warmth, its comfortable weight. How it hid him from everything and everyone. He'd kill for his old orange parka now, even though he knows wanting a security blanket is pathetic at his age.

His toes curl and uncurl and he clenches them tight, using the pain to fight against his urge to run far, far away.

"Is this something about a Mr. Tucker?" The psychiatrist ventures, and Kenny lurches up from his seat like a marionette on strings.

He can't do this. He can't do this.

"Kenny - " Is the last thing he hears before he's off, legs pumping, breath coming fast, fast, faster, heart hammering and sweat pouring and he flies past everything, the passing interns, the startled receptionist, the cries of please, Kenny, please -

But he's wrong and he can't outrun the throaty please please please ringing in his ears -

Kenny, stop!

Kenny stops like he's been shot and promptly tumbles onto baking asphalt.

"Fuck." He grits his teeth against the pain, the rage. "Fuck!"

He lies there on the asphalt until he's calmed enough to act like a normal human being. When he finally does get up, Kenny's first thought is that he'd like nothing better than to punch a certain freckled face clean off a certain skinny Jewish body.

—-

"Stan-fucking-Marsh you better get out here. Now."

Kenny kicks the door a final time before he retreats to smoke sullenly on the porch. When a bleary Stan opens the door a minute later, rubbing his eyes, Kenny is careful to stub out the cigarette on the cleanest spot of porch he can find before pushing past Stan into the house.

Stan wrinkles his nose before shutting the door. "Dude! I just painted that!"

"Tell your fucking best friend to keep the fuck out of my fucking life and then I might feel a little sorry."

"Wow, you're pissed. Want something to eat?" But Stan sounds more careful than surprised, and Kenny steps in front of him before Stan can retreat into the kitchen.

"Did you know?"

"Did I know what?" But the guilty look on his face tells Kenny everything he needs to know and suddenly Kenny's not just pissed, he's furious.

"You fuck! You knew that Kyle was sending me to a psychiatrist!" Kenny spits the word like some people might say Nazi or paedophile (assuming those people weren't Cartman, but most people usually weren't).

"I might have." Stan replies defensively, still trying to get into the kitchen. But Kenny has one inch and all the rage of a betrayed immortal on him and Stan eventually gives up, pinching the bridge of his nose as he leans back into the wall behind him.

"You knew that Kyle told him about Craig!"

"What?" Genuine surprise filters over the dark circles under Stan's eyes. "He did that?"

"You didn't know?"

"No. Why'd he do something like that?" Stan stops pinching his nose and starts rubbing his eyes, a surefire sign that a migraine was on his way.

"I don't know. He's your best friend."

Stan sighs. "Don't say that. He's yours, too."

"Hmm." Kenny turns away from Stan and his sleep deprived form, letting him slip into the kitchen and take some of pills out of the well-stocked cabinet.

"But dude, I don't think Kyle would tell the psychiatrist about Craig. That just doesn't sound like him." The words are garbled through the pills in his throat, but Kenny understands him fine.

"If Kyle didn't tell him, how'd he know?"

"Fuck if I know." Stan shrugs and takes a sip of water, turning to face Kenny. "But you know Kyle - he wouldn't tell a complete stranger about something like that."

Hell, Stan can barely process that in his own mind. Can barely believe it could have actually happened, that Kenny could have committed such a crime.

Stan gives Kenny a habitual once-over, just to see if today is the day he can see the asshole Kenny's convinced himself he is. But all he sees is Kenny: his dirt-poor, deadbeat friend with the blonde hair, the dull blue eyes, the scruffy clothes (always, always scruffy no matter how old they are), the skinny frame. He looks at Kenny and sees the quiet, weird, inappropriate kid Kenny used to be. Sometimes, if he tries hard enough, he spots the orange parka (and a splash of red, a deep, blood red).

But he can't see…that.

Kenny shakes his head and laughs as if he can read Stan's mind. It rings hollow, empty.

"I don't know. People are capable of a lot of things." But he's not talking about Kyle anymore, and Stan knows it.

"I'm sure they have their own reasons."

Kenny smiles, a cruel slash that twists his normally pleasant face into something harsh, something ugly. "You don't know the half of it, Stan."

Then he moves abruptly to the balcony because the walls have started moving in and if he stays in this room he is going to get crushed, crushed. There's not enough air and his hands are sticky (they usually are more often than not, these days) but even though Kenny rubs and rubs them on his pants he can still feel the warmth of blood mixed with the chill of lube on his palms -

"Kenny…? Dude, you okay?" Kenny can hear Stan's uncertain steps behind him, and he holds up a hand, not trusting himself to speak. Just leave me alone.

It feels like eternity before Kenny hears footsteps padding away, but Stan finally does leave. Just to be safe, Kenny waits a couple seconds before letting himself slump against the railing, all his strength gone from the effort of being angry.

He's not made for angry. Guilt, on the other hand - now there was something Kenny was all too familiar with. Guilt he knew.

He feels a twinge badly for chasing Stan away from his own balcony, but there are some moments that Kenny just can't share with others. This - reliving that moment - was one of them.