A/N: For SuperMaids over on dA, who got my 1000th pageview. :)

Eh. I'm afraid they're both OOC... and the ending sucks. Gah. Why do I always screw up my favorite pairings? :(

Anyway... now that I've got this out of the way, I can work on all the other stuff I'm behind on, namely a certain fic I promised a certain someone 4389234 years ago DX. And updates, gah. I need to update.

Feedback is appreciated! :D

disclaimer: South Park belongs to Matt&Trey, not me.

Infatuation

No one was home, but few people locked their doors in South Park anyway, just families like the Blacks and the Broflovskis who had reason to worry. Luckily, the Cartmans didn't own shit – Liane brought in quite a bit of money whoring, but spent it all on her son's food, and as a result they had very little left over to spend on luxuries. It was this fact that reassured Clyde, and he made up his mind to get it over with the next moment they were both out of the house, which, he learned after four days of careful watching, would not be easy – Eric wasn't too keen on moving his ass off the couch.

Finally, though, on Saturday afternoon at two o'clock, the door opened and both mother and son walked out. Clyde could hear shouts of protest from his hiding spot behind a snow-covered bolder across the street – "I don't wanna go to some gay-ass hippie yoga class!" – and he chuckled softly to himself. Cartman? Yoga?

But it got them out of the house, and the next thing he knew their van had sped away towards town. Clyde dashed for the street – well, it was more of a jogging pace, as he wasn't a runner by any means – and made it to the front door, stopping to gasp for breath.

The door was unlocked, as he'd expected. Clyde pushed it open slowly. He'd been in Cartman's house a couple times, but this – this time he wasn't supposed to be in here, and he could hear his heart beating louder than his own footsteps. It scared him a little, but he knew he had a job to do, and very little time in which to do it.

Living room, past the couch and the TV, which was on and currently tuned to Red Racer. Clyde paused – Red Racer was Craig's show, and he hadn't realized anyone else watched it. He shook his head and continued through the living room and the kitchen, up the stairs and…

Cartman's room. Clyde blinked, looked around quickly, slowly opened the door, and stepped inside. There were candy bar wrappers strewn all over the floor – Cartman obviously didn't bother to hide them, not like Clyde did, shoving empty chocolate-stained wrappers in his desk and underwear drawer and under his bed. There was a pile of clothes by the door and a pair of pants thrown over the bed's footboard, but other than that the room was pretty clean.

Clyde took another step forward and ran his hand along Cartman's desk. A notebook lay open in the middle, and he leaned forward to read what looked like a to-do list in Cartman's sloppy all-caps handwriting. 1. Kill Kyle. 2. Kick Butters's ass. 3. Okama Gamesphere Stan's, 6:00. 4. Kill Kyle. He laughed and studied the rest of the desk – some scattered homework, a sticky pink goo that could've been jelly, a few pictures. He picked up the photos and scanned them; there was Cartman with his mom, Cartman and Kenny at Halloween, Cartman with a whole bunch of similar-looking people that could only have been his family, Cartman grinning and holding a stuffed frog…

Clyde held his breath, suddenly reminded of why he was here. Still clutching the stack of pictures, he spun around and walked over to the bed. He pushed aside a few ugly dolls, tossing them off the bed, and then he saw it – the frog. It lay against the pillow, grinning stupidly, its head flopping to one side. Slowly, carefully, he reached out and picked it up, then lifted up one of its legs. And there, on the sole of its left foot, in thick black marker, was its name. Clyde Frog.

So Kyle had been right. Cartman had a doll named after him. "He talks to it all the time," Kyle had said. "You should've seen his face when I ripped its head off."

"B-but has he ever mentioned it having anything to do with me?"

"Well, no," Kyle had admitted. "But… still. He talks about you sometimes. It's weird."

"What's he say?"

Kyle shrugged. "Stuff." And then he and Stan had walked off, laughing about some movie or other, and Kenny had given Clyde a sympathetic look and dashed over to join them, leaving him completely confused. He couldn't ask Cartman about it (talk about awkward) but he didn't want to drop it, either. Kyle's words echoed in his head – he talks about you sometimes – and before long he'd found himself staking out the fat boy's house.

Clyde ran his finger down the frog's body. He couldn't see why Cartman would like it so much – it was old and falling apart, and the seams where he'd tried to sew it back together after Kyle ripped it were loose. There were smears of who-knows-what all over the arms and stomach, and the frog smelled faintly of Cheesy Poofs.

A picture slipped out of his hand and fell facedown to the floor. It was smaller than the others, and he didn't remember looking at it before. Clyde bent down and flipped it over.

It was himself.

He felt his hand let go of the frog, but he didn't care. The picture was his school photo, and it wasn't a particularly good one – Clyde absolutely hated the way he looked in pictures – but there was something there that definitely hadn't been in the yearbook.

Clyde's face was framed by a red heart, and underneath, in the same messy handwriting from the notebook, were the letters EC+CD.

Oh God. He sank onto the bed, his breath growing quicker and heavier with every second. This- this went beyond weird. It was creepy. He knew Cartman was obsessive, but with him? It was irrational. Cartman wasn't supposed to like anyone. Clyde was the one with the secret crush. Clyde was the one who lay in bed at night thinking up ways to be more like Cartman, who tried to copy everything he did and stood up for the larger boy when no one else would.

Cartman didn't do pussy stuff like that.

"Enjoying yourself, Clyde?"

He gasped and shoved the picture under the pillow. There, in the doorway, looking incredibly proud of himself, was Cartman. He took a step forward and smirked.

"I could have you arrested for breaking and entering, you know."

"I- you-" Cartman didn't see, he told himself. Cartman doesn't know what you found.

"But I'm not going to," Cartman continued, sitting down on the bed next to Clyde. "If you were Kyle, then I would. If you were Butters, I would, because I hate Kyle and Butters." He picked Clyde Frog up from the floor. "But I don't hate you."

"You don't?" It was a stupid question. Of course Cartman didn't hate him. Cartman liked him, right? Or was it all a joke?

Cartman shook his head. "I don't hate you, even though you're a pussy. And a crybaby. And you totally have a faggy crush on-"

"I don't! I don't like you like that!" Clyde blurted. Cartman blinked.

"I… was going to say Craig," he said slowly. Clyde blushed. "But this is interesting… so you are a fag…" He closed his eyes and smiled.

"So are you," Clyde mumbled. Cartman's eyes snapped back open.

"Say that again, Donovan?"

"So are you. I saw the picture, okay? And Kyle told me- he told me you talk about me a lot-"

"Fucking Jew," Cartman muttered. "Always sticking his stupid Jew nose into other people's business."

"You're not denying it," Clyde said softly. "Is- is it true, then? Do you like me?"

"You're such a goddamn pussy." Cartman leaned in until his face was inches from Clyde's. "Figure it out."

"Um…" But Clyde couldn't finish his thoughts – Cartman's mouth pressed against his, interrupting him and causing his entire body to tense up.

He wanted more, he wanted it to last forever, but Cartman broke the rough kiss and looked away. "Does that answer your question?"

"Uh-"

"Now get out before I sue you." Cartman walked over to his desk. "Go."

There were so many things he wanted to ask, most of them starting with "why", but Cartman was pointing to the door, and he definitely didn't want to be sued. "I-"

"See you at school, Clyde."

"Uh, yeah. See you." He glanced again at Cartman, slipped back into the hallway, shutting the door softly behind him, and made a dash for the front door.

He couldn't wait for Monday.