AN/

So this idea came to me a long while ago; I was planning to drag Kenny and Cartman through a multitude of holidays, beginning in the winter, but I think it'll just stay where it is for now. Also, this was going to be a one-shot, but it got way out of hand.

I dunno, I kept it around 'cos I have a huge boner for Cartman, obviously. If anything sounds off or oddly effeminate, blame my sister, who's acting as my beta. Enjoy, thanks for reviewing and stuff. I'm kinda new to this game.

~00~

I'm not concerned with injury. I don't really find time to be concerned about anything, truthfully. I'd evolved, see, since childhood. I was Kenny McCormick, obnoxiously sexy hard-knock from the upper end of ghetto South Park attending Park County High, not quiet, follow-the-trend and die-in-the-end Kenny from the past. I don't care about much because I know nothing can hurt me. So, caring about the actions of Eric Cartman, I always told myself that was just a twisted evolutionary leftover.

I'm not the only one, of course. Loads of other people have noticed that Cartman was an odd sort before I did. But that's annoying and I hate when I find out 'cos I knew him first. What right do all these strangers from random parts of Park County have to sidle up to my former best friend? And maybe if I knew he'd just screw you guys, I'm going home I wouldn't need to worry about his tender self-serving conscience being corrupted by their kindly interest. I didn't even like him all that much at that point either. It wasn't until later, when I'd decided I should track down my crazy best friend rather than endure another third-wheel Stan and Kyle session alone, that I determined Cartman someone worthy of receiving positive human feedback. He was more than worthy.

When I approached Cartman, seriously, after so long with very little and often one-sided contact with him, I guess I was surprised and unsurprised. Part of me knew someone like him would break down eventually, and another part of me knew he would never never change. Cartman was a monster. Now more than ever. He dished out the same shit, but now he could give it without ever putting a part of himself on the line. It was no longer his prejudice and discrimination that were revealed in his hatred, only a mindless and insurmountably cold emptiness, as melodramatic as that sounds. He was quiet and powerful and those who didn't hear him so much any more said it was so much better but it was so, so much worse. Cartman deserved my attention 'cos he was a fucking wreck. And it was him and his calculating red eyes and his hardly detectable depression and his occasional petulant, almost childish persona that made me like him; he'll be mybest friend again and then everyone'll be jealous.

It was five and a half days before I saw Eric again.

"Hey dude. Come on, we're going to Stan's tonight."

"It's called a cell phone. I got one, you know."

"It's more forceful this way."

"If you're too poor to afford standard appliances, you can just say so. I know you'd sell the phone before the toaster."

"Shut up, asshole, you know I got one. It's easier for you to say you're busy on the line, though."

I slipped into Cartman's house off the stone steps when he sighed in empty defeat and shuffled off muttering about shoes. His heavy shoulder brace had been swapped out for a smaller one just at his elbow, the whole arm still in a sling. The fingers of his right hand were no longer as hideously bruised, and he seemed to move them freely. Some cat hair clung to the back of his black shirt.

"Got your keys? My dad's taken the truck for the holidays, so I'm like, permanently without wheels."

He only grunted, jamming his feet into the black Adidas shoes he always wore.

The Mobile Command Center, Mrs Cartman's fancy minivan, wasn't in the driveway so I assumed she'd parked it at the airport rather than take a taxi. I decided not to bring her up.

It was a cold day, and while much of the snow from the 25th had melted, black ice and muddy slush had arrived in its wake, leaving the roads of South Park dangerous and ugly. Thankfully Stan was only about two blocks down and the next street over.

I hesitated when Eric slipped into the driver seat of his Volvo.

"You allowed to drive, bro?"

"No. Get in."

I sighed. Stan was a short way away. You only need half a hand to drive, right?

I decided to try not to distract him with smalltalk on the way over. He looked significantly better than he had last week, cleaner and definitely more coordinated, but still under-slept and—though it was hard to tell with him—probably still not eating properly. Which meant he was still "sick".

"What's on your shirt?"

Cartman's eyebrow quirked briefly, and his left arm shifted in its sling. "It's the primordial fireball."

"The what?"

He was silent for a moment, debating whether or not to even try to explain. "Y'know. Cosmic microwave background radiation. We did this in physics."

"Dude, you don't even attend physics, half the time."

I still didn't have any idea what he was talking about or why he had a goddamn graphic of this thing on his T-shirt, but whatever, if he'd become some sort of nerd while we were apart, I guess I can deal with that. If he starts talking Star Trek with Stan, though, I'm out.

He was silent. And I hate when he's silent, 'cause I'd sort of prided myself on the fact that he talked more to me than to most.

There was hockey tape around the passenger door handle, I noticed. The kind with the little Canadian flags on it. One of those ten cent squirt gun pistols clattered around in the cup holder above his stereo system. The vehicle itself still smelled like its owner; mostly like the gross locker rooms at the rink, and the melted ice you scrape off your blades, and pot, and a bit of that Snake Peel Axe, which he once said he liked because it "exfoliated".

In winter, the sun goes down at 4 p.m., so it was well on its way to the horizon line when Cartman parallel parked just beyond Stan's mailbox. I didn't see Kyle's car, so I figured he'd walked or wasn't here yet. A silver Camry was there, though, which meant Craig's crew was staying the night as well. Clyde, Butters, and Token, maybe Tweek.

Cartman groaned.

"Come on, dude. You know these guys well enough."

"I hate them." That could've been called a whine.

Randy's car wasn't in the driveway, so I assumed the rest of the Marshes were spending their holiday somewhere else. We did tend to make a lot of noise on these nights.

The door was unlocked so I went straight in and headed for the basement, Eric lagging a bit behind. Although this was just a small gathering for New Year's Eve, when Stan does go all out and throw a block party, it's the best. Mostly 'cos unlike most people's, his parties aren't just alcohol; we do other stuff. We graffiti and barbecue and set off fireworks and have imaginary ninja battles. One time we tried to bake, while baked. Sure, most of the time we just play video games, but even that's better than North Park parties where they just pump music into our ears and offer us cocaine. Maybe it's just because we're all from South Park, and we know how crazy it is that with our upbringing we're still in school, and sweet Jesus we're still alive.

"Clyde, I told you! No drinking till midnight, that's the rule! Back away, dude."

"Set the TV down there, next to mine. Where're your cables?"

We almost tripped over Butters on the way in. The boy was on his back in the entrance way, pointing up at Stan's underused disco ball, which was spinning quite well in its old age.

"Hey, fellas." He said drowsily, blinking slowly.

"Hey, Butters. You're gonna crush your mohawk."

"Oh, it's you, Kenny. And...oh, Eric, haven't seen you in a while." Butters saw Cartman's red eyes and squirmed uncomfortably in his place on the floor.

"Kenny! Cartman!" Stan swept over to us after ordering Craig to hook up his TV. "Did you see Kyle out there?"

I shook my head. Stan's face soured.

"That asshole. He's not answering his phone."

The door slammed behind us, signaling Kyle's belated arrival. He jumped the stairs and squeezed quickly past Eric and I, putting his keys in his pocket. Stan tackled him.

"Sorry, brother," Kyle laughed breathlessly, pulling at the headlock he found himself in. "My mom decided to berate me for boycotting family activities, even though I told her I was doing this a week ago."

"Well, you can tell Sheila," Stan grunted, dropping onto his back and taking his friend with him. "That due to her interference, her son was extremely close to breaking the super best friend code of mandatory attendance."

"I'll tell her, dude."

"I've had to control these morons by myself. Look, Butters is on my floor!" Stan pointed to the blond, who was about a foot away from the both of them, also on the floor.

I glued myself to Cartman and grinned bitterly. This was just the sort of SBF thing they did when I was alone, and hopefully with Eric around it wouldn't be so awkward. It's not like they weren't friendly with me or anything, just, there was something special about their friendship that I wasn't let in on. I'm certain they don't do it on purpose.

Clyde suggested we watch Underworld first, and after much debate the idea passed. Cartman looked about ready to turn and run. As tempted as I was to do the same for hatred of that corny movie, I knew that logically Kyle would vote for Pitch Black next, which, although quite corny as well, was one of my favorites. The movies wind us up for action, and I knew for a fact that Jimbo had gone down to the Mexican border last weekend to stockpile fireworks for Stan to use tonight. So if I had to sit through Underworld Evolutions listening to Token whine about the lack of black people a thousand times it'd be worth it for the explosives.

After the movies, we played around two hours of Call of Duty, and Craig kicked all our asses. Cartman, getting further embittered the longer he couldn't play video games, told Craig he had no life and was lucky the world decided to make a game more openly accepted than World of Warcraft or else he'd die a virgin in his parents' basement. Craig, of course, got his panties in a fucking twist and stood up to try and start a fight. When it got to the point where it looked like he might make negative contact, I butted in.

"Yo, Tucker. Not cool, man, he's injured."

Craig snarled. "He don't talk injured."

"Guys," Stan whined. "You're in front of the TV."

The fight ended uneventfully when Kyle suggested a break for fresh air.

Butters took off his shoes and socks by some habit of etiquette that was reversed in his drowsiness, and for some reason, we all followed his example. The grass of the Marsh residence's back lawn crunched just slightly with frost, and the orange haze of the nearest streetlight was far enough away to leave the area dark with shadow. The air was still.

While Stan and Kyle set up a launch pad for Jimbo's rockets, the rest of us scaled the old oak and laid around in the infamous Marsh treehouse. Through the rotted and fallen timbers of the roof, winter's stars shone dully in the quiet chill.

Clyde whispered some dirty joke to Token, who in the process of biting back a guffaw sounded kinda like a dying giraffe. Butters moved his arms and legs against the wood floor as if making a snow angel, his blond mohawk having miraculously maintained shape thus far. Craig knit his hands behind his neck and just stared at the sky with a content Tucker smirk on his face.

First I just curled my toes up against my feet, but then got the obnoxious idea to play the virgin. So I rolled over close to my best friend and curled up and pressed my toes to his leg, trying to tone the motion down by pulling up my hood at the same time.

Something rumbled in his chest, but I couldn't hear what was said. Then, all too soon, a heavy hand descended on my head and pushed the orange hood down. I felt the cold tips of his fingers along with the scrape of his thin plaster cast against my neck and shivered, glad to be able to hide my face with the cover of his side and the fort's fractured shadow.

I liked Cartman 'cause he was silent when I least and most wanted him to be. I liked him 'cause he seemed to hate everything with oscillating intensity, even me. Cartman was a sociopath, and I guess I kind of liked that.

Stan and Kyle had laid down some old bricks and dug a hole to keep the PVC pipe they used for rockets erect. They called us down, and we took turns lighting fuses and running away from the explosion. The fireworks Jimbo got were the whistley kind, which were our favorites. Kyle stuffed one of the little ones into an aluminum can, and it blew up on the ground, spraying the house with shrapnel. I thought it was lucky Tweek hadn't showed; he would probably hate this.

Clyde brought out the champagne, and we drank from mismatched plastic mugs to Stan's traditional prolific toast: in which we all shout "ALIVE" and toss it back. The music from the basement leaked out the open door to dress our New Year's wounds with the soft downbeats of whatever indie band Kyle happened to be into at the time, and while the Jew and Stan packed each other's parachutes in the twilight, I think maybe the rest of us pondered our resolutions. Well, Butters was just playing with a Roman Candle.

Cartman crouched down before the embers of our last launch, prodding at the ashy remains with his less-injured fingers. He was chewing on the end of a joint, but he hadn't lit it yet.

I sat down next to him just as Token shrieked when some sparks from Butters's Candle came a little too close to his face.

Eric didn't look at me, and I really really hated that, so I moved behind him and pushed on his shoulders until he gave in and sat down in the charred grass. Petulantly slung my arms around the boy and let my breath hit his neck, chest to back.

He breathed out slowly, still staring at the crumbly bricks and smoke-stained PVC pipe. "Are we having a homoerotic moment?"

I laughed, but felt embarrassed. God, I wish we were having a homoerotic moment. What's it take with this guy? He's a fucking statue.

"Just so you know, I'm not fucking with you."

Cartman stood up so abruptly he actually pulled me to my feet with him, then stalked over to our quite nearly emptied stock of firepower. He pulled out a Roman Candle, caught Clyde by the wrist and took the empty champagne bottle from him as he ran by, then walked back over to the launch site.

"What're you doing?"

He turned for a moment, and the light from the basement door glinted briefly over his red eyes. I lamented not being able to see them in the night.

Cartman laid the bottle against one of the bricks and with a quick movement shattered the neck. "Watch. Just got this idea."

He took out his lighter and lit the fuse to the Candle, put it head first in the bottle, then dumped the whole shebang into the PVC pipe.

I swore and ran quickly from the site, accidentally knocking over Stan. "Get outta the way, bro!"

Stan looked up curiously from the ground just as the Candle shot off a round of fireballs. The bottle flew into the sky with the firework still attached, then shot back down with a delayed whistle while more and more fireballs clinked against the glass and exploded out the exposed neck. It was kind of horrifying, especially when the bottle cracked against the bricks and spun around spitting white smoke. A rogue fireball hit the ground next to Stan and fizzled out.

Butters laughing uproariously broke the burning silence.

Stan grinned. "I almost shit myself there, dude."

I pulled him up from the grass.

"But maybe warn us next time, yeah?" He directed a smirk cheerfully at a point over my shoulder.

Cartman's dark chuckle was punctuated by a casted forearm drawing itself against my throat. "That wouldn't be half as fun, y'hippie asshole."

Stan clapped Eric on his visible shoulder and something minuscule vanished from between them.

"Uh, guys," Craig sniffed from across the yard. "I can't feel my f-feet."

"All right. Inside, boys! Craig's got pussyfeet!" Kyle howled.

The basement rug was a warm reprieve from the crisp grass, and the couch never seemed more comfortable. Stan offered his place up for overnight, 'cos everyone was tired and it was late, suggesting they stay in the basement 'cause he had a pellet stove and it was warmest down here.

Butters cheered, took his shirt off, and settled on the floor in front of the TVs with a bunch of pillows. Cute kid; there wasn't much the poor Stotch wouldn't do to get out of his domineering household for the night.

Kyle turned the music off. Stan threw some blankets out for us, then took his own shirt off.

Somewhat guiltily, I glanced around to see if Eric would do the same, only to find him halfway up the stairs.

I cursed heavily and sacrificed my claim on the couch to run after him.

"Cartman! What're you doing, asswhipe? Stay with us. Please." I caught him at Stan's front door.

He looked down at the keys in his hand, swung them around on their odd rainbow ribbon, then finally looked at me, muttering around the unlit joint in his mouth. "I can't."

"What? Why?" I growled. "I will personally keep Craig out of your sight, if that's what this is. I hate when you make me talk like this, dude, but...I thought we were getting somewhere."

"No," He shook his head, and turned halfway to the door. "It's not that. My, uh...my mum's coming home sometime tomorrow morning. I gotta be there."

His red eyes had shifted back to their melancholy, and I hated his mother for it.

"Dude, no. Don't go back. You don't need to be there for her."

He shook his head again. "I do."

I sighed angrily. "You're so stupid, bro, why should you have to go back? You're just telling her it's okay. And it's not, dude. Just stay with us. It's New Year's."

Cartman put his back to the door and slid down it, rubbing at his tired eyes. His elbow brace scraped against the polished wood. I crouched down before him, and my arms reached out but I pulled them back.

"I don't get it, Kenny. Why do you care? You never care. You grew up without anybody caring about you."

It was harsh, and he knew it. And he didn't care. He wanted to piss me off, drive me away.

I rocked back on my haunches, sat down, glared at the bluish radiation graphic across his chest, and wished I didn't have to admit this to myself.

Eric Cartman grew up spoiled, coddled and content to be unconditionally loved by the only person with reason to care. But now, his safety net burned beneath him, Cartman was finally aware of his own twisted character, his unlikable charade of humanity. I grew up without the care of anyone, nothing ever handed to me. And maybe that's what taught me how to care, while my best friend remained lost in his monstrous limbo of regret. I hated this curse I bore, this empathy that no one deserved from me. From me, Kenny McCormick, undead child.

And yet, I was horribly aware that I cared about Cartman. For no good reason. He was an ass, a venomous, self-serving ass. And maybe his new self-awareness pardoned him from some of his old wrongdoing, but really it just made him a buzzkill.

I hated admitting this. I loved Cartman, loved him like a brother, and something else a little less appropriate.

"You're my best friend, Eric, even if you did completely ruin my favorite super hero game when we were eight. Never cared about much till I noticed that."

He kept staring at the floor, then took out his lighter, flicked it a couple times without success, and ended up just putting both it and the marijuana back in his pocket. I shifted up to my knees and moved forward, moved forward until I could see the tiny splashes of yellow and green in the radiation graphic on his chest, till I could see the wide hollow eyes of the tire skull staring back at me. Not knowing what to do with my hands, I settled for taking his casted one in mine, pulling the keys from his fingers in the process.

"I don't know what to do anymore."

"Well, you can do two things. You can leave everything, go back to your mom, and stay like you are," I paused, he lifted his eyebrows. "Or you could stay here with us, with me, and maybe things could...get better. Dammit, I hate when you make me talk like this."

"I have an idea." He said slowly, stopping to search my face, and I don't know how many times I gotta tell him I'm not fucking with him before it sinks into his goddamn head. "You could come with me."

I hadn't thought of that.

"So, yeah, I'm going with, uh, with Cartman."

"I knew you two would wind up gay."

"Dude! I mean I'm going with him physically-"

"Oh, that's sorta dirty, man, I didn't need to know that."

"Stan, don't be an asshole! And for the record, your best friend act with Kyle ain't foolin' anyone, we all know you wanna stick it up his ass."

"Whoa whoa whoa," Kyle muttered from the other side of his friend, where I hadn't actually seen him. "You mean I stick it up Stan. You don't really think this bitch would-"

"Dude! Shut up!"

"Look, I don't really care. We're leaving, see you tomorrow."

Stan turned to me again, still overcoming his embarrassment. "Aw, but we were just about to watch King Arthur. You love King Arthur."

"Can't, dude, gotta get back to Cartman's place. Mama C's getting back. You know how it is."

"Alright, Ken. Hey," He caught my arm. "I find out you bullied him, at all, and you're dead, get me? Dead."

I grinned crookedly in the dark. "Yeah, I got you."