Infidelity Chapter 1: Part I: Doubt, a south park fanfic

(Drama/Supernatural/Psycho-sexual)

Rated M for ideologically sensitive material, language, explicit sexual material, and disturbing imagery.

Infidelity, Part I: Doubt

Fade in from black.

An empty white stool sits in the corner of a room, underneath a window. The sky is grey outside. Cut to the same shot of the empty white stool, only with a young man sitting in it, tapping his foot, his hands laced together in between his knees. His face is cut off.

Fade out to black.

So let me tell you something, something I'm sure I've never told anyone. Every act of infidelity starts with doubt. How do I know that? I doubted him. And from doubt came poisonous thoughts. Lust, wrath, and greed—I was overwhelmed with these foreign sensations. It felt like an invasion, as if these black desires weren't entirely mine.

Then I discovered that this weakness, this doubt, let all the poison in. I had to wonder if other people went along the warpath of divorce, adultery, and infidelity starting with that little stepping stone.

It started three years ago, the summer when we were both eighteen.

I remember him standing in front of me in the silence of my room. Everyone had been out that day attending an awards ceremony at Ike's school. Eric took the opportunity to spend time with me, but once I shut the door, he clammed up.

I didn't speak either. I took a step away from my door, but that was it. I met his gaze, but I didn't say anything. We both knew what he wanted to say. So I just waited, like a complete idiot, because the alternative was for me to admit that I felt the same. For some reason—pride, probably—I really didn't want to be the first to say it. For all my academic awards, I was one stupid kid back then.

Before that day, I noticed the changes in Eric's attitude toward me. While he wasn't necessarily nicer, he was more protective, wouldn't allow anyone else to insult or hurt me. In the absence of the public eye, when it was just the two of us together, he would always lean against me subtly, and I didn't bother to say anything about it. The possible implications behind his actions worried me too much. So I just let it happen.

Before I knew it, I found myself wanting him, in a completely screwed up way. I knew somehow that he depended on me, ever since the day we resolved our never-ending antagonism.

So, I knew he needed me. I knew he wanted to be loved, that he needed a friend, but his entire childhood fucked that up for him. I felt his need in the way he sought me out, whether to pick a fight with me, or to teach me simple things like how to make soup. Yeah. I learned that from him. He taught me that one simple, stupid thing and it made me feel all sorts of warm and fuzzy.

I knew he needed me, and I liked being needed.

That was how it started, at least from my end. I don't actually know how long Eric's been in love with me. I never wanted to ask, probably because I just didn't want to know the answer. Thinking about it made me uncomfortable.

My feelings started with his need for me. At first, I liked knowing that I was important to him, that if he lost me, he would lose the one person who knew him best. Then I noticed the way he looked at me, how he would use any excuse to touch me, get close to me. Eric stared at my lips, flicked my nose, pinched my cheeks, and squeezed me around my waist with his hammy fingers. No one else noticed it, but I could tell when his cheeks would get oh so slightly pink when he touched me, when I touched him, or when he caught a whiff of my cologne.

I don't think he realized he was attracted to me. His advances were almost too forward. He didn't seem to realize how much could change if his feelings were more than platonic. But I definitely didn't help the matter.

After observing him and deducing a pattern, I would occasionally do the same things to him at random. Pinch his cheeks, pat his belly (he always hated that one—still does), flick his nose, and stare at his lips. I made sure he noticed. I would be rewarded with that subtle blush, and the usual, "Fucking Jew. You're so queer." He always stuttered it out, emphasizing the "fuck," as if it would help save face.

I did it to screw with him. At first, anyway. I liked teasing him. I liked seeing him blush and squirm and spit racist slurs at my face. I liked it because I knew I had the upper hand, and I certainly wasn't above using it against Eric.

My whole attitude changed, which I should have expected. It happened on one obscure day when we were hanging out at a diner. Sitting across from me at a small round table, Eric said something about me being the only one in "this hick town" he would actually consider coming back to after leaving it all behind.

I had to dick around with that one. So I said: "Cute. But thing is, I'd leave with you, and we can start a life together somewhere else, you know, two-point-five kids, white picket fence and everything."

I was surprised when I looked up at him and saw the genuine sincerity on his face. I completely missed his expression as he practically confessed his feelings for me. So after I made that completely inappropriate joke, Eric spent half a second believing me, and the moment after that all hell broke loose.

He must have realized that I was joking, realized that I saw him believe me, and his pride committed seppuku before my eyes.

Eric's face turned red with anger and hurt, and he slammed his fists down on the table as he shot out of his seat. He hissed horrible and vile words at my face, none of which I want to remember. He stormed angrily out of the diner, leaving me gaping and feeling like a monumental douche.

In that moment I realized that I didn't just like teasing him. I cared about him.

Like a rocket, I shot out of my chair, chucking a twenty at a nearby waiter. I ran out of there as fast as my basketball trained legs could carry me. I shot down the street like a freight train, spotting Eric's brown leather jacket two blocks away.

I caught up with him. Putting my hand on his shoulder, I spun him around, huffing and hastily trying to form an apology in my head. "Shit … dude. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that." I really could have done better.

Eric sneered down at me, but I could see past all the anger. The hurt was there, and he wasn't about to show me. So I layered it on really thick, but I found myself meaning every flowery fucking word.

"I'm sorry, Cartman. Please … just don't walk away. I'm really sorry. I shouldn't have said that. I won't make a joke like that again, dude. I … care about how you feel. So, believe me when I say that right now, I feel like the lowest piece of trash on the planet for hurting your feelings. I'm—shit. God, Cartman, I'm sorry, I am. Please believe me, because I don't want us to start fighting about something I said. That was really stupid and insincere, and you have every right to be pissed off at me. But … please forgive me."

I was instantly horrified by how whipped I sounded. Eric was, too, judging by how white his face had gone. I could recall thinking: "By God, if this doesn't get me in his good graces, then I don't care if I have to serenade him, get him fucking roses, or if I have to buy him a goddamn ring."

There was a chilling moment of silence, in which I'm sure my face had gone an ugly shade of red. Eric just stared at me, looking completely weirded out by the situation.

He snorted, brushing my hand off his shoulder. "Whatever, Jew. Let's just get out of here."

He'd forgiven me, but not entirely. We spent the afternoon playing Xbox at his place. While Eric completely kicked my ass in Tekken, I was busy thinking up ways to make it up to him. I honestly felt that shitty about what I said.

So the very next day, I showed up at his doorstep, my face on fire as I held a small bouquet of royal violet heliotrope. I regretted the entire thing the moment Eric opened the door and stared at me like I'd gone insane. I was sick to my stomach. The only thing that prevented me from blowing chunks was the nagging thought that Stan would never let me live it down.

I shoved the small bouquet in his hands, mumbling something about us being "even," and tried not to die of embarrassment as Eric invited me in with a smug grin on his face. I immediately stomped over to the kitchen and started pulling out random ingredients, refusing to look at Eric as he stood in the doorway, watching me. I really felt like having chicken noodle soup to calm my frazzled nerves.

Fifteen minutes later, as I was ladling my finished soup into a porcelain bowl, I caught sight of Eric in the reflection of the kitchen window, clasping the bouquet of heliotrope. He had the biggest, goofiest grin on his face. Suddenly, I didn't feel embarrassed. More like accomplished—in the way a guy feels accomplished after the girl of his dreams agrees to marry him.

And there's my dirty little secret: I'm the biggest romantic you'll ever meet. Like a default setting, whenever I'm infatuated or, well, in love, I get this impulse to make that special person feel like they're the most beautiful, most amazing human being in the world. I don't know where I get it from, but there you go.

From that day on, I somehow decided that I couldn't sit on my ass when I was fully aware of how we both felt. Monday I took Eric out to lunch, my treat. Tuesday, I made him dinner (I practiced the entire weekend, just to get that lemon chicken recipe right). Wednesday was spent at the movies. Thursday had me buying him Belgian chocolates. Friday, I spent the entire day in his company, going to every possible length to make him laugh, tease him, and be close to him. The following weeks reflected a similar pattern.

I was surprised when Eric didn't lord it over me, the fact that he had me completely at his beck and call. It wasn't that I adored him—well … I do, which is kind of screwed up. I just liked making him feel special and loved. I liked knowing that I was the only one in the world who could bring that rise of color in his cheeks.

I noticed that once I showed Eric genuine, unconditional affection, he toned down the asshole act. Whenever I made those conscious efforts to make him happy, Eric just sort of accepted it, like it was his due, smirking with a smug expression on his face, which would always result in me feeling like the sappiest goofball on the planet. But when he didn't see me looking, his expression would soften, and then I'd know I did good.

After spending an entire day with him, I realized the following night that I had a serious problem. It was completely retarded how it never occurred to me before, but given how occupied I was with Eric, I cut myself some slack. I remember asking myself: "Dude, Kyle, are you gay?"

Even now, I'm still not certain. But back then, I thought really long and hard about it. At one desperate point that night, I conjured up an image of Stan, since the girls were always going on about how hot he was. I honestly made a conscious, almost frantic effort to get turned on by him. Abs, toned biceps, smooth pale skin—I wanted to jump out a window. For fuck's sake, it was Stan.

I immediately felt uncomfortable and dirty, the farthest thing from turned on. I made a mental note to apologize to my super best friend cum brother.

I pondered for a few hours if I was gay. Was I attracted to other guys? No, not really. Throughout my life, my preference had mainly been cute, smart, shy girls, ones that were always dainty and did pretty things that made me sigh and grin. So that was out of the question. But I was definitely interested in Eric. Probably because he needed me, and I liked feeling needed, and when I put it that way, I know it doesn't sound too good. But, just trust me on this: what I feel for him is more than that.

For a few moments, I sat in my desk chair, rolling a basketball in between my palms. I let my thoughts settle, trying to find some sort of objective standpoint. Eric knew me best, even better than Stan I have to admit. He could be witty, despite how retarded he is. He was vulnerable, I realized. It wasn't obvious, but the way he always acted high and mighty, insulting anyone or anything that stood in his way—it made me think. I didn't ever want to hurt him. I wanted to show him that he didn't have to block out everyone.

But was that really attraction? Attraction was the bottom line. If he turned me on, that would seal the deal for me. And nothing would stand in my way if I wanted him.

That night would forever be imprinted in my memory.

I put down my basketball, ignoring it as it rolled across the carpet. I sat in my desk chair, contemplating the possible consequences of what I was about to do. After five minutes, I must have muttered "Screw it," and got up to walk over to my bed.

I glanced twice at my door to see if it was locked.

I settled myself on top of my covers. Memories of the afternoon before flooded my head, accompanied by a warm sensation that washed over me.

Eric's house. We both sat close together on the couch, playing Xbox, swearing and laughing like idiots. My elbow kept bumping into his arm, and neither of us complained. An hour later, Eric popped in a movie, and we proceeded to watch some shitty action flick with unintelligent dialogue. My arm was draped over Eric's thigh. His arm rested on the back of the couch, almost across my shoulders. His warmth was really distracting.

I felt my face heat up as I curled onto my side.

I thought of his hazel eyes, how they would get heavy lidded and dark when he thought I didn't notice him watching me. Eric's broad shoulders, his husky laugh, and his round figure—I thought of Eric's cinnamon-paprika scent, and caught myself wondering if he would taste like cinnamon. Sweet and spicy.

I shivered, feeling sensations of warmth pooling across my body. My hands started to wander.

God, his hair, where his cinnamon scent was most concentrated—I wanted to touch it. It looked shiny and soft. I thought of other places where he would have soft, smooth brown hair.

A delirious moan escaped my lips. My thoughts were getting cloudy and humid. I closed my eyes.

"God, Kyle. Fuck you—fuck you for making me feel this good."

I nearly lost it. I proved my point. I wanted him. I didn't stop. I kept going at it, stroking myself inside the confines of my sweatpants. Moisture was beading on my forehead, upper lip, and on my chest.

For an hour, I lay on my bed, hot and sweaty, face rosy as I let my thoughts run wild. It was completely out of my control, subconsciously involuntary. Visions of Eric had my fingers delving into a place I'd never touched before. The sensation combined with my sinful imaginings was enough to drive me over the edge.

After riding out the most powerful orgasm of my eighteen-year-old life, I caught my breath and stared up at my ceiling. For a few moments, I let my thoughts calm and evaporate into nothing as I basked in the warm, sunny afterglow of orgasm. Then I got up, cleaned myself off, and made my way to the bathroom to wash my hands.

The fact that I took it so calmly was probably a hint at some sort of subconscious crisis. But I put that niggling feeling on the backburner as I made my way to my room. The house was dark and quiet. Everybody was probably asleep.

I got back into bed after shutting my door. Pulling out my phone, I punched in Eric's number on impulse.

"Kyle, what the fuck?" He didn't sound happy. It must have been pretty late. "There better be a damn good reason why you're calling at one in the fucking morning."

Instead of blurting out something blasé, like "As if you're ever asleep early enough, fat ass," I let Eric's voice ring in my ears for a few more moments before saying: "I just wanted to hear your voice."

There was a moment of silence. I was pretty sure Eric's face took on five different shades of red in that moment. Then he spluttered into the phone, "W-What the hell, Kyle?"

His voice was uneven. He was embarrassed and probably really tense. I kept plowing on anyway, images of my recent fantasy flooding my head. I cleared my throat before asking him, "Do you think we can hang out tomorrow?"

Instead of giving me a clear answer, Eric's tone became solemn. "Kyle, what the hell is going on? And before you pull something out of your ass, don't think for one goddamn moment that I haven't noticed how weird you've been acting."

I rolled my eyes. Clearly, Eric was in denial. I remember feeling disappointed, but conceded to the fact that maybe he just wasn't ready yet. Whatever, I told myself, I could wait.

"Fine, Cartman. I have been acting weird, and maybe I'll explain to you some time. We don't have to hang out tomorrow. You can go back to—"

"Fucking hold on, Kyle."

His words came out in one breathy rush. I waited, staring up at my ceiling. He was silent for about three seconds, and then breathed a sigh into the phone.

"Are you busy tomorrow?"

I allowed myself a small smile. "Nah. My family's going to this awards thing at Ike's school, and I already told them I would stay behind."

"I'll come over."

"Cool. See you then."

The next afternoon found us in my room, with Eric standing in the middle, looking lost and desperate. I stood by the door, facing him, equally speechless for different reasons.

Like I said, I didn't want to tell him that I liked him because it would probably kill my pride. Sure, I could take him out to dinner, buy him flowers for God's sake, but in the end, this was still Eric Cartman, the only person to ever challenge me. Somehow, admitting the feelings first seemed like the ultimate defeat in our rivalry cum attraction, and in every other aspect I would be willing to lose except in that.

Eric struggled with his words, not meeting my gaze. I could tell that he wanted to say something important, give me words that we both needed to hear. I knew what he wanted to say, but I just stood there, arms crossed, waiting for him to spit it out. I didn't push him.

Finally, Eric met my gaze, his hazel eyes frantic. He felt trapped.

The realization of his true fears rocked the very core of my being. He was scared. He was scared that I wouldn't return his feelings. That fear hurt him.

I suddenly felt angry.

Before I could even think of a more reasonable course of action, I stomped over to him.

I stood in front of Eric, allowing for an inch of space in between our bodies. The fear and uncertainty was still in his shaky gaze. He was probably two inches taller, but the way he looked into my eyes would have led me to believe otherwise. I hated seeing how scared he was. I knew he wanted to hurt me. His hands were balled into fists at his sides. The risk of approaching him when he felt that frustrated and angry was one I took.

I opened my mouth.

Before I could say anything, his fist connected with my jaw. I found myself knocked onto the floor, completely winded by the impact of the blow.

"SHIT."

I was aware of roaring that expletive, aware of the horrified look that Eric gave me.
He bolted, almost tripping over himself to get to my door. Adrenaline and rage pumping through my veins, I pushed off my carpet and tore after him.

As he wrenched my door open, I gave it an almighty kick, watching it slam shut with a deafening crack. Eric spun around, panicked. I slammed both my palms on the door on either side of his body, trapping him.

Cold wrath and unimaginable pain roared in between my ears, and I almost started to hit him. The only thing that stopped me was the angry, desperate expression on Eric's face as he hissed in a low whisper: "Let go of me, Kyle. Don't fucking jerk me around anymore."

I let out a disbelieving breath. "Jerking you—what? What the hell's that supposed to mean, Cartman? Whatever gave you the impression that I playing with you?"

Eric growled at me, grasping my sweater in his fists, pulling me forward, bringing my face an inch away from his. "What—am I supposed to believe that you actually have feelings for me? Well, fuck you, Kyle. I won't let you fuck me over."

"I'm not going to hurt you." I sounded desperate and helpless. I hated how he wouldn't trust me. It physically hurt me—gave me a feeling of a bullet through my chest—to hear him say those words.

Scoffing, Eric pushed me away. "Fuck off, Jew. I'm done with your Jew games, and I'm done with you—"

Closing my eyes, I grabbed Eric and kissed him.

Eric froze in my arms as I gently worked my lips against his. I poured every feeling of adoration and sincerity into that kiss, hoping to God that he would understand just how wrong he was about me. I pulled back, eyes still closed, nuzzling my nose against his cheeks, and the corners of his lips. I planted a brief, lingering kiss against his mouth as I opened my eyes.

His hazel eyes met mine, and I was relieved to find him confused instead of irritated or upset.

"Kyle ..? The fuck, Jew?" His voice was barely a whisper.

"The fuck is this, Cartman: I like making you laugh, I like making you feel special, but most of all I want to show you that there are people in this world who will never let you down, never hurt you, and never ever leave you."

I spoke the words like a promise, the way they were meant to be spoken. The intensity of my tone and my gaze affected Eric visibly. His eyes widened as he stared down me, pressed up against him like that. He was completely still for a moment.

"I love you, Kyle." He blurted it out like it was one word. It was clumsy and awkward, but I couldn't bring myself to care. With the desperate way he whispered it to me, his eyes wide and frenzied, I could tell that he loved me for a very long time.

I showered his face with gentle kisses as he murmured over and over again, "I love you. I love you. I love you. God, Kyle, I fucking love you." He gripped me by my hips, spun me around until I had my back to my door, and kissed me, pressing our bodies together.

That summer, the summer after our first year of post-secondary, I fell in love with him. I didn't want to say it just yet, but what the hell, right? I took my sweet time confessing meaningful I love yous to Eric one August evening as I took him rowing over at the pond. I personally hauled Kenny and Stan out of their homes to help me deck out the area with golden Christmas lights and paper lanterns. When Stan asked me who the lucky girl was, I shrugged and said, "We're lying low for now. At least, until we're sure we have a steady thing going."

Kenny just snorted, said something along the lines of, "Kyle, just get laid already," and then followed up whatever comment he made with: "Whoever this girl is, she better be worth it."

Our "friendship" started when we were thirteen.

One day, we were arguing. It was more awful than usual. I can't even remember how it started, just that it wouldn't end. I can't remember who said what, but I couldn't take it anymore.

I punched him, right in the middle of his fat face.

Instead of flinching away and crying as usual, Eric took on a look of complete shock for two seconds. Next thing I knew, my back slammed into his kitchen wall and he started to whale on me, his fists pummeling into my stomach, my shoulder, my chest, everywhere. I fought back violently, feeling the need to put him six feet under.

I honestly don't know how long it went on, us two punching and kicking the living daylights out of each other. Eric took the worst of it; his lip was split, his eye swollen, and it looked like his fat couldn't save him from bruising like a peach.

I didn't exactly get off unscathed. He managed to land a rather impressive right hook to my ear, and for a few minutes my head wouldn't stop ringing. My entire body hurt.

The fighting stopped when I grabbed him by the shoulders and bodily shoved him up against the kitchen counter.

Bitterness rolled around my lungs, crashing violently into my throat like a wave on the rocks. I choked. I fought that sensation like I was at war with it. In the span of half a second, I lost.

I started to cry. Yeah, just like that, out of nowhere. Like a little girl, I sobbed angrily, trying to suck back crying noises with harsh breaths.

My fingers dug into Eric's arms, and I wouldn't let go. I cried into his shoulder, and he stood there and took it. He was eerily silent.

Five seconds into it, I realized I was having an emotional breakdown. I guess you could say I was a little slow on these things. I could tell it had been a long time coming. The insults, the useless arguments, the constant need to goad each other on—it all came crashing down on me in one momentous second. And I stood there and cried angrily into the shoulder of Eric Cartman, the source of all my misery.

Stan and Kenny stood several feet away, scared into silence. I never cried in front of them before that moment. I guess no one spoke or moved because my angry tears and harsh breaths were just too much to handle.

When my dignity couldn't take it anymore, I pushed off of Eric and stood in front of him, not making eye contact. I scrubbed at my eyes, willing the cold wetness of my tears to go away. I could tell Eric was looking at me, but I didn't want to meet his gaze.

"I'm sick and tired of this." His voice was flat, deep, and full of contempt. "I'm tired of you, Kyle. I'm tired of feeling like shit." He reached up to wipe blood off his chin and grimaced at the bright redness staining the back of his hand.

That wasn't how things usually went down between us. I'd beat his sorry ass, he'd cry home to mommy, and then I'd tell him how sick and tired I was of all his crap. It was never the other way around.

I glared down at the cheap linoleum of his kitchen floor, my lips curled into an ugly sneer. "Well, that's nice, Cartman. Good for you." I felt more hot tears coming, and I squeezed my eyes shut harshly. My voice was raspy and furious as I kept vomiting bitter words. "Why don't you just leave then? Leave me the fuck alone. I'm just as tired of you as you are of me. So just go."

He was completely silent.

For the next few minutes, the only noise we could hear was the sound of my uneven, erratic breaths. I refused to look at anyone. I can remember staring at the cheap, plastic floor because I was too ashamed and angry to look at anyone.

"I'm sorry."

I could tell it killed him to say it. The apology came out shaky, almost wooden, but the sincerity was tangible—it almost frightened me. I knew Eric well enough to tell when he was lying and when he was being honest. My crying must have affected him badly enough, because all he did was stand there and look at me like he'd broken an expensive vase.

I didn't say anything. I pushed past him and walked out of the house.

The next day, I found Kenny standing outside on my doorstep, looking like he'd rather be somewhere else.

Frowning, I opened my front door and felt a tinge of annoyance when he looked up at me with fear in his eyes. "Was my crying really that awful?" I remember wondering.

"Hey, Kyle." His voice sounded so infuriatingly cautious and careful.

I crossed my arms and stepped aside to let him in. "Hey, dude. What's up?"

Kenny shrugged, walking in. I shut the door and turned to look at him. He still had that annoying, vigilant expression on his face, as if saying or doing anything would reduce me to a blubbering mass of angry tears. I resisted the almighty urge to snap at him.

"Kenny," I began silently, aware that my voice must have been more frightening quiet than it was when I shouted. "Did that fat bastard send you over here?"

The slight widening of Kenny's grey-blue eyes was all the answer that I needed.

I felt my blood boil over in a heartbeat. I was out my door and down the street before Kenny even realized where I was heading. My boots annihilated the dirty snow beneath my feet as I ran and kept running, my rage fueling a dark desire within me. Now that I think about it, I spent a lot of time in my youth running after Eric.

I didn't bother to knock. I just came crashing into the Cartman household, my eyes searching rapidly for him. Blood was pounding in my ears as I stomped through the living room, screaming at the top of my lungs: "CARTMAN, GET YOUR FAT ASS OUT HERE, NOW."

The commotion I caused downstairs must have drawn Eric out of his room. He appeared just as I started screaming, coming up from behind me.

"What the hell is your problem, Kyle—"

I whipped around, snarling at him. "My problem is that you're too much of a coward, so you send Kenny, of all people, to my fucking house to apologize for you."

My blood quickly hissed, bubbling green with poison as Eric crossed his arms and rolled his eyes like a petulant child. "Well, Jew-bitch, I figured that if I sent Butters, you'd beat the shit out of the guy, and then where would we be—"

"Stop dicking around," I snapped, my fists impossibly tight. "I'm here now. You're standing in front of me. Fucking APOLOGIZE."

"Wha—Like hell. I'm not the one who started it yesterday!"

"For fuck's sake—you start it ALL the time with your racist, bigoted, retarded MOUTH."

Eric didn't appreciate that. He narrowed his eyes at me. "Kyle, why don't you go buy a dildo and fuck off. Seriously, I'm tired of all your bitching. If thirteen years with me hasn't taught you this much, then why the hell do you still hang around me?"

His words made something inside me stop dead. The rage was still coursing through my veins, but it became cold and muted the moment Eric asked me that question.

I scowled deeply at him, taking the evasive maneuver. "What are you talking about, fatass?"

His hazel eyes contained an abstract sentiment, morphed into something I couldn't completely understand—anger, frustration … pain. I could tell that Eric was hurting, but I didn't know why. I wanted to know why.

"Fuck you, Jew," he hissed, advancing towards me, using his height to cow me into submission. "I practically spit on your heritage every goddamn day. There isn't a moment when I let you live down the fact that you're you. I make you feel like shit. I kick you around. I have no fucking respect for you—at all."

He stopped, something at the back of his throat choking his words. He tried to keep going anyway. I noticed that his eyes weren't really meeting mine. His gaze drifted somewhere in between my nose and cheeks.

"For God's sake, Kyle. Why are you still here?"

I was silent for the longest time, trying with all my might to understand why Eric looked so sad and angry, standing right in front of me with his voice shaking, his knuckles white and taut. His lips were drawn into a thin line. For the life of me, I couldn't figure it out back then. I mean, how could I?

I swallowed, staring at him. I was a little shaken, but a lingering vestige of my anger kept my mouth working. "Are you saying … you've been trying harder to get me to hate you?"

"What I'm saying," Eric gritted out, "is that I'm trying to get rid of you."

The sadness in his eyes told me otherwise.

I frowned. "But we're friends."

That actually made him laugh, and I could detect a hint of emotion in his chuckle, emotion trapped in between amused and cynical. "Bullshit, Jew. Priceless fucking bullshit. Where'd you pull that from—your little bag of Jew gold?"

That got a rise out of me. I jabbed a finger into his chest, snarling. "Watch your mouth."

Eric's lips curled down into an ugly sneer. "Make me."

I could have taken that invitation in true Kyle-brand fashion: kick Eric's ass into all sorts of bent out shapes then bodily haul him into the bathroom so that I could shove his face down a toilet. But I didn't. Even I could sense that something was different about Eric. He just wasn't fighting me like he should have. He seemed drained and exhausted, and it bothered the hell out of my thirteen-year-old self. So instead I asked in a quiet, even voice: "Why are you trying to get rid of me?"

"Don't I always try to get rid of you?"

I could spot an evasion like I could react to his bullshit: Instantaneously.

"Never like this, no. Never half-assed, Cartman."

I could tell he found it a little funny, in the way he immediately bowed his head to stare at his shuffling feet. Then he grunted, crossing his arms, still refusing to look at me.

"I hate you, Kyle."

"And you're an eloquent son of a bitch."

"Using big words only makes you sound like a fag."

"And evading my question will only succeed in me pushing you."

"Just try it, Jew. The only reason I didn't kick your ass yesterday was because you started crying like a little girl."

It took the patience of a thousand Catholic saints to prevent me from grabbing his throat, shaking until I was sure Eric Cartman would tell no one and nothing about my pathetic incident. Right now, I can't figure out how the hell I managed not to kill him, but I can recall being rooted to the spot by the force I called a conscience.

Eric could tell that his jab affected me, more than he intended. It unnerved me to no end that instead of using it for leverage, he stood there like an idiot, looking guilty and bothered. I could see it in the way his lips pressed tightly together, as if to prevent an onslaught of words that would hurt me even more.

I scoffed, pride stinging. "What? Got nothing more to dish out, Cartman? Well, guess what? I don't want your pity. I'm not weak, and I sure as hell don't need sympathy from someone who so sorely lacks it. God knows you barely have an ounce of the stuff, so save that guilty look for children in Africa, or typhoon victims, someone who actually needs it—whatever. Because I'll keep fighting you, even if it kills me, because I know that I'm right, and you're wrong."

"Wrong about what?" Eric's voice had gone low, dangerously so. "Wrong about everything? As if being right means anything, Kyle. Being right means jack all. Where has that ever gotten you?"

"Farther than you'll go, that's for sure."

"Yeah, into fucking Narnia, where it's all sunshine and rainbows—a world full of love and happiness. Go ahead, set yourself up for disappointment."

I let out an aggravated breath through my nose and pulled on the flaps of my ushanka. "Would you listen to yourself? This self-deprecating, angsty crap isn't like you. Where the hell is all this coming from?" Throwing my hands up into the air, I adopted his recently acquired habit of not making eye contact. I knew why I didn't want to, but my brain was too scared to manifest those reasons into thoughts.

"Is that what this is about? Disappointment?" I glared down at my snow soaked boots. "I don't understand you."

"Then fucking LEAVE."

He raised his voice at me in a way that made the hairs at the back of my neck prickle. A cold rivulet of fear slivered down my spine, and in that moment I experienced a phenomenon of dread so profound that my eyes were forced to meet Eric's like a deer in headlights.

If that cold sensation wasn't enough to off my frenzied heart, then the tears in Eric's eyes jolted me into a reality I didn't know existed. My mind was wiped clean of any thoughts I might have had, and the only thing I can remember feeling was an irrational pressure at the back of my skull that urged me to run away and actually listen to Eric for once: Leave, and leave for good.

"You know what the worst thing about you is, Kyle?" Eric began, his voice a raspy, broken whisper, and I couldn't bear to hear it. It was so far removed from what I knew that I didn't want to accept the fact that maybe, or certainly, Eric was giving up the fight.

"The worst thing about you is that you have this little rose-tinted bubble around you—yeah, like a friggin' hamster ball, you roll along in that godawful thing. You don't just have rose-tinted glasses; you're encased in this notion that everything and everyone has … an ultimate good." Eric spat out that phrase like it was laced with anthrax. "Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you, Jew, but I'm a motherfucking douche bag, born and bred. No amount of your preaching, your fighting, or your friendship will ever change that."

God, he sounded so bitter. And the one thing that made it all hurt so much more was the fact that he unearthed me so easily. He came to the conclusion that I never wanted to reach, and maybe just for that, I resented him anew.

"So what if I want to try anyway …" I muttered, staring blankly at him. "So what if I'm naïve enough to do it?"

"So what is this, Kyle: I'm never going to change."

"How do you know that?"

"Because, for fuck's sake, you're quite possibly the only person on this friggin' earth that's ever actually made an effort, and a whole lot of good that's brought us."

I hated the fact that he made more sense than me in that moment. I kept pushing second chances, he kept fucking me over. Eric had a point. Why should I keep trying? He obviously didn't appreciate it.

My ridiculous, irrational impulse to stick with him really was centered on that one thought: He deserves a chance to change. Everyone does.

It made absolutely no sense, but I guess he was right about that hamster ball.

"I don't care how far you push me away, fat ass," I hissed through gritted teeth, staring directly into his eyes with foolish determination. "As long as I'm me and you're you,—" God, that sounded stupid, "—I will never stop giving you second chances, because despite the fact that you're an awful person, I know that you can never truly hurt me. You know why that is? Because with each and every effort you make, I'm going to know that there's that one small inch of you that isn't putting all of your heart into making me hate you. You'll never hurt me, Cartman, because we both know that we're a little too numb for that at this point."

I finished speaking, my voice strong, unwavering. We were silent as we stared at each other. He seemed to contemplate my words, but with his silence defied me and stuck by his notion of leaving it all behind, whatever it was that we had. Little did we both know that five years later we'd be doing that same song and dance, same bitterness in our words, him wanting to block me out, while I insisted on being let in.

We were both exhausted by each other at that point. We'd come to a pivotal moment where the integrity of your connection was being put to the test by a simple "Screw this, why bother?"

It was a miracle I stood my ground. Eric looked like he was prepared to walk out of my life.
But something happened. I don't want to take a chance and name it, but I guess I can describe it: the defiant expression in Eric's eyes changed, softening with an inaudible sigh, and I could see the warmth in his hazel irises. In a way, it was like he finally opened up to me—enough for me to extend my hand, reach past his rusting walls, and grasp his palm in mine. I guess what I'm trying to say is this:

In that moment, I told him, in the simplest possible way, that he wasn't alone.

One August evening, when we were both eighteen—I think I said this already—I took Eric rowing out in the old pond.

Once I was sure that Stan and Kenny weren't hiding in the bushes somewhere, I led Eric out of my car, blindfolded, ignoring him as he cursed me for my Jewish tendencies (yeah, even now he's still capable of being an immature dickhead) and led him over to a small white boat. I convinced him to step into it, which was no small feat, and once I rowed us perfectly into the center of the water, I told him to take off the blindfold.

All Eric's paranoid prattling was silenced as the overwhelming sight greeted him.

Golden strings of light hung from across the trees, forming a makeshift canopy of twinkling stars above us. Paper lanterns glowed warm orange, floating across the still surface of the water, mimicking the reflected radiance of the moon. Only the sound of crickets could be heard as I watched him look around.

I leaned back in my seat, watching as Eric's face adopted several expressions, one after the other. The light warmed up his skin, made it glow gold, and his hair looked darker and softer in the gentle radiance. I refused to acknowledge the swelling in my chest, because it wasn't about me. I wanted it to be about him.

From the awed, disbelieving glimmer in his eyes, I knew that no one else had ever done something like that for him. It made me feel angry, knowing that if someone had at least made the effort to love Eric like I did, he wouldn't have felt the need to destroy everything he touched.

For the longest time, no words came from his mouth. He didn't look at me. I waited patiently.
Then he drew in a deep, shaky breath. Hunching over, he held his face in his hands. I almost lost his whisper to the warm summer breeze. "Why the hell do you have to try so fucking hard all the time, Jew?"

I swallowed past the lump in my throat, staring at the top of his silky brown head. "Is it wrong that I try, Cartman? Because this is my decision—I do it because I want to. If you're uncomfortable about it, just tell me to stop, and I will."

There was a pause in which I watched him avoid my gaze. He then chanced a glance at me, his eyes conveying a self-conscious sense of uncertainty.

"Why, Kyle?"

"Because I love you."

He was about to contradict me. I saw it in the way he tensed his shoulders, but I didn't want him to spend another moment doubting what we had.

"This whole sappy thing I did for you tonight? I wanted to do it because I love you, not to prove to you that I love you. I'll do that some other way." I hesitated for a moment, then reached out and held his hand. He looked up at me, scowling. I didn't let it discourage me. "Remember what I said a few weeks ago? That I wanted to prove to you that there are some people in this world who will never leave you? Yeah, well … I love you. So I won't leave you."

Eric's frown deepened, and I felt exasperated because of it. "You can't promise me that. You don't want to turn out a liar, do you, Kyle?" He said it in such a condescending, cynical way; I had a hard time deciding whether it broke my heart or my patience.

I frowned, letting go of my hold on him. Running my hands through my hair, I sighed. Leaning back against the stern of the small white boat, I looked up at the Christmas lights strewn ten feet above the pond. I could tell Eric was thinking. We both knew that I sure as hell wasn't going to kiss his ass, begging that he believe my promise.

I heard him grunt. In my peripheral vision, I could see him cross his arms stubbornly across his chest. I knew he was about to surrender, and I couldn't resist a smug grin.

"I'll believe you when a year's passed and we haven't killed each other," he grumbled, refusing to look at me as I saw that familiar rise of color in his cheeks.

I could feel my own cheeks warm up as I smiled outright. "We've lived through eighteen years together, with five years of ceasefire until this day. I think that's a pretty good sign."

Eric muttered something about me being a smartass, know-it-all little shit, something completely unrelated to the situation, and pulled me towards him by my sweater. His soft, moist lips met mine. He was still really awkward at kissing, his eyes squeezed shut, his mouth entirely too stiff, but I smiled anyway and kissed him back, coaxing Eric into a state of relaxation.

We spent the entire evening lying on opposite ends of that small white boat, looking up at the lights and stars, talking and laughing about irrelevant, unimportant things. He held my hand the entire time. I told him I loved him. He told me he loved me.

"I love you, Eric."

"I love you, too, you dumb Jew."

I wanted to tell him "forever". I decided to wait. I wouldn't just tell him, I'd prove it. That always kept running through my mind.

Everything that could possibly be said about summer romances has been said. I won't repeat any of that sappy, faggy, warm-and-fuzzy drivel, even if some of it is true.

Eric and I talked it over, and a week before our second year of post-secondary (I went to Colorado University, and Eric attended the Metropolitan State College), we picked out a small, one-bedroom apartment in Denver, where the street outside was always noisy, and the neighbors weren't exactly friendly.

No one questioned it; everyone knew at that point that the two of us could be left in a room alone together without killing each other. So living underneath the same roof wasn't a step too far.

It wasn't an issue for us, and we didn't make a big deal out of it.

Our new home had off-white walls, fading green carpets, and an air conditioner that refused to work. Rent was reasonable, and I managed to get a job at an obscure art store that always smelled of cinnamon sticks. Within a month, Eric and I established a domestic routine of sorts: we'd take turns doing the laundry every week; I'd always pick up the mail on my way up from work; Eric would deal with the drunken landlord when the rent was due; I vacuumed, so he cooked the meals; and always, without fail, we both dedicated our Friday nights sitting on our second-hand couch, watching a movie or playing video games.

Our furniture was a mish-mash of stuff from home: Eric's double bed, my book case, his wardrobe, my computer, his desk, the couch from his basement, the coffee table sitting in my garage, and a mismatched set of dining chairs from both of our houses, along with a rectangular dining table. The only thing we would not compromise on was the flat screen, 59", HD TV. It was the only aspect of our humble home that was new, sleek, and absolutely sacred. We spent the following year paying our baby off, but it was well worth the money, considering how much time we spent on the couch, indulging ourselves with slices of HD heaven.

The way we treated that thing, you'd think it was our child.

Our first fight happened when Eric announced, oh so highly and mightily, that he was sick and tired of my mother calling every evening to check up on me.

He began with a small, facetious comment as I ended a routine phone conversation with my mom one evening. "Oh, Kylie dear, have you brushed your teeth? Flossed in between meals? Do you make sure to wash your hands after you've been outside? Oh, and do make sure to use condoms when you have naughty gay sex with your boyfriend." His tone was high pitched and, quite frankly, a little creepy.

I frowned at Eric as I pocketed my cell phone. "My mom would have told me so, except for two things: we're not really having naughty gay sex—but God knows if I had my way, we would have by now. And she doesn't even know about us."

I don't know which got to him more: the fact that we weren't having sex, or the troubling burden of keeping our relationship a secret from everyone back at home. The first problem was entirely his fault; I tried to sneak up on him in the shower once, and I never tried initiating sex after that. The entire fiasco ended up with me falling on my naked ass outside the bathroom door, Eric muttering dark obscenities from within the shower. I guess he felt self-conscious, but that was really no reason to knee me in the stomach and throw me out the door.

From then on, we both knew that sex was going to be a problem. I guess I should have expected it, given how he must have viewed sex growing up. I don't want to blame Eric's mother, but ignoring the fact that she was responsible for Eric's sensitivity would have been turning a blind eye.

We were both okay with making out. I'd usually let him take the wheel, and I spent many Sunday afternoons lying on the couch underneath Eric, groaning as he touched and kissed me roughly.

Second base was as far as we got within three months of living together. By the end of November, I was starting to get frustrated. I didn't want to push him, so I turned towards vacuuming the carpet whenever I felt the urge to jump Eric. The fact that our apartment was dust free and always smelled of lemon and lavender was a testament to the fact that I wasn't about to get some any time soon.

It was during that particular November when Eric started our first fight by making that comment about my mother, condoms, and naughty gay sex. I would have let it go, as per usual when I didn't feel like fighting about something so juvenile, but certain parts of me were rebelling from neglect.

I argued with Eric for the first time within months. We had petty disagreements every day, but none of it escalated to screaming and hitting.

"My mom would have told me so, except for two things: we're not really having naughty gay sex—but God knows if I had my way, we would have by now. And she doesn't even know about us."

"Well, whatever, Kyle. That wasn't my point."

"Then what the hell is your point?"

"My point is that your mom has to realize one of these days that you're a grown man. You're not helping the matter by letting the bitch hover over you from miles away. Fuck's sake, stand up for yourself."

"Do NOT talk about my mom that way, Cartman. She's just not used to me being so far away, so just fuck off about it."

"You're just mad because I'm right."

"Of course you are. That's why I'm walking out that door before I punch the 'right' out of your face."

So there was no screaming or hitting, just me walking out on Eric. I don't want to admit that it was quite possibly the most childish thing I'd ever done, and I also couldn't admit to myself that Eric had a point about my mother. I did let her hover over me, even when I was living miles away from home, supposedly as an independent citizen. Of course I could admit that he was right, but not when it put my pride at risk. Tack on the significant lack of sex in my life, and I was out of the apartment building within five seconds, zooming down the street in my car.

My mother's constant nagging, stress from university life, and Eric's inability to put out stretched my temper taut, like a metal wire that if snapped could cut right into flesh.

Driving always calmed my nerves, especially when I cruised through residential streets, where traffic was minimal, and the silence deafening. I was on the road for probably ten minutes, before I fully realized that I was acting like a jerk.

I pulled a miraculous U-turn, and sped back home. The urge to get something to placate Eric's anger almost had me pulling over at a store, but no places were open that late, which probably worked out for the best.

After parking the car, I ran up the apartment stairs, two steps at a time, until I reached the third floor, coming to a halt in front of apartment 3C. Wrenching the door open, I ran my hand through my hair, searching for Eric with guilty eyes.

He was sitting on the couch watching TV, his back towards me, unaware of the fact that I'd come home penitent and chastised.

I cautiously made my way over to the back of the couch, slowly sliding my hands onto his shoulders. He tensed, jumping slightly. Eric glared up at me.

"So the prodigal Jew is back. Well, well, well."

I ignored his sarcasm. I ignored the fact that his use of "prodigal" was grammatically incorrect—literally had to bite my tongue to stop myself from correcting him. "Dude, you were right, okay? I'm sorry."

"You're sleeping on the couch."

"Wh—Cartman, geez, I said I was sorry."

"Well, fuck you, Jew. If every time we have a problem, you're just going to walk out like that, then please do us both a favor and screw off, Kyle. I'm really not impressed."

I saw what he was getting at and squeezed my eyes shut, feeling even more like a jerk, before sighing through my nose. I looked down at him, eyes impassioned. "Don't say that, Eric. I just needed a few minutes to cool off, alright? I told you, I'm never leaving." I made my way to the front of the couch, kneeling in front of him. I placed my hands together on his thigh and rested my chin on his knee. I found that when I knelt in front of Eric, staying physically lower than him made him feel more inclined to forgiving me.

"I'm sorry if I made you worry. I just got really mad when you said that stuff about my mom …" I paused, pursing my lips together, "… even if you were right." I resisted the urge to scowl, and tried my utmost best to look contrite.

Eric crossed his arms and looked down at me. He had a smug expression in his eyes, but his face remained neutral as he murmured, "Say it again, Kyle."

Again, I had to bite my tongue to hold back a sour "Like hell." I swallowed, meeting his gaze. "You were right, Cartman."

"No."

I sighed. "You were right, Eric, and I'm sorry for walking out on you like that."

For a moment, he was silent, letting it all sink in as I waited anxiously for him to give me the "okay." Instead of a self-righteous smirk of Cartman-brand arrogance, Eric leaned down and tilted my chin up, planting a soft, chaste kiss on my lips. A few seconds before I closed my eyes and leaned into his touch, I caught sight of a pleased, almost relieved expression in Eric's eyes.

He was scared that I would leave him.

He pulled me forward to lie on the couch. I whispered the promise I told myself I'd hold back. As he showered my neck with lingering kisses, I grasped his soft hair, letting it slide in between my fingers as I sighed, "Forever, Eric. I'll stay with you forever."

"Are you sure ..?"

"Jesus, Kyle, just shut up."

"No, I won't."

My hot breath ghosted against his cheek, and I could feel the humidity of his sigh against my skin. My lips twitched as his warm tongue grazed the corner of my mouth.

"Eric, I couldn't live with myself if—"

"Kyle, I told you, it's fine. Now stop ruining the fucking mood."

"Eric?"

"Christ … What?"

"I love you."

His pink face hovered above mine, his arms poised on either side of me on the bed. He grunted, nuzzling his nose against my own, an affectionate habit he so rarely showed. His hazel eyes were glassy and vibrant with need.

"I love you, too, Kyle."

December 25th. I will never forget that night. Merry Christmas indeed, Kyle.

Black out.

Fade in from black. An empty white stool sits, underneath a window, in the corner of a white room. The sky is grey outside.

Cut to a shot of leather boots walking toward the stool. Cut to a shot of a young man's torso as he sits down in the stool. His face is not shown.

Fade out to black.

Kyle steps into the apartment, hands numb and angry from the bitter cold, his nose runny. Chucking his keys and the mail into a wooden bowl by the door, he kicks off his snow soaked boots as he makes his way into the brightly lit kitchen.

Unzipping his heavy jacket, Kyle observes Eric from behind, taking note of the smell of chicken and pasta. Eric stands in front of the stove, scraping food onto two white porcelain plates. Draping his burgundy jacket across a dining chair—one of the four mismatched chairs around the table—Kyle sits down at his usual spot.

"That smells nice," he murmurs, stifling a yawn.

Eric turns around, glancing over his shoulder at Kyle. "Welcome home."

Their words sound sleepy, tired, and listless. Kyle doesn't seem to think much about it, just sits in his chair and rubs his eyes in exhaustion. Eric, upon turning away from Kyle, frowns and stares solemnly at the meal he's prepared. He's arranged the pasta and chicken on two separate plates, carefully bringing it to the table. He sets them down, one in front of Kyle, and the other he brings to his own spot.

They don't pray.

Kyle picks up a fork that's been set down for him, mutters a quiet "Thank you," with a nondescript smile, and begins to eat. He appears grateful for the warm food after spending some time out in the winter cold.

Eric observes Kyle for a few moments, before turning to frown at his food.

The rest of the evening passes by without further conversation. Kyle washes the dishes as Eric cleans up in the kitchen. The two bump shoulders but remain silent.

Kyle then makes his way into the living room, opening his book bag. He starts up on a reading assignment, simultaneously scribbling vigorously at a Physics worksheet. He doesn't look up as Eric makes his way into their lone bedroom.

Three hours later, Kyle shuffles quietly into the dark bedroom. He takes care not to make too much noise as he strips himself of his jeans and t-shirt to change into a pair of cotton shorts. Climbing into bed quietly, Kyle starts as Eric wraps an arm around his waist and pulls him close.

Grunting, Kyle rolls over, muttering, "I'm tired, Cartman. It's late."

Eric remains silent. He eventually shifts away from Kyle.

They sleep with their backs to each other.

Fade in from black.

Fade to black.

After three years, I really don't know what went wrong.

I love him. God. I love him so much. I don't know what made me want to move away every time Eric touched me, but I started to recognize the doubts as they crept up on me.

"What if we don't stay together?"

"What if I'm not what he really wants?"

"What if we're not supposed to be together?"

I buried myself in my work. I didn't want to think about it. But soon, the doubts boiled over, and the poison seeped into my mind.

I love Eric. I do. I just had a moment of weakness.