After Tonight

Snow trickled down on the world of South Park that Monday evening at Stark's Pond. The sun had already retired past the horizon, and darkness descended like a cool, shadowy umbrella over the four figures crowded around the edge of the glistening pond. There was a strange chillness in the air, one that spoke of a new, growing change in the rigidly immobile town, that had nothing to do with the gloomy weather. Nothing stirred but the occasional hesitant chirp from a bullfrog—and the quiet, barely noticeable pants of a 12-year-old boy buried head deep within soft ice.

In the dim light cast from a single lantern, carelessly held by another boy – his face covered by an orange hoody – rivets of red could be seen spreading across the snow—from where the frost covered bear-trap ended at the edge of the pond to the gory mess of limbs pried from its mouth centimeters away. It was unnatural, the brightness of the color against such pristine white; but if anyone dared to look closer, it seemed almost fitting, how beautifully crimson meshed with such purity.

No one dared to speak as snow crunched underneath a third boy's feet, his emerald eyes unmoving as he approached the fallen figure before him. Unlike his two friends, who stood back a few cautious feet behind them, he held no hesitation. Fists clenched tight with rage, tattered and stained with blood, he leaned on his knees over Eric Cartman's shivering body, bringing his face closer to the fat kid's ear to mutter out cold, unusually calm words. They were picked up by the wind, one by one, and it was only when he painfully turned his head to the side, splattered in snow and red saliva, that Eric could make out their solemn threat.—"We're fucking done with you, fatass."

He gazed with hate-filled, bruised eyes at the slowly forming grin on that pale, Jewish face, so disgustingly close to his. Rage flowed through his body like water, stained his heart in black, made him rash. Even through the pain shooting up his spine and down his torn legs, Cartman managed to lift his upper half forward and up, brutally slamming his forehead against Kyle's. Dizzying stars erupted all around him and a surge of nausea elicited a moan from his lips; but he could almost ignore the pain as he felt Kyle jerk backwards, cursing loudly. "You son of a bitch!" Maybe it was a mistake, given how surprisingly strong the Jew could become in rage, but Eric barely gave a shit. He only responded with a lopsided, bleeding smile as a green fist came crashing against the left side of his face. All he could do was wait for the ringing to disappear, wait for the assault to stop, counting the number of times his body shook with each blow.

Once. Twice. Thrice.

Again. And again and again and again and...

"Kyle, stop!"

Cartman could just make out the annoying, shaky voice of the Jew's super best friend, the ground under him moving with the approaching presence of Stan and Kenny. He heard Kenny mumble something like a warning (—"Hey, save him for us, dude"—) to the green-hatted boy, whom he could sense boring daggers down at him; no doubt it was only because of Stan holding Kyle back that Eric could still breathe, see, and think slightly coherently again. The damn hippie's probably just making sure his boyfriend's fingers aren't too bruised for their fuck-fest tonight. The thought made him chuckle, a strained, choked sound of mirth that didn't elude the blond standing beside him. The tiny light from the lantern shifted haphazardly as he felt a rough knee slam into the small of his back. Like Kyle, Kenny held no restraint in his attacks; the blows came heavy, rhythmic, once, twice, three times. Eric felt his breathing slow, vision swimming, as the sound of his bones breaking stole the silence away with each sharp, fluttery crack.

"What the hell are you laughing about, fatty?" The overwhelming scent of smoke engulfed his senses as Kenny – his fingers as bloody as Kyle's – gripped his chin, pulling his head up painfully. Through a delirious state of semi-consciousness, Cartman met cold, unfathomable sapphire eyes, long wisps of blond hair slipping out from an orange hood. There was something so blank and chilling in their depths that Eric couldn't help but look away, attempting a smirk – and failing – as he breathed, "How badly your parents'll be wasted by the time you get home and get your fucking poor, trashy ass beaten to a pulp-"

Crack!

Kenny's metal cuff clipped the side of Cartman's head as he smashed his fist down the length of that hated face, eliciting a hoarse cry and a gash of blood from both nose and lip. The knee was on his back again, with much more vehemence than before, and Eric could feel the absolute rage in his 'friend's' voice as he whispered, "At least it won't be half as bad as what's happening to you right now."

Cartman fell to the icy ground as Kenny released him, the lantern's soft glow revealing various shapes of hideousness before disappearing to his right. He barely noticed the way Kyle, previously in a quiet argument with Stan, now stepped forth, eager for another go at him. It was almost surreal. If he thought seriously about it, about everything that was happening this instant, Eric might've laughed at the absurdity of it all—of his friends – and especially that fucking Jew – growing a pair and finally putting a stop to this whole wild charade. But he could hardly think enough to acknowledge the frightening revelation and the spurt of fear rising from his chest. Everything hurt too much. His legs, almost mauled to pieces by that goddamn bear-trap, now seemed like a dull ache compared to everywhere else. All he could smell was the sickening stench of iron, wrapping around the cool Summer air; and see the dark blossoms of blood, spreading around his body like severed wings.

"Wait Kyle, it's Stan's turn."

"Oh—right."

"Go ahead, dude. What're you waiting for?"

"...You guys, is this really okay?"

"Stan, we've already fucking talked about this. This is our revenge, this is what we've been waiting for forever, this is what we have to do."

"We don't have to do anything. It's a choice, Kyle..."

"Uh, in case you haven't noticed, it's kinda too late for any other 'choice' now. Both me and Kyle've already done quite a bit to him..."

"Hold on a second... exactly how many hits did you take, Kenny?"

"Um, I dunno... A lot?"

"...What the hell! You didn't keep count? We agreed to keep count!"

"Geez, calm down Stan, it might'a been 7 or something... does it really matter? A blow's a blow, right? We're gonna be fuckin' him up either way."

"But what if one of us goes... over?" (Way, way over.)

"Yeah, if we do, so what? Kenny's right, Stan. It doesn't matter anyway... Just enjoy it. The fatass deserves everything we throw at him."

"No, Kyle. We all agreed on the amount—15 hits each, and that was it. Don't you dare go back on your words... it isn't fair to him!"

"Hah, and you think he's ever been fair to us? Stop kidding yourself, Stan. You know you've always wanted to pummel the shit out of his sorry ass. Well, here's your chance. You better take it before it's too late."

"Yeah~ Better not pussy out, old Stanny boy."

"..."

"C'mon, Stan. This is the only time we'll ever get to do it. After tonight, everything will change. It'll finally be all over."

'Over', the Jew says... Hah.

Listening to the three of them bicker, Eric had to bite back a grimace of incredulity. Although the hippie had been (comfortingly) predictable as usual, something about those other two's calculatingly icy voices made him force down the surging bitterness in his chest. A rising, bitter fear. He never thought this would've been possible. Maybe he'd just been too damn hopeful. Too hopeful of their forgiveness, their tolerance. Too hopeful that things would always remain the same, like South Park's unchanging microcosmic world, be okay each and every day with him as the resident bully and them as the supplicant victims putting up with his miscellaneous antics.

He should have known better than that. He should have known this day would come.

The shift of snow below him brought Cartman to reality in time to notice the oncoming approach of a certain black-haired boy. Ah, so it's his 'turn' now, huh? Shaky yet firm fingers dug underneath a thick layer of fat to jerk his chin up for the second time that evening. He was soon enveloped in the faint aroma of cheap, boyish cologne; Stan's face coming down heavy on his, breath warm against his cheeks. W-what the fuck is up with these fags invading my personal space? This is the most gay, traitorous thing they've ever fucking done to me... Even so, he couldn't stop the slight blush of red as he took in his (ex-) friend's concerned, pitying blue eyes. Those fingers were way, way too personal as they grazed the surface of his flesh, sliding across smoothly, almost gently; Stan lowered his eyes to the blood marring Eric's sallow face and an inexplicable flash of guilt crossed his expression.

And for just that second, staring with half-shut eyes at Stan's conflicted gaze, Eric allowed the briefest of hopes to fill his heart. Though the majority of the world believed Kyle was the sweet, little angel, he knew it was only Stan's good-natured sincerity that had kept them all sane during their most brutal and challenging tests of mortality in the sadistic society of South Park. After all, what other reason could Kyle have for hanging around Stan so much? There had to be a counterbalance to all the evil brewing inside the damn Jew, right? It was only fitting that Stan put a stop to this horrific night... It was only fitting that the stupid hippie – someone whom he rarely ripped on compared to the other two – would save him.

But—ah.

The soft look suddenly disappeared. Swift and haunting; erasing any last shards of hope. A blanket of darkness descended upon those normally bright eyes, until it took all of Eric's willpower not to get sucked into their indigo poison. I knew it. You fucking asshole, Marsh, I knew it. He tried to suppress a self-deprecating sob, forced a grim smile in its place instead. They had all become the same, then. All of them and their merciless, piercing eyes. They had all changed. The fingers interrupted his internal rage, grew vice-like around pale, fragile flesh, and Eric almost entertained the thought of Stan clawing him to shreds, like Mr. Kitty had done one too many times in the past, when the world had been normal and okay and his friends weren't fucking two-faced, lying bastards. But he supposed he was a two-faced, lying bastard as well—being in such bad company.

"Cartman, dude," Stan murmured, and if he hadn't been two inches away from the hippie's breathy voice, Eric might've missed the wavering, forcibly blank tenor in those words. "I'm sorry, okay?" Dark cobalt eyes stared at the fat boy with a mechanical sort of detachment. "But this is goodbye."

It sickened him.

With his left hand still gripped tight around Cartman's chin, Stan brought his right fist up and crashing back down—Crack!

Just like Kyle and Kenny, oh man, the hippie could dish out a punch. Or maybe it was just because he was hurting so bad that each blow felt like Mike fucking Tyson's fists. Whatever it was, it was fucking unbearable. His body convulsed with each strike, disgusting sobs escaping from his lips, and he closed his eyes as though it might shield him from the agony. But it didn't stop. Again and again, they came. The figures cast in deep, sin-drenched shadows descended upon him without sound, without thought, without any semblance of familiarity in their raw, resolute expressions. More fists and legs joined in the assault, until everything began to blur and distort, until an eerie wave of coldness seeped into his shattered limbs, his ruptured soul; the world was slowly shutting down to numb complacency.

And he remembered thinking, somewhere in the middle of all that pain and hatred and absolute despair, that this–this was more than 15 hits each. Way, way over. You fucking bastards didn't even keep your word... Eric could have laughed at the irony of it all. Goddammit, you guys've finally learned from me, eh?

. . .

Snow cascaded down on the world of South Park that Monday night at Stark's Pond. The sun was long gone from the ebony-black sky, never to return again, and darkness pooled like a maniacal flood over the lone figure collapsed on the edge of the glistening pond. There was a strange emptiness in the air, one that spoke of a new, permanent transformation in the once rigidly stagnant town, that had nothing to do with the icy weather. Nothing could be seen in the dim light cast from an abandoned lantern on the ground but the smear of red slipping into the cracks of white fissures—that and the tear-stricken face of a 12-year-old boy buried head deep within hard ice, his body wracking with long, mournful sobs.

Everything had changed.

Fin.

A/N: This was supposed to be a multi-chapter fanfic involving Kyle/Cartman + Kenny/Stan and some very complex facets of their relationships with one another, but I just decided to make it a relatively brief oneshot instead. (Blame the discordant muse! = ~ =) Hopefully, it was slightly enjoyable, even if I may have gone death-overboard with the detail - yet again.

I might write a companion fic later to expand more on this idea of them abandoning Cartman (the reason why, the thinking processes of all the 3 boys, especially Stan, etc.), though no guarantees, esp. with my lackluster motivation. If I do decide to continue further in anything involving this, I think I may have the pairings (if there ARE any) as Stan/Cartman and Kyle/Kenny... though I had originally planned for it to be Kyman and Stenny, hah.

Please tell me if you spot any mistakes! [2/24/13 ~ 2/26/13, final.]