Kenny's birthday has always been complicated. He never threw much of a party, bouncy house castles and roller rink rentals far out of his price range, which meant the elementary school equivalent of social suicide. Sure, it sounds stupid in retrospect, but it hurt a lot as a kid, because Stan's mom could rent out a pizza joint, Kyle's mom could drive them to Casa Bonita, Cartman's mom could stake a carnival in their backyard. Meanwhile Kenny's mom was lucky to remember within the same week, let alone prepare anything special. He never hated her for it, always hearing remorse ring in her belated wishes, a struggling woman trying to be a decent mother. His dad, on the other hand, seldom acknowledged the day, more thankful for Blue Ribbon than his second son, but Kenny was no stranger to parental neglect. If anything, most his disdain arose from his own morbid introspections, birth another insignificant phase of his constant death cycle. Maybe his approach was a little too philosophical; at least it distracted him from the general lameness of having a dull, crappy birthday.
Except ageing's nihilism never completely set in, thanks to the few people who reminded Kenny why birthdays were special. Kevin made Kenny a waffle breakfast, treating his little brother with two toasted pieces from his well-guarded cache. Karen gave Kenny a hand-drawn card, advancing from a tiny toddler's crayon scribbles to a young artist's budding talent. Even without a party, people would say Happy Birthday. Token and Clyde sent him texts, Wendy and Red waved as they passed. Butters patted his back with cheered enthusiasm, and Bebe hugged him with a boa constrictor's grip. Jimmy told him a personalised joke, appreciated whether it was flat or funny, and Craig slipped him high-grade ganja, smoked whether it was plain or enhanced. To this day, Cartman bestows on him a handful of pocket change and expired coupons, which is oddly generous for Cartman standards. Stan presents him with either a collector's edition boxset or anime figurine, which is solidly considerate on the Stan scale. And Kyle, in addition to finding a thoughtful gift, bakes a cake, which is hands-down the highlight of the whole damn month.
The tradition began in ninth grade, when Kyle started helping Sheila in the kitchen, and when Kenny was struggling to pass Home Ec. His baking midterm and birthday fell on the same day, Kenny certain the universe wanted him to feel extra fucked over. He botched the basic vanilla sheet, as he expected, but before he could lug his burnt block home, Kyle asked him to stop by his house first. Kenny assumed Kyle just wanted to talk, maybe about the junk on his mind, however that didn't come out for another year and a half. Instead, Kenny following Kyle to the refrigerator, and watching him pull out a layered stack of funfetti and frosting. He nearly dropped his charred leftovers, gawking in disbelief as Kyle rolled his eyes, pretending what he did wasn't a big friggin' deal.
"Dude, you always say your birthday sucks. I thought if I made it suck less, you'd stop bitching and enjoy it for once. Now get a plate, moron."
Ever since, Kenny's birthday hasn't sucked—not even a little—because it's hard to feel shitty when gorging on buttercream, or scarfing down red velvet, or devouring triple hot fudge. For his twentieth, Kyle experimented with a cream-filled chiffon, crafting his own rendition of the Hokkaido cake. For twenty-one, he whipped up a glazed rum bundt, utilising the booze he stocked up on for Purim. The carrot cake from two years ago greatly improved Kenny's tolerance of vegetables, and the pumpkin cheesecake from last year totally spoiled his views on traditional pie.
Somewhere where along the line—between eighteen's smoky s'mores galette and nineteen's orange creamscile crunch—Kenny realised one way to the heart really is through the stomach, although he took his sweet time asking Kyle if he'd maybe consider possibly catching a movie with him not strictly platonically. He can't remember what he suggested they see, but he does remember they missed their proposed showing on account of mutual enthusiasm. And then skipped the second screening for the same reason. Wasn't his birthday, but it felt about as special as one.
Call Kyle a perfectionist—though Kenny sticks to perfect—he maintains his standards high, never one to be outdone. Therefore, to celebrate Kenny's big day as best friends and boyfriends, Kyle felt things needed to be extra. Or that's the only conclusion Kenny could draw when Kyle handed him a plastic bag, claiming the 'cake' was inside. When he opened it up, Kenny didn't find any fluffy angel sponge or white chocolate ganache; but he did find two cans of whipped cream and a bottle of strawberry flavoured lubricant. Not the typical baker's decorative kit, however Kenny's not decorating the typical baker's shortcake.
Aerosol sounds fill the kitchen, white cream streaking bare skin. Kenny drags the nozzle over Kyle's torso, leaving globs and curves on his sternum, spirals and circles on his stomach, zig-zags and dots on his hips. Art is art, no matter the form. Sometimes it's paint on a canvas, sometimes it's food on a plate, sometimes it's Extra Creamy Reddi-wip on a flushing complexion. Stifled grunts rival the can's screechy sprays, Kyle shuddering at the cream's mild chill, squirming under Kenny's long strokes, short daubs, quick and quirky dribbles. Kyle never got the hang of being quiet or staying still.
"Baaabe," A smirk tugs at Kenny's lips, word rolling off his tongue with a cane molasses tone. As he finishes the curlicue on his ribs, Kyle lets out a long groan, cloying sweetness salting impatient exasperation. Sky blue flit up, glimpses rich green glaring, red brows knitted together. The nozzle hovers over Kyle's chest, Kenny's finger tip-tip-tapping the metal, "'m gonna mess up if ya keep movin' like that."
"My bad, Michelangelo," The sarcasm doesn't hide his sweet tooth, Kenny catching him struggle with his own flickering grin, "Just thought you'd bEEEE," A swift press on plastic, and a burst of cream spurts out, covering a nipple with an avalanche of refrigerated fluff. Kyle pinches his shoulders, too overwhelmed by the cold-cold-motherfucking-cold. Kenny laughs, shaking the can triumphantly, while Kyle refocuses, grumbles, "Done by now."
"You really gonna rush me?" Careful not to smear his creamy designs, Kenny crawls over him. He leans close, fixated on green going wide, wide, wide, drawing in breath huffing fast, fast, fast. Kyle lifts his head, moving for a kiss, but Kenny keeps his lips just out of reach. He frowns, while Kenny, in a sing-song purr, "'Cause this was your brilliantly pervy idea."
He takes the bait, opens his mouth, ready to spit out a snarky comeback, something like you're the one who sings "Milkshake" whenever we pass a Dairy Queen or which one of us has the topping fetish again? Before a sound leaks out, Kenny slips in the nozzle, a flick of the finger filling his cheeks with smooth, velvety whipping.
"MMMMM!" Muffled shock, then a hard swallow. Excess drips from the corner, and Kenny claims his lips. Like sugar, they melt, heat turning them into syrupy goo, kisses caramelising into saccharine sauce. One of these days, Kenny's getting a call from Kyle's dentist, blaming him—not his copious KitKat stock—for his mouthful of cavities. Until then, he's savouring that honeyed tongue much as he can.
They break apart, reluctantly, wishing stupid things like oxygen would stop infringing on their moments. Chests fall and rise, rise and fall, and Kenny puts the can down with a clack. He swaps out for the strawberry, unclasping the lid with his thumb, while a hand runs through golden locks, ruffling Kenny's already tousled hair. Maybe it's the touch that does it, or possibly the glint of that candied shade of red, but Kenny realises something, "Hey, Kyle?"
"Yeah?" He says dazed, head already oscillating between spaces. He spends another few seconds staring at the liquid lollipop carmine, then looks to sky blue. Concern floods his eyes, "I didn't fuck up, did I?"
"God, no," Kenny shakes his head, then he takes a measured breath, "I just wanted to say… thanks."
"For what?" A smirk tugs on his lips, "Letting you douse me with your white foam?"
"Well, that," Kenny pauses, stealing a proud glance at his handiwork—oh, definitely that—before returning Kyle's gaze, "And making my birthday, like, nice."
"I'd be a pretty lame friend if I let you have a shitty birthday," He speaks with a half-laugh, the same way he did when they were dumbass teenagers hanging out after the worst midterm ever. Kenny never figured out what inspired Kyle to start their little tradition, not that it matters all that much now. What does matter is the warmth imbued in empathetic green, the smile spread on his face, "And an even lamer boyfriend."
"Trust me, you are not a lame boyfriend," A generous glob on his fingers, Kenny decides to sample before using the lube as a drizzle. Last thing he needs is to cover Kyle with stuff that tastes like cough medicine and insult the perfectly good whipped cream waiting for his tongue. He licks a bit off the tip, "Holy shit."
"What?"
"Dude, this tastes like jam."
"Really?" Kenny holds out his finger, slides it between Kyle's parted lips. After a few moments sucking, he leans back, "Fuck. You're getting that for my birthday."
A/N: It's still Kenny's birthday in a few time zones, and I've had a really rough/weird month. So Kenny should forgive me for being a little late and not as in depth as I anticipated. I'll try making up for it on Kyle's birthday, yeah? Anyway, thanks for reading, bookmarking, and commenting! See you next story.