Being sick was getting severely tiring, Kyle decided. It was like a lame joke that kept getting repeated over and over, and his body had probably the worst white blood cells in existence. He had lost count of the amount of colds he had sneezed through and coughs he had hacked out, and he couldn't put a pen to the amount of times the school had stopped believing his claims of being sick, because, really, who got sick that often? Kyle did, apparently, and it absolutely fucking sucked.

"This blows," he declared after, ironically, blowing his nose and discarding the hundredth tissue into the brimming waste-paper basket that had been conveniently placed beside his bed.

"Oh, Bubbe," his mother sighed sadly as she sat at his bedside, apparently at a lack of anything else to do; either that or showing far too much concern for her son, considering he always got sick and she should have been used to it by then. "You'll get better soon. There's probably a bug going around."

"No, my body just sucks," Kyle said disdainfully.

His mother opened her mouth to retort, probably to make some motherly rebuke that his body didn't suck because it was the body of her "baby bubbala boy" or whatever other embarrassing consolation, but luckily Kyle was saved from such a thing by the doorbell ringing, abruptly cutting it off. His mother closed her mouth, looked over her shoulder at the doorway with raised brows, and then opened her mouth again to wonder aloud, "Who could that be?" Kyle wondered too – wondered why people wondered who could be at the door when they could just wander to the door and find out.

He waited patiently in bed while his mother went to do just that. He listened with only mild interest to her footsteps descending the stairs, and the clack of the door opening, followed by the murmur of voices, too sick to really care who was at the door. His interest grew, however, when his mother returned up the stairs to stand in his doorway, looking grim.

"It's for you, Bubbe," she said. "It's Eric." That name cracked on her tongue, sharp like a whip, and she looked like it had physically pained her to say it. She was none too fond of Cartman. Unfortunately for her, her son was – was so fond, in fact, that he was dating him. "Shall I let him in?" she asked, and Kyle could hear in her voice and see in her face the way she was practically pleading to be allowed to turn him away. Alas, Kyle would have to let her down.

"Yeah, let him in," he nodded. His mother nodded too, resignedly, lips pursing, and went back down the stairs. Not a minute later, Kyle could hear footsteps ascending the stairs, heavier than his mother's, echoing a resounding clump. He turned his head to the doorway as a tall, stocky figure appeared in it, and he greeted Cartman by sniffling pitifully.

"Hey, Jew." Cartman was grinning like he was happy to see him, although he would never admit if that was the case, hating such honesty. "Came to give you a heads-up: there's an English test on Monday."

"I'm not helping you study, I'm sick," Kyle said before Cartman could even suggest it. He had had enough experience with Cartman doing that in the past.

"Ay, I'm not asking that!" Cartman pouted, leaning against the doorframe to shuck his boots off. "Christ, this is what I get for being nice." Kyle felt not a twinge of remorse for him, knowing full well that Cartman probably had been going to ask for help before he had stopped that right-quick.

"You and nice don't belong in the same sentence," Kyle replied coldly. Cartman just shook his head at him as he pulled his boots off, and Kyle laid patiently in wait for him to get himself together. After he had finally pulled them off, Cartman unceremoniously chucked his commando boots – caked with mud – onto the floor. Kyle grimaced disapprovingly at the way hardened chunks of dirt fell off the soles on impact and landed on his carpet. "Good job not contaminating the environment of the sick, asshole."

Cartman rasped and waved a dismissive hand in the air, as though Kyle's concern was a palpable thing he could bat away. "You're already sick. Contamination, conshmamination – you can't get much sicker." And then, probably just because he couldn't go on living without being cruel in some way or form, he added, as casually as though it were a remark on the weather, "You look like shit."

"Thanks, I do try," Kyle huffed. "Why are you here again? You're making me feel worse." As though to prove it, he reached for another tissue and blew his nose, loudly and pointedly. Cartman screwed his nose up as Kyle discarded the tissue into the basket, obviously disgusted. Kyle smirked, because seeing Cartman discomforted actually made him feel better.

"I don't know," Cartman shrugged, "it's just what people do, isn't it? Visiting the sick, wishing them well…" He grinned mischievously. "Saying our goodbyes."

"I'm not dying."

"You could've fooled me. You look like shit."

"So I've heard." Kyle's frown deepened when Cartman went closer and sat himself down on the edge of his bed. "I'm serious, you know, seeing you makes my white blood cells want to throw in the towel altogether."

Cartman only chuckled, having long grown immunity to harsh words, and having long come to realise that Kyle never meant them anyway. Still grinning, he reached into his jacket pocket, and from out of it pulled an apple, of all things. "Keeps the doctor away," he said, holding it out for Kyle to take. "Nifty."

"You know, when one is sick, one would prefer that the doctor doesn't stay away," Kyle said, though he took the apple anyway. He rolled it between his hands, examining the perfect, undented, unbruised skin of it. It was one of the cleanest, shiniest, reddest apples he had ever seen, and a part of his heart, deep in the depths, panged at the thought of Cartman carefully picking it out, just for him. "Thanks, Cartman," he found himself compelled to say. Cartman just dismissively waved his hand again.

"No problem, Jew, just don't go all weepy on me now."

"When have I ever been weepy?"

"It's never too late to start, Jew. Who knows, my sweet gesture may just stir your tear glands into life for once."

"Yes, this," Kyle said, holding up the apple for show, "really tugs at the heart-strings. Poetic."

"I thought so too. Glad you like it," Cartman smiled, making Kyle fight the impulse to roll his eyes, and then he leant closer, still smiling, and suggestively raised his brows as he asked, "Do I get something in return?"

"I'll sneeze on you," Kyle warned.

Cartman screwed up his nose and pulled back without further incentive. "On second thoughts…"

Kyle laughed, beaming down at the shimmery reflection of his smile on the apple's surface. Contrary to his words – because Kyle vowed never to be anything but contrary where Cartman was concerned – he was actually feeling better, just bantering like he would if he was healthy. It made him feel, just for a short while, like he was healthy again.

After his giggling fit, Kyle did allow for a kiss with Cartman after all, and didn't sneeze on him for his troubles; and when they pulled apart Cartman was smiling too, his happiness seeping out from under the mask of indifference he had hidden it beneath. "So!" he exclaimed suddenly, making Kyle jolt by clapping his hands, before rubbing them together. "Chicken noodle soup?"

A quarter of an hour later, Cartman brought up soup, ladled into a bowl and balanced on a tray. There was a spoon and everything. It was rare, for Cartman to bother to do so much. Kyle didn't think it was because he cared though – knew he probably just wanted to do the whole tending-to-the-sick shebang they had seen in the movies and such. Still, he appreciated it all the same, especially when Cartman's cooking was close to godliness.

"You didn't stick this in your ass, right?" he asked warily as he slurped up another golden mouthful of the stuff and found it far too delicious to be real. He couldn't help being cautious, after the Cartman Burger incident. He had gone straight home and spent a good half hour diligently scrubbing his tongue with toothpaste and brush after having learnt the "secret ingredient" to that product.

"Scout's honour," Cartman promised, holding up three fingers. Regardless, Kyle inconspicuously sniffed at the soup as he consumed it, to make sure he didn't detect traces of ass in the scent. Luckily, he downed the whole soup without smelling or tasting ass. Then again, neither of those senses were very good at that moment, so not very dependable. He just had to trust Cartman – a very stupid thing to do, and yet something he often found himself doing.

Cartman took the empty bowl downstairs once Kyle was done, surprising him with his tidiness and ability to not just laze around on his fat ass until and unless told to do otherwise (and sometimes not even then). When he returned, he told Kyle, with a shake of his head, "If looks could kill. I bet your mom's disinfecting her kitchen as we speak because the awful Cartman boy touched it."

Kyle snorted a laugh. "No, she's not." …But, then again, he could just imagine her, mopping every tile Cartman had stepped upon, throwing out all the cutlery and crockery he had touched, desperately wiping the counters he had lingered at. Suddenly, it seemed very feasible that she was doing just that, urgently removing all traces of Cartman, as though his presence was a palpable evil that would seep deep into the nooks and crannies of her kitchen like a plague.

"Face it, she hates me," Cartman chuckled. He didn't sound sad about it at all. To him, it was just an unfortunate thing that couldn't be helped, so he had learnt to just shrug it off and deal with it. It made Kyle churn guiltily, though it wasn't at all his fault, that his mother couldn't bring herself to like her son's choice of partner – could sometimes barely so much as tolerate him.

"No, she doesn't hate you," he tried, although he himself struggled to find reassuring words. "She just…dislikes you?"

Cartman snorted, too uncaring about Kyle's mother's opinion to be offended. "Thanks, Kyle, you really fill me up with confidence."

"I do try," Kyle said, before sniffing and reaching out for another tissue. Cartman grimaced as Kyle blew his nose, appearing more upset about that than his parents' opinions of him.

"You sound awful."

"Really?" Kyle drawled from behind his tissue. "I hadn't noticed. Gee, it's almost like I'm sick or something."

"Okay, okay, Captain Sarcasm," Cartman laughed. "I was just sayin'. Sheesh, you should give Jimmy some pointers for his next act."

Hearing about Jimmy reminded Kyle of all his friends, urging him to eagerly ask, "How is everyone?"

"Fine without you, Jew," Cartman answered, but he pursed his lips and looked thoughtfully up at the ceiling as he reconsidered. "Actually, Stan's not. God, he does my head in. He just doesn't shut up about you. Do you think Kyle's okay? I hope Kyle's okay. I should go and see Kyle after school and make sure he's okay. Ugh!"

Kyle chuckled affectionately at the thought of his super best friend, mentally visualising his worried face that he had become accustomed to over the years. "Maybe he should be my boyfriend," he quipped; only to be answered with a dark glint in Cartman's narrowed eyes and the visible tightening of his jaw.

"What," he scoffed nastily, "am I not doing a good enough job?"

Kyle sighed. One thing he had come to learn about Cartman was that he was an inexhaustibly, exhaustingly jealous being. "I was joking," he groaned, turning away from Cartman slightly so that he would have to deal with him less. In doses, Kyle had learnt, Cartman was tolerable. You could have too much of a good thing, was his belief, and too much of Cartman was inviting the possibility of being bed-ridden quite a lot longer, due to the sudden appearance of a headache to accompany his cold. Kyle became startled though, by the sudden silence that ensued.

He turned back towards Cartman, to check that he hadn't died, because, as far as he knew, that was the only thing that could shut the asshole up – otherwise, he spent his days competing with everybody to be the loudest thing in the room, to garner the most attention, to be listened to with the greatest intent as though he were the next coming of Christ. And yet, what Kyle found was a Cartman that was perfectly well and alive, with his eyes trained on his lap, his shoulders slumped sadly, and his lips a tight line, decidedly silent.

"Cartman?" he asked, sitting up a little.

"What?" His voice was harsh – could have stung were it material. It made Kyle frown and his heart twist in that pitying way, and he reached out mindlessly, without hesitating or needing to think about it, and dove his fingers into brunet hair, massaging them against his warm scalp.

"Thanks for visiting me," he said tenderly, his lips turning up softly, his fingers never resting or ceasing in their comforting movements. He handled Cartman carefully, for Cartman wasn't very good with people. He pretended for all the world that he knew how people thought – knew how people thought he thought – but Kyle knew that he was truly clueless sometimes, often distrusting, severely misguided, and occasionally needed someone to tell him that he was doing okay, that everything was okay. "It means a lot to me," he continued, his tone urging a response. In time, Cartman peered up from beneath dark lashes, his eyes searching, trying to wrap his mind around everything. And then, when his mind had been sufficiently wrapped, his lips quirked up again, and he subtly leant into Kyle's touch.

"I know," he replied, bursting with enough confidence for the both of them once more. "I'm great."

Kyle groaned, withdrawing his hand, and laid back down against his pillows. "You really need to work on your self-esteem. It's lacking," he jested, although he was sure they both knew that his words weren't a joke – Cartman's constant jealousy, his recurring feelings of inadequacy, proved that. Yet, Cartman only laughed good-naturedly, and, in a moment of revived giddiness, pulled Kyle's quilt up higher for him, tucking it under his chin.

"Ah, lighten up, Jew," he said, running his hands over the sheets, easing out the creases and rumples. "How about we watch some Terrance and Phillip?"

"That's a kid's show," Kyle complained. Yet, even in high school, he still had the DVDs for that show on his shelf, and he didn't complain further when Cartman extracted them from there and started to go about choosing which season to watch. He even so much as helped him make the final decision to just watch Asses of Fire, because that gave him such fond memories; though, not the war with Canada, mind. He laid in bed watching patiently, and a tiny bit excitedly, as Cartman took the disc out of its case and slotted it into the DVD player, and he only made some grumbling to Cartman wanting to sit on the end of his bed to watch.

Quietly, except to laugh, and aside for the occasional singing-along when they remembered the lyrics from their childhood, Kyle and Cartman watched the movie. It felt nice, Kyle thought, just being able to relax in Cartman's company in that way. What with their frequent bickering and arguing and fighting, they probably gave the impression to their peers that there could never be a quiet moment between the two of them, no hope for such concepts as peace and tranquillity. Yet, Kyle could find no other adjectives to describe the atmosphere in that moment. There was no bickering, no sign of arguing, and not a single ounce of fighting, and Kyle, finding himself feeling both contented and relaxed, allowed his eyelids to droop.

Kyle realised that he must have dozed off at some point, because then all of a sudden he was waking up, the television was off, and the light outside the window was no more. He wasn't laid there long before he registered that the hand dangling over his bed was strangely warm, and had a soft pressure on it. He looked down and saw that Cartman's hand was holding his, the pad of his thumb working circles into his skin, and his heart did that panging thing again, as he realised that Cartman hadn't left him and gone home for the entire time he had been asleep.

Cartman, who was sat on the floor leaning back against the bed, seemed to become aware of Kyle's eyes on him, because then he looked up from the book he had been flicking through, and welcomed Kyle back to the world in the sweetest way possible. "Yo, you sniffed so much in your sleep, it was so damn annoying."

Kyle sniffed in response, just to continue being annoying to Cartman, before replying dryly, "Sorry for being sick."

"You should be. I was trying to read." Cartman slapped the book shut, and Kyle's eyes flicked to the cover. He groaned, at his own stupidity more than anything, wondering how he hadn't come to the conclusion that it was the only book on his shelf that would pique any interest of Cartman's.

"Crime and Punishment. I should have known."

"Masterpiece," Cartman grinned, getting up to gently place the book back into its space on the shelf. For a moment, Kyle fooled himself into believing that perhaps Cartman was learning to be tidy, but he shortly realised that Cartman was just showing respect to something that had earnt it; nothing more, nothing less, and certainly nothing tidy.

"What time is it?" Kyle asked, too tired to shift his neck the few inches it would take to look up to the clock on his bedside table. He could, however, be bothered to reach the few centimetres it took to get a tissue to blow his nose with. It was amazing how clogged one's nasal orifice could become after a while of unconsciousness.

"Time for you to stop looking like shit," Cartman replied smartly. Kyle really couldn't control the impulse to roll his eyes then.

"Oh, ha-ha, very funny." He looked up at the clock then, berating himself for ever thinking that Cartman would sacrifice hilarity for straight-forwardness, and then stopped as he took in the time, and what it meant. "Shit," he said disbelievingly, "it's this late and you're still here?"

"What, do I have a curfew, mom?" Cartman jested, but Kyle didn't play along, instead sitting up straighter in bed to get a better look at the clock, but still it showed the same time.

"No, but isn't your mom going to be worried? Don't you have dinner or something to get to?"

"Nah, I had some of the soup," Cartman replied, far too unconcerned, scouring Kyle's bookshelf intently for another fetching title. "You really don't read good shit, Jew."

"Cartman," Kyle said warningly, because even though Cartman was okay with it, Kyle wasn't – wasn't okay with another person risking their own health by staying in the same vicinity as him for so long, probably bored out of their mind keeping his sickly, sleepy self company. Cartman looked up at the severity of Kyle's tone, and then sighed and looked back to the shelf, pointedly avoiding Kyle's gaze as he admitted another thing that made Kyle's heart pang in the way that echoed through his veins and arteries and thrummed throughout his whole body.

"I'm not just gonna leave you when you're sick, stupid. Someone's gotta take care of your sorry ass."

It was entirely ineloquent, and someone who knew Cartman less would have been offended, but because Kyle knew it had taken a lot of effort to say something so entirely selfless – to do something so entirely selfless – he sunk back down against his pillows without further complaint. And then, because he knew how much Cartman hated gratitude – was so unused to it that it made him want to run for the hills – instead of thanking him, he said, "You're taking care of me? I may as well drop dead now and not waste time."

Cartman laughed, bright and brilliant, and Kyle chided himself for thinking that he wouldn't mind hearing that laugh and seeing that smile every day, forever. Sickness was making him soft, it seemed. "You're a piece of work, Jew."

Kyle just smiled, far too fond. "I want some more soup."

"You don't show gratitude and yet you keep asking for more favours," Cartman sighed, smiling despite himself. "You really are a piece of work." Still, he went all the way downstairs to fetch more soup anyway, and he waited with the most patience he had ever shown as Kyle slurped the bowl of the steaming stuff up. "You're looking better," he absently remarked, with his legs crossed on the carpet, his elbow at rest on the bed's edge, his knuckle supporting his cheek, and his eyes trained on Kyle.

"Am I?" Kyle asked. He hadn't a mirror, so he didn't know. He tried to look for his reflection in the surface of the soup, but only saw sunken noodles and floating parsley, and got steamy eyes for his troubles.

Cartman nodded. "Still like shit though."

"Ever the charmer," Kyle sighed, but laughingly so.

"Cut me a break, I've been bored out of my mind." Cartman yawned, scratching his stomach as he did so, bringing attention to his choice of t-shirt that almost made Kyle snort: Three Wolf Moon.

"Why didn't you play my games?" Kyle asked. He was genuinely surprised that his Xbox had remained untouched for the duration of Cartman's visit, since usually whenever he visited, Cartman couldn't resist having at least a little go on it, oftentimes without Kyle's permission. He had thought that Cartman would have taken his unconscious state as a golden gaming opportunity.

"That shit's loud. I didn't want to wake you," Cartman said simply, and again Kyle's heart did that unbearable panging thing, and were he not too sick to he would have lunged forward, grabbed Cartman, and kissed him senseless.

Resisting the temptation to kiss Cartman until he too procured a cold, Kyle managed to reply, "So instead you ate my soup. How thoughtful."

"Hey, I cooked it, I can eat all the fucking soup I want."

"No you can't."

"You're right, there's only one serving left. I am severely lacking in soup."

Kyle chortled, at how entirely ridiculous their conversation was, and at how talk of soup should have been more mundane, but could be nothing but amusing where Cartman was involved. "Cry me a river, fatass." He spooned the remainder of his soup, and brought it to his lips, showily gulping it down. "All gone," he announced, setting the spoon down into the bowl with a clatter of finality. "Too bad for you."

"You're a heartless bitch," Cartman declared, but he was grinning as he did. With a grunt of effort, he uncrossed his legs and rose from the floor, reaching out to take Kyle's bowl. "Shall I take this to the kitchen for you, your highness?"

"Knock yourself out," Kyle shrugged, settling back into his mound of cushions, no longer having to sit up straight to eat. He didn't expect Cartman to follow him down to his pillows, leaning over him to breathe huskily.

"It'll cost you."

Kyle, too sick and tired to do anything but comply, leant up and kissed him with obedience he would never deign to show to Cartman were he of healthy mind and body. "You won't blame me if you get sick, right?" he asked as he pulled away again, although it was said more like a command than a question.

"I promise I will give you all due credit," Cartman replied, bowing low with the bowl, flourishing his free hand.

Kyle huffed unappreciatively. "That's not fair."

"Life's not fair, Jew." Cartman winked as he removed himself from the room, and added just before he disappeared through the doorway, "Your kind learnt that in the fourties."

"Oh my God!" Kyle exclaimed, but already Cartman was off down the stairs. Kyle could hear his fading, childish laughter, and his quick and hurried footsteps as he ran off like a mischievous, little boy. In a way, Kyle supposed that he was. However, Cartman's quick exit only delayed his punishment – it did not completely obliterate it. When he returned, Kyle made a show of gesturing him over, pale-faced and pitiful, the sickly calling upon the well, and when Cartman was within grabbing distance, Kyle immediately lunged for his ear and pulled on it.

"Ow!" Cartman cried, wrenching himself away and cradling his sore ear protectively, soothing the abused thing. "That hurt!"

"And you're a fucking asshole!" Kyle declared, nodding in a satisfied way at the punishment that had been dealt. Still, he didn't even dare to think that Cartman would learn from it – it was just a temporary solution to a permanent problem. Really, it made Kyle feel better, more than anything.

"If you weren't sick then I'd kick you in the nuts," Cartman promised, his tone deadly serious.

"Well I am!" Kyle said, and he pulled another tissue out of the box and blew heavily into it – not because he needed to, but rather for the theatrics of it. Cartman clicked his tongue disdainfully, and pulled his hand from his ear, obviously checking for blood. Kyle sighed tiredly at him as he screwed up his tissue and dunked it into the basket, still unable to believe that such a big, beefy person could be reduced to pain so easily.

"Well then maybe I'll leave!" Cartman threatened.

Pang went Kyle's heart, irritating him thoroughly.

"Fine, maybe you will," he replied, shrugging on a guise of indifference.

"Fine, then I will," Cartman agreed huffily. "I need to get home anyway. My mom's probably wondering what's up."

"Say hi to her for me," Kyle said, suddenly civil again.

"Will do," Cartman nodded. "I can get her to bake cookies for you and bring them tomorrow, if you want."

Kyle narrowed his eyes, using them to look Cartman up and down doubtfully. "That's suspiciously generous of you. What's the catch?"

"No catch." Cartman placed his hand on his heart and used the other to make the three-fingered Scout's honour again, the performance of which was followed by a mischievous grin and wink. "I'm just using you as an excuse to get cookies."

"Oh, joy," Kyle drawled, rolling his eyes with a displeased huff. "At least my sickness benefits somebody around here."

"You can't complain – you're getting free cookies," Cartman retorted. Before further complaint could issue from Kyle's mouth, Cartman leant forward and sealed it with a parting kiss. It was long and slow and languid, and Kyle felt that if Cartman didn't get sick from it, then he would seriously question his authenticity as a normal human being. Kyle felt his heart pang-pang-panging too, miniature explosions popping one after the other like fireworks, but he tried not to focus too hard on that, in favour of savouring the taste of Cartman (better than any chicken noodle soup or cookies, though he would never admit as such).

"Well!" Cartman exclaimed after he had pulled away, beaming. "This visit has been invigorating, truly. That sleeping thing you did? Riveting! And when you ate the soup? Fascinating! I was never bored."

"Fuck off," Kyle said scornfully. "I'm sick, not a trick pony."

"No, you're a trick pony alright," Cartman replied, going to fetch his boots and pull them back on. "A one-trick pony. And your one trick is getting sick."

"And eating soup and sleeping," Kyle rebuked. "Get it right, I'm a three-trick pony."

"Yes, and I'm so lucky to have you," Cartman drawled sarcastically.

"Fuck off," Kyle repeated, frowning deeply and holding up his middle finger.

"That's exactly what I'm doing. See ya later, Jew." Cartman bowed with a flourish, and then Kyle's heart was doing that insufferable panging thing again as he watched him turn and leave out through the door. And even under extreme acts of torture, Kyle would never admit that when Cartman reappeared in the doorway once more, his heart did tricks of its own, leaping and jumping and back-flipping. "Oh," Cartman said, pulling out his phone and waggling it in the air, "one more thing I think you should know: I took pictures of you sleeping. Do you want to be tagged in them on Facebook?"

"Fuck off, Cartman!"

"Yes, sir!" Cartman practically sang, and saluted too, his grin wide and bright and sharp and toothy, jesting and malicious all at once, and as he left again, Kyle wondered whether it was healthy to be attracted to such a person.

Probably not. Then again, he never had been very healthy, had he?

A short while after Cartman's departure, Kyle's mother returned. "Are you alright, Bubbe?" she asked, popping her head around the doorway, warily looking around the room for Cartman-induced damage. Her eyes narrowed shortly, honing in on the clumps of dirt on the carpet where his boots had been.

"No," Kyle replied, reaching for another tissue, "I think I have a heart condition." And then he blew his nose.

And then Cartman blew his nose, about a week later, and Kyle, healthy and well again, observed him wearily from the chair at his bedside.

"So," he said, nodding pointedly at Cartman's watery eyes and nose. "Here we are."

"Fuck off," Cartman groaned, not at all in the mood.

"I did warn you," Kyle continued undeterred. "That you'd get sick."

"Fuck. Off," Cartman repeated, a little more adamantly.

Kyle opened his bag, settled on his lap, to rifle around in it, and pull from the depths of it an apple. "Keeps the doctor away," he said, grinning as he set it down on Cartman's bedside table, where he could see it and reflect on it the whole time he remained sick.

"I hate you."

"I love you too."

"Kiss me," Cartman pleaded. He sniffed pitifully, to tug at Kyle's heart-strings. Unsuccessfully.

"No." Kyle shook his head. "Maybe you don't learn from your mistakes, Cartman, but I do, and I have learnt from you that one shouldn't kiss sick people."

"Fuck off."

"Not yet," Kyle said, getting out his phone. "I need to take pictures first."

"God damn it, you fucking Jew!"

"Say cheese!"

The camera flashed, capturing a nose rubbed raw from excessive use of tissues, and a blurred pyjama sleeve with an embarrassing teddy-bear print, flung outward to defend against the onslaught of photography.

"Aw, you didn't say cheese. You're no fun. Once more, cheese!"

And so it was that Kyle ended up with several dozen pictures of a sick, bed-ridden Cartman, half of them fuzzy, blurred, or out of focus, taken with shaky hands as Kyle tried and failed to restrain his laughter. And all the while, though Cartman was complaining and protesting and declaring his hatred, he was grinning. And though he wasn't quite well, everything else certainly was.

Author's Notes:

Spookily enough, as soon as I had written this story, I became ill - woke up with a cold and a sore throat. It feels like a bit of a "Careful what you wish for" scenario...Or, no, rather more of a "Careful what you write about." Well, either way, I am ill, and so I can empathise with both Kyle and Cartman very well.
I think it would be worth you all knowing that no, Cartman did not upload pictures of Kyle asleep to Facebook. This has led Kyle to believe that Cartman was lying in the first place about ever having such pictures, but the truth of the matter is that the pictures do exist, and one of them has become Cartman's phone background, so that whenever he feels down he can have a good gander at a slumbering, red-nosed (rather adorable) Kyle. And also, no, Kyle was not cruel to Cartman the entire time he was ill (although he did feel that he deserved it, having brought his sickness upon himself by being so careless) - he actually tended to him very maternally (eventually, after having taken all the pictures he desired).
Thanks for reading this, and I hope you had as much fun doing so as I did writing it.

Disclaimer: South Park does not belong to me, but to its creators, Trey Parker and Matt Stone. Facebook belongs to Mark Zuckerberg.