Kenny's first funeral was when he was five years old.
He remembered watching from Heaven at all the people gathered to sit and stare at his closed casket. His legs swung from the side of a cloud, not sure what situation he was in and just wanting to know why everyone was crying. An angel had been at his side, an angel of high standing from what he could tell, a soft fatherly voice trying to explain to him what had happened, but to not worry, things seemed different for him. He'd only taken slight note of what had been said, too preoccupied watching the show below in utter befuddlement. His mother had been hysterical, his father and older brother trying to hide their sniffles and remain sitting tall, taking turns holding his infant sister as she grew increasingly fussy during the service.
He remembered seeing his three best friends at the front row with their own parents, all of them too young to comprehend the ramifications, squirming in their uncomfortable, starched suits and looking around aimlessly more often than not. Well. Two of them at least.
Their mothers had all been ridiculously overprotective of their boys, each of them holding their sons on their laps as they were reminded that life can be taken at any time, that a rogue car was always right around the corner if they weren't protecting their babies. Stan had wriggled on his mother's lap, impatient and wanting to know when they could go play. All the kids were there, after all, so there was some prospect of good times to be had. Cartman merely whined that he wanted to go home, that he was missing quality TV time for Kenny of all people, not quite understanding why he was such a big deal all of a sudden.
Kyle, though. Kyle just stared straight ahead at the elongated, polished oaken box, his mind just starting to grasp at the beginnings of its future analytical state. He'd asked his mom what was happening, why Kenny wasn't here but everyone was talking about him. Through empathetic tears, unable to quite explain to her little boy the finality of death, she'd only told him that Kenny was a special boy, and he had to go somewhere very special. Kyle had accepted this with a nod, a small grunt as she held him tighter and dotingly patted his head. Kenny had a special fondness for the expression on five-year-old Kyle's face that he always recalled when things felt pointless, when death took the occasional toll on his psyche. That look of the beginnings of understanding, but the "naïve" hope that it meant that Kenny would make his triumphant return from wherever it was he was visiting, the promise of future playdates and childhood shenanigans lingering on the glowing horizon.
He'd been correct, but he'd never known it at the time.
Kyle didn't remember that first funeral. Or the next one. Or the following.
In fact, he didn't remember a single damn one until they were eighteen. A service following only days after Kenny had been taken from him in particular. No one else had seen him go, Kenny hovering over him silhouetted in the moonlight as thin fingers traced from the half-risen lump of faded Denver Nugget pajama bottoms up Kyle's ribcage, spreading over his chest and feeling his rapid, nervous heartbeat. Trembling lips had leaned down, leaving a wet trail over his breastbone, moving up, up, up until falling so naturally onto shaking lips. Hands at the time were still in the new stages of intimate knowledge of one another, still playing that thin line delicately to keep the string from snapping, both of them knowing they were tottering with a dangerous game. No one had known about them as of then, Kyle too terrified of coming out to his parents and Stan at last after playing it off as just not having the time for dating for so long. Kenny was more worried that word of him messing around with the eldest Broflovski boy would have his father, a longtime jealous monster of the other family's affluence, spiraling into a rage and put Kyle into a risk of having a whisky bottle smashed over his skull.
So that night, atop Kenny's worn mattress with the deceptive posters of half-naked women scattered along his wall cloaked in darkness, they'd quietly led into their secretive routine. Heavy petting and longing touches for more than what they had with one another, both of them captured in the mindset that this was temporary, that the other felt they were just a fix for now until more could be found. But at that point, they were all right with the way it was, willing to just relish in the affection and pretend it was already more, a foolish custom they'd been playing with for months before it all came to a head.
More specifically, Kenny's head.
Kyle still didn't know where it came from, and knew he never would. Since then he'd theorized it was a burnt-out meteor, set on a straight course towards his unfortunate then-fling. A crash through the window hadn't finished echoing out as Kenny suddenly stopped his kissing, Kyle feeling a burning against the back of his left hand as it remained wrapped in blonde hair. He'd pulled back with a hiss, hand coming down and seeing blood trailing down the appendage in the pale lighting through parted curtains. He'd blinked at the open wound, feeling where the shard of stone had sliced through him and looking up, mouth opening to ask what'd happened before he'd fallen silent, breath caught in panic as Kenny collapsed on top of him. He couldn't move, mouth trembling at Kenny's still head rolling into the crook of his neck, head wound leaking down over him, bathing him in a sea of red. He'd been terrified, unable to shove him off as it trickled down into his own wound, feeling Kenny's lost life seeping into him as he laid trapped half-naked underneath.
Everything in that moment culminated into nothing but a pure, unbridled terror, screaming for someone to get into Kenny's room, unable to push the heavier boy off of him, too frozen to worm out his pinned arm from between their stomachs. Kenny's family had rushed into the room, turning on the overhead light with the two burnt-out bulbs and blinding Kyle as they all screamed at the bloodied mess. Karen and Carol were forced out of the room, Kenny's brother and father rushing over and prying the corpse off of him, Kyle wriggling and rolling over gracelessly to fall face-first onto the thinly-carpeted floor by Stuart's feet. He'd scrambled onto his knees, backing away as they assessed the situation, Kevin finding the fly-away rock at once lying under a dent in the far wall.
Kyle was hyperventilating at that point, feeling Kenny's blood all over his face and trailing down the right side of his body. Stuart had turned to look at him cowering, own chest heaving with baffled emotions before catching the deep purple marks on the clean side of his neck and chest. A quick glance towards his fallen son being held by his eldest showed matching marks, his tumultuous feelings redirecting into rage towards the scared boy curled up on the floor. Kyle could vividly recall Kevin catching the shift in demeanor, trying to move and intercept, yelling for Kyle to get up and fucking run before he was grabbed by the wrist and hauled onto his feet, drunken spittle flying against him as he was screamed at. It was horrible how clarifying the words still were even years later, Stuart delusional enough to dismiss the freak accident and scream that it was Kyle's fault, that if Kenny hadn't been busy being a fag with a rich, spoiled piece of shit, he'd still be alive.
Kyle hadn't even been able to argue, the situation finally sinking down onto him and sending him into tears, barely noticing Stuart slamming him back into the wall time and again demanding meaningless answers. How long he'd been tricking his child, if he was paying him just for this kind of attention, if he was happy for what he'd caused. Kyle had just cried, still bleeding and feeling Kenny's own blood beginning to dry into sticky pools against his skin, yelping only as he was finally hit across the face and fell back onto the floor, Kevin trying to hold back his father and yelling that Kenny was more important than whatever he and Kyle had been up to. But, Pabst has a strange power of redirecting from the things that matter, Stuart shoving his eldest son away and grabbing Kyle by the hair, dragging him out of Kenny's room and through their house past Carol and Karen's shaking, bawling forms.
Kyle could still feel the bitter bite of snow against his bare feet as he was walked out of the house and down the sidewalk, forced over the railroad tracks towards his own darkened home. He'd began endlessly blathering, barely making sense in the overwhelming circumstance. Stuart had beat against his front door, holding Kyle still as he tried to squirm away, realizing all at once the ramifications he was facing once that door was opened. It'd creaked open to all three members of his family staring at the two of them in shock.
His mother had just said his name, blinking at the blood and the fear on his face, still trying to wake up from the impromptu interruption.
"Tell yer piece of shit son to keep his fuckin' dick to himself so he don't kill someone else," Stuart had snapped, throwing Kyle forward into his house, knocking down his younger brother in the process. Kyle never forgot that look on the man's face as he looked back up from the floor, that hatred. That need for his blood. Gerald had demanded to know what he was talking about, Stuart launching into a tirade about the boys, completely ignoring how his youngest son was dead, focusing instead on the telltale marks on Kyle's neck and the compromising position he'd been found in.
Ike had moved to help Kyle back onto his feet, he and his mother flanking him as Gerald cut off Stuart and told him to go take care of what was happening in his own home, shutting him out and letting their house fall into a burdened silence. Sheila had been uncharacteristically lost for words, merely leading Kyle into the kitchen and sitting him down at the table, busying herself with finding rags to clean his bloodied face and a first-aid kit for his dripping hand. The questions had started slowly, each member of his family taking turns putting together the puzzle that Stuart had thrown at them. Kyle had only nodded and shook his head in response, unable to speak, still seeing the moonlit shadows of Kenny's deadened face, the blood trickling down the sides of his head, dark and thick as ganache.
It'd built and built as Sheila finished wrapping up his gashed hand, voice tinging with beginning disappointment and Kyle flinching, expecting her to fall into the same fury Stuart had shown him. Instead, he was told that she didn't know why he'd hidden it from them, but she was sure he had a good reason. She'd pet his hair in a way that felt sickeningly familiar, brought a strange twinge to Kyle's already clenched chest. She merely told him that at least Kenny was happy before he left, that he was the one who'd done that. And how Kenny was a special boy, going to a special place.
He didn't know why at the time, but that phrase had all but broken him, his cleaned head falling forward onto his mother's shoulder as he sobbed, her helpless petting and murmurs of comfort barely reaching him. He'd never felt so lost.
He was plagued with nightmares in the few days following, seeing death after death of Kenny, each time waking up with a gasp and his cut hand throbbing incessantly. He couldn't place it, his head fuzzy, trying to fill in holes, replace memories with different ones. He was sick and weak in the three days between what had happened and Kenny's funeral. Stan stayed with him all throughout, still taking in the brunt of both the loss and learning what his best friend had been up to, not once wavering from his side as he tried to talk Kyle down. Tried to tell him that it was just how he processed grief.
Kyle, however, knew grief. He had no idea what it was Kenny was putting him through.
He couldn't eat, couldn't see anything without Kenny lingering in his peripheral. He just heard scream after scream, saw gallons of blood anytime he closed his eyes. On the second day, he'd found himself staring at nothing, murmuring "you bastards" time and time again, unable to pinpoint why that was all he could think. Stan couldn't understand what Kyle was going through either, opting to just rub his shoulder as he muttered to himself and kept his sight locked hazily on the wall.
Of all people, it was Cartman that broke him from his trance. He'd meandered into his room after Stan had texted him about the situation, taking one look at the disheveled boy on the bed and scoffing. With a spiteful tone, his own eyes red and voice tainted with exhaustion, he'd asked a simple "What, were you fags in love or something?"
Kyle's mumbling had stopped, words trapped as he was unable to answer the question. He didn't know. And he wouldn't know until a day later, the day after what Kyle now considered to be the first funeral he'd witnessed. Sitting there had been surreal, nothing feeling tangible as he watched Kenny lowered into the earth, felt Stuart's scathing glare from the other side of the casket. He couldn't explain it, something about the situation not having the finality everyone else seemed to experience. Stan sobbed at his side, Cartman stamping his foot now and again from the other end, his grief redirecting into bursts of temper tantrums. Kyle remained caught in the middle, feelings unable to rearrange themselves into a meaningful form. He'd wondered if he was broken.
Instead, he found himself led up to the dirt hole by Karen, her fingers wrapped and trembling around his starched sleeve as they both stared into the nothingness, each throwing a handful of dirt. Kyle watched the dust splashing around the fresh pink carnations, tinging the purity, marring the meaning. They stayed staring as the remaining mourners followed their lead, each taking a handful of earth and tossing it down into the pit. Their hands had clasped around one another's in comfort, neither of them quite knowing how to approach just what it was they were suffering through. As the mourners backed away, only Kenny's family and Kyle remained. Kyle tried to back away from them, Karen firmly keeping him in place at her side, Kyle doing all he could to avoid Stuart's raging stare for being where he didn't belong. Kevin had come to his other side, patting his shoulder a few times, and Kyle felt sick. It should've been the other way around. He should have been comforting them.
The five surrounding the gravesite had been handed white roses, Kyle's nose scrunching as a lifelong allergy tried to rear its ugly head in the inappropriate moment. "He really liked you," Karen had murmured seemingly out of nowhere, twirling her rose in her fingers. "He told us."
Kyle hadn't been able to breathe, looking between both siblings as they watched his reaction, the three of them caught up to the situation that the boys had avoided. Regret and anguish collapsed on top of Kyle's already weakened state, fingers clutching around the stem of his rose, knuckles turning a blaring white. The first voluntary words finally croaked out of him since the incident, voice cracking at a meek "I really liked him, too." They'd moved in closer with one another, tossing down their roses one at a time, and Kyle had wished his own had been colored red.
He had spent the rest of that day by himself, refusing anyone trying to come in and comfort him, finally allowing himself to break. He'd cried for hours, screaming into his pillow about how unfair it was, how he'd wasted so many fucking months. How maybe, just maybe, if he'd told his family, they would've been at his house, Kenny would have lived instead of them just banking on Kenny's parents being too drunk to hear them. That night, passed out from crying, he dreamt of feathers bathed in blood, red roses dripping onto his own torn fingertips. He couldn't smell the fluid surrounding him, only the clean scent of freshly fallen snow. It crunched beneath his feet as he walked with a bouquet, finding a golden-haired angel waiting for him under a broken tree. He'd fallen to his knees and bawled, Kenny's slender hands cupping his chin and giving him an easygoing smile, blue eyes glittering in the luminescence of his ethereal halo.
He'd murmured something to him that Kyle couldn't quite understand, lips captured and his being sinking against the heavenly form, the snow no longer crunching beneath him and the roses no longer melting. Instead, the world reset. His footprints raised back to make the ice virgin yet again. The shattered tree regrew its fallen limbs, sprouting with colorful buds that stood out starkly in the winter wasteland. Kyle barely took note of it, too lost in the comfort, the familiarity of Kenny's tongue, his scent overpowering the snow with tinges of earth, of freshly grown plants and tilled soil. He was the taste of spring, of revival. Of hope.
Kyle apologized against him, not sure what it was he was apologizing for. The options were numerous, but Kenny seemed to know exactly what it was he meant, kissing him again and holding him. They stayed clutched together, Kenny melting away the snow and unveiling the grass waiting so patiently beneath their feet. Another kiss lingered between them, Kenny pulling away just enough for the skin of their lips to still feel the heat of one another, breathing out a simple "Wait". Kyle had woken up with a gasp hearing his voice, hand throbbing once more as he stared into the darkness of his ceiling, hearing the bare snowfall on the tree outside his window.
But on the fourth day, he couldn't hear anything.
At 2:24 in the afternoon, the world turned to ashes and rose again from the cinders, reality turned on its head as his mother called up the stairs, informing him that Kenneth was there. He'd been furious and brokenhearted, about to stomp down the stairs and demand to know if that's what she called a joke. But then, he'd stopped in his tracks as his door flung open, couldn't see anything but the blonde head appearing in his doorway with a nonchalant grin and a cheesy wink. He'd simply stepped inside and leaned against the door as he closed it, asking, "Well, well, what've you been up to this fine day? Gettin' all hot thinkin' 'bout me?"
Kyle's mouth opened to scream, but the sound was lost, falling back onto his floor and scrambling away from him as Kenny watched in shock. Kyle had looked for feathers tainted red, fingers aching as they scratched against his carpet, trying to hold onto the ground for fear of everything collapsing as his body lurched. He had grabbed his wastebasket and vomited as fears grew too heightened to handle, Kenny rushing over and rubbing his back.
Finally pulling back up for a breath, Kyle blindly fumbled around on top of his nightstand for the water bottle his mother had left outside his door that morning, Kenny snagging it and helping him take a few long, cold gulps to regain some sense of stability. Kyle had ripped back from him, the boys watching each other with wide, baffled eyes. "How?" he'd finally broken.
Kenny had looked around a bit and blinked. "Uh… how what?" Kyle moved onto his knees, grabbing Kenny's head and turning it from side to side, staring at the clean, reformed skin, moving back locks of hair looking for a wound. Kenny had just allowed whatever it was he was doing with nothing more than a questioning grunt at frantic fingers raking through his hair. His eyes had drifted to the bandage over his hand and narrowed his eyes. "Ky. What happened to your hand?"
Kyle had stopped, pulling back slowly and looking at the wrapping himself. He'd gulped, moving to unravel the gauze, both of them watching his deep, dried wound coming out into the air. Kyle took a shaking breath, staring at it as Kenny went into full-blown panic, grasping his hand and turning it, grabbing his water bottle and a roll of paper towels Kyle kept for his compulsive cleaning days and trying to rub off the flaking blood. He'd rambled, pleading to know what'd happened, Kyle watching his fears unfolding and shaking his head slowly.
"Where's yours?" he'd whispered, Kenny stopping in his tracks and looking up at him, silent as he waited for more elaboration. "Your… y-your wounds… the rock… where are they?"
Kenny had dropped his hand, his own palm coming up over his mouth and tears welling at once. Kyle couldn't comprehend what was happening, never used to seeing Kenny looking like that. "What are you talking about?" he'd forced himself to steady out his voice, though Kyle could hear how his breathing tremored, as though something inside him was bubbling up with fervor.
"…You died," he whispered again, wounded hand reaching up and touching his cheek, unsure if he was caught in another dream or not, but wanting to dismiss the notion. "I was there… a-and the funeral… and… and…" he choked on his words, fingers curling against his face as tears leaked down Kenny's cheeks, a mismatching smile, bright as a halo Kyle had noted, spreading across his face.
"You remember," he'd whispered back, cupping Kyle's own face, lips shaking in their upturned state. "Holy shit."
Kyle had been lost, wandering through a field of haze as a thumb stroked over his cheek, eyes blearing before he finally broke again, clutching around Kenny and forcing him forward so he could hide in his neck and cry. Kenny wasn't sure how to handle the moment, never expecting it to come to light. He'd just leaned back against Kyle's bed, holding him between his legs and petting his hair, letting him get it all out as he contained his own tap-dancing glee for his sake. He'd quietly told him how it'd been happening since they were five, how no one ever remembered, how it was nothing to worry about, that he'd always be back.
Even years later, Kyle still didn't know how, but his soothing explanation and Kyle's bawling had all hit a hard stop with a searing kiss, marking him with a joy that he had never shed. He'd blindly locked his door, still trapped on Kenny's lips, and they'd fallen onto his bed. For the first time, in his rush of grief subsiding and a budding existential crisis, he got every bit of Kenny, relishing in the life that he exuded. Kenny still laughed about it, teasing Kyle that it was always going to be the power of his dick that healed all ailments.
Ten years down the line with countless falls into one another and matching rings secured on their fingers, he couldn't exactly argue.
Even now, as he stood in the warmth of early fall watching that coffin lower into the earth with nothing more than a sigh through his lips, he knew what was around the corner. A day or two more where he needed to be everyone else's rock. He'd take Karen, Carol, and Kevin into his and Kenny's home tonight for dinner, the four of them reminiscing about Kenny. He'd lead them out and see Stuart waiting in the truck for them, that same glare still set on his face towards his son's widower. Then he'd lie around the house, taking his work-given grieving days and catching up on housework and bills, prepping one of Kenny's favorite larger meals for his return and letting it stew in its flavors for however long it took for him to walk out of their bedroom door.
He'd already given the eulogy he'd memorized after so many times of suffering through it, dealt with everyone patting his back and telling him how 'strong' he was to keep from sobbing during his speech. Stone-faced and nothing more than tired, he'd wade through relatives of Kenny's and a few of his own, dealing with their friends and comforting them time and again as they cried and offered, pleaded, to take Kyle in for a few days. "So you don't have to go home to an empty house," they'd claim. He had the excuse of their dog and cat to lean on to get out of that mess, plus the ever-popular "I can't accept it until I face it".
The phone calls wouldn't cease, not until Kenny was back. Not until the world hit its reset button just for him, leaving only Kyle as the anomaly as he'd casually greet his reentrance before launching into a spiel on something mundane. It'd become their pattern, and both of them were more than happy to keep within its steps if it meant they still had each other at the end of Kenny's 'trips'. Kyle would never tell himself that the deaths didn't bother him, having seen his husband go in horrific ways more often than he would've expected. But the waiting didn't. Not anymore. Sometimes it irked him when something came up, and sometimes the funerals would be switched up in the slightest, Kyle forgetting to inform a particular family member about his passing and having to deal with the fallout.
Only a handful of times had Kyle truly been angry at Kenny for going, only when the man's father would show up drunk and berate Kyle in front of everyone. Scream at him for being what killed his son and more than once punching him in the midst of the wake. Kenny had suggested not having actual funerals anymore, keeping Stuart away as they did for all other occasions, and Kyle had waved that off. After all, he'd remind him solemnly, one of those times was gonna be the last one. And he'd never forgive himself if that was the one that only had him in attendance. The money spent was always replenished, memories were wiped, grief was stripped away.
To Kyle, after so long, after countless funerals, it was nothing more than routine.
He shook himself into attention as a hand gripped the top of his arm, looking over to see Karen sobbing against him and he hugged around her shoulders. It did break his heart to an extent seeing her breaking down so often, the girl so close to Kenny and therefore intertwined so deeply in his life, they were fairly close for just being siblings by law. He sighed, watching mourners tossing in their dirt, most stopping to pat his shoulder before shuffling back to stand on the outskirts of the gravesite, observing the family gathered around the plot staring into the abyss.
Kyle tucked curls behind his ear, counting down in his head until the inevitable broken sob from Kenny's mother, looking up to see those angry eyes of his father watching him and shrinking into himself a bit. Didn't matter how many years, didn't matter how many attempts to get along with Stuart that he made, he was just always going to be hated by the man. He supposed it meant little. Eventually the drunkard's liver would give out, he reasoned bitterly. He looked up at Kevin as he stepped up beside him, that same hand falling onto his shoulder as the three who meant most to the man in the wooden box stared down at him. Matte black, just as Kenny had requested when Kyle had one day asked him if he wanted anything specific so he could just breeze through the process when it rolled around. Kyle was probably the funeral director's favorite customer. Knew exactly what he wanted, got through the meeting without so much as a sniffle, handed him a check, and went about his business.
Kyle glanced up at the priest handing him a rose, taking it with delicate fingers, grimacing at the throbbing scar still embedded deep in his left hand as he pulled it back towards himself. He twirled the flower a bit, eyes lingering with a somberness against the stark red petals. He'd started getting red as soon as his last name had McCormick tacked onto the end. It'd been the only change to the ceremony he'd experienced, the first funeral he'd pushed through as a married man bringing him to tears for the first time in a long time. That was the only time he'd not just tolerated the nonstop comfort, but needed it. And everyone was more than happy to supply his needs. After all, it was only days after they'd gotten back from their honeymoon. He was a newlywed without his spouse already, it was a tragedy that none of them could wrap their heads around.
But Kyle knew better, he knew he'd be back with Kenny in a matter of days, but it was that fucking rose. That rose that showed him that even after six years of everything staying the exact same, things could still change. One day might finally be that last day. One day might be the last check he signed for a deposit on a coffin, the last conversation with the priest and dealing with that condescending talk of "Well you're Jewish so you may not understand how we do things". He wondered if he'd ever miss that, miss the monotony and the routine. He'd never miss it as much as his husband, but he couldn't imagine that he wouldn't be longing for the procedure once again. Because if he had that to still remember just how everything was to go, it meant that he'd gotten Kenny back, if only temporarily.
As per the usual, Kyle waited for the others to toss in their flowers, still staring at the petals and heaving a sigh. A quiet, internal prayer echoed within his weary state, same as always, telling Kenny to hurry home. He let his rose fall from his hand, crashing down atop the others and shaking their petals, knowing well enough Stuart hated to see that. Hated that Kyle knew he held more weight than the others to Kenny, as much as he adored Karen and got along with Kevin. Kyle's green eyes raised, met the man's glare point for point before straightening back up with the closing of the final prayer.
He, Karen, and Kevin huddled close to one another, Kyle letting both of them hide in his shoulder and patting their backs. What came next was no picnic, either. Some of the mourners would disperse, but most would linger at the cars, finding Kyle and expressing their sorrow, fumbling over words and trying to think of the right things to say. Kyle had mastered the art of the soft, saddened smile, had perfected the correct way to thank them for their kind words. All the while, however, he would just be tired.
He would be tired and waiting until he could go home. Dinner for four was in the crockpot, and he was more than prepared with Kenny's family's favorite stories of him so they would be able to leave with that same sad smile on their own faces and bid him a goodnight and a promise to call him in the morning. He would wave them off, feed the cat and let the dog out before finally allowing himself to collapse in bed, the only place he wanted to be in this time of waiting. Where he would smell freshly fallen snow and bathe in the blood of roses. Where Kenny would be waiting to see him with wide, celestial wings and that glowing, loving smile.