A/N: Well. After my dramatic 'I fear I am over South Park' moment, like, a day ago, here I am with another chapter. *shrug* Go figure.
*sigh* I fear I may get butchered for this, but...there is one other major pairing in this fic which precedes the Style and can't really go un-forewarned. And that pairing is KyCart. Why? Because it is oh-so-canon and, I think, totally hot. I'm sorry. It won't last. Just grit your teeth and get through it if it isn't your thing. I'm afraid that in my world...Stan and Kyle would never get together without someone else in between. That would just be too easy. ^^
I swear on my life, South Park is literally the coldest place on Earth. Even inside the fucking car, I could feel the icy air leaking in through the flimsy fabric of my Californian hoodie. Back when I was a kid, I used to think nothing of walking across the yard in a T-shirt and bare feet to pick up the mail. I guess now the years of California sun have made me soft.
"Dude, what the shit? Do you have the air-con on or what?" I muttered grumpily, tugging the cuffs of my sleeves down over my curled fists because I saw that documentary on the Discovery Channel about Crazy Edward Parry. You catch that shit? Man. Let me tell you, that frostbite stuff is no joke. Can you imagine? Can you imagine the crap that could drop off of you? Jesus Christ, man. That makes me shudder.
Cartman just sneered at me from the depths of his padded thermal parka and tugged smoothly on the wheel of the Land Rover, sliding the car easily round the next icy mountain curve. It takes some skills to pilot the roads round South Park. We've all got them. It was learn or die back when we were first driving. But now? Man, now if my cold tolerance has already shrivelled up and gone limp, who knows what else has left me.
'Course, Cartman snapped that worry up like a freaking Rottweiler and throttled the fuck out of me with it.
"Man up, Poor Boy. You've been gone, what? Like, three days? And already you can't handle a little snow? That is sad. Sad, sad, sad," Cartman jeered and I almost made use of my numb knuckles by pounding them straight into his arrogant face.
Cartman? I didn't mention him before? Dude. Are you in for a treat.
He's not a friend. At least, he ain't my friend. I mean, okay, we used to hang out, but the guy is a grade-A asshole. If I met him now, I wouldn't give him the time of day. But, you know how it is, though, with the people you've known for years. They're hard to shake. You grow accustomed to them. You get to that crappy point where they stop being friends and start being blood. Then you couldn't drop them even if you tried.
Hell. Cartman's not all bad, I guess, but let me tell you, there are sure as fuck people I would much rather be sealed in a moving vehicle with, you know what I mean?
The thing about Cartman, though, is that although he's a racist, sexist, bigoted, conniving piece of shit (and seriously, no joke, he honestly is all of those things), you can't help but respect him a little. He has a brain on him, that guy. And he always gets what he wants. You gotta respect that. He's like, impervious, you know? You can't really touch him. He's so good at warping stuff to his advantage, right? He has this power to render people around him utterly fucking dick-less. You don't have a leg to stand on with Cartman. Especially now that he's all grown up and butch as all get-out.
When we were kids, Cartman was the fattest kid in school. No, forget that; he was the fattest kid I'd ever seen. I didn't even know you could be that fat and still walk, no, fuck that, still breathe. When he was fat, at least when all else failed you could insult his weight. But, like I said, Cartman's a smart motherfucker. Sometime around grade seven, he worked out that actually, being overweight was a disadvantage. He set out to change that and didn't I say he always gets what he wants? Right. Next thing we know, we don't see him for a whole summer and when school starts up again in the fall, it's too late to stop it. The sharpest mind and blackest heart in South Park were suddenly encased in pounds and pounds of rock-solid, big-boned, hard-assed muscle. It was a fucking blow to us, man. I swear to God, I thought Kyle might fall to his knees and weep real tears when he saw it.
The day you realise that you might never win a fight against Eric Cartman again is a sad, sad day for you. Trust me. And Cartman and Kyle? They always had, like, a dangerous level of hate for each other. Sadistic, psychotic neo-Nazi plus self-righteous, high-strung Jew. It's never going to be a pretty equation, is it? You bet your shit it ain't.
But...No. Cartman isn't my friend. What was I doing in a car with him? That's a semi-long story. Check this shit:
I called Stan up again after I booked my flight, okay? To give him the details and hopefully scam him for a ride to save myself the cab fare. The days when I was too poor to buy a hot dog are long gone now, but old habits die hard, I guess. I think I'll forever be thrifty. Even though I do alright at the bar, I still live in an apartment below my budget and save every scrap of food in Tupperware, for Christ's sake.
The nearest airport to South Park is a long fucking way outside of town. They can't land nearer on account of the mountains and the fact that nobody in their right mind would want to actually get in to South Park. Only fools like me would do something as retarded as return to the place. Cab fare would have cost me a small fortune.
I didn't ask Stan outright because there's no class in that. You gotta have class, man. Instead, I kind of hinted at it without straight asking for it, which is a trick that I've pretty much mastered over the years. So, I non-asked Stan for a place to stay and an airport pickup and he says he can't do it himself because of work and because the spillover of Wendy's extended family are taking up all the bed and sofa space in their apartment. He and Wendy have been on a fucking air mattress for the past two nights, right? But I can stay with Kyle, he tells me. Which is cool because what's Kyle's is Stan's and Stan's to offer as he chooses. You know? They've always been like that. Or- Okay. What Stan actually said, was,
"You can stay with Kyle and- well. You can stay with Kyle,"
"Kyle and...?" I prompted, because, like, I thought I'd misheard.
"You can stay with Kyle," Stan repeated, and made every word louder and clearer this time so that there could be no mistakes.
Weird, right? But I didn't chase it, because the guy's doing me favours and who am I to question him? So, I'll be staying with 'Kyle and-', who can come get me at the airport because apparently 'Kyle and-' works freelance.
"Freelance as what?" I had to ask, because I was seriously that out of touch. Sad, I know. As a journalist, Stan tells me, and I can hear in his voice that he's as horrified by my ignorance as I am; he's thinking the exact same thing as me: "Holy hell, how the fuck did we let it get this far?"
Kyle and I used to be mega-tight in high school. We'd always been friends, but the two of us had this hardcore bromance affair after Stan hooked up with Wendy for serious at the end of middle school.
Kyle and Stan had been, like, the ultimate best friends since kindergarten. I mean...seriously. You guys have no idea. I never saw anything like it. It'd all be totally suspect, on account of Kyle being gay and all, if it wasn't for Wendy.
Yeah, my friend Kyle's gay. If that's a problem, I'll break your fucking faces, you get me?
Anyway, I think Kyle felt sort of lost to discover that he was no longer the most important person in Stan's life. You know? So what did he do? Settled for the next best thing, of course. Me.
Jesus Christ. That's the story of my life, man, I swear it. Everyone's next-best.
Wait, though. Fuck. This is like, the world's most severe detour, right here. The story was how I came to be trapped in a speeding vehicle with Eric shitting Cartman, not how Kyle and my friendship blossomed and grew wings. Let me stop ADD-ing all over the freaking place and get us back on track.
Yeah, the ADD? It's not diagnosed or nothing, but honestly? Makes sense, right? Makes sense.
All you need to know, the jist if you will, is that me and Kyle were thick as thieves. Or had been before I skipped town. Then suddenly, I don't know the first thing about him, which is kind of shit to realise.
So, I was at, like, a ribbed Trojan level of excitement about seeing him again. You know what I mean?
I stepped off my plane and right away, no foreplay, the cold whipped me all up my body like a wet gym towel. Hard. They had one of these shuttle bus things to take you to the terminal. Damn near fell down the staircase in my rush to get on it and huddle next to a heating vent. Made it to the terminal, battled through the milling crowds of spastics you never fail to get clogging up airports and emerged through the arrivals gate expecting to catch a glimpse of Kyle and his welcoming smile. Kyle's pretty much impossible to miss on account of having hair as red as a whore's lipstick. But shit on a stick, if he just ain't there.
What do I get instead? Eric fucking Cartman. All six-foot-plus of hulking, scowling, foot-tapping Eric Cartman.
That ain't a pretty thing to return home to, I tell you what. Especially if you've been expecting Kyle Broflovski.
So, I marched right up to him and said,
"Christ, dickhead. Have you offed him while I was on the plane? Don't think I won't call you on that shit."
And the bastard raised one smug eyebrow and he went, like,
"Ah. Kenny. Charming as ever, I see. Glad to know all the sunshine hasn't tainted you."
Which I ignored.
"Where's Kyle?" I pushed, because seriously, with Cartman, you can't let these things slide. More than once stuff I'd written off as impossible has ended up plastered all over the evening news and I've had to face the guilt that I'd looked the other way. So, like, I was all stern and kind of got in his face a bit – at least, as much as I could with a guy who's a head taller than me.
Cartman manhandled my shoulders and pushed me back again easy and laughed like he was pleased as pie.
"Goddamnit, Kenny. You're still a fucking headcase, aren't you? The Jew's at home. Working. Be glad I didn't just leave you here to sell sex for cab fare."
Then he turned on his heel, threw back, like, "Are you fucking coming, or what?" and it was follow him or stay standing in the arrivals lounge like a douche.
Next I know, I'm shivering in the front seat of Cartman's huge, gleaming, jet-black vehicle, and putting my life into his hands. It's a dumb place to find yourself, I'll be the first to admit.
The house we eventually pulled up at was big and swanky and in the part of town that I would probably have been arrested for so much as walking into as a kid. I couldn't even pretend that I thought it was Kyle's. I slammed the polished door of Cartman's obviously beloved car harder than I needed to and kind of jerked my head towards the monstrosity of a house.
"What the hell is this, man? You compensating?" I said.
Most likely, a comment like that will throw Cartman into a rage. But, as we made our way to the front door with the big glass panel and fancy-ass knocker, he miraculously didn't rise to it. He just smirked, held the front door open, went,
"After you, Kenny,"
and waved me through, like I was fucking royalty. The jackass.
Inside, the place was Cartman's through and through, from the shelves of history books to the decanter and crystal tumblers on the side table. The room Cartman led me into was a bedroom, the master. The rest of the room seemed to practically cower away from the mountainous king-sized bed holding court in the centre. And it all had Cartman stamped all over it.
Except for one thing. One massively crucial thing. With red hair. Who was sitting in the centre of the bed, hunched over a laptop and typing feverishly, wearing pyjama bottoms and no shirt.
That's when it hit me. Fucking Cartman was the 'and-'.
I know, right? It was a rude awakening.
"Eric, fuck off," Kyle snapped, without looking up. "I'm blatantly writing."
And as I was floundering beside him, Cartman went, "Fucking Christ. Did you even move since I left you?" casual, you know, like he said crap like that to Kyle every day.
Kyle clenched one hand into his curls and frowned into the glow of the computer screen, as if merely trying to block out the annoying buzz of a mosquito, rather than Cartman's monstrous presence. Cartman doesn't take well to that attitude. His fist hit the doorframe by my shoulder so hard, I swear to God I nearly shit myself.
"Ey! Jew! I'm fucking talking to you! I just drove all the way across the fucking mountains to collect your faggy Californian friend, so why don't you show me some goddamn respect!" he barked. Woof, woof.
Kyle did not even blink. He just kept typing and totally calm, he went,
"Dude, you can't say 'faggy' when you're a fag yourself, man."
"Actually, fag, that's precisely why I can say it," Cartman shot back, quick as a gunshot.
Right then, something crucial seemed to suddenly filter through Kyle's work trance. His fingers froze, suspended over the keys and he swivelled a stare in my direction. Our eyes met and we grinned big-ass matching grins.
I was like, "Dude," (because after years of growing up with Kev I am a freaking master at hiding shock and awe) and held my hands out to either side of my body, "What the motherfuck is this?"
Kyle's grin just got brighter because, shit, man, everybody loves to see Kenny. Don't deny it. You know you feel it too.
"Kenny," Kyle returned, like it was Hanukah come early, and snapped shut the laptop with a decisive 'clunk'. Cartman made this dumb snort noise beside me as Kyle swung his legs over the side of the giant bed.
"Oh you are fucking shitting me," Cartman said, "You're closing that thing for this asswipe? You don't even shut it down when we're-" And I winced and cringed because, like, I'm not an idiot, and I seriously do not need what's obviously going on here to be spelled out to me in words. Thankfully, the press of Kyle's fingertips stopped the movement of Cartman's lips before they could say all the things I never want to hear or imagine, or...bleurgh.
My eyes were kind of stuck, though, open and gawping, like when you drive past a Victoria's Secret billboard – or wait, let's make that more appropriate: when you drive past a viciously gory car wreck – as Kyle's hand slid from Cartman's lips to his tree-trunk neck and then to his beasty collar bone. For a moment I had to witness my sane, level-headed friend Kyle looking up all doe-eyed, through his eyelashes, at a fucking Nazi, for Christ's sake. Then he said, really low and sincere,
"Thank you, Eric. I appreciate it." And he fucking kissed Cartman – nothing sloppy, just nice and simple – on his jaw.
Eric hu- Shit. Goddamn, no way, I am not getting on that fucking bandwagon. No how. Cartman huffed and looked away, but I could tell that he loved it. And just before I could start bawling Kyle out about how weird and creepy this all was and what kind of a trip was he on, I realised, with a sort of pride, that my boy Kyle had found a way to win fights with Cartman after all.
I mean, yeah, though. It's still fucking weird-ass.
Kyle folded his bare arms around me and squeezed hard and I laughed and choked and hugged him back, because I am so his faggy Californian friend. With Kyle I'll always be totally shameless. I just love the guy, you know? We have big friend love, pure and true. Simple as.
I was afraid to ask him about the living arrangements I'd walked into. I could only assume that some kind of bondage was involved. Still, though:
"Dude, I gotta say," I told Kyle, "I'm kind of disturbed by finding you mostly not clothed and in Cartman's bed. Tell me this shit doesn't mean what I think it means."
Kyle kind of wrinkled his nose and squinted his eyes a little and said shiftily,
"Would you believe me if I said I'm being blackmailed into it?"
"Yeah," I shrugged, "I could buy that."
"Good," Kyle said with a grin, "That's the story I usually go with."
Cartman exploded next to us.
"The hell?! You tell people I blackmail you?" he squawked and Kyle turned to him and said, all matter-of-fact,
"Well, yeah. Come on Cartman. I can't let people know that I actually choose to sleep with you. My reputation would be shot to hell."
It was a joke, you know? But, for real, Cartman's face turned purple. It was all beginning to feel a little more normal, with them fighting. Because, thank fuck, I suddenly got that actually, nothing had changed so much. I'm way adaptable like that. So, I pushed away every image of the two of them actually sleeping together, because...dude. And I set about trying to diffuse the situation, which I was always good at.
This time, it didn't exactly go as planned.
I nudged Cartman in the side with my elbow and winced, because seriously, there was barely any resistance. The guy is solid as a rock and Kyle and I suddenly began to look stick-thin and fragile to my eyes.
"Dude!" I grinned at him, all sunny, and said, "You got Kyle, man. You know deep down we all wanted Kyle a little," because ego-stroking has always been the most effective Cartman management technique. Kyle snorted and looked at me wryly. Cartman scowled, but tossed his head kind of proudly and says,
"I was always gonna get Kyle."
Which could have been the end of it, right there. Except Kyle crossed his arms and looked at Cartman and went,
"Only after you lost weight, dude."
Damn.
"Ey! Spare me your prejudice, Jew!" Cartman yelled and I was suddenly trapped in the ever-decreasing space between them. Kyle's eyes were blazing as he leaned past me and snapped,
"Oh. No way. No fucking way are you calling me prejudiced, Hitler Junior."
Cartman's eyes were blazing right back and I could feel his breath all heavy and hot and hitching against the crown of my head and that's when it occurred to me that this wasn't a regular Kyle and Cartman fight that I was standing in the middle of. This was a hate-sex fight. And as trippy as that might have been to see, I was out.
...Kyle and Stan?
Dudes, for real, I am getting to it. Okay? Don't hassle me. I'm like, setting the scene, man. Do you want it right or do you want it fast, huh?
Jesus Christ, but you're pushy.
A/N: Abrupt end, I know. But it's actually weirdly hard to cut Kenny off. This seems to be the only way I can do it. /my lazy way of doing it.
This is my sloppy fic. The Kenny narration kind of covers a multitude of sins...or maybe it doesn't. Who knows! Please review. ^^