Title: Unforeseen Circumstances

Pairings: Kenny/Stan. Because I am PRO Me/Lou. XD
Summary: Colorado has the worst winters...
Disclaimer: I own nothing
Author's notes: BWAHAHAH SOUTH PARK SLASH Takes place...I dunno, when they're 16. And Kenny's stopped dyin' all the time. And yes, Kevin is being nice to his baby brother. Shut up, you! points It could happen when they're older.

Colorado has the worst winters, and South Park is no exception. The sky is always a steely grey, and at any moment you can expect a sudden snow storm. It's cold; colder then anything you've ever felt, and that's on the right side of the tracks. Here in the ghettos of South Park, you don't just feel cold, you are it. It's the sort of chill that starts at your toes and works its way up, causing you to shiver no matter how warm you try to get. Sometimes you get use to it, or trick yourself into believing you're use to it, and sometimes, you just sit and hope for a swift death and the warmth of hell.

Tonight's no exception; my house is cold, too cold, and while the others in my house can sleep, I'm sitting on my poor excuse for a bed. I don't even have pajamas; I sleep in the same clothes I wear almost every day. It's sick, and I hate it. I hate that I can't afford new clothes, or even old clothes. I hate that the only blanket on my bed came from Kyle when he got new sheets and didn't need his old ones. I hate that I haven't eaten a proper meal in three weeks. I can't stand that my hair is so dirty it doesn't even resemble the blonde it is; instead, it's a dusty grayish brown because our waters been shut off again. We don't have power, we don't have heat...we have nothing.

I think what I hate most is that Cartman is actually right about something. I'm so poor; I can't even afford to let his taunts get to me.

I slide my feet to the floor; I haven't taken my shoes off yet, even though I went to bed three hours ago, because it's just too damn cold. I keep the sheet wrapped around me, not much of a protection against the cold but, hey, any help is good help, right? I creep from my room and make my way downstairs to where Kevin's huddled up on the couch, playing cards in the light of one lit candle. I enter the room and he looks up, motioning me over to crawl in his blanket with him. I know that he knows I'm shaking, and I know he doesn't know that I know he hates it. I make my way over, stepping over broken beer bottles and a headless doll to crawl into my big brothers lap, soaking in the warmth from his body. He pulls the blanket tight, one arm snug around me while the other flips cards in front of us. It's not really often we can do something like this; usually he'll get surly or mom and dad'll start fighting and ruin the moment. They've been fighting even more lately; I don't even know why Kevin's still here, he's eighteen and could be gone by now. I sort of hope he stays around for me, but...

"Couldn't sleep, kiddo?" his voice is soft, right in my ear, and I shake me head, curling up against him. He sighs, dropping the two of clubs card in his hand to rub his hands up and down my arms, trying to gain some friction to cause some warmth under my too small parka. I haven't grown too much; taller, but I've got no weight to me. I'm all skin and bones, which might be why I get cold so easily. It's not like I can help it; have you ever seen a fat poor kid? I'll tell you what; even Cartman could loose some weight if he became as fucking poor as we are. Do the fatass some good, probably. That could be a motto...'Got Fatties? Send them to Kenny's; they'll loose weight in no time!' I could make a fortune...

"No. S'cold." My words are muffled by my hood, but he knows what I mean; sixteen years of how I talk, from behind my hood, and he's used to it. Can make out my words better then anyone else, with the exception of Kyle, Stan, Cartman, and oddly enough, Butters. I think the only reason Butters can understand me is because the kid listens.

"I know, bud. It's pretty fuckin' cold out tonight. D'you...hmmm. Can you go to one of your friends houses? I was planning on going over the Mike's for the night, I could take you over to one of your friend's houses if you want." It's going on midnight; I don't even know if any of my friends are awake. Well, Stan might be; he sometimes stays up until three reading. Down the hall, someone starts moving around; a moment later, we both cringe as we hear something slam into the wall of the hall. Muffled cursing drifts to us, and we both know what it means; dad's awake.

"Is he drunk?" I ask, peering around Kevin to look at the door. I'm not really scared of my dad, per say. Sure, he's bigger then me, but I've died so many times before I'm not really scared of, well...anything, really. But lately, I haven't been dying...and I don't really want to think about the pain I'd be in if he ever got a hold of me.

"Probably. Come on, Kenny." I slide out of his lap, and I can hear dad stumbling towards the kitchen. Kevin stands up and heads towards his room, motioning for me to be quiet. "I'm just going to grab my school stuff, okay? Meet me by the front door, and we'll head into town." I nod, watching as he disappears into his room before heading towards the door. This is actually a pretty common occurrence when it's really cold; not only is it just too cold for us to stay in the house, but dad get's piss loaded and angry. I bend to pick up my backpack, but freeze when I feel a hand on my back. It's too big to be Kevin's...

"Where you think yer goin, boy? You ain't leaving. Yer stayin' right here, aintcha, ya little bitch?" I slowly straighten, turning to face him with my bag clutched in my hand. Like I said, I'm not scared of him….but sometimes, I'm scared of the things he does. I close my eyes, hoping he'll just go back to bed.

I recoil at the sharp sting of his fist across my cheek, not making a noise but taking a step back. That's going to leave a nasty bruise and my nose is bloody already, and it's then I realize something must have upset him long before he woke up. He takes another swing, mutter curses and grumbling about 'little slut boys who aren't thankful'. I try to duck, but he's pretty fast for a drunken guy, and catches me in the jaw. He usually apologizes after he hits me, but this time, he just aims at me again. The last one really hurt; I think my jaw might have locked up or something because I can't talk, I can't yell at him to stop. Luckily, Kevin storms in, pushing Dad out of the way to stand in front of me.

"Kenny, go outside. Now." I nod, slipping outside. I sit on the steps of our porch, listening for any noise from inside, but it's quiet. After a minute, Kevin steps out, his bag in hand, and motions for me to get up. He wraps an arm around my shoulder, pulling the blankets closer to me, and starts to lead me down the driveway. I cast a glance back at the house, but it's quiet; the only light a soft flickering from the candle Kevin must have left in the living room.

"Kev?" HE doesn't say a word, just leads me down the road and across the tracks silently. I give him a worried look, but it doesn't look like Dad hit him or anything, so I don't say anything, just follow and keep quiet. Suddenly, he stops, turning to put his hands on my shoulders, looking me in the eyes. My brothers never been very clear headed – smoking pot and drinking has done that to him – but he's staring at me with the clearest gaze I've ever gotten from him.

"Kenny, I have some bad news." I stare at him, but don't say anything, letting him continue. "Dad lost the house. Kenny, we don't have a home any more." Dad lost the house? But if dad lost the house, and we don't have a home, then where will we live? I honestly don't care much about personal possessions; everything I own is on me right now, in my bag or on my body. I carry everything with me because people set fires in the ghetto; and you never really know when you'll come home to a burnt down pile of ashes.

"But…but Kevin, where're we gunna live?" He sighs, shaking his head, and pulls me into an awkward hug, something he's only started doing recently. I wrap my arms around him and stare behind him, towards our house.

"I don't know, Ken. I really don't know."

Stan is, in fact, still awake when we reach his house; answering his door in his slippers with a book in his hand. He stares at Kevin a minute, then turns his gaze to me, nearly dropping his book as he lets out a sharp breath. I imagine my face looks pretty beat up by now, the bruising vibrant and the dried, frozen blood still trailing a red line down my chin.

"Kenny, what the crap? What happened?" he pulls me inside, motioning for Kevin to follow, and pulls my hood down, gripping my chin to take a closer look. I close my eyes, letting the warmth of his house start to thaw me, and Kevin's hand drops onto my shoulder. I turn to look at him, and his eyes narrow.

"I'm gunna head to Mike's now, Kenny. I'll wait for you after school and we'll figure out what to do, okay?" I nod, and his gaze travels to Stan, who's pulled some Kleenex from the box on the table near his door and started to clean up my face a bit. "Take care of him tonight, will you, Marsh?" Stan looks up, giving a nod after a minute before Kevin nods and leaves, closing the door behind him. Stan then motions for me to take off my coat and shoes. I attempt my zipper with frozen fingers as Stan reaches to untie my shoes, but I can't get a grip and after a minute, give up in frustration. Stan finishes with my shoes and I slide them off, and then move to unzip my parka for me. I'm only wearing a worn out t-shirt underneath it, and he takes the jacket and hangs it in the closet as I re-wrap the sheet around me.

"Here, Kenny. Give me that; we'll get you something warmer. I've got some pj's you can wear, okay?" I nod, and Stan takes my arm, leading my up the stairs slowly. We pass Shelley in the hallway, who only stops long enough to give me a look before disappearing downstairs. She's mellowed out a lot after she graduated high school; Stan and her get along pretty good now, even if she still calls us turds form time to time. Stan leads us into his room, closing the door and pushing me slightly to sit on his bed while he rummages through his clothes for something for me to wear. "Are you going to tell me what happened, Ken, or are you just going to sit there and let me guess like a cunt?" I smile a small smile; Stan always knows how to make me feel a little better, and calling himself names is defiantly amusing. I pick at a loose string on his quilt and frown.

"They turned off everything at the shack." I state, looking over as he pulls a sweatshirt and some sweat pants from one of his drawers. He glances at me, then looks down at the clothes in his hand, which are too big for me because Stan's a lot more muscular then I am. He shrugged, handing the clothes over, and I change.

"They're always turning stuff off at your house, Kenny. Why's it so bad this time?" I know he doesn't mean to sound flippant; it's just a really is a common occurrence at my place. Well. My old place, now. I pull the sweatshirt over my head, watching as the hem of it drops down over my stomach.

"Dad lost the house, Stan. I…it was real cold, and Kevin said maybe I should spend the night some where else, right? But Dad woke up. He was still drunk, dude. Knocked me around a bit, and then Kevin tells me to go outside." He sits down beside me, use to these little heart to hearts because I only ever talk to him about it. "Comes out and tells me we don't got a home no more. I guess we really are white trash, huh?" I hang my head; I've never admitted it before, but…it's true. I look up as Stan wraps an arm around me, offering me a smile.

"Hey, no you're not. Just because you're dad's a drunk and lost your house doesn't mean you're like him, dude. He's the fuck up. Not you." It's a nice thought, but I know the truth. Stan doesn't know what it' s like, not having heat or power, not knowing if you're going to eat or what…it's fucking disgusting. And what I do for money sometimes, it isn't any better; it started out with the guys giving me money to eat strange shit and do wacky stuff, but after an interview, back when I had my own show and shit, I found out the easiest way to make a lot of money in one night. I'm not really much better then my dad, but I'll never really admit it, not out loud.

"Stan…where am I gunna live?" I sound like a fucking pussy, but I feel like I'm going to cry and I figure hey, I just lost my house. I have rights, yeah? Stan sighs, pulling me into a hug, and if Cartman had been here I just know we'd be hearing ' stop being such faggots, you guys!' from him. I bury my face I his shoulder, just sort of soaking in his warmth and keeping myself from crying.

"I don't know, man. I'll talk to my mom; maybe you can stay here or something. Yeah?" I pull away, nodding, and suddenly, the sound of sirens fills the night. Shelley bursts into the room, her housecoat pulled tight around her as she points towards the hallway.

"Kenny, your fucking house is on fire!" My eyes widen and I race down to the front door, pulling it open and racing down the driveway to stare down the road. Sure enough, you can see a fire in the ghettos across the tracks, and sure enough, it's defiantly my house. I stand there, in the snow, the cold wetness seeping through my socked feet, and stare. Stan finally appears behind me, his shoes on and his jacket pulled around him, warm blanket in hand, and wraps it around me, keeping his arms around me as he tugs it closed. This can't fucking be happening; how the fuck did a fire start? Are my parents okay? Shit, shit…

"Why?" I ask, turning to look at Stan, "Why the fuck do bad things always happen to me?" I throw myself at him, and let loose the tears; acting like the worlds number one pussy fag, I'm sure. Stan holds me close, shaking his head.

"I dunno, Kenny…god, I really don't know."