One Word to Describe Myself

by xconfundedx

"Because he was mine, and in a way he always had been. He just didn't know it. Yet." Your standard love/hate oneshot featuring our favorite frenemies. Established sort-of-relationship, Cartman wants more and Kyle is a tease. Fighting ensues. Smutty, but maybe there's more to it than just that. Maybe. (Edited on 12/22/12)

Notes: I wrote this as a Secret Santa gift two years ago, which was how I met my giftee, Labyrinth1n3... the rest is history, haha. I decided to update this to post on AO3, which means this version is getting a facelift as well. I actually am not too happy with the fic, now that I've gone back and read it again. But, oh well. To fix it, I'd have to rewrite it, which would be pointless. Even though this has a "happy ending", I want to stress that I'm in no way romanticizing this sort of relationship... these are two fucked up guys in a fucked up relationship that no real person should ever want. I don't condone it, I just like writing about it.

Disclaimer: Also, the characters belong to Matt Stone and Trey Parker.

...

"There is one quality which one must possess to win, and that is definiteness of purpose, the knowledge of what one wants, and a burning desire to possess it."
- Napoleon Hill

...

If I had to choose one word to describe myself, it would probably be 'possessive'.

As a kid, I absolutely refused to share my toys or snacks, and not because I particularly needed them all to myself – I just liked to see the confusion, frustration, and anger on the other kids' faces. If they cried, it was even better. I don't know why, but there's just something about tears that's so satisfying.

But no, my mother never taught me that sharing was a necessary part of life. And, really, I still think that whole 'sharing is caring' stuff they taught in elementary school is bull crap. If I wanted something, I worked very hard to get it (and fuck yeah I consider manipulation work – it's a skill I spent my entire young life honing and it has served me quite well). Once I had whatever it was I worked to get, it was mine. What's the point in just giving my shit to other people who didn't work for it? It didn't matter if it was a three hundred dollar gaming system or a damn bag of Cheesy Poofs. If they didn't deserve it - and they never have - I wasn't sharing with them. Unless, of course, I got something out of it.

And now, as a guy in his senior year of high school, I hold essentially the same attitude toward sharing as I did when I was young.

Of course, there is one difference now. Over the years, I learned that there were things really worth keeping away from others and things that weren't. Some things are more equal than others and all of that crap. For example, I am no longer opposed to letting needy people, like, say, Kenny, use some of my money for lunch. I even let Craig borrow my copy of Black Ops last week. There's no telling if I'll be getting it back any time soon, but fuck it – I know where Craig lives and can castrate him if necessary.

Yes, I, Eric Cartman can share material possessions now. Those things don't really matter in the grand scheme of things. Now there's only one thing in my life that's worth protecting from the grubby hands of undeserving douche bags.

And that thing was sitting across the classroom flirting with that Middle Park asshole Sam Peterson.

To anyone else, it must have looked like meaningless conversation. Two guys innocently talking about whatever stupid book they had to read for AP English while their history teacher was waging war with the copier down the hall. But even from across the room, I knew what Kyle was doing. No, I didn't actually know what they were talking about, but Sam Peterson was so boring what else could it be if not some stupid class they shared? The point is that the dumb Jew was leaning in just slightly, laughing at the surely boring shit Sam was saying, and doing that thing he does with his eyes. He was doing it on purpose, I knew he had to be. He was trying to piss me off, and it was working.

It was all I could do not to flip over my desk and rip Peterson's throat out with my bare hands. I could have, you know. He's not so tough. But I know how to control myself now, even when it's achingly hard to do so. That's another skill I picked up over the years – expert manipulation required a certain level of self control. But at that moment, it was really fucking difficult to maintain it. Especially when Kyle reached up to move a piece of his stupid red hair behind his ear and then – and everyone else but me would have disregarded such a movement – he touched his neck for a brief moment.

God I hate that Jew. And he deserved that hate… what with his gross ginger hair and big stupid nose.

But really all I hated was that I was getting so pissed off over this and there was nothing I could do about it. Nothing, because when we started fucking over the summer, Kyle had made it very clear where he wanted things to go and the rules associated with our… whatever it is. The gist of it was that there were no strings attached. There weren't when we started and none had since been added. It was now the day before Thanksgiving break. That's a long time to be fucking with no strings.

God I hate not having strings. No strings meant no real control. And it was hard to gain control over Kyle when he was the one making the rules.

And I didn't like the "it's just sex" thing anyway, because – and you can't tell anyone this or you won't live to see another day – for me it wasn't just sex. I wanted Kyle to myself. All the time. I wanted to be exclusive. I wanted Kyle to know that he was my property.

Because he was, and in a way he always had been. He just didn't know it. Yet.

That and I really don't think a little exclusivity would be too much to ask for.

But I tried. Really, I had. I tried hard to do the "meaningless" thing. I just didn't anticipate my feelings for Kyle growing more intense once I got to touch him and kiss him. And yes, I know now how stupid that sounds. Hindsight's a bitch, right?

Kenny tells me at least once a week how much of an idiot I was for thinking sex would do nothing more than get Kyle out of my system. Lot of help that kid is. He's the master of meaningless sex and he's fucked so many chicks, I doubt he even knows the exact number, and he couldn't care less about any of them. Yet, he couldn't offer me any good advice on the matter. He just told me that I'd gotten myself into a mess and I had two choices: end it, or tell Kyle about my feelings.

To which I promptly, and justifiably, told him to fuck off, that he didn't know what he was talking about, and that I could handle it.

But the fact of the matter... is that I'm in love with Kyle Broflovski. I know I shouldn't be. I really don't want to be. I didn't even know I could have feelings like that. I mean... I'm Eric fucking Cartman. Honest to God, I tried to nip it in the bud early. The second I started looking at that fag differently, I reacted by acting out more. I spent the entire eighth grade trying desperately to piss Kyle off enough so that he'd stop talking to me. Out of sight, out of mind, right? If Kyle ignored me, and I didn't have access to him, those stupid dreams and weird fantasies would go away. It made sense at the time, okay? I was thirteen, give me a fucking break. And hey, it worked... somewhat. The result of my efforts was that, yeah, Kyle ignored me and I ignored him. But he was still there. He still existed. Which meant he was always on my mind, and I was still having those dreams and... unwanted boners and that kind of shit. It was torture.

So when I finally accepted, years later, that there was something horribly wrong with me that I couldn't fix, Kyle, of course, came back into my life in his typical good-for-nothing Jew fashion. And when our new sort-of-friendship turned into… whatever it is now, I convinced myself that it would be a good thing. It would get rid of this parasite of an emotion. But… no such luck. It just got painfully worse with every passing day. And the Jew had no fucking idea. He was just glad to have a distraction from Stan or who the fuck ever, he couldn't care less about my feelings.

So "handling it," as I told Kenny I would do, turned out to suck balls. Every time I slip up and say something in bed that Kyle sees as inappropriate (which is almost everything nicer than "bitch," no joke), I get reminded of just how meaningless this relationship-thing-whatever is to him. It's confusing and hard, I mean, fuck, he gets pissed off when I'm mean any other time, but in bed he gets pissed off if I'm too nice? How the fuck does that make sense? And it's been getting harder not to say nice things; as much as I hate him, I just don't see the harm in calling him beautiful sometimes. Fucking sue me! But he hates it. And lately, his anxiety about that shit has been getting worse. If I didn't know better, I would think that he's scared – trying desperately to hide his own feelings by making our sex life into some bizarre role-playing game. I mean, I like to be angry and rough as much as the next guy, but God damn!

But no, that couldn't be it. He couldn't possibly have secret repressed feelings... Because he was sitting across the room from me, trying to get into Sam Peterson's fucking pants.

Christ, why isn't the fucking teacher back yet?

I wanted to know what they were talking about, but the classroom was really loud with everyone else's asinine conversations. What if Peterson was flirting back? It was rumored that he was gay, after all, and if the rumor was true, there was absolutely no reason that he wouldn't go after Kyle… and as far as everyone else knows, Kyle's free game. God, what if they were making plans to meet up after school? That whore of a Jew.

The little asshole - my little asshole - leaned over more to see a piece of paper that was on Peterson's desk. Probably some lame doodle that wasn't funny at all. But when Kyle moved his hand to turn the paper toward him, it brushed against Sam's for a moment. And that's when he looked up, met my eyes, and smiled.

That. Little. Cocksucker. That asshole knew what I was thinking! I knew he was doing this on purpose! He knew he was pissing me off and was fucking loving it! This was just a game to him! He had no right. Did the Jew honestly not know testing me like that was a death wish?!

So, I did the only thing I could do. I didn't think I could get away with killing him in public, so I got up and left. Fuck history class. Fuck Sam fucking Peterson. And most of all, fuck Kyle. It had honestly been a while since I'd been so pissed off. Fuck, last time I was so pissed off, it was probably Kyle's fault! Seriously, fuck that fucking Jew.

Yeah, so I don't like to share. I'm very good at not sharing. But it's markedly harder to be effectively possessive when the object in question is a human being who's a giant fucking asshole with free will and shit.

I spent the drive home from school thinking of ways to get back at him. For starters, he was going to have to find another way home. But that wouldn't be hard; he had friends with cars, after all. Like Stan, that douchebag. I could always fuck Annie again... that bitch would probably get on her knees for me in the middle of the cafeteria (yeah – I'm that good, don't be so fucking shocked). That would be good revenge. But, no... Kyle would probably just take it as permission to do whatever the hell he wanted. And that was the last thing I wanted to happen here.

No, maybe the best thing to do was pretend it didn't bother me at all and skip the revenge. I'd just have to come up with a reason why I left class like that, like I had a dentist appointment or something, and act like I didn't even notice his stupid flirtations. That'd show him how meaningless he was. Maybe it would even piss the little fucker off that he'd failed so incredibly hard at making me jealous.

When I got home, I immediately ventured to the upstairs bathroom. Thankfully Mom wasn't home – she wouldn't have been happy if I turned up at 1:30 for no reason, even though she wouldn't have done anything about it. But her absence meant was I was free to do what I wanted without getting questioned, and what I wanted, at the moment, was to find a spare toothbrush.

A few minutes later, I smugly deposited an unopened toothbrush and mini floss onto the kitchen table, and then proceeded to make myself some lunch. I was actually pretty excited about the events that would inevitably unfold in a couple of short hours. The Jew would come over after school all pissed off because he didn't get a ride home and then he'd ask where I was. I would tell him about my dentist appointment, and the Jew would demand evidence because he trusts me about as far as he can throw me. Unfortunately. But in this case, I could use that distrust to make Kyle feel like a jerk and a loser for assuming his stupid flirting got to me.

It would be glorious. Just thinking about it made me grin. All I had to do was spend the waiting period watching TV and ignoring any 'where are you?' texts that came my way.

The hours passed with ease and just as planned, the Jew showed up at about quarter after three. When I answered the door, I barely got my greeting out before he shoved me to the side and marched angrily into the foyer. Oh, he was pissed off alright. Deliciously pissed off.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" he demanded, arms crossed.

"Whatever do you mean, Kyle?" I responded. God I love playing innocent around him. It pisses him off so, so much.

"You know what I mean! You fucking bailed on me after school! I had to get a ride home from Stan!"

"A ride home from your best friend? How horrible that must have been for you."

"It was horrible! He was giving a ride home to Wendy and Bebe, too, so not only did I have to deal with their stupid lovey dovey crap, but I had to sit with Bebe in the back seat with nothing to talk about. But whatever, you're just lucky Stan didn't have practice today, asshole."

Then he glared at me in silence, and I waited for him to get to the point.

Finally, "So why did you leave early?"

"Dentist appointment."

There was disbelief written all over his face. Everything was going as planned.

"I don't believe you."

Oh really?

"It's true, Jew face," I said, retreating to the kitchen. Kyle followed, and I simply beckoned to the dentil products on the table. "Read 'em and weep."

I watched him scrutinize the toothbrush from where he stood, as if it would tell him I was lying if he stared at it hard enough.

"Fine," he said at last. "… Sorry."

"Sorry? But why?" God, this is fun.

"I thought that – …. never mind," he said, moving to close the space between us. He put his hands on my chest, smoothing the wrinkles in my button-down. "Sorry I got mad, is all. I just wish you told me you were leaving early."

I had to admit, he was good.

"Is your mom home?" he asked softly, tilting his head to nip at my neck. Fuck.

"Nope."

He grinned into my neck before looking up at me and pulling me toward the table. I let him. It's hard to resist him when he looks at me that way, after all. But I'd rather die than let him know that. If he knew what he could do to me with his eyes, I'd end up nothing more than a pitiful slave. Like how Stan was with Wendy. Yup – I'd rather die.

"Good," he said, hopping up to sit on the edge of the table.

I leaned in to capture his lips in mine, unthinkingly moving my hands to his thighs. Familiar territory, you know. He sighed as he opened his mouth for me, and began to slowly undo the buttons of my shirt. When he was trying to push it off of my shoulders, I moved my hands just to let it fall to the ground before immediately grabbing onto Kyle again. The redhead wrapped his legs around my waist and broke our kiss to tilt his head back, giving me access to his neck. He was an expert at working me – I almost forgot what I was supposed to be mad at him for, my brain was so clouded with lust. He sighed again as I pressed my crotch against his. Mm, contact is so lovely.

New plan: fuck him so hard he doesn't even remember who Sam Peterson is.

But just as I began to hungrily suck at the Jew's neck, the phone rang. Fucking Christ.

"Phone," Kyle breathed.

"Answering machine," I managed to get out before moving to take his bottom lip between my teeth. At any other moment, I would have laughed at him and told him I know what phones sound like, but, well, this wasn't any other moment. As he laughed against my mouth, all I could think about was how badly I wanted him.

"Hello Mrs. Cartman, this is Patricia, secretary to Principal Nelson calling from the high school," the answering machine began. Fuck. I grabbed Kyle's face and kissed him with more fervor, hoping he wasn't listening. "It seems that your son Eric skipped the last two class periods today. We were not informed he would be leaving school early, and disciplinary action will be taken if this behavior continues. If there was a misunderstanding, please return my call and inform me of the circumstances. Thank you, and have a nice day."

Kyle broke the kiss and roughly pushed me off of him. "I knew it! You didn't have a fucking dentist appointment!"

"I did! They must have lost the note!" Wow, that was the best you could do, Eric?

"Bullshit!" he snapped, hopping off the table. "You're such a fucking liar! I knew you left because you were pissed! Just admit it!"

"I don't know what you're talking about!" I said, feeling the heat rising in my cheeks. This wasn't part of the plan.

Kyle just smiled and reached up to touch my cheek. There was a weird glint in eyes. "You saw me flirting with Sam and you just couldn't handle it, could you?"

Oh fuck this! I reached up to grab his wrist and roughly yanked his hand away from my face. "My, aren't we a narcissist? I left because I just wanted to. It had nothing to do with you."

"No, I saw you, Cartman," he said, smirking at me like he knew something I didn't. "You were seething over there."

I pushed him away. "Fine! I was pissed! But what did you expect?! You were over there whoring yourself right fucking in front of me!"

"I was not whoring myself," he fumed, face growing red. "We were just talking! He's a nice guy!"

"Yeah, nice and boring."

"Need I remind you that I can flirt with whoever the hell I want? You have no claim over me, asshole," he said, crossing his arms and cocking an eyebrow.

Fuck, was that a challenge? He was fucking asking for it today.

I think I must have looked particularly angry, because when I walked toward him, the redhead backed up. Of course, he couldn't go very far, as there was a wall a couple feet behind him – and just like that, I had him cornered.

"Look, Kyle," I growled. "I'm not in the mood for your games today. I'm serious. Don't fuck with me."

The Jew glared and lifted his chin defiantly. Always with the fucking defiance.

"I'm not playing a game, Eric," he said slowly, spitting out my name. It made me cringe - he normally only uses my first name while I'm fucking him. "I'm telling you that I don't care that you're pissed… I can do what I want."

"You're honestly into Peterson?"

"What if I am?"

"Fine," I said, though my tone of voice betrayed me entirely. It was most certainly not fine. "That's fine! But I can do what I want, too. Maybe I'll just go back to fucking Annie. At least she knows how to shut her fucking mouth and close her damn legs without being told to."

Kyle's mouth dropped open. It was all I could do not to smile. Oh hello, upper hand, so nice to see you again!

But the Jew recovered pretty quickly. As usual.

"Go ahead. I'm surprised you haven't already if that's the kind of person you want."

Damn him. He knew that wasn't what I wanted. He knew that I thought Annie was just as boring as Sam fucking Peterson. She had nothing to offer, and everything she said was a bunch of asinine drivel. She wasn't a challenge. Mentally, physically, what have you – and so, she was boring.

But at the same time… maybe it would be better to go back to her. Kyle was too much of a challenge sometimes. As much as I liked to toy with him and be toyed with in return… I just didn't have the energy for it at that moment. Our endless tango was wearing me down. This was a new game he was playing. He hadn't tested me like this before. I knew he must have left our relationship-thing open for a reason, but I never really expected him to want to seek anyone else out. Damn, it hurt too much. And I was never good with pain.

I left him standing against the wall and crossed the room before turning to look back. He had a strange expression on his face – a mix of anger and something else I couldn't place.

"Okay then. I'm done. Go home, Kyle."

"What?" he asked, clearly confused.

"I don't have to do this," I continued, smiling morbidly. "We don't have to do this. It's too fucking hard. I don't know what the hell you're trying to do here, but I honestly don't have the energy to deal with you today. I'm just… done. So go home."

He looked dumbfounded.

"You… are you dumping me?!"

"We were never together, right?" I answered mockingly. "So I can't dump you. I just don't want you in my fucking bed anymore."

He was undeniably pretty when he was shocked, with his mouth open like that. I had to exert a lot of self control not to go over and kiss him. No, I couldn't kiss him. It would make my previous statement null and void, after all.

"You unbelievable bastard," Kyle spat, finally regaining his composure. Well, he closed his mouth anyway. I can't argue that he really had composure, as his next move was to cross the room and shove me. "You're ending this because I was flirting with some douchebag?"

"No," I said (though I can't deny that it made me happy to hear him refer to Peterson that way). "I just can't do the stupid fucking rules anymore."

I sighed. We hadn't discussed 'the rules' since the beginning. Especially not in this context or anything resembling it. This was new territory. I was petrified, to say the least.

"Don't you get it? This meaningless, non-exclusive bullshit? That was all your idea. I wanted you to myself. I still want you to myself. I thought I could do it this way, but I can't. I'm selfish, Kyle, you should know that by now."

"I do know that," he said defensively, as if I what I said was somehow a slight to his intelligence.

"Yeah, I guess you do. Because I think you were flirting with Peterson because you knew it would piss me off, not because you're into him."

He broke eye contact for a brief second before resuming his determined glare. I fucking knew it. Admittedly, the knowledge that the Peterson situation had everything to do with me and nothing to do with Peterson made me pretty ecstatic. But it wasn't enough. It didn't change the fact that he was straying from me, and it didn't make this whole affair any less painful.

"But it doesn't matter," I continued, glaring right back at him. "Like you said, you can do what you want. So, do what you want, Kyle. I just don't want to be around for it. Fuck your rules. If I can't have you to myself, I don't fucking want you."

"God, you're such an asshole!" he yelled, voice cracking a bit. The Jew was never good at handling his emotions. If that isn't the pot calling the kettle black, I don't know what is, because God knows I'm only slightly better.

"GO HOME KYLE!" I shouted. God damn it, why won't he leave? He always had to make things harder than they had to be.

"NO! This is bullshit!"

"It's not bullshit! I'm telling you the truth, I can't fucking do this anymore!"

"Why?!"

"I just told you why!"

"But it shouldn't fucking matter what we do outside this house! We have our own lives, Cartman!"

Why did he have to be so thick-headed sometimes? Didn't he understand that what he just said was the very reason this wasn't working out?

"Yeah, it started out that way," I said, working to regain my self control. Yelling wasn't going to do me any good, not with him. If I knew anything about Kyle, it was that yelling at him made him more irrational. "But things change. I told you what I want. It's my turn to make the rules. Either accept them or get the fuck out of my house."

If I were being honest with myself, and I rarely ever am, I would think that it was actually pretty surprising the Jew didn't just up and leave at the first opportunity. Maybe the sex really was that good.

Kyle bit his lip, clearly struggling with the decision. God, I would have given anything to be able to know what was going on inside his head at that moment. I'm sure he didn't expect me to be so forward with him, because we were never forward with each other. Hell, I surprised myself with my little confession. But what was done was done, and I didn't understand why he was still here if he truly was just in it for the sex.

"Go on, leave already," I repeated, starting to get angry again. Why won't he make up his damn mind? "I'm setting you free, you dumb Jew. Now you can go out and whore it up with everyone who looks at you twice. Go contract some diseases, if you haven't already. Teach Sam Peterson how to fuck you just the way you like it."

I'm not sure what possesses me to say the things I do. And I don't know why I feel the need to push people away as harshly as I can whenever I make the mistake of showing any kind of emotional vulnerability. But who cares about the reasons? What mattered right then was that I could actually see him snap. Just like the old days.

"WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?" he screamed, grabbing the fabric of my t-shirt and shoving me up against the wall. "WHY WOULD YOU SAY THAT?! ARE YOU FUCKING CRAZY?"

"Don't touch me, Kyle," I snarled, grabbing the smaller boy by the wrists and pushing him back. He struggled against me. I found myself being thankful for my football player genes, and not for the first time.

"I hate you, Cartman!" he yelled, using his words now that his fists were out of commission. "You know that? I fucking HATE YOU. I always have! This? This was the biggest mistake of my fucking life! I can't believe I slept with you! I actually fucking thought you'd changed, but you're just the same selfish, arrogant psychopath you always were! NOW LET GO OF ME!"

There were tears of rage in his eyes now. I had forgotten about that. I used to relish those angry tears when we were kids. Now they just hurt. What he said hurt like hell too, even though logically I knew he was just getting desperate.

"Fuck you and your lying mouth Kyle," I sneered. I couldn't let him know that he was getting to me. "You don't seem to hate me when I'm giving you the greatest pleasure of your life. Do you even hear yourself while I'm fucking you? You're a real screamer."

He stopped struggling and just glared at me, jaw set in determination.

"And I'm pretty sure 'this is a mistake' was the last thing going through your mind back in July when you were convincing me that you wanted me to be your first," I added, almost as an afterthought. I knew that would get under his skin, even though I swore to him back then that I would never use it against him. Things change, I guess.

I let go of his wrists and he took a couple of steps back, but didn't break eye contact. For a moment, I could see in his eyes that I had done the trick. Whatever small amount of trust he had in me was broken. I would have felt regret if I wasn't so pissed off. Maybe. But he came back from whatever it was he was feeling, and put on a façade of apathy.

"My first?" he said, laughing carelessly. "You honestly believed that? Fuck, Cartman, I thought you were smarter than that. I just told you that bullshit so you would want me more. So you would think you had some sort of claim over me. But you were right when you said you thought Stan and I must have done it. He was my first."

No. No fucking way. NO. I swear my heart dropped to my lower intestine. He couldn't possibly be telling the truth. He was so open back then; honest in his uncertainty and at the same time glib in his attempt to convince me it wasn't important to him. If that was all an act, then the pedestal I had put him on had to come crashing down. He'd have to come down to my level, because it meant he was just as depraved as I was.

"You're lying," I hissed, desperately wanting him to crumble and admit he was just trying to hurt me. But it was hard to tell at this point. Either he was telling the truth or he was putting a lot of effort into feigning honesty. It was normally so easy for me to know when he was lying. But not now. My emotions were clouding my judgment.

"Don't believe me?" he said, stepping toward me again. His voice was low and cruel. "You seemed so convinced I was a whore a few minutes ago. Come on, Cartman, think about it... why would I give myself to you of all people?"

… And just like that, I finally snapped.

I punched him. In the face. And time seemed to stop.

I didn't mean to. It had been a long time since we'd gotten into a physical fight. But he was maintaining a level of coldness I thought could only be achieved by me, and I wasn't sure what to do with it. I can dish it, but I can't take it. I suppose that's always been true of me, though I'd never admit it out loud.

His comment… it got to me in a way nothing else he'd ever said to me had. I think because it affirmed my worst fears regarding our situation. That I didn't deserve him. That I never had him to begin with. And that he thought I was pathetic for even thinking I did.

I won't say I was justified in hitting him. But it felt good, in a familiar way. Seeing him on the floor, his hand on his face with an expression of shock… it gave me a strange sense of satisfaction the sort of which I hadn't felt in years.

In the back of my mind I knew I had just made a terrible mistake. I knew that there was no going back from this. And I knew this whole ordeal was avoidable. We were just saying things we didn't mean because it was more comfortable to push each other away than to actually be honest for once. I think some part of me knew he was just goading me with his confession regarding Stan, but the bigger part of me was blinded with a kind of rage and jealousy I didn't know I had.

When the reality of what I did finally sunk in, time seemed to start up again.

"You bastard!" he cried as he pushed himself off the ground. "You fucking hit me!"

I opened my mouth to respond, but I wasn't sure what to say. What reason or excuse I would have come up with had I been allowed to finish the sentence, I'll never know, because he was on me as soon as he was on his feet again.

I'm not sure how long we fought – everything seems to move in slow motion when you're on an adrenaline rush. All I know is that we were both screaming obscenities and getting in hits and kicks wherever we could. It was painful but God it felt good to let out all the frustration I had allowed to build up. I'm sure he felt the same way. We were only doing what had always been natural for us. Perhaps we just needed to do it. But at the same time, the fight held an entirely different meaning than all the others before it had. There were emotions other than blind hatred driving us, and somehow that made us go at it with more vigor than ever before.

Eventually, we ended up sitting on opposite ends of the room, panting and slumped against our respective wall space. Blood lightly spattered the linoleum floor of my kitchen. His face was tear streaked and flushed and so was mine, though I doubt the look was as attractive on me. His nose was bleeding slightly and there was a coppery taste in my mouth – he must have given me a split lip.

We each waited for the other to break the silence.

"I flirted with him to rile you up," he admitted after a while, his voice hoarse from our fight. "I didn't mean anything by it."

"Well it worked," I said shortly.

"I didn't think you would get so mad."

"You don't know me at all, do you?" I asked pointedly. He only looked at me, not with any sort of defiance or anger, but… with a strange sort of sadness in his eyes. "I don't like when other people move in on my territory."

"I'm not your territory, Cartman."

"To me you are," I said.

I didn't mean it to come off as possessive, though I guess by definition it was. It was just a fact that needed to be stated. In my mind, it was a way of complimenting him. Letting him know that I was there for him. That I would do anything to protect him, because he was mine. But it was hard to put such a feeling into spoken words without sounding insane.

"I didn't mean what I said," I spoke quietly after another moment of silence. "Any of it. I never wanted you to leave. I just… I don't know. I didn't like the idea of sharing you, even if you are a worthless Jew. I went along with your rules because I didn't actually think you'd take advantage of them. I thought you were fine with just me."

"I wouldn't have done anything with him. Like I just said-"

"I know," I cut him off. "That's not the point. It's just… I need it to be just me and you."

He looked at me then, searching my face for any kind of deception, but he didn't make a move to say anything in return, so I continued, "And I don't think you're a whore."

"Because I'm not."

"Don't be a smartass."

"…I lied about me and Stan."

"Back then? Or now?"

"Now… You're the only one who's ever…" he trailed off and looked at the floor, face growing more flushed.

I closed my eyes in relief. Everything seemed right with the world. When I looked at him again, he appeared hesitant and unsure, as if he didn't know what to think of this exhausted exchange of honesty. I crawled toward him, muscles unsurprisingly sore from hitting and being hit. When I sat before him, I took his face in my hands and kissed him. It wasn't like the kisses we normally shared. This was a kiss laced with everything I couldn't possibly say to him; weighed down with how much I needed him. And he kissed me back with equal feeling, which I wasn't sure what to make of.

When the kiss broke, I leaned my forehead against his and brought my hand up to his cheek. My thumb brushed against his lower eyelid, where a black eye was forming, and he inhaled sharply.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, apologizing for hitting him and for everything I said that day or ever before.

"Me too," he answered softly, one of his hands moving to my neck. And we just sat like that. It was strange, sitting there next to each other, neither of us moving to touch each other more than we already were. It was comfortable in a way that was foreign to both of us, as if the events of the afternoon had brought us closer, much like emotionally charged physical confrontations often do.

Eventually I stood up and offered him my hand. He took it, and we both went upstairs. We didn't discuss it first, but we didn't need to. I'd explain the blood stained floor to Mom later if necessary. Right then, I needed him more than I could ever possibly say.

The moment my bedroom door shut, he kissed me feverishly – and the pain from my split lip was forgotten seconds after I felt it – and led me over to the bed. I let him push me down and when he climbed up to straddle me, my hands immediately went to rest on his hips. He sat up straight as he took off his t-shirt, and for what seemed like the hundredth time since our first time, I felt utter disbelief that he was with me of all people. Of course, his anger fueled remark from before only reaffirmed that feeling.

I sat up to kiss his neck as he pulled my shirt off, and when I laid back down, I pulled him with me. His hands were holding my face in place and I went to work on unbuttoning his jeans as our tongues danced. He groaned into my mouth when I thrust up to meet his crotch with mine, and God was I glad he didn't leave when I told him to.

He broke our kiss and got off me to remove my pants and boxers, and then he flashed me a mischievous grin. "Don't move, I'll be right back," he said, and left the room, leaving me there naked and already hard. Sometimes I really did hate him.

He came back a few minutes later with two pairs of handcuffs, still wearing that grin. "I raided your mom's dresser, hope you don't mind."

"Actually, I do," I said, thoroughly grossed out. He rolled his eyes.

"Come on, it's not like these have been anywhere inappropriate."

"You don't know that! This is my mom we're talking about!"

"True," he said, still smiling. "Then just don't put them in your mouth."

"Kyle, what the hell is wrong with you?" I said, making a move to sit up, but he pushed me back down, holding me there with one knee on my chest as he cuffed each of my wrists to my headboard.

I didn't like this at all. I had no idea what he was up to and we hadn't really done anything like this before… here I was thinking we'd have nice, normal sex after everything that happened today. But of course he chose now to get kinky.

And I wasn't a fan of relinquishing control. Especially to him.

He got up to take off the rest of his clothing before climbing back into bed with me. Flashing me a sultry look, he before leaned down to kiss me. Yeah, he was definitely up to something.

He began moving down my body, leaving a trail of kisses as he went. Fuck. I bucked my hips and groaned when he cruelly passed over my erection, merely leaving a kiss on the inside of my thigh. He smirked up at me.

"Fuck – Kyle – what are you-" I whined, pulling at the handcuffs hopelessly.

"You can't stand this, can you?" he laughed, his breath ghosting over my aching cock.

"God damn it, Kyle!"

"You think I'm a piece of property," he said softly, almost threateningly, crawling back up to kiss my jaw. "Well, if it's going to be just you and me, like you want, you need to know that it goes both ways. If I'm yours, then you're mine. You do not own me."

He rolled his hips against mine, teasing my cock with the very contact it craved. But when he looked into my eyes, I could see that there was a dark seriousness in his own green ones.

"I need to show you," he whispered, reaching down to press a thumb harshly into one of my newly formed bruises. "What you'll be missing out on if you ever hit me like that again."

I inhaled sharply, at both the pain in my stomach and the threat in his words. He kissed me again, teasingly, just to emphasize his point, but pulled away, just out of reach, the moment I began to kiss him back.

"God, Kyle," I breathed.

"This," he said, pointing to his black eye. "Isn't happening again. If it becomes a pattern, I'll leave you so fast you won't even know what happened."

I nodded. There was no arguing that, and he was honestly kind of scary.

"I'm not some bitch you can control," he continued, running his hands through my hair. "I won't sit back and take that kind of shit from you. Okay?"

I nodded again.

"Now," he said, moving his hands down to my chest and leaning in to bite at my neck. "What do you want me to do?"

I arched into him and groaned, unable to even form coherent thoughts. "Touch me."

He moved back to sit between my legs and when he took my aching cock in his hand, I threw my head back and fought pointlessly against the handcuffs.

"Is that all?" he asked, smirking at me while he moved his hand way too slowly. "I would have thought you'd come up with something better than that."

I looked at him, and he was staring at me expectantly, a smile playing on his lips. His lips. Fuck he was beautiful.

"Fuck, Kyle..." I stammered as his thumb moved teasingly over my head, taking precum with it. He slowly brought his thumb to his mouth to lick it off, never breaking eye contact. "God."

"What was that, Eric?"

"Your mouth – on me – now," I managed, my hips bucking involuntarily. "Please. I need your mouth on my fucking cock."

"Since you asked so nicely…" He hummed as he leaned down to take me into his mouth. Fuck he was good at this. He sucked on my length for a few seconds before pulling back to swirl his tongue around the head. I groaned when he looked up at me, mischief shining in his eyes.

I was suddenly painfully aware that my wrists were bound to my headboard. I would have probably sold my soul to the devil to be able to touch him then. But that was the point of all this, wasn't it?

The moment I began thrusting up to fuck his mouth, he pulled back. God he's such a tease.

"Not yet," he scolded playfully. I wondered in a moment of panic how long he was going to make me hold out for.

He smirked at me as he crawled up my body to access my nightstand. He opened the top drawer, where I kept my small collection of embarrassing or taboo possessions – my pistol, a switchblade, cigarettes, Clyde Frog… you get the idea – and withdrew the bottle of lube that was also in there. My hips bucked again in anticipation.

Suddenly an idea occurred to me.

"Kyle-"

"Hm?"

"Prepare yourself," I said, biting back a moan when he smiled. "I want to see you – God – finger yourself."

In response, he rolled his hips, causing our cocks to touch and I impulsively yanked at the handcuffs. I really didn't anticipate it being so difficult not to be able to touch him. And fuck was it difficult.

He gave me another teasing kiss before applying lube to his fingers. Bracing himself with one hand, he arched his back and - Christ I couldn't believe he was actually doing this - before I knew it his hand was between his legs and just watching him almost hurled me over the edge. I found myself wondering why I hadn't thought of this before – I couldn't believe how perfect he looked. By the time he pushed a second finger in and tossed his head back I had almost completely forgotten about the handcuffs. I was too mesmerized by him to care.

"You're so hot, Kyle," I groaned, thrusting up so my cock rubbed against his hand. He moaned. I could live off of his moaning, I swear. "So fucking hot. You'resofuckinghot."

He moaned again, rocking his hips into his hand. "F-fuck-" he gasped out, and I knew he was ready. God I needed him right then. Right fucking then.

"Kyle – Christ." My cock was aching from neglect and this whole 'look but can't touch' deal was driving me crazy. "Ride me."

"Hmm," he whined, withdrawing his fingers. He lifted his ass up more, rendering my desperate bucking ineffective. "That sounded an awful lot like a command."

"Wha- oh," I said. He wanted me to beg. Oh, fuck him and his stupid face and pretty eyes.

"Kyle… I- I need you. I need to feel you – around me – God – ride me! Please!"

And just like that his lips were on mine and he was moaning into my mouth. I heard a small squirt from what I assumed was the bottle of lube and then one of his hands was on my cock, which at this point was about to burst from lack of attention. When it was slicked up, he guided it to his entrance and slowly lowered himself. He broke our kiss when I was half way in and sat up to steady himself. It was all I could do not to start thrusting; I couldn't handle how tight he felt and he looked so fucking amazing, hands on my thighs and his head thrown back like that.

He let out a loud, long moan when I was finally fully sheathed inside him. "Eric – f-fuck!"

I loved when he said my name in bed. I don't think I ever loved him more than I did whenever he said Eric instead of Cartman. Aside from when he said it in anger like he did earlier, it actually made me feel like there was hope for us.

"Kyle," I moaned, pulling at the handcuffs once again. He ran his hands over my chest and down to my stomach, as if to rub in my face the fact that he could touch me but not the other way around. Then he began to move his hips and I couldn't help but move mine, and we quickly found our rhythm, him moving up and down and me thrusting to match his pace.

There is nothing in this world like fucking that tight-assed Jew, let me just say that.

I'm surprised I lasted as long as I did, what with all the build up and teasing and need and then his slew of pleading obscenities as he rode me – my cock was so achingly hard that I was honestly expecting to cum the second I was inside him. But all good things must come to an end and after a few minutes, I came crying out his name. He stilled to allow me to jerk my hips wildly into him, and moved one hand to his own cock to finish himself off.

I watched him touch himself and thought, through my post-orgasm delirium, that everyone in the world should feel super jealous that they did not get to experience this boy but I did.

His eyes were closed and I could tell he was close to the edge. "Kyle, look at me," I demanded, needing to see that lovely green darkened with arousal. "Look me in the eyes when you cum."

Moaning at my command, he opened his eyes to meet mine – and he held my gaze as he finished himself off, bucking his hips and gasping out my name. He was perfect.

He let out a soft, satisfied sigh before leaning down to kiss me. Then he took a small key off of my nightstand and, at long last, unlocked the handcuffs. My hands immediately went to his face, fingers threading through his hair, and held him there as I kissed him with all the energy I had left in me.

"Kyle, I-" I began when we finally parted, my hands having released his face and made their way down to his waist. But my sentence hung in the air unfinished, because I knew what I was about to say and I knew I couldn't say it. I didn't want to scare him off, and out of everything I had said and done that day, saying that would definitely do the trick.

He looked at me and in my heart I felt like he knew what I was going to say. He didn't blanch or jerk away, but there was something in his eyes, a certain level of conflict and fear, that gave him away. I felt like an idiot.

"You're amazing," I said, trying and failing to make it sound like that's what I was going to say to begin with. But he smiled graciously all the same as he lifted up to allow me to slide out of him.

"I know," he replied, kissing me again. I ran my hands over his thighs and ass, trying to make up for all the groping I was denied before. His mouth moved to my neck and then he began to make his way down my body – eventually licking up the cum, his cum, that had landed on my stomach. I groaned, running my hands through his hair.

"Fuck, you're trying to kill me, aren't you?" I said, my cock already threatening to come back to life.

He laughed, that lovely, sexy laugh that I liked to think was reserved just for when we were together like this, and came back up to take my lips in his. When he opened his mouth for me, I could taste him there still, and fuck was it hot. I reached down to grab his ass again, dipping my fingers into his crack and moaning into his mouth when I felt them get slick with my cum. He leaned back and grabbed my arm, pulling my hand away from his ass.

And then – fuck – he took my fingers into his mouth, one by one, and slowly sucked them clean – looking into my eyes in that way he always did when he knew he was driving me nuts. He was drawing it out, almost like he was intentionally giving me time to get hard again.

It was working, but I couldn't take more teasing. I grabbed him and flipped us over so I was on top, attacking his neck and jaw once he was positioned underneath me. I reached back and grabbed his thighs, pulling them up to position myself.

"Eric-" he began, but I cut him off with a kiss. It would have been a half-hearted protest anyway. The fucking Jew got me hard again and if he thought I was going to let him get away with that, then, well, he didn't know me at all. He was getting fucked again and he was going to like it, and this time, I was in control.

Just as predicted, he moaned into my mouth when I pushed in, buried to the hilt with the first thrust. Fuck that was easy. I always did love the feeling of fucking him twice – something about using my own cum as lube just gets me off.

I was still for a moment, just to make sure he was comfortable, before grabbing his hips to hold him in place while I fucked him. I watched him throw his head back and grab helplessly at the sheets.

"Ah – Eric! F-faster!" he cried after a minute, and I did as he asked. At that moment, I couldn't have been sorrier that I lost control earlier that afternoon. I could hardly handle how much I loved him right then, and I couldn't believe I actually hit him - it seemed to ludicrous now. I tried to tell myself that it was normal – that fighting would always be a part of us… but in the back of my mind I knew that because of our current status as lovers, fighting couldn't be normal anymore. I should never want to touch him that way again.

He wrapped his legs tighter around me and grabbed at my arms, and I buried my face in his neck. Moaning my name, he clung to me as I fucked him harder. With that encouragement, I reached down between us to toy with his cock. This resulted in more moaning, and I found myself wishing I was recording him. It was perverted, but I think I'd listen to that shit all day. Because, damn he was noisy. And I loved it.

I was determined to make him finish first this time – for no other reason than that it would make us even – and I knew he was getting close when he started arching up into me with more desperation.

He screamed my name when he came and that sent me over the edge – it always did. I bit him where his neck met his shoulder as I rode out my own orgasm. I tasted blood and he hissed, digging his fingers roughly into my biceps.

"Fuck," he panted when I rolled off of him. He gingerly touched his neck. "You bit me, asshole."

"Sorry," I said, but I wasn't really. I liked marking him sometimes. It sent the message that he belonged to someone – even if I was the only one who ever saw the marks. I don't care what he said, he belonged to me.

He rolled over to straddle me. "I think by now I know the difference between when you're apologizing to get out of trouble and when you really mean it," he informed me. The bite mark was still bleeding slightly, so I leaned up to lick it. He inhaled sharply. My head dropped back onto the pillow and I smirked up at him.

"You're horrible," he said half-heartedly before leaning down to kiss me – it was a brief kiss, and it ended with him resting his forehead on mine.

"You're beautiful," I whispered in response. I knew saying that made him feel uncomfortable, but fuck it, I couldn't help that it was true. He pulled back a bit. "I'm sorry, but you are."

Rather than reprimanding me or denying it vehemently as he normally did, he simply bit his lip for a moment before kissing me again. I took that as the ultimate sign that things had changed between us. Really, we had been more intimate and honest with each other that afternoon than we had since we started talking again five months previously. But the fact that he let me get away with what I said was a good sign that perhaps I was finally getting what I wanted.

Or perhaps not, I thought sadly, when he ended the kiss and pulled away.

He pushed himself off of me and I watched as he left the room to clean himself up as he always did. I grabbed the pack of Marlboros out of my nightstand and lit one up, my wrists already sore from the handcuffs. Hell, my whole body was sore when I stopped to think about it. The sex let me ignore my cuts and bruises, but now, the pain was starting to come back. I left the cigarette in my mouth so I could grab a dirty t-shirt off my floor to wipe myself off with. He could primp all he wanted – I'd clean up more later. At that moment, all I wanted to do was bask in the afterglow, or whatever that saying is.

I removed the cigarette from my mouth and sighed as I exhaled. He was probably going to leave now. He usually left when he cleaned up so soon after finishing. And it was usually because of something I said. So maybe nothing had changed. I took a long, but justified, drag.

"You know I hate that," he said from the doorway a couple minutes later.

"It's been a long day," I replied, and we looked at each other, letting the weight of that statement linger between us. After a moment, he broke eye contact and I took another drag, the cigarette now half spent.

He crossed the room and my eyes followed him. The sunset outside my window bathed my room in orange and his hair looked so much brighter for it. He really was beautiful. I expected him to get dressed and leave – honestly he hadn't spent the night since school started – but surprisingly, he crawled back into bed with me.

I put my cigarette out on the nightstand. He hated it, after all. And he was, apparently, staying. For now.

"So," he said from his spot beside me.

He didn't elaborate, but he didn't need to. Whatever we had before today had imploded and we were in an entirely new place; whether it was a better place remained to be seen. There had been a marked shift that needed to be talked about. But I knew he was afraid of us, and in a lot of ways, I was too.

"So," I replied. I wasn't sure how to approach this, though I knew he wanted me to go first. I was petrified of the things I might say, though, if I was given free reign of the conversation. I needed him to take the lead.

"Where do we go from here?" he asked quietly, once he realized I wasn't going to say anything else.

"I don't know," I answered truthfully. "Where do you want to go?"

"I don't know."

I looked at him. He was staring at the ceiling, hands folded over his chest.

"I'm afraid of trusting you," he said when he finally turned his head to lock eyes with mine.

"I know."

"If we decide that it's just me and you… this becomes real. And that scares me, too."

"I know."

"It was easier when this was just one big game we were playing."

"I know."

"...Are you in love with me?" he whispered, blushing. I knew he already knew the answer.

"Yes," I breathed, my heart racing.

I couldn't believe how easy it was to be so honest with him. Maybe it was the way he was looking at me or the way the sunset highlighted his features in just the right way. Or maybe it was just that he was being honest with me for once.

I suppose it didn't really matter.

There was a slight shine to his eyes now, and I was worried he might be about to cry, but he didn't look away from me.

"When this started… I was petrified of falling for you. And I swore to myself that I wouldn't, because if I did, what would that say about me? After everything you've done..." he said quietly, blinking back tears. I held my breath. "But I think I have and I'm even more petrified now. I think that's why I've been so weird lately…why I haven't been staying over and why I did what I did today. I just… it was easier to act like a jerk than to let you win."

Let me win?

"Kyle-"

"You have no idea what you've done to me over the years, what you put me through," he cut me off. "It's impossible for me to trust you because of it. But… I want to."

"I want that, too. More than anything."

"A big part of me thinks this is some grand scheme to humiliate me. If I hand myself over to you… you'll just use it against me."

"And does that part of you speak in Stan's voice?"

"Don't joke, please."

"Sorry."

"Please tell me I'm only being paranoid."

"After everything that happened today… after everything I've said today… how can you possibly think-"

"Just tell me."

"…You're being paranoid. This isn't a scheme. I'm not out to get you," I said, holding his gaze. He sighed and closed his eyes. I reached up to touch his hair. "I get it, Kyle. I do. I don't deserve any of this after everything I've done… I won't pretend I do. Fuck, you must be just as crazy as me for even being here right now. I don't deserve you, I know that."

He smiled and looked back up at me. God, those eyes. He took my breath away.

"So…" I said, clearing my throat. "We'll just wing it. We don't have to talk about it now. And I'll go at your pace, okay? I don't – I don't know what I'll have to do to earn your trust… but I think I'd do just about anything, so…"

And then his lips were against mine, cutting me off. It was quick and soft, but it was perfect for that moment, and damn I probably couldn't sound any gayer if I tried.

"Okay," he whispered, moving over to cuddle up against me. His head came to rest under my collarbone and I smiled into his hair, wrapping my arms around him.

We stayed like that for a while, taking comfort in the fact that what was done was done and we didn't need to talk about it anymore. I felt like I could breathe freely for once. I couldn't help but wonder how the hell we'd gotten to this point after how the afternoon started, and in such a short amount of time. But we'd always had that sort of dynamic: fast and destructive and primal. Everything came to a head and although we were both exhausted and bruised, we were somehow better for it.

We were actually in a relationship, somehow. The idea seemed so foreign. It suddenly occurred to me that I had absolutely no idea how to act in that kind of situation.

"How does the whole Hanukkah thing work?" I asked after a few minutes. It seemed like a good place to start, since the holiday was right around the corner.

"What?" Kyle asked, looking up at me. The poor Jew was completely confused.

"I mean…" I started, suddenly embarrassed. "Is it like… are the presents supposed to be related? Or build up to something? Or just… presents?"

"It... I dunno… just presents I guess. Little stuff," he said, raising an eyebrow. "Why?"

I felt heat make its way into my cheeks. Damn it.

"Just… if we're, you know, then… I thought I should ask so… I mean… presents," I spit out with all the eloquence of a two year old.

He lifted his head.

"Oh my God," he said, laughing. "Are you taking an interest in my religion?"

"No!" I said defensively. "It's not like I care - God damn it, do you want presents or not you God damn Jew?"

He leaned in to nuzzle against my neck before propping himself up on his elbows. He looked at me, chin resting in the palm of one of his hands.

"To be honest, Hanukkah isn't that important of a holiday. Families just do presents and shit to make their kids feel less left out with all the Christmas stuff," he informed me. This was completely news to me. "Do you want to know the history behind it?"

"Not really."

"Well, it's basically like a historical holiday," he went on, ignoring my disinterest. "In the second century BC, the Jews won a revolt against the Syrian army… basically just guerilla warfare and revenge for desecrating the Temple. Pretty violent stuff. That's really the important part… the whole menorah thing is mostly legend. And all the lights and stuff now is just a way to be festive around Christmas time."

"So… you have a holiday for the one time you actually won a war?"

He rolled his eyes and frowned. "I guess."

"…And so am I to understand you don't want presents?"

"Cartman, we were friends for like ten years and every year you got me some shitty present for Christmas, if that. I don't see why it should be any different now."

"Well…" I trailed off, letting my fingers trail along his skin suggestively.

"I don't want to make a big deal about this. Please," he said, and I knew he was talking about us and not the holiday season.

"Fine, I'll get you something shitty for a holiday you don't celebrate."

"Thank you."

"If you come to Nebraska with me for Thanksgiving."

"No way in hell. Your family's fucked up, dude."

"Yeah, why do you think I want you there?" I asked, lightly stroking his lower back.

"Sorry, you're on your own."

"But what's the good in having you to myself if I can't make you do stuff you don't want to do?"

"Fuck you," he said, turning over to face away from me. I laughed and rolled over to pin him to the bed. He glared up at me, but it was unenthusiastic and I could tell he was fighting not to smile. So I kissed him.

"Stay over tonight," I said when we broke apart.

"Okay."

I pushed myself off of him and stood up to get dressed. He watched me from the bed and I couldn't believe how lovely he looked, even with a black eye and other bruises littering his body. Yeah, there was no question: I was prepared to do anything to get him to trust me. No matter how long it took. He was mine now, officially, and I needed him to want to remain that way for as long as possible.

I was never any good at sharing and I never wanted to be. I was, however, very good at hoarding and protecting what possessions I valued most. But what I learned from Kyle was that sometimes, particularly if the possession was a sentient being, patience was necessary and sometimes very worth it. It was something I never had a lot of, but I was prepared to obtain however much I needed in order to get him to open up to me. My greatest skill, which as you know, is manipulation, had no place in this venture. Not anymore. But, somehow, that made it all the more appealing. I always liked a challenge, after all. And if Kyle was anything, he was a challenge. A frustrating, glorious challenge.

"Come on," I said, throwing him his clothes. "I'll make us some dinner."

End.