"God dammit."

He initially started walking away, but the anger really got the better of him. It was funny, since Kyle hadn't ever really felt this much rage at his best friend. Toward Cartman he could feel a whole range of loathing – a rainbow of loathing, perhaps, would be the best descriptor to use after South Park's most recent fad.

At first, he was just going to go play football with the others, because that's what they expected him to do. Hell, it's what he expected to do, because, really, how many times had he personally made fun of his classmates for showing any emotion whatsoever? But HE had been the one to keep his mouth shut when all of them started dressing flamboyantly. He'd been the one to keep quiet when wearing one's heart on their sleeve suddenly became cool. And he'd been the one to suffer a beatdown because of the fact that joining the metrosexual parade just didn't feel right to him.

He could feel his fingernails digging into his palms as he approached the others. Kenny was waving Clyde and Craig over. Butters seemed to have already migrated toward the impending pick-up game, and Tweek was already holding out his arms to signal to Stan that he was ready to catch a pass. It was a typical after school scene.

"I see you decided to join us," Cartman noted, asiding something to Craig as if the two hadn't been bitter rivals just a week before.

Kyle, however, still saw red, still heard the pounding in his ears that had been building since he stepped outside the school. It wasn't okay. He wasn't going to pass it off like it was okay.

As Stan turned around, Kyle's fist collided with his face.

Stunned, the black-haired boy tumbled backward onto the ground as Kyle rubbed sore knuckles and turned from the others to head home. Not even Cartman had anything to say – not a first, but still, fairly surprising. Kyle half expected someone to call something after him as a million scenarios went through his head about how this would play out. A fight. A verbal spar. In the end, the only peep from the crowd was a quiet "H—holy hamburgers," muttered by Butters.

Walking home passed in a blur, as Kyle remained somewhat manic from the brief encounter. He and his best friend had fought before, but he couldn't remember a time when he'd thrown a punch at Stan out of pure anger. Then again, Stan hadn't ever so completely abandoned him. The invalidation of anger that should have mattered was just the straw that broke the camel's back.

As Kyle reached for the door, he noted that his knuckles were slightly black and blue. Biting his lip, he hid this evidence in a pocket before opening the door with his other hand.

"Mom? I got a lot of homework. I'll be in my room!" he called.

Sheila responded, but Kyle was already halfway up the stairs, and by the time she managed to pass along what time dinner would be ready, he was already in his room with the door closed, homework folder tossed carelessly on the floor. If he'd wanted so badly to attack Stan, why did it feel so bad after? Why did he want to kind of curl up in bed and stay there for the rest of the week? Forgoing any homework, he gave his folder a rather decent kick across his bedroom, and left the papers to fall where they would. Plenty of time to pick them up later. And also plenty of time to rather loudly mutter a handful of harsh expletives before plopping down on his bed, where he sat for many minutes, until a sound alerted him to the fact that he was being watched.

The last thing he expected to see was his door ajar, with a rather sheepish Stan peering through the tiny sliver of an opening he'd created.

"Can I come in?"

Kyle stubbornly said nothing. Stan went ahead and entered anyway, closing the door again behind him. When he turned, Kyle could see that quite a good portion of his friend's face was starting to bruise, which made him feel guilty and vindicated at the same time, because dumbass backstabbing traitor assholes deserved hideous bruises on their face, even if they were your best friend in the whole world. Punctuating his internal monologue, Kyle huffed.

Stan stood at the door, wordlessly. After some time of this standoff, he approached the bed and sat down in front of it, on the floor. He was also the first to break the silence with a rather unintelligent, "So... uh..."

"Yeah. That's about it," Kyle replied.

"Dude, I'm trying to figure out what the hell happened." Stan turned toward Kyle, blank-faced. "And in case you can't tell, I'm pissed off right now. But I can't make my face angry because I THINK you might have broken it. ALL of it. So thanks for that."

"If you're so mad, then why are you HERE?"

It was Stan's turn to brood sullenly for awhile. Kyle didn't care, as he would have rather not spoken anyway, but the eventual conversation was inevitable. Again, Stan was the first to speak. "Because. Because I am."

In the following hour, the snippets of conversation amounted to each of them attempting to find somewhere to start their heart-to-heart, but since Kyle's anger stemmed from the fact that having any feelings at all about his abandonment meant he'd be labeled as WEAK, he really wasn't too keen on starting it. Besides the fact that he didn't want to add fuel to the fire, the only things he could initially think of to say were all uncharacteristically spiteful, and he couldn't keep going down that road. Time passed, and as it did, the anger lessened, until he was finally left with the root of the problem and the only real answer to the question of how to start this discussion.

"You know what happened, Stan? I got beat up because you and Kenny turned your backs on me. Literally, man. You just walked away."

"Cartman was there, too."

"Yeah, but I'd expect that from Cartman." Kyle allowed that to sink in for awhile. The point appeared to hit home, too, because Stan bowed his head a little more toward the floor, and fidgeted with the hem on his pants. Scooting closer to the edge of his bed, Kyle let his feet hang over as he continued. "I got punched and kicked and – and spit on by all the guys in the class and when it was all over and they went away, I—I walked home alone."

"Yeah..." Stan seemed to be searching for some response to quantify the reasoning behind that decision, but his statement trailed off with a sigh. Eventually, he added, "But you were okay... It wasn't like they put you in the hospital or something."

"Mm."

Pushing himself to his feet, Stan jumped up on the bed and sat next to Kyle. "I'm still, your best friend, okay?" He paused, and then added, "...right?"

Kyle glared at him, and Stan looked at his feet. "I'm sorry, man. Okay? I should have been there for you. It bothered me when Craig was making a big fucking deal about it later." He paused, offering a rather cautious look to his friend before continuing. "I just... wanted to play football. After making myself NOT play for so long, I just wanted to get outside and throw the god-damned football around. That's all I meant by it."

Kyle said nothing. Fighting with Stan really sucked, because in addition to being angry at Stan, Kyle was still pissed off at all the other boys in the class for beating him up in the first place. So if he and Stan weren't talking, who was going to have his back? Who was going to be there to lean on, when things inevitably went wrong, and something happened? Narrowing his eyes, Kyle did some quick calculations and realized that the town hadn't been completely destroyed in some time. Surely it would happen again soon, and if he and Stan weren't speaking, who would save the day?

His shoulders slumped. Next to him, Stan's face lit up with a hopeful smile, although the expression quickly drew a quiet 'ouch' and immediately disappeared. "S—so?" Stan asked.

Deadpan, Kyle replied, "So? You're an asshole."

"Yeah, I know," Stan said. "But are we cool now?"

Kyle nodded. "Yeah, dude. As long as you let me kick the crap out of you in Zombie Fighters 2. C'mon, let's get an ice pack for your face."