Chapter 1

I'd never really been all that bothered by injury; to myself or others.

Call it morbid or absurd, but for a guy who used to die nearly every day for the better part of his gruesome childhood, Kyle breaking his foot at an Anthrax concert or Stan fracturing his wrists while snowboarding was never a big enough deal to draw me to Hells Pass Hospital for a heart-warming visit. Don't expect any balloons or goddamn flowers, either.

I myself cracked a rib last month after a brutal check in the Fort Collins game, and I didn't even open my eyes long enough to want to visit me.

Today was a little different, though.

The snow was falling uncharacteristically cheerful for Colorado. Usually we only get blizzards and carve-you-a-new-face hailstorms. The snow packs hard and fast and always travels on wind. But today in South Park it fell like how you imagine it should fall on Christmas Day. The kind of snow that clings to your eyelashes and falls into your hair in frosty clumps. The kind you can sift through in your boots instead of having to curb-stomp down to make a path for yourself. Like a wood you walk through.

It was 8:30 a.m., prime-time family hour for Christmas and other holiday celebrators. I chose to walk down to the hospital at this time because it would be empty; everybody would be too busy at home on a Christmas morning. At my house, though, folks would just be starting to get home from their nights on the streets or, in my sister's case, with other people who actually cared.

The high school had let out Friday, so we'd only got Saturday and the start of today off so far, and Monday too. The junior class had a bullshit English project to do, so there wasn't much hope of seeing one of us out in the streets enjoying the gentle weather this holiday.

Usually Stan would be busy till noon with family stuff, then Kyle would go over to his place and they'd hang out, bitch about the project or watch movies. I'd join them before long. Then Cartman would show, having just escaped his guilty mother's obsessive attentions. She would've taken him to lunch somewhere in the city to make up for her frequent absences. She'd've complained, too. Complained that he smelled like smoke and that he looked sick and has he been eating properly?

This holiday, however, Mama Cartman had no need to come back to the house in South Park and spend time with her son, because he was in the hospital. She would've already sent him an extravagant gift to apologize to her "poopsykins" for being unable to visit. He would be overly accepting of her neglect and choose not to talk about it.

Eric Cartman had his own hand-picked offensive line on the varsity Park County High ice hockey team. He was unbelievably good. Still volatile, though. The kid who played for Denver's defensive line in our game Friday night was a fucking doucheand kept smashing Cartman's boys into the boards, so finally and unsurprisingly, Eric slashed him vicious, putting him on his ass in front of his whole team. Of course after the game they made like real men and fought it out in the parking lot.

So he's stuck in Hells Pass with a snapped left elbow and a couple fractured carpal bones in his right wrist. We don't know for sure, but we think the Denver kid left in worse shape. He was unconscious at the end of it, we know that much. Not to make a hero out of fat-ass, though. It's only 'cos he boxes now.

As little as I care, there is a certain sort of melancholy about Cartman being away from home over Christmas, banged up as he is. There's a sort of melancholy about everything to do with Cartman, these days. Most say he's a lot better than he used to be, but he's worse, I think. His whole miraculous outgrowing of childhood obesity didn't make him cocky, like we reckoned, instead when his family situation got worse his social skills were completely drained. He sat with us at lunch sometimes like we were doing him a favor by allowing it. Sometimes he didn't even show up for school. And looking so depressed and sick and cruel all the time, he's barely approachable, otherwise he coulda picked up a girlfriend or something easily by now. I wish he'd be upfront with us. I wish he'd swear like he means it and be a dick like he used to be, if only it meant he was actually feeling something. Instead it's like having a grungy old sock in your backseat all the time, like you've been meaning to take care of that problem but never get to it because it's made itself insignificant in its silent persistence.

"They got free coffee down in the cafe, did you know?"

Cartman's eyes are the color of partially dried blood. A mahogany sort of brown-red.

I pulled up one of the uncomfortable visitor chairs obnoxiously close to Eric's bedside and put my coffee down on the nightstand. His elbow was in a heavy-duty brace and sling, and his right hand was all bound up. The white of the Hells Pass bed and the cheery glow of sunlight off of snow glaring through the window didn't suit him.

I noticed his hockey bag was in the corner, expensive sticks slung haphazardly across it. The assholes couldn't even bring his stuff home for him?

My friend took a deep breath, and spoke like it was a line he'd memorized long ago and had lost interest in it. "S'for the people paying thousand dollars a night just for a goddamn hand-me-down cast that'll probably give 'em ringworm, not the poor fucks that just wander in off the streets for the nearest open door."

I shrugged. "Alas, when you're a poor fuck, any door could be an open door with the right coercing, and any open door is an invitation. It's warm in this place, if nothin' else."

Under the harsh hospital fluorescents, Cartman had the cutest damn smattering of freckles over the bridge of his nose. Just a few and his skin was tan enough to almost hide them. Not from my wandering eye, I guess, ho ho.

His silence was unnerving, but I was sorta used to it by now.

I had decided on the way here that enough was enough, and guessed I had to be an ass to really get down to it. "What's up with you, man? You're not the Cartman the Dick I used to know."

He wheezed what I guess was supposed to be a humorless chuckle. "Cartman the Dick lost his mind a long time ago."

I groaned. "Who are you, dude?"

"Why do you care?"

"'Cos you're...you're my best friend, bro. I thought you knew that."

"Don't shit-talk me, dude, I'll pop your fuckin' head open."

"Damn it, Eric, is it that hard to believe we actually care about what you get your ass into?"

Silence.

"Fuck! I thought you were a bit above it, Cartman, but if this whole attitude adjustment thing is just your way of coping with past guilt, and that's why you're a self-hating stoner right now, I will be so fucking pissed.

"We know that you're messed up, bro, we know it was bad when we were kids, but...I mean, we stuck together, right? Doesn't that mean anything? I sound like a goddamn pussy right now. This is your fault."

"What are you getting at, Kenny?"

"I love you, dude. I don't care about...you know. I'm just sick of seeing you so...sick, I guess, all the time."

Cartman turns his head away from me, unable to shift his upper body all that well. But I'd noticed the sleepless bruises beneath his red eyes and the pale sickly white of his neck.

"Lissen, I brought you something."

I pushed my hood down and produced a package wrapped in newspaper out of my orange jacket.

He turned back to me, looking just faintly uneasy.

"I, er, I guess I'll open it for you."

I had a job, for the weekends, making minimum wage. Not bad, at all, so it's not like I can't buy anything for myself or occasionally friends. Honestly, I'd bought this for Cartman a while ago, because I thought it was sorta him, and just today thought Christmas was a good excuse to give it to him for.

Simply, it was a necklace; just a ringlet of hemp with a skull hung from it carved of multicolored tire rubber. Hey, I spend but I never said I splurge. Besides, I like the simplicity. It's not super gay, and it's something the old Cartman wouldn't've minded.

Eric ducked wordlessly and, understanding, I stood and slid it over his head—tightening the knot so it hung just above his collarbone. "Merry Christmas, dude."

I hesitated, then convinced myself that running my hand through his stiff, overnight-hospital hair wasn't too offensive a come-on. He looked up at me through his melancholy red eyes and cleared his throat anxiously.

"Uh," He started, lifting his casted right hand up clumsily. "Here, just don't crush my elbow. Still hurts like a bitch."

Oh? A hug invitation from Eric Cartman? This's gotta blow some bets with the guys at the high school.

I took it gladly, nonetheless, no telling when the next chance would be. I got caught in an awkward girl position with my arms around his neck 'cos I didn't wanna jostle his injuries.

"Thanks," He rasped. "Means a lot. Coming from a motherfucking pauper, I mean."

I grinned as I pulled back, deciding it was okay to allow my hands to continue to mess with his hair. Not only had I gotten a rare glimpse of Cartman gratitude, but also a nice old-fashioned Cartman insult. Warms my damned heart, it does.

"When you allowed to get outta here?"

"I was allowed to get out last night. But..."

Ah. His mother. No one likes an empty house.

"Well, come on, then. We should go to Stan's."

"He done with his family scheisse at this hour?"

I shrugged. "Probably not. But Sharon loves me."

He whistled. "Motherfucker."

"Got your car? I walked."

"Yeah, keys are in the bag. Can you get my pants outa that? Damn hospital gowns don't suit me much outdoors."

"Oh really? Always thought they were so flattering." I drawled sarcastically while digging through his rank hockey gear.

I tossed the only pair of sweatpants I could find at him and made to look for a shirt.

"Don't bother. The butt-licker surgeon had to cut up my shirt to get to my elbow. It'll be garbage now. Dude, untie this goddamn thing for me." I obliged.

Oh, shit. Cartman's shoulders were ridiculous. I didn't even know you could get muscles there. And damn, I'd already known the kid wasn't so much a fat-ass anymore—not that the insult's any less common—but he was a bulky type. I was just surprised how much of a turn-on that was now. Sadly not for the first time, I wondered if he was bi-curious at all. Just a little bit is all I need to make a move.

Ah, hell, that's gross, isn't it? No one hunts their best friend. Especially childhood best friend. That's goddamn freaky; I need my fucking head checked.

Cartman balanced his two hockey sticks between his right wrist and shoulder, leaving me with the bag. I dug out the keys to his clunky '93 Volvo Sedan before following him out the door to the main desk.

"You're gonna freeze, bro."

"Car's up front."

The woman at the desk who'd've rather been at home celebrating discharged Cartman with a couple forms for his mother and a prescription for some heavy pain meds, giving us just a few odd looks which glanced off of his stony exterior like tossed sand.

"Shit, it's cold. What's up with the weather?"

"Weird, huh? I've never seen it snow like this. Where's your car?"

Eric's black Volvo was hidden under a thin sheet of frost in the patient lot, and I hurried to start it up and get it warm before my friend had to add pneumonia to his broken elbow, carpal fractures, and possible ringworm. After shoving his hockey stuff in the backseat, I noticed he wasn't even making a move to get in.

"What're you doing? Get the hell in the car. It's probably below freezing out here."

He seemed to roll his eyes. "Actually, the cold sorta dulls the pain. Might get frostbite on my nipples, though."

"Don't be a moron, dude. Get in."

"Kenny, you poor piece of crap, I can't open the door!"

My face flushed in embarrassment immediately and I hurried around the car to open the door for my obviously incapacitated friend, taking the hockey sticks as well.

"Didn't know my sarcasm was so fucking advanced," He muttered.

"Well," I started, scowling resentfully as I slipped into the driver seat and disengaged the parking break. "Maybe if you actually spoke to us, I'd recognize your speech habits better."

"Don't fuck with me, dude."

Fresh snow crunched loudly beneath the Volvo's tires; Cartman had bought snows with freakin' tank treads on them so these road conditions were no problem at all. "Why're you so ready to believe everyone's tryin' to fuck with you, man? We miss you."

He turned his head to look out the window, knee jerking up and down like he needed a smoke.

"It's like you don't even believe me. Look, we love you, Cartman. Well, I don't know about—well yeah, even Kyle. You've always been our friend, bro, it's always been us four. When you just drop out like this, one year, it sucks for us too. And I know you've always fucked with us, but you fuck with other peoplemore than us, so I don't care. And this anti-social shit-"

"Just shut up, McCormick. You don't know me."

"How can you even say that? The only reason I don't know you now is 'cause you haven't allowed me to!"

"Maybe I don't want you to."

I pulled into South Park's CVS, the not-completely-empty parking lot looking promising. "Why you doing this to us, Eric? You've done some real shitty stuff in the past, but we all understood your motives...it's just your nature to be selfish, man, we get it. But now, I don't know how the hell to deal with you if you barely hang out with us any more."

"You're real fucking nosy, y'know that? Go get my shit."

I sighed in irritation and got out of the car, leaving it running so it wouldn't cool down again.

So maybe it was nosy, and way overly caring for someone usually unconcerned with others' misfortune, but most of what I'd said was honest truth. Maybe except the part about Kyle really hurting for Cartman's return. But my friend's situation had somehow wormed its way into my heart as something important, something that demanded to be resolved. Fixed. I wanted everything to go back to normal. I wanted Cartman to go back to being my best friend like Kyle was Stan's; I don't even care if he dares me to eat weird shit once in a while, as long as he's here again.

I turned in Cartman's papers to the pharmacist, and got a bottle of Percocet. I was a bit surprised; that stuff is like fuckin' whale sedative, or something. Even more surprising, Cartman's insurance actually covered it. Hah. I kill myself sometimes.

"Hey, I think I got some clothes in the trunk. Help me out. 'M cold."

Boy, being this kid's maid was getting old. I found an Enjoi T-shirt in his trunk that actually didn't smell like Mr and Mrs Tenorman chili and helped fit it over his elbow brace. The shoulder part of the medical armor would make him look oddly crooked, but I guess it was better than freezing, even if I did lose my view. Fuck, I'm messed up.

Cartman's right hand—with its long, bruised and largely immobile fingers sticking out of the cast—gave me a weak pat on the back in thanks, and I could only manage a grim smile, making my way back to the driver side and this time setting out for Stan's house.

I might've bullied him further, but Cartman's red eyes looked glassy and his head was starting to fall forward. I figured either the pain was getting to him or he was legitimately tired, more likely both. He'd been on pain killer injections at the hospital until now, so I guessed the post-surgery thrum was starting to set into his left arm. He stared numbly at his right hand, slowly trying to bend each finger in turn until his head fell against the window and red eyes closed at last.

"Almost there, babe." I mumbled, turning onto Stan's street.

"I gotta piss," He murmured. "Look, a Jew."

Charming boy.

"Oh," I rolled down the muddy window and pulled up to the sidewalk where Eric had spotted Kyle walking. "Hey, Kyle."

The boy stopped, looking curiously at the black car he saw so little of, and stepped up to the window rubbing his nose against the chill.

"Cartman? Oh, it's you, Kenny. Why d'you have Cartman's—oh, you picked him up, huh?"

"Yeah, he ain't feelin' so well. Wanna lift to Stan's?" The injured in the passenger seat managed to shoot a glare at me for talking about him like he wasn't there.

Kyle glanced up at the distance between himself and the Marsh residence, then back to me. "Sure, I mean, if he doesn't mind."

Cartman was silent. Old Cartman would've thoroughly cussed out his heritage, at the very least, let alone give him a ride. I almost hit the injured boy, but, that's pretty weak.

I unlocked the back doors. "Get in."

Once Kyle had squeezed in beside Eric's hockey gear, with his feet in the rolling mess of energy drink cans on the floor, we set off.

I was gonna help Cartman out when we got there, but he'd already managed to pry the door open with his blackened fingers when I got around. Kyle winced at the sight.

I slipped Cartman's keys into the pocket of his sweats after locking the car as Kyle rang the bell. Normally he probably wouldn't even bother, but we were a bit early and didn't wanna disturb any Christmas festivities.

Luckily, a ruffled Stan still in pajamas opened the door.

"Kyle!" He grinned, pulling the Jew in quickly for a bro-hug. "Dude, I got the new Goldeneye! You know, 007 Reloaded?"

"Fuck yes, let's do this." As Kyle slipped inside, Stan noticed Cartman.

"Oh, hey Cartman," He stepped forward. "Whoa, that's creepy. Where'd you get it?"

Like a lot of people, Stan came face-to-face with Eric's collarbone, leading his eye to the skull resting on his clavicle.

I made up for the hockey player's exhausted grunt with an enthusiastic greeting of my own. It seemed Stan was finished with any family responsibilities and could get right to gaming and were we hungry? There's cookies. We headed down immediately to the Marshes' basement, where we could play and watch movies without interruption. Cartman first headed to the bathroom.

"Dude, why'd you get him so early?" Stan asked, biting his lip.

"Whaddu you mean, man? I felt bad. He's sorta alone, on Christmas."

"So are you, Ken, but—oh, that sounded bad. Sorry, bro. What I mean is he doesn't look well enough to be outside yet with those breaks."

"I know, but...what's the harm, anyway? You sound like you don't want him around."

Kyle sat on the couch beside Stan, struggling with the plastic wrap over his friend's new game. "It's not that, dude, you know it's not. I'd love to have Cartman over here, personally, he's beast at shooter games. But that ain't Cartman."

"Come on, Kyle, don't be so dramatic. We don't ditch Stan on his cynical days."

The Jew frowned, handing the game back to his black-haired friend who'd just retrieved a pair of scissors. "That's different. I don't think Cartman likes us any more."

"You sure he even wants to be here?" Stan asked.

"Well... yeah. He just...doesn't show it."

"Or know it."

"Fuck you, Kyle."

"Just callin' it like I see it, bro. I don't wanna make him uncomfortable or anything. Especially while he's sick." We stopped talking and listened to the faucet run like it had been for a while.

I wondered how he could possibly wash his right hand's black fingers and left's immovable wrist without being in extreme pain, and regretted not offering to go with him. But that's a bit awkward.

The door opened.

Cartman closed his eyes briefly and leaned heavily against the doorframe. "Kenny. The pills."

"Oh yeah, hang on. I don't know how many they want you taking..." I headed over with his prescription, twisting the bottle around to try and read the tiny Directions label.

"Just gimme the pills."

"Yeah, yeah. Stan, can you get a glass of water?" Stan headed to the mini-bar.

"Screw the water."

"Dude, you're not taking these dry on an empty stomach."

"Barbra fucking Streisand, Kinny, give me those pills!"

I cursed and gave him two, hoping that was an average enough dose. I've never been on Percocet before.

Once he'd forced down the little circular blue pills and washed it down with a late glass of water, Cartman was finally able to settle at the arm of an empty couch. It was a lot easier to concentrate and breathe when he wasn't standing up and looking angry. Stan and Kyle took the other couch, so I sat with Eric.

What if Stan's right? What if he doesn't want to be here? I wondered. While I knew Cartman never really liked us back in elementary school, I'd assumed that like the rest of us, he'd accepted our group and its odd dynamic and grown closer once we'd started moving up in the school system. When our education started spreading to include the whole region, our new schools were much bigger than our old towny grade school had been: the masses of strange Park County kids drove those from South Park to band together, and we four became a real, inseparable four. Or so I thought. Maybe Cartman had wanted to branch out, and felt we were stopping him. Maybe he's not anti-social, he's just not social with us anymore. That would suck. I mean, I knew our group was sorta popular, well-known and well-liked, but I didn't know Cartman was, personally. Then again, he's captain of the ice hockey team and a good linebacker; if that didn't win him allies then I can't think of what would. Millie "Lotus" Cross the former Raisins girl even asked him out last Thursday. Wonder how that went. Never liked Lotus.

"So Cartman," Stan started, watching intently as the PlayStation 3 logo flashed across the screen of his big Fony television set. "How's mum?"

Eric's red irises barely even shifted in his friend's direction, let alone looked like responding. I elbowed him accidentally.

"Dunno." He grunted. "She snagged a flight to LA last week on, uh, business. Couldn't get back for the holidays, I guess."

Kyle huffed, eyes not leaving the screen as he and Stan considered Co-op Story Mode versus Combat Simulator. "You got fucked, dude."

Cartman was silent. I offered to sit out the first couple games, 'cos three-way split screen was always shit. Didn't mind, though. I sat back, allowing Stan and Kyle to get absorbed in their gaming. The graphics were pretty dirty. Kyle chose to play as a black dude.

"What's up, man?" I muttered to a sleepy-looking Eric Cartman. "If it's that painful to talk to them, I'll drive you home."

He groaned and shifted around to lean against the arm of the couch, and I accepted the introduction of his heavy legs to my lap with a scowl and a glare. "S'not that, Ken. I don't think that. Don't wanna go home."

I relaxed, a bit. Maybe he doesn't like us any more, but he prefers us to solitude. Not that I'd leave him to his own devices under the influence of Percocet.

I unlaced Cartman's Adidas shoes and pushed them off to the floor. Kyle shot Stan in the head. Stan complained.

Eric's elbow was held firmly by the brace, but he'd folded his right arm over his chest, bruised fingers curling into a loose fist around the blue cast that covered his hand, wrist, and forearm.

When my feet started to go numb I decided it was time to move. Slipping out from under my friend's legs I moved over to sit between him and the couch, settling my legs over his abdomen in revenge.

"Hey Cartman. You awake?"

"Mm."

"So, do you still like us?"

"Mother of God, Kenny, you are so fucking annoying." He grumbled, shutting his eyes tightly.

"I'm just trying to clear stuff up, once an' for all, you know? It's Christmas."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"Sure it does. Lissen, bro, if you have other friends now, I won't care. If you don't wanna hang out with us anymore it's cool. We don't wanna make you uncomfortable or nothin'."

"Uncomfortable?"

"Kyle says you might be uncomfortable being forced to hang out with us like this."

"Kyle can suck my balls."

"What's up with his exclusive rights to your balls, dude? I'm jealous."

Stan took a quick victory lap around his couch when the score showed he beat Kyle by a single point, just because the Jew had gotten a point deduction from accidentally committing suicide jumping from a platform.

I sighed. "Y'know, Kyle and Stan are best friends. Like, super mega best friends. You know where that leaves me? The third, relatively friendly wheel."

He didn't respond, so I kept going. "You said to me once, long long time ago, that you kinda thought we were best friends. What happened?"

He groaned lowly again, and I felt the muscles in his abdomen tense beneath my legs. "Why you gotta get heavy on me now? I'm injured. And drugged."

"Cartman, open your eyes for a sec. Please?"

He squinted and blinked, reluctantly meeting my stare.

"They're red, didja know?"

"Huh?"

"Your eyes. They're reddish. It's kinda cool."

His expression morphed into something honestly pleading, and it made me sad. Did he want me to shut up? Lean back? Leave him alone?

"Please just be straight with me."

"Fine," I glared without any heart. "I want my best friend back."

"I don't know where he is."

"Then what are you," I scowled unattractively. "To me?"

He forced a breath out his nose, looking stressed and bored at the same time. "Anything you think I can be, Kenny."

I thought for a minute, then shifted around to straddle him as heterosexually as possible. "Anything?"

Cartman just looked legitimately confused and a little threatened, now. "What're you doing?"

"You said my best friend was gone," I breathed slowly. "So what's there now?"

His expression faded back into its usual grimace now. He turned his head to the side against the couch and attempted to huddle his bionic elbow closer to his body, like a scorned animal.

"Just the sick remains of an old douchebag." He muttered.

I frowned, leaning away from him.

So I was right. This whole act is just a way overdue personality disorder caused by his twisted stockpiling of old guilt. Regret was like a virus for Eric Cartman. It was an entity completely foreign to him, and so his body responded to it like it would to a disease. We'd all been calling him "sick" for a while now just 'cause we didn't really know what was wrong, but we were right, in a way. Maybe he didn't even fully understand it. What I wondered is what caused it. You don't just wake up one day and realize that no one likes you 'cause you're a dick.

Hm. His mother.

Mrs Cartman had always expressed constant and unrelenting love for her only (that we know) son during most of his childhood. But when she drifted away these last few years, took "business" trips to faraway places and brought strangers to their home and generally lost interest in Eric, it must've been real devastating. Like, finding out nobody cares, and nobody has a reason to, because you're a douchebag. And you have no one.

"Hey, Eric. Didn't you hear me? I love you, man. We all do."

He shook his head. "Don't-"

"I'm not fucking with you."

He shook his head again.

I rolled my eyes. "I told you, I know in the past-"

"No!" He growled suddenly. "There's no in the past, Kinny, there's now. You wanna point out the shit I did good an' look at how I'm different—well fuck that. You know what I found out? I can't change, you poor prick! I'm stuck like this, forever, and you don't have to pretend to fucking deal with it; it's fucking patronizing. Let me go my own way, like I deserve, like I want, and you leave me alone."

Someone snorted loudly from the other couch.

I craned my neck around. It was Stan; his eyes were glued to his flashing screen but it looked like he'd finally heard us.

"Listen. Numb-nuts. We may've all said we wanted you to change at some point, blah blah blah, but we kept hanging out, didn't we? If you actually changed, you'd be about as interesting as Gay Bradley without the alien ancestry. We probably wouldn't even talk to you anymore."

"That's right, shithead." Kyle added helpfully.

I looked back to Eric, struggling with his inner-voice and the drugs telling him to close his eyes. In the end, he decided to pass out.