(Cartman)

(I will not be denied this final hour

I will not be denied, this day is mine)

I was standing at the kitchen counter when Stan found me.

Clyde was to my left and Token to my right. Bebe was in front of us, and the two of them were competing for her attention. I normally hate seeing a man bend over for a fucking girl, but watching the rich boy and the dimwit stumble over each other in attempt to woo some vagina was somewhat entertaining. Somewhat. God, this fucking party was dumb as shit. First of all, the shit rap music they were playing was so fucking loud and terrible it was burning my god damn ears. The thump of the bass was practically making my damn bones vibrate. Second, all the mother fucking girls drank all the booze. Girls are the dumbest fucking creatures on the planet. They show up to this party, dressed like hookers on the street who were just waiting for some john to come along and teach them how to put their feet behind their ears. Then they grab all the alcohol they can get their manicured claws on, and less than a damn hour into the party ones fucking puking in a bush outside, another's kneeling on the bathroom tile crying over a guy who dumped her two years ago, and a third's already thrown two bottles against a wall in the living room because she found out her boyfriend went to another party across town. Mother fucking bitches cannot handle their alcohol…not the least fucking bit.

Fucking cunts.

Then, to make matters even worse, Stan comes downstairs looking ready to break someone's arm in half. He scanned the living room quickly, those beady blue eyes of his circling the area like a fucking pig cop trying to sniff out a con. I knew exactly what he had come downstairs for, but I made no move to announce my presence. I simply raised my glass and tilted it back, keeping my dark eyes focused on the football star. I was drinking vodka mixed with some kind of fruit punch, and it burned like acid as it sloshed down my throat. I didn't even flinch as I emptied the glass, slamming it down onto the countertop as I finished. Fucking Marsh was still stalking around like a dog who'd gotten his bone stolen from him. Little bitch. I wished he'd hurry up and fucking see me so we could get this shit started. What can I say…seeing how angry he was, the way his eyes were narrowed, the way he was practically snarling, his teeth bared like some pissed off tiger…it gave me a rush. I knew he was looking for me, knew he was looking for a fight…and what can I say? I love a good fucking fight. I thrive off of conflict, live off of it, use it to sustain me like food. Life was fucking boring, and a good fight with some self-righteous, punk ass football star would at least be a little entertaining. Fun, even. Oh yeah, fucking around with Stan could be really fucking fun.

Almost as fun as fucking around with Kyle. Almost. Kyle…he was so different from everyone else. I could make girls cry with only a few sentences, could convince a boy to kill his mother with just a few soft words…but Kyle was different. Of all the fuckers in this town…the little Jew runt seemed to be the only one who could resist my words. And that was…intriguing, to say the least. He was one of the very few who called me out, who could actually sense my manipulations… Stan had gotten better at it in the past few years, but I could still wind him up and watch him spin like a top when I really wanted to. He was a simpleton; easy to figure out, easy to control. I only kept my hands off of Kenny because he usually didn't have anything that was worth my effort…but every once in a while I enjoyed making that poor boy squirm. He was almost just as easy to read as Stan.

But that still left Kyle.

No matter how skilled I was, I could never conjure up the words to convince him. He doubted every word that came out of my mouth. If I told him that the sun was made of fire, he would jump to his feet screaming that it must be made of ice. When we were younger it was…endearing, almost invigorating. But now it was like a challenge. One that I still couldn't fucking beat. To this day that little fucker was the only person in South Park who had never fallen under my control…and I swear to god, I was going to fucking change that. I swear to god, I'll figure him out one day, and I'll find out exactly how to warp him like I have every other idiot in this town.

I wasn't about to let fucking Kyle Broflovski beat me.

And the fact that he treated my voice like the voice of Satan himself…

Well, he could think what he wanted about me. I don't fucking care what he thinks about me.

I swear…I swear I don't care.

I could feel my heart's pace pick up as Stan finally turned towards the kitchen, his eyes lighting up as soon as he saw me leaning against the counter. As soon as his eyes connected with mine his fists clenched, and then he was storming towards me. A lot of people would be intimidated at the sight of the raven haired boy stomping towards them. I suppose it was somewhat understandable; the little Marsh boy had grown into quite the athlete, and he had the biceps to show for it. But if there was one person in the whole fucking town of South Park who wasn't fucking scared of Stan Marsh…it was me. I'm not a fucking bitch coward for one thing, and for another…I'm even fucking bigger than he is. And that's not bragging, that's mother fucking fact.

I could choke that bitch out if I really fucking wanted to.

"Hey fatass!" Stan snarled as he drew nearer, "What the fuck is your problem?"

I narrowed my eyes, remaining deadly still.

"Whoa Stan," Token took a step forward, placing himself in between Marsh and I, "What's the issue?"

"Back the fuck off Token!" Stan growled, turning on his friend, "Cartman and Kyle got into a fight!"

"Ok…" Token held up his hands palms outward in a peaceful gesture, "That's…you know, not really anything new…"

"No!" Stan glared at me with such hatred that I was almost impressed, "That fucker took it too far! He split Kyle's lip and left a huge bruise on his face?"

I couldn't hold back my smirk as I crossed my thick arms against my chest.

"Not my fault if the little Jew rat can't fight." I snickered, "Maybe he shouldn't go picking fights he can't handle."

"He told me you hit him first!" Stan went on, slashing his hand in the air for emphasis.

"Well who are you going to believe Stan?" My voice was sickly sweet and innocent as I spoke, "Me…or your dirty little Jew slut—argh!"

I cried out in pain as Stan's fist shot out, connecting with the corner of my jaw. I stumbled to the side, losing my balance against the counter as I reached up, touching the already swelling bump on the side of my chin. That fucking prick! Who the fuck did he think he was, hitting me like that? That mother fucker…he completely blindsided me…

"What the fuck Stan?" Bebe shrieked, her curly golden hair flying around as she jumped backwards, holding up her hands in defense.

"What's wrong Cartman?" Stan's voice had dropped real low, "Not such a big man now that you're facing someone your own size."

"Fuck you Stan!" I hissed, leaning forward, "Figures your little bitch would go running to you as soon as someone put him in his place! Why don't you tell that fucking pussy to come face me himself so we can fucking finish this shit?"

"I don't have to deal with this right now…" Stan reached up, rubbing his eyes tiredly, "Get the hell out of here Cartman. All of you…party's over."

Token and Bebe didn't even protest before heading towards the living room. After a few moments the deafening music came to a dead silence, and that was almost more painful than the music itself. My ears were ringing as I shoved past Stan, pushing him with my shoulder as I passed. I didn't even look at the mess of drunks in the living room as I headed towards the front door, I was so fucking focused on getting the fuck out of there. I wanted to kill Stan for touching me, wanted to wrap my fingers around his throat and squeeze until his head popped off and bounced around like the fucking football he was so famous for throwing. I nearly knocked Clyde to the floor as I yanked open the front door, slamming it so hard behind me it was a small miracle the tiny glass window on it didn't shatter. Too bad…I would've loved to hear Stan try to explain that to his parents…

I couldn't stop myself from turning around just before I slammed the door behind me.

I almost bit my tongue in half at what I saw.

Stan was heading up the stairs, a small, content frown on his face.

Kyle was up there.

I clenched my fists so tightly my nails cut scythe-shaped cuts into my palms, and then I turned and began walking down the street.


(Kyle)

(I see the life, I see the sky, give it all to see you fly)

When I opened my eyes, I could barely make out a few rays of weak light seeping in through Stan's window. I was laying on my side, facing the wall—and the window—the worn, blue comforter wrapped around my waist. I didn't really remember taking my clothes off last night—damn, I drank more then I should have—but I must've somehow gotten them off, because I wasn't wearing anything but my boxers. There was something warm wrapped around the middle of my abdomen, something that was pulling me tight up against—

Oh.

It was Stan. I should've known.

He had one arm thrown over my waist, holding me close to him so that my back was pressed against his chest. The skin on skin contact was hot, and that was probably why the blankets were down at our hips. I guess. Pulling away slightly, I glanced over my shoulder. My best friend's face was buried into his pillow, his jet black hair sticking up in all directions. He was peaceful looking, a tiny frown on his face, his chest rising and falling in a steady, slow rhythm. I didn't remember him crawling into bed with me last night…I must've passed the hell out as soon as my head hit his pillow. Oh…maybe that's why we were laying so close together: we were sharing a single, fluffy pillow. I felt a bit bad about that, I'd probably been hogging it when he came in and he was nice enough to share it with me. That was pretty typical though…Stan was always nice to me. Except when I did stupid things and got in trouble like…like…

Last night. Ah, shit.

Cartman. That asshole had punched me in the jaw!

I reached up with the arm that wasn't pinned down by Stan's much larger, heavier body, gingerly scraping the tip of my finger across the area that Cartman's fist had connected with. It was tender, a bit puffy, hopefully not too bad. Damn…what was my mom going to say when I showed up at the house with a giant bruise on my face? That damn Nazi! I swear to god, I don't know why any of us even put up with him…he does nothing but spread pain and suffering. To everyone. To me. Looking over my shoulder again, I bit my bottom lip. I really didn't want to wake him up…he was probably hungover as hell. Then again, his mom, dad, and sister were supposed to be back by noon… If the party was even half as big as I remember it being last night, then we needed to get cracking on cleaning up immediately if we didn't want Mr. and Mrs. Marsh knowing we threw a raging party. God knows Mrs. Marsh would pitch a fit if she even caught the scent of alcohol…but that's nothing compared to what my mom would do. I'd be lucky to survive for school tomorrow…

I said nothing, choosing instead to sit up, knowing that the motion and sudden change of positions would wake up my super best friend. His arm fell away from my torso as I rose, and then his eyes slowly fluttered open, tired blue staring up at me with a mixture of irritation and confusion.

He immediately closed his eyes again before grabbing me by the waist and yanking me back down. I yelped in surprise, trying to stifle my laughter as my side hit the mattress, the muscle and skin of Stan's chest once again pressing up against my back, but his grip was tighter this time.

I couldn't help but blush. Not because I was laying in bed with my best friend…nah, we did that all the time. That's normal. No, I could feel my face heating up because his fingers were pressed up against the muscles over my stomach, and he was laying so close to me I could feel his heart beating in his chest against my spine…

Not for the first time, I wondered if all best friends did stuff like this. Did everyone's best friend spoon them while they slept? Did everyone's best friend hold them tight when they were sleeping? Like he was afraid I was going to run away? Maybe we shouldn't do this…maybe we were the odd ones… After all, he and I only dared to sleep like this when his parents were away. When they were here I rolled out a sleeping bag on the floor. Funny, neither one of us ever discussed that…we always just knew that if the parents were here I'd take the floor…and if they weren't? We already knew that meant we'd share the bed. Didn't even need to discuss it. Like it was automatic, or something. Maybe instinct.

"Come on, lazy." I tried to pull away from him, "We need to get up."

"Nngh." He grunted, curling up against me.

"What was that?" My lips curved into a grin as I managed to sit halfway up.

"Nngh." His groan of protest was louder this time, and his touch tightened on my abs, practically pinning me down to the mattress.

I struggled a bit, but I knew it was a losing battle. I could swim faster like a fish (or a dolphin, as my father preferred), but when it came to brute strength, Stan always had me beat. Something he never let me live down.

"If you don't want your parents to know you had half the high school partying at their house last night…you might want to get up." I said smugly, glancing over my shoulder once again.

"Mmm…dude, don't be a buzzkill." Stan grumbled accusingly, face still buried half in his puffed pillow and half in my bare shoulder blade. His breath made goosebumps flare across my back…I wonder if he noticed…

"I'm not being a buzzkill, I'm just telling you the facts." I shook my head, lowering my cheek back down onto the pillow, "Your mom will freak if she comes home and sees all the bottles and cups downstairs. Plus, I think that one new girl, Bebe's cousin, puked in your bathroom sink…"

"Aw…what the hell?" Stan sighed, his lips moving against my shoulder as he spoke, "If she made it all the way to the bathroom why the fuck didn't she just puke in the toilet?"

"Don't ask me dude." Kyle shrugged, closing his eyes as he faced the wall again, "I was in the kitchen doing tequila shots with Kenny when that happened."

"Where the hell was I during all that?" Stan finally sat up then, the muscles in his biceps flexing as he pushed himself up with his arms, looking down at me.

"I don't know." I answered truthfully, rolling onto my back so that I was looking directly up at him, "I didn't really see you much of the night…"

I couldn't hide the disappointment from my voice. Stan must've sensed it, for he frowned apologetically, his eyes darkening.

"Sorry about that." His voice was low, serious, "I was running around trying to keep people from breaking shit."

"It's cool dude." I shrugged again, trying to keep my eyes focused on his face instead of on his bare chest, "Hosting the party always sucks because people wreck the place."

"No," Stan shook his head vehemently, his eyes turning stony, "I should've been there. I should've stopped Cartm—"

"Stopped Cartman?" I laughed and it was a hollow, barking sound, "Like that would've happened. I don't care anyway…I'm not scared of him. I'll fight that lard ass anytime he wants!"

"Kyle," Stan sighed deeply, "He's like twice your size, and he's nuts. He wouldn't think twice before seriously hurting you—"

"I don't care!" I sat up too then, anger bubbling in my chest, "I'm not fucking scared of him! And I'm not going to let him walk all over me whenever he wants!"

I am not scared of Eric Cartman. Maybe I should be…after all, Stan was right. The guy was several inches taller than me—something that had pissed me off to no end for the past couple years—and he was huge. Not fat huge, no, he'd lost most of the lard after joining the football team his freshman year of high school. But then he replaced it all with muscle, and now he was as big as a house. Sure, he still had a pudgy stomach, and thick, sausage fingers, but he wasn't near the little ball of lard he was when we were in grade school. That didn't stop any of us from calling him fatass though…we all knew there were two things that actually got to Cartman: his weight and his mom. I had touched on both those points last night, and I guess that might've been why he decided to try and knock my teeth out. The weird thing though…Cartman never hits anyone but me. I've never seen him get into a physical fight with anyone else…sure, he and Stan often came close, but somehow one of them always backed down before it became really serious. And Kenny and Cartman normally got along pretty well. Better than anybody else got along with Cartman, actually. Though, that was more because Kenny is a strong believer in letting people do whatever the hell they want then anything else.

"I guess we should get dressed…" Stan said reluctantly, looking over and onto the floor.

"Um…yeah…" I felt my face heat up again as I realized the state of undress we were in. Don't get me wrong, I've seen Stan completely naked quite a few times but…but ever since he got muscles…things have been a little different. And me? My body had changed so much since I joined the swim team I almost never recognized myself. When I look in the mirror, I still expect to see a scrawny ginger with pale skin and bony shoulders staring back at me. Now…now there's like muscles on my stomach, and my shoulders and arms actually have some definition…it's a bit disconcerting. Intimidating, even.

My eyes followed Stan's gaze, and I soon realized what he was looking at: my clothes were bunched up on the carpet.

Pulling the blankets away from our bodies, Stan swung his feet over the edge of the bed and stood up, stretching his arms to the sky. He was tall now, and his fingertips weren't too far from touching his low ceiling. Swaggering over towards his wooden dresser, he yanked open the top drawer and pulled out a clean pair of jeans.

"You want to borrow some of my clothes?" Stan looked over his shoulder at me as he hunched over, stepping into the legs of his jeans.

"Nah," I shook my head in refusal, "We haven't worn the same size in years dude…"

"Still…" He shrugged as his fingers worked his zipper, zipping and buttoning his jeans nimbly, "If you want clean clothes, I got plenty…"

"I'm good." I answered. Stan's jeans would drag on the floor for me anyway.

I swung my legs over the bed, standing up and stretching my arms just like Stan did. I couldn't help but close my eyes in contentment as I reached my arms high over my head. The feeling of my triceps, biceps, and deltoids being pulled apart was painfully pleasurable. Tilting my head back so that my bruised jaw was in the air, I turned my head from side to side, stretching my neck muscles as much as possible. My whole body felt a bit tight, probably a sign that me and Stan had slept against each other in the same position all night. Arching my back slightly backward, I tried my best to stretch out my abdominal muscles, the bones in my hips jutting out in a v-shape. Letting out a deep breath, I finally dropped my arms, collapsing my body back to normal. Forcibly prying my eyelids open, I turned to look at my super best friend.

Stan was completely still, staring at me with hard, ocean-colored eyes.

"Um…you ok?" I asked, cocking my head to the side questioningly.

"What?" Stan blinked in response, looking at me like I'd spoken to him in a foreign language.

"You're…like, staring at me." I blushed for what seemed like the hundredth time that morning.

"Oh. Sorry." Stan replied slowly.

But he didn't sound sorry, just confused. And he was still looking at me.

"We should really start cleaning up your place." I turned away from his as I spoke, bending down to scoop up my clothes from the floor.

"Yeah…yeah, definitely." Stan seemed to finally shake himself out of his trance as he yanked open another draw from his dresser, pulling out a plain white undershirt.

"I think some girl was throwing bottles against the wall in your living room last night…" I winced as I spoke, realizing that that meant there would be shards of glass everywhere for us to pick up.

"Fantastic." Stan rolled his eyes, "This is what I get for telling Bebe about the party. It was only going to be a few people, but no, of course she had to go and invite everybody."

"Well, if we get started now we can get done pretty quickly." I reasoned, trying to cheer him up a bit. I may have been telling a little white lie, after all, the downstairs living room was probably a disaster zone.

"Alright." Stan smiled softly, "And then afterwards…I'm going back to sleep."

I couldn't help but laugh at that, even though my stomach did a flip as I realized it'd be nice to join him.

And the worst part?

The worst part was…I knew he'd want me to join him.

I don't know what that means. I guess it doesn't matter.