Disclaimer: I do not own South Park. I am a mere fan, who loves Kyman a bit too much. And I've been aching to write something, anything, though I'm way out of touch. But do excuse me! I'd appreciate constructive reviews = positive or negative, but HELPFUL. Thank you, and have a wonderful day!

Honestly Now

Cezille07

Today.

Oh, today.

Breath slowly, before I forget myself, and what I came here for.

Alright, today, as I picked my way through the snowy sidewalks of my utterly cold, dismal hometown, I realized something. The snow made no distinction for such days, whether the ball game all went to shit, or it was someone's birthday, or if all hell broke loose — and quite literally, as that had almost happened one time — no, the weather participated in nobody's worldly affairs. Zero concern for human trials and tribulations.

But today, I would make sure, that no slippery ice would trample my unwavering steps, nor any winds keep my shell hunched up forever: today, I would, against all better judgment, walk up to Eric Cartman and give him a piece of my mind.

Phew, alright, that wasn't as daunting as I thought it might have been. Thinking it was one thing, facing myself in the mirror and reciting the words that I ached to pluck out from my chest was another, and walking the short distance between our two houses is a matter of celestial discernment. Good Moses, if I stuttered once, I would look like a fool! A fool, made of me, in front of anyone's eyes, not to mention his! That would end me; and any hope of clarifying the business which put me here in the first place.

It began not so long ago. But if I were to be completely honest, a lifetime of animosity might have set up the biggest slap in the face a man could ever receive: that I, a principled, idealistic individual, might harbor such unfeasible concern for an idiot with so large an ego (not to say arse). It was simply that. He was walking down the path he had taken for himself since he was a child. Persuasive skills came naturally to him; no shortcoming was too great to overshadow a witty remark here, a sly compliment there, and that cheeky, unbelievably attractive smile. If the girls around us were any less smart than they were, Eric would devour them, figuratively (and literally, I might venture). But I digress...

Sure, walking side by side with him everyday, I thought I would grow so callous of such a selfish nature, but I only grew callous enough to ignore his abrasive comments about my physique and my day-to-day struggles. It struck me as odd that an ambitious person like him would restrict his future plans to community college, and then a local job. And also that he would spend enough time focusing on me to be able to tell my every flaw. But ignore him I could not. Where my best friends, Stan and Kenny, broke free of his grasp, and moved on to other friends, less exciting, less dangerous friends, I took the pity route and thought my maturity might cure his incessant, plentiful boasting and nearly inhumane tendencies. He had killed already by age ten! If only one thing protected me, it was this: that I never mentioned a word of it, of everything I had against him, as a fail-safe escape plan.

Not that I planned on escaping, not yet anyway.

I reminisced the "good" times, and found that they weren't as few and far between as I initially thought. He came to school everyday, despite being in disputes with every teacher, and faithfully leered in my direction as a "good morning, Kahl." In response, I chucked whatever I had in reach at the moment. Erasers, my juice box, a seatmate's half-finished love letter to another. By third period, he would doze off, and another thrown article would yank him back into the waking world before the teacher called him to recite. Lunch was the second most chaotic hour of school in every grade I've been in. If I had been tired of hearing his anti-Semitic quips, most of the others were, without exaggerating, brought to angry tears at the first whisper of it. Kahl this, Kahl that, Jew magic this, fucking Jew-rat that...as if they never got old.

But the moment the bell rang, it was to me he always ran (or, should we say, "half-jogged, half-rolled"). Because the day was over but my tutoring began, and I'm almost certain that if it weren't for me he'd forego even his "community college" "goals". He wouldn't ever gain his million dollars, or any of his childish dreams (which I catalogued, in case it all led to something destructive). And in the library where I was at liberty to delve into history or math and he was behooved to pay his full attention to me.

Alright, NO, I don't spend every waking moment thinking about him, defending him, or glamorizing my thoughts of him, such as they are! NO, I am not so direly, hopelessly, head-over-heels crazy about him BECAUSE I AM NOT, no, I cannot be, it's utterly idiotic and I should go back home right now, before I gamble away my pride.

(And NO, I would not shed a tear over this realization.)

And snow had no part in setting a gloomy stage for my academic and social demise. I stood for a moment, feeling where the strength in my legs had gone, and why the will to move would not return to me. I wondered why I even considered that such a rude, lowly admission of my kindness, and my expectations that he returned such, might alleviate all these wild voices in my head saying everything would be better. Stupid hormones... I resolved that my teenage years would be over soon, and this passing phase would evaporate, as will my desire to see him well off and happy, because he was a shitty person and deserved nothing less than a spot in Hell.

I had barely finished swiping at my frosted lashes with my ice-encrusted sleeve than the front door of the yellow house opened, and out came striding the object of my contemplation. Eric seemed set on going about his business; he had a nice sweater, a calm blue that matched his eyes; and in both hands he carried a boxful of things I couldn't identify as, well, they were in a box. He breathed in deeply, then exhaled, looking ready as ever to do some goddamned scheme.

I whipped around and began the short trudge homeward, but I didn't count on his far-sightedness to help him spot me immediately.

"Kahl! Just the person I wanted to see," he boomed. Everything he did was loud and obnoxious. Why couldn't it have been obnoxious to me?!

"You busy, Kahl? I have these things to drop off at the junk shop, and another able-bodied laborer would suit me well," he continued.

I chuckled. At least that might hide the redness in my cheeks (which was from the cold, I assure you). "Eh, sure. What are you disposing of? A dead body?" I returned, facing him again. He pushed another box out the front door with his foot, and I received it without any difficulty. Light, actually, so not a dead body; didn't smell like rotting flesh; didn't sound like any fragile materials inside — I had to be careful, naturally, before trusting him. Even if trusting him was all I ever wanted to do.

"Are you — are you crying, Kahl?" he suddenly said, noting my reluctance to look him in the eye.

"No," I stammered for an explanation, but wasn't able to regain control of my tongue, so I gave up. He was such a one-track-minded person. Wouldn't let anything go. But I was equally stubborn, and I hoisted the box comfortably and prepared to follow him without discussing the state of my forlorn hopes.

"Kahl." He set down his box and stood to face me. My eyes I trained on the ground, past the bulky box by my chest.

"Kahl," he repeated. I do swear, if he said my name one more time —

"KAHL, TELL ME WHAT THE FUCKING PROBLEM IS," he yelled in one breath, with a matching punch to the shoulder.

I flew three feet backwards: me, the box, and my shattered pride. I was hurt. Probably? I didn't feel it. I rose to my feet and pushed him back as he advanced; he tried to return the favor, but I stopped him short with an unrelenting series of jabs, both verbal and not:

"Eric Cartman, you have zero sensitivity!" I screeched. "You could never leave me alone! I wish you just did, and none of this would be happening, I wouldn't mistake you for a friend because you're always fucking there for me! Even if you can't say my fucking name right! You're a complete waste of time! I wonder why the heck I'm so messed up over a fat, racist, violent idiot like you!"

"Well, messed up are we?" he didn't bother standing up, nor returning the blows. He lay on the icy pavement as he wiped the blood off his swollen left eye and his busted lip. Why had I ever wanted to...kiss that...

I panted, deciding what to do. I blew my chance. I never get my story straight when I'm all fired up. Fucking Eric! Catching me off guard every time! I've lost the battle, and it's his fault!

I trembled with anger (and cold, no tears involved). I couldn't continue beating up a fighter who had conceded, so I kicked his dreadfully light box, which made it fly once more, the white fence separating our two adjacent houses, and spilled its contents on the ground.

"Don't mind those, they're just trash from school," I heard Eric say, still on his back. But it was too late; I had seen.

The stacks of papers inside that I had felt moving were documents, photographs, CD's, notebooks, and other similar paraphernalia. I might have croaked out a response to salvage my reputation, but I saw my own face smiling from half of those discarded memories, my own lazy scrawl marking dates, equations, and mnemonics. I would have been torn, between hardly concealed excitement and righteous abhorrence at this careful inventory of everything I've ever touched and left in his presence, but my face was so cold, and my shoulder stung too much. Dearest winter, please freeze this moment forever. Schrödinger's confession, was this what it was? He hates me? He cares — cared? — about me? I feared the worst, but was too jaded to care. I stared dumbly at the evidence, and resigned in my mind that, yes, I was merely trash, keeping him back, keeping him in this town, when his dreams lay elsewhere, in this big, cruel world that was just meant for him. Whatever I had wanted, or thought I wanted, they seemed so crude and foreign and nauseating. I cursed his proximity, my gullibility, my need to prove myself to him, to everyone, by being a martyr to save his hopeless future...

At length, my foot fell asleep, and I was forced to resume my shameful trudge home to nurse my wreck of emotions. But the warmest voice said the warmest thing to ever tickle my ear, and Eric's own yellow gloves held me in place.

"I can explain," he said as gently as he can, but I shook my head. "Well, fahn, I won't explain, since you're more the one for speeches," he went on with a light chuckle, which was slightly marred by his injuries, "but I'll just say, if you aren't completely disgusted at me right now, let's have a coffee or something, and maybe talk, about not-school, anything. I don't care, just talk to me, Kahl, you're the only one who ever wants to, and I..."

My blush certainly arose from the cold, honestly, and I hoped he couldn't tell. This was embarrassing and I had no idea how to proceed. I just hoped he meant what I hoped he meant, because, in spite of it all, I wanted to talk too, hell, spend time with him not-talking, honestly, because snow had never made me cry as hard as when he said the three words that made me believe he wasn't as cold and inhuman as this frigid weather.

END.

A/N: I hope you'll notice, Kyle isn't very truthful; he's lying almost half the time in this narrative. :)))