Warning: Later chapters of this story may contain character death and violence.
"Strange as it may seem, I am my remembering self, and the experiencing self, who does my living, is like a stranger to me." – Daniel Kahneman
-Chapter One-
Bronco Capital Partners may not be the most famous investment firm around, but it's a name you should start to think about remembering.
"Ugh – ah," Kyle groans. He's read this newspaper article probably hundreds of-
"Fuck!"
- times, but then again it is literally framed and hanging right above the headboard of their bed.
Just four years ago its two founders – Eric Cartman, 32, and Craig Tucker, 31 – left their previous positions at JP Morgan Chase & Co in New York, unable to resist the pull of their home state. The Denver-based company they founded has been going from strength to strength ever since.
"You like that, don't you?" The words are growled in Kyle's ear. Eric's unkempt nails press into his back, and he can't read anymore, forced face down into the mattress. The dry texture of the sheets gets between his lips, and he gets a subtle yet overwhelming taste of cloth and detergent.
He claws at Eric's back in revenge, but Kyle's nails are always bitten very short, and so small fingertips slide across the vast breadth of skin harmlessly. Next month will be the fifteen year anniversary of their first date, but they still fuck like it's a one night stand. Rough and urgent, both of them selfishly going after their own pleasure at all costs, animal competition that doesn't grow tiresome even after all this time.
When the slap of flesh on flesh gets faster and more desperate Kyle squirms backwards in the hope of one more well-angled thrust. Eric responds, driving his full length into him a final time.
"Ngh-" he feels the familiar warmth release inside of him, and Eric's panting form slumps down onto the mattress. He seems a mile away in the 'super king-size' bed, so Kyle scoots over until a hefty arm is draped across his chest. As much as he'd never admit to it, Eric loves lying together for a while afterwards – Kyle can just tell.
Even the enormous four poster bed seems small in their vast bedroom, surrounded by large open space. Adjoining doors lead to a walk in closet and a sizeable en suite bathroom, and if you added all three rooms' floor space together this master suite might be the size of a small apartment. It's stunning, though the wallpaper is Kyle's pet hate; embossed, gold fleur-de-lis on a white background. So tacky.
"Dinner?" He asks eventually.
"Yeah. What we having?" Eric asks, still heaving slightly in an effort to get his breath back to full capacity.
"Thai shrimp curry." Kyle decides instantaneously. It's quick to make, and for some reason he just fancies it.
"Ehh-" Eric starts, but Kyle cuts him off with a stern look.
"You'll like it." He assures him, getting up and sidling towards the shower.
Once he's refreshed Kyle grabs his bathrobe and bounds down the stairs, enjoying the lingering scent of pomegranate body wash around him. His robe is a little embarrassing - too short, pale blue and embroidered with flowers - but Eric bought it for him last Christmas, and he wears it to avoid being deemed ungrateful. Judging from the ample chest room it offers, Kyle's pretty sure it was picked up in the women's wear section, but luckily this is the only piece of clothing Eric's ever bought him, so he can suffer a one-off. If he ever comes home from work with a pair of lace panties though, that would be a deal-breaker.
He almost stumbles on the last step, and has to clutch at the banister to stop himself from tumbling face-first onto the floorboards. As places to crack your head open go, it wouldn't be a bad one as far as Kyle's concerned - his brains spilling over their ten thousand dollar oak flooring would be suitably glamorous at least.
In the kitchen he's in his element, moving swiftly and gracefully between the fridge and cupboards, no missteps, no wasted effort. Cooking has become something of a passion, with the combination of technical ability and creative flare that it demands suiting Kyle perfectly, and Eric provides a constant challenge to impress with anything that hasn't been deep fried.
The room is just starting to fill up with the rich smells of chili and coconut when a face appears at the window, making him jump and almost drop a packet of frozen shrimp. As it turns out, it's just fucking Clyde. He's essentially their gardener (his 'company' of about three people tend to their grounds) but it's surprising for him to still be around at this time, let alone almost pressing his face up against the glass like some kind of underwater slug in a tank.
Clyde starts trying to say something, but it's difficult to make out. Something something something Geraniums, something something front, something tomorrow something. Right. Kyle just nods and smiles a little insincerely, at which point Clyde waves a muddy hand and wanders off. Whatever it was, it was almost definitely not important.
Actually Kyle likes Clyde well enough, it's just there's always been something a bit pathetic about him. Maybe it's because he blatantly moved to Denver just to follow Craig, who regularly fucks him but refuses to date him or even acknowledge said fucking. Yeah, it's probably that. It's common knowledge that those two screw around, but Clyde is 'out' and Craig is married to some bimbo model from New York, so that's that.
Darkness is starting to encroach outside, and Kyle gets his usual thrill when the lights automatically turn on, operated by sensors. It's easy to forget how insane this house is sometimes, but that gimmick never fails to remind him. The best part is that he doesn't even have to work for any of this; he lives like a fucking king and Eric pays for it.
Speak of the devil, he appears in the doorway just as Kyle starts serving up, probably drawn down by the smell of food.
"Let's try this Chinese gunk then." He says, grabbing a plate.
"Thai." Kyle corrects irritably. "It's from Thailand."
"...and the difference is?" Eric asks wryly.
"China is the most populous country in the world, the birthplace of Taoism and Confucianism-"
"Wait – which one of those worships the fat guy?" Eric interjects with a laugh.
"That's Buddhism. That's fucking Buddha. Thailand isn't even China's neighbor, they're separated by some other countries…"
"They both have slanty eyes, Kyle. There is no difference."
Kyle just rolls his eyes at that. He knows he's being provoked, but that doesn't mean he can stop himself from reacting. Ever since he was about six Eric has been able to provoke a rise out of him like this, it's just the way they are.
They eat in front of the TV, though for Kyle the fuzz of the twenty-four hour news channel just provides background noise. He wants to care about this mudslide in Brazil, and the man they're interviewing about his collapsed house, but it just seems too distant, too inconceivable.
They're probably only watching the news channel because Eric doesn't want to get caught out in a conversation about current affairs at his work party tonight. It's an event to celebrate 'great quarterly results' apparently. Eric is surprisingly keen on throwing parties for his employees, but then again it does fit with the 'carrot and stick' management philosophy he's so fond of. Why just use one when you can have both, is the idea. In Eric's mind that means giving alcohol fuelled parties (probably even cocaine and hookers sometimes too) to the best teams…and firing the lowest performing team. Every one of them, once a year. Kyle once asked what if every team has a good year? In that case one team didn't have a good enough year, apparently. Oh well, it seems to be working fine, so it's best to just leave him to it.
He hates the parties with a passion though. They're always mind numbingly boring, testosterone fuelled dick-measuring contests. All of these greasy finance types clamouring for Eric's attention while Kyle feels like an awkward outsider, it's great fun.
"It's black tie tonight, remember?" Eric mumbles through a mouthful of rice. "So dress nice."
"Yeah I remember." Kyle replies. "And I always dress nice."
Eric snorts. "You gonna do your hair?"
"Yep." Well of course. Kyle hasn't left the house with his hair in full frizz-tastrophe for the last decade, so why would he pick tonight, a formal work event, to suddenly stop giving a fuck?
"Hey calm down, you know I just like you to look good."
To call it 'straightening' was maybe a bit of an exaggeration, but after an extended - and occasionally painful - period locked in the bathroom with some red hot pieces of flat metal, Kyle managed to turn it from the disgusting frizzy mess it usually was into something passably wavy. It wasn't anywhere near as good as how it looked in the few days after he got back from the salon, but it helped. He didn't understand how he used to let himself go out in public without doing this.
Once he was completely ready to go he reached to the back of the bathroom cabinet, for a bottle of valium. He tapped two into his hand and swallowed them, cupping his hand under the tap and gulping some cold water to wash it down. Anything that would make tonight a little easier. He took one final check in the mirror before sidling down the stairs.
Nights like this weren't all bad. In fact, Kyle could probably use his suffering tonight to get some more funds for CasinoStars as payment. He played online poker, but Eric was against the idea, and so Kyle had to be canny and persuasive if he wanted to play. He was pretty good, but a couple weeks back he lost his temper and kept aggressively bluffing and being caught out until he'd lost about five grand, his entire online war chest, and so now he needed a new influx to stop him getting bored during the weekdays. Eric was fairly easy to manipulate in the end, you just needed some leverage. Tonight for example, Kyle had the ability to embarrass him in front of work friends if he got bored. Leverage.
"Remember what we agreed." Eric said once Kyle slumped into the comfortable back seat of their black Cadillac. "Just don't try and talk about my work, you know you can come off sounding like a smart ass."
He nodded. It wasn't hard to sound like a smart ass when surrounded by a bunch of arguing, hair-brained, city-slicker assholes.
The rest of the car journey was silent, until they were about ten minutes away, when Cartman started rattling through a list of names Kyle needed to remember and recognise, with descriptions like 'John is the tall one with blond hair'. Great.
The hotel was nice; maybe not black-tie-worthy nice, but still, nice. It was built about ten years ago, but they'd filled it with fake character wherever they could - Greek style pillars at the front, nineteenth century skirting boards around the walls and impressive glass chandeliers in every room. The main hall, where they would be spending the evening, was much the same: impressively large, painted white and with floor-to-ceiling windows dotted symmetrically along each side, adorned with elegant red drapes. It looked quite empty - they were half an hour late, but clearly that wasn't 'fashionable' enough.
Kyle took a flute of champagne from a passing waiter and necked half of it in one swig. He moved to the back of the room while Eric began to mingle, stepping into the background and trying to blend in with the scenery. The valium was already kicking in, taking the edge off nicely. The hall began to fill up slowly, with more and more ass-kissing employees and partners, a sea of entitled girlfriends, uninterested boyfriends, brow-beaten husbands and resentful wives. No one looked particularly happy to be there, and so the flutes of champagne couldn't be carried out fast enough for the hoard of people, desperate for alcohol's fleeting respite.
Cartman was beckoning him over, so Kyle drained his glass, the liquid tingling his lips on its way down. After scanning the room for a glimpse of another waiter, or the glint of a silver tray laden with more of vials of the magic potion, he relented. He would have preferred a little more time for a second drink before the socialising had to start, but instead he just made a mental note to extract another couple of hundred dollars from Eric for the extra suffering.
He couldn't make out who he was being told to greet as he walked over, only seeing a tip of dark hair while the rest of the person was obscured by Eric, laughing raucously, no doubt at one of his own jokes. The ceiling above him creaked under the weight of a large chandelier, and Kyle hurried nervously out from under its sparkling gaze, moving to stand at Eric's side. He smiled grimly when he saw who was waiting for him.
"Evening, faggots."