Chapter 2
Kyle wakes with an uneasy feeling in his gut, which is generally an indication that he's not going to have a good day. When he'd been in school, it generally meant a pop quiz for which he'd neglected to prepare, and at work it usually meant that a server had been shot to hell and he'd have to drive all the way down to Providence to get a firm's system up and running again.
He's taking his mom to the doctor today. His dad would tell him that he's just being negative, and urge him to stop expecting the worst and just be happy to be alive, or some shit like that. Kyle isn't exactly a fan of having high expectations as far as optimism goes, since he can't be as disappointed if his expectations aren't high, but he resolves that his dad is probably worried out of his mind and he's just trying to be positive because that's just how he deals with things.
Kyle deals with things by jogging exhaustively and trying not to think about his mom being sick.
He runs up every staircase he can find, his sneakers pounding against the pavement in time with the angry music on his iPod, trying to forget about how weak his mom's been, how sickly she looks, and how much pain she's been in. He tries to forget how fucking useless he is to help her, and vaguely thinks that he should've become a doctor like she always wanted so he could at least do something to help. He's not good at doing the things she needs him to do, like cook dinner or do laundry—not because he's a guy or anything, but because he's just seriously fucking inept at that kind of shit. Plus, all he can do is worry about his mom right now. Nag that she is, Kyle does love her.
He gets back to the house before the sun even rises. His parents are both awake, but only his dad is downstairs. He's making his mom some fruit and yogurt, and Kyle knows she's just going to throw it up in a while if she even eats it at all. He knows this feeling in his gut isn't from pushing himself too hard with his workout, and he knows it's not irrational worry—it's fucked. This whole thing is fucked.
Kyle doesn't bother asking how she's doing today. He knows. He knows she's not doing any better and asking isn't going to help anything. He just sets his iPod down on the counter and goes to grab a bottle of water out of the fridge.
"What time's her appointment?" he asks. He knows that too—of course he fucking knows—but it's too tense in the room and Kyle needs to diffuse. Normally that's Ike's job, but he's still at school and, in all honesty, Kyle thinks he's afraid to come home. Kyle doesn't necessarily blame him, but that doesn't mean it's fucking okay that Kyle's the only one with the decency to drop everything and come help out.
"Eight-thirty," his dad replies, pulling Kyle back into reality. He can tell by the tone of his voice that his dad is upset—fuck it, they're all upset, but his dad? His dad's always been solid as a rock… probably because he knows his kids are (or, in Ike's case, can be) total fucking nutjobs like their mother. This, though, Kyle supposes, is too much for even the calmest of people. He's not sure what's worse—your mother having cancer or your wife having cancer—and he sort of prays that he never has to find out.
He only feels marginally bad for not telling Stan. Stan can barely handle his own life on his best days; Kyle doesn't need to go bugging him with this. He'll tell him once everything starts sorting out, when it's clear that the treatment is either working and she'll live for another twenty years, or, god forbid, it's clear that she's beyond help and it's only a matter of time.
Kyle fucking hopes it doesn't end up being the latter. He's not really religious anymore, but he prays about it every fucking time it crosses his mind.
"All right," his dad says, taking the bowl toward the stairs with him. "I'm going to take this up to mom and make sure she's ready. You shower and eat. And try to relax."
Kyle's body is humming from his run. His heart is starting to calm itself again, and his stomach is twisting up in knots. Adrenaline is coursing through him right now, endorphins ensuring him in that post-run high that makes his body think everything is okay when it's not. It's just fucking not.
He scrambles some eggs, eats them out of the pan, and then goes upstairs to wash off, thinking all the while about how much he hates Mondays. He stands under the hot spray of the shower, trying not to think anymore. He succeeds, for the most part, until his dad knocks on the door and tells him to get a move on, that he doesn't want to be late, and he's reminded of the whole shitty situation yet again and shuts off the water.
More than anything, he wishes he was back in his apartment in Boston right now, playing Assassin's Creed on his roommate's massive 60-inch TV in his fucking pajamas, like a normal person. That would mean that there was nothing wrong, that his mom didn't have breast cancer and that he could proceed through his life, business as usual.
As it stands, he's stuck taking his mom to radiation, and it fucking sucks dick. His mom is quiet, tired, and not at all like the woman Kyle knows and loves. She's lost so much weight, both from being sick and from worrying, that she looks absolutely unhealthy. She'll never be as thin as Kenny's mom or Mrs. Stotch or anyone, but she's just one of those women who looks scary when she drops below a certain weight.
"Thank you for taking me, bubbeleh," she says. She sounds so fucking strained, like getting the words out is more of an effort than her body is willing to give, and it makes Kyle's chest hurt.
"Of course, ma," he frowns a little. They don't say anything else for the rest of the car ride, and even when they get to Hell's Pass they're still relatively quiet for it being just the two of them. Kyle and his mom are notorious in their family for discussing. They discuss everything, because it's fun for them and it's just in their respective natures, and it's killing Kyle that they're not doing it now.
Kyle has to settle for hiding behind an old as dirt copy of Diabetes Health, hoping that no one from town will see him here. He doesn't think he'd be able to answer anyone's questions right now, which is why he'd rather stare at Bret Michaels' face than admit to anyone, including himself, that he's here.
The only thing that makes him crack a smile is a text he gets from Stan—nothing exhaustively special, just a quick and easy 'Del Taco still on haha', which makes Kyle feel something other than shitty for a few seconds and texts back 'that's my starting hand job rate. if you want more you have to shell out for red lobster or some shit.'
Kyle doesn't even have time to shove his phone back in his pocket before it buzzes again, with another text from Stan, reading 'ha. ha. ha. puns are awesome. you fuck.'
Kyle snorts, sending back 'aren't you at work? texting in class, tut-tut.'
'passing period. fuck you. i am an educator.'
'you're a piano player, cock face. don't get ahead of yourself.'
'… better than being a cock hand.'
'ohhhhh snap. o no u di-int'
'brought it. '
Kyle knows he's grinning like a fucking idiot by the time his mom is done, but Stan has that effect on him. Kenny too, sure, but there's something about Stan that makes him feel like an asshole kid again, and he likes feeling like an asshole kid sometimes still. He feels like a little bit of a shit when he sees his mom, just nuked to hell and back, knowing that he's looking all happy and without a care, but… she's smiling at him, so maybe it's okay? Kyle springs up to offer her a hand, but she swats him away and tells him to stop treating her like an invalid.
"For goodness sake, Kyle, I can manage to walk to the car on my own," she rolls her eyes. Kyle throws up his hands in that universal sign of defeat, though follows her closely out of the ward and through the hallways anyway. She gives him a look that very plainly says 'don't follow me' when she walks into the ladies' room. He plops down on an uncomfortable bench nearby and lets out a sigh. He knows he's being ridiculous, but he absolutely cannot help but worry about his mom.
Just when he thinks he can't feel any worse, who should round the corner but Butters Stotch. Kyle isn't even sure it's him at first, because he's a little taller and a little more filled out than he was when he'd left, but who else, upon seeing someone he recognized, would lift his arm in an emphatic wave and grin like he's been stranded alone on an island for twenty years.
"Well, hey there, Kyle!" Butters chirps and comes over to sit on the bench beside him. He's holding a paper bag from the pharmacy and is that—yep. That's an earring. Butters has managed to out-gay himself by putting a silver hoop through his ear.
"Hey, Butters," Kyle says, looking over toward the bathroom and hoping his mom will take a little extra time to fix up her hair or something. He doesn't know why he's so abjectly terrified of someone like Butters knowing what's going on with his mom… probably because he's tight with Stan and he's never seemed like the type who could keep his mouth shut about anything. It was a fucking wonder how it had taken so long for him and Kenny to start fucking.
"I had no idea you were back in South Park," he says, still smiling like a fucking idiot. Kyle refuses to believe he's ever looked that stupid when smiling about something.
"Yeah, just back for a bit," Kyle replies, shifting uncomfortably. "What're you… what're you doing here?"
"Oh," Butters laughs and shakes the bag in his hand. There's the distinct sound of pills rattling around in that bag, and suddenly Kyle can't help but be curious. "Just pickin' up some stuff before I have to get to work."
"Ah," Kyle nods, eyes still on the bag. "You still work at the bakery or whatever?" he asks.
"Sure do!" Butters beams back, like he's happy that Kyle bothered to remember something about him. He starts chattering about something or another and Kyle can't help but reassure himself that he can't be like this all the time. Kenny would shoot himself if he had to listen to this all day long.
"—but anyway," Butters continues, catching himself with a laugh. "I'm talkin' too much. What brings you here?"
"Oh, it's nothing," Kyle shakes his head. "Just… got a little bug."
Butters nods, like he's all ready to believe this, when Kyle's mom emerges from the bathroom. Butters notices before Kyle even does, sensing the movement out of the corner of his eye and turning his head, eyes bugging out the moment he realizes what he's seeing. Kyle can't help but think that he looks a little like an owl.
"H-hi, Mrs. Broflovski," Butters says, quickly masking his surprise and giving her a genial smile. "How're you doin'?"
Kyle refuses—refuses—to pinch the bridge of his nose and sigh, but come on… who the fuck asks that when someone's very obviously not okay? His mom, though, to her credit, replies that she's fine and thanks Butters for asking. She's always liked Butters, probably because he's so sweet and polite and she feels a little bad for him because of his parents and everything.
"I guess we should go—"
"Kyle, don't be ridiculous," his mom rolls her eyes and starts walking toward the exit. "Stay and talk to your friend. I can manage to get to the car by myself."
No sooner has she turned a corner has Butters turned a worried gaze on Kyle. Kyle rolls his eyes, because of course. Butters doesn't know how to keep himself out of peoples' business—why should Kyle expect this to be any different?
"Shit," he hears Butters say. "Shit, Kyle, what the heck's goin' on?"
"Dude, it's none of your fucking business," Kyle gives a tired sigh and stands. Butters follows, but neither of them move apart from that.
"Maybe not," Butters replies, folding his arms. He looks at Kyle for a few seconds as he chews on his lip, before letting out a frustrated sigh and looking up at the ceiling. "Stan know?" he asks.
"No," Kyle snaps, "and you're not gonna fucking tell him."
"Jesus, Kyle," Butters' eyebrows knit up in confusion as he puts his hands up in defeat. "I'm not tellin' anyone jack shit, all right? Doesn't mean you shouldn't. Look, whatever's wrong, you got friends, all right?"
He fishes his phone out of his pocket then and starts looking for something. A piece of paper flies out with Butters' hand and phone, but Kyle doesn't bother to mention it.
"What are you doing?" Kyle asks.
"Givin' you my phone number," Butters says very definitively. "Never got around to givin' you my new one."
Kyle rolls his eyes, but decides to humor Butters anyway. He takes Butters' number, sends him a text, and he seems to be pretty pleased after that. Kyle supposes he can deal with Butters knowing that something's up.
"You just can't tell Stan about this, all right?" Kyle warns. Butters snorts.
"I won't, don't worry," he says.
"Or Kenny," Kyle amends. Butters looks up at that, eyebrows a little high on his forehead, before he tucks his phone back in his pocket and shrugs.
"All right, I'll do my best," he sighs. "But fair warnin', I don't have too much control over what comes outta my mouth when I'm gettin' fucked."
Kyle feels his face scrunch up because that's an image never ever needed to be in his brain ever. Butters seems to know what he's done and gives Kyle an impish little grin. Something tells Kyle that it was a bad idea to let Butters and Kenny start fucking around with each other—the Butters Kyle had left would have colored at the thought of what he'd just said. He wasn't sure that this town was big enough for two perverts of McCormick proportions.
"Anyway," Butters beams. "I s'pose I should get goin'. I'll see you around, Kyle."
Kyle sees him off with a little wave. He waits until Butters is completely out of view until he picks up the paper that dropped out of his pocket. It's an appointment reminder card, to remind Butters that he's meeting with a doctor named Sofie Peterson next week at nine am. Frowning, Kyle pockets the paper and walks out of the hospital, stopping only for a moment at the front to scan over the names on the directory.
Sofie Peterson, M.D. appears to be a psychiatrist on the fourth floor. Kyle can't say he's surprised—Butters has to be pretty fucked up after everything he's been through. In fact, Kyle's surprised he's actually a functioning member of society. He wonders if Kenny is mostly responsible for that before remembering that it's none of his goddamned business and making his way out to the car.
He gets a text from Stan a few minutes after he gets home, something about a kid at his work having a crisis and him needing to stick around and talk him through it. '…meet at the bar around 4?'
Kyle purses his lips, not entirely sure he should enable Stan to drink anymore than he probably already does, but figures he can do a little damage control if he needs. He shoots back an 'affirmative, captain' before going up to his room to check his email. When it appears that the guys at work are having issues with a server for one of their clients, Kyle decides to call them up, to slip into IT mode for a while.
It's the first time since he's been back in South Park that he's actually felt useful.
oooooooo
Stan and Kyle get to the bar at the same time, which Kyle chocks up entirely on their residual "super best friend" ESP. Judging by the smirk on Stan's face, he's thinking the same thing. Kyle doesn't know what it is about Stan's face that he likes so much—he assumes it has something to do with familiarity and being comfortable and feeling like he's home again.
At least, he assumes it's those things because otherwise it's the way Stan's eyes go all squinty when he smiles, or how his jaw is shaped, or the way his lips stretch over his teeth… and it can't be those things he likes about Stan's face. Why would he just be noticing those things now?
"How's your crisis situation?" Kyle asks as he and Stan both get out of their cars and walk toward the bar. Stan just rolls his eyes and snorts.
"You remember your big crisis at age thirteen?" he asks. Kyle's going to assume Stan doesn't mean his own getting put into a psychiatric ward, which was actually a lot harder on Kenny and Kyle (and even Wendy) than Stan could have ever imagined. He thinks of what else possibly could have been bothering him at that point in his life, but he comes up tragically short.
"I don't know," he shrugs as they enter the bar. Kyle can see Kenny behind the actual bar, wiping off glasses and whistling to himself like he's in a fucking Disney movie. That's definitely Butters, Kyle can't help but think. Realizing Stan is still looking for an answer, he supplies a "He keeps getting boners and he doesn't know why?"
"Oh, he knows why," Stan says and slides up onto a stool. "He just doesn't know why his friend Eli is the one making him get them."
"Oh, fucking burn, dude," Kyle laughs.
"Nice to fucking see you too, Kyle," Kenny snarks from a little down the bar. Kyle looks over at him and sees a broad grin across his face, and okay, he'll admit it: he's missed Kenny almost as much as he's missed Stan. Kenny comes out from behind the bar and envelops Kyle in a bone-crushing hug.
"Dude, when the fuck did you get back?" he asks and holds Kyle at arm's length from him. He looks good, a lot more normal looking—not nearly as scrawny as when Kyle last saw him—and Kyle supposes that's what happens when your significant other is in the business of baking for a living.
"Uh, like Saturday afternoon," Kyle replies and sits back on the stool as Kenny moves back behind the bar. He gives each of them a beer and then cracks one for himself.
"So," he says. "What the fuck's you bitches doin' in my bar?"
"Aw, we just wanted to see how our big brave boy was doing out on the job," Kyle leans over the bar and pinches Kenny's cheeks. Kenny attempts to bite him, twisting his head and clicking his jaw shut just short of Kyle's fingers, and Kyle pulls away laughing.
"So smart, so handsome," Stan gives a false, wistful sigh. "He really is all grown up."
"Fuck off, both of you," Kenny snorts and starts cleaning glasses off again. "The happy couple reunited at last… what's the occasion?"
"Gay jokes," Kyle raises his bottle. "That's original."
"You forfeit any and all rights you have to heterosexuality when you start asking me what it's like to handle cock," Kenny tosses him a wink.
"Aw, goddamn it, you knew about that?" Stan groans half a second before Kyle whips around to tell him to keep his mouth shut. Now? Now Kenny's eyebrows are all perked up and he looks excited and fuck what's he supposed to do? He can't just not share something like that with Kenny.
"Kyle, you dirty girl," Kenny grins, like he already knows what Kyle had done, not to mention how fucking much he'd enjoyed it. Kyle runs his fingers through his hair and sighs as Kenny starts in again. "What did you do? Hands? Mouth? Come on, you can tell your ol' pals. We don't judge, right Stan?"
"I'm officially out of this conversation," Stan declares with a tip of his beer. He drains about half of it in one go, and it makes Kyle's stomach get all weird inside.
"It was a fucking hand job and it wasn't that bad," Kyle says, looking pointedly at Stan rather than Kenny.
"How big?" Kenny asks, getting down to brass tacks.
"Kenny, I'm not fucking answering that," Kyle rolls his eyes.
"Fair enough, hard to gauge for an amateur," Kenny concedes. "Cut or uncut?"
"Are you fucking kidding me?" Kyle practically shrieks. He sounds enough like his mother that Stan starts to laugh. It makes Kyle feel a little better, knowing Stan's at least not so weirded out that he won't laugh about this.
"These are important questions, Kyle," Kenny says very frankly. "I'd be asking you about tits and pussy if you'd been with a girl, would I not, Stan?"
"Kenny, come on," Stan groans, like he doesn't want to get involved in any of this.
"Would I not, Stan?" Kenny repeats, more insistent this time.
"Fine, yes!" Stan exclaims. He's red in the face now, which makes Kyle frown and immediately want to tell Kenny to lay the fuck off if he knows what's good for him. Which is weird, because he's never ever wanted to talk to Kenny that way ever. And he's never that protective of Stan… at least, not anymore. He used to be when they were kids, and he was so far into his depression that he couldn't bother to defend himself.
He seems better now. Then again, Kyle can never tell.
"Did you like it?" Kenny asks, all business again. Kyle rolls his eyes, only because he can feel himself flush the two times he's been asked this question. He's had a guy's dick in his hand. So what? Why is everyone acting like this is the end of the world?
"It was okay," he shrugs and takes a long pull off of his beer. "I mean, I'm not clamoring to do it again or anything, but I wouldn't, like, say 'no' under certain circumstances."
This makes Kenny's gaze snap over to Stan.
"What are you waiting for," he says. "The man's extending an invitation."
Stan, blessedly, rolls his eyes and flips Kenny the bird. Kyle laughs, though it's more to diffuse the tension his body's built up than out of actual amusement.
Because he's not entirely sure he'd deny Stan if he'd asked for something like that, and that kind of freaks him the fuck out.
"You're so fucking repressed," Kenny laughs a little as he shakes his head. "And after everything I've taught you over the course of our friendship?"
"Telling me how good Butters is at sucking your dick doesn't count as 'teaching', assclown," Stan bites back, and Kyle laughs.
"I teach," Kenny begins pointedly, and Stan is already rolling his eyes and kicking at Kyle under the bar, "I teach sex positivity. As a fellow educator—"
"You're actually insane, you know that?" Stan interjects, but in the grand tradition of Kenny McCormick, he's not listening.
"As a fellow educator," Kenny continues, like he hasn't been interrupted, "I would've thought you'd be able to not only accept differences, but embrace them."
"Dude, did you get high before you came to work?" Kyle asks. Stan laughs while Kenny stares at Kyle and mutters something along the lines of 'oh god, it's back' before he goes to tend to a few older patrons who've just sat down at the bar. Stan and Kyle sit for a second, both relatively silent as they let the smiles die off on their faces. Kyle notices that the bottle in Stan's hand is empty, so he clears his throat and rubs at the back of his neck.
"So…" he says uncertainly. "You come here often?"
"Fuck off," Stan laughs and shoves lightly at his shoulder. Kyle laughs a little back before he blows across the top of his bottle, putting off asking the question he kind of doesn't want to ask. He settles on something silly, something stupid… something he actually knows the answer to, that he can handle.
"It doesn't actually bother you, does it?" he asks, and makes a crude hand gesture when Stan give him a confused look. Stan laughs.
"That you jerked a guy off?" he asks. "No, dude, look at who the fuck I've been stuck with for the last like five years. I swear, the second the Wonder Twins started fucking, I threw in the towel on being weirded out by anything."
He's lying, but only a little.
"So, then," Kyle begins. "What are you doing tonight? Wanna go see Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy? I hear it's pretty good."
"Shit, dude," Stan sighs and starts rubbing at the spot between his eyebrows. "That sounds awesome, but fucking Shelly is coming over for dinner tonight."
"Oh, fucking weak, dude," Kyle frowns. He's not sure why he has a little worm of rejection wriggling inside him, but he does what he does best and tries to repress it.
"Hey," Stan says, like he's getting an idea and they're about to scheme. Kyle kind of misses scheming. "Hey, if you're not busy… you wanna come over? I mean, I know it's not ideal, but my mom's making pork roast and I know that's your favorite way to rebel against your heritage."
"Mm," Kyle attempts to say, mid sip, and gestures to Stan with his bottle, "I've actually recently discovered the magic that is putting bacon in waffles, but your mom's pork roast is a close second."
"There is a catch," Stan points out quickly, "and that's that Cartman's probably going to be with her."
"Ugh," Kyle reacts before he can stop himself. "They're still going out?"
"I've thrown my hat into the 'we're expecting' ring," Stan answers sardonically.
"Expecting what," Kyle asks, "the fucking anti-Christ?"
"Knowing them, that's the best case scenario," Stan groans and rubs at his temples. Kyle finds himself feeling bad—rightfully so, he feels—because absolutely nothing gets to Stan quite like being around his family. Add Cartman into the mix (along with the fact that he's been fucking his sister for however long) and a dash of eviction (just to spice things up), and it's actually a wonder that Stan hasn't downed an entire forty by himself yet.
"Dude, I'll come over," Kyle finds himself saying. At least if he's there, he'll be able to keep tabs on Stan's alcohol intake. He knows it's none of his business how much people drink, and Kenny would've told him if it was getting bad again, yeah, but Kyle still likes to make sure just because that's what he does.
"Oh, I was just suggesting," Stan shakes his head. "Don't feel like it's an obligation or—"
"Shut the fuck up," Kyle rolls his eyes. "You're not holding a fucking gun to my head or anything. I'm going because I want to go with you. Get over it."
He looks over and sees Stan smiling at him, so he smiles back and claps him on the shoulder. As fucking awful as this is going to be, he doesn't want Stan to go through it alone. He loves him way too much for that. They sit with each other as Kyle finishes his beer. He nurses it, letting Stan's beer settle (in spite of the fact that the one beer probably hasn't done jack shit to even take the edge off for him), so he can get them back to his house safely.
When he's done, Kyle throws some cash down on the bar and gives Kenny a little salute.
"Bar keep," he says, and Stan salutes from beside him too. Kenny gives them a little wave, reminding them to tape anything of a sexual nature if it does indeed come to that. Kyle and Stan both flip him off at the same time and stuff their hands in their pockets, walking out of the bar at all too reasonable a distance from each other. Alcohol makes Kyle cuddly and handsy (hence, the desire to know just how it felt to give someone a hand job), and just one beer is usually enough to make him want to throw his arms around the nearest person. Or, in Stan's case, hop up onto his back and ride him out of the bar like a horse.
It's the one beer that makes him want to do that—it'll be another three or four before he actually gets to the point where the actual execution of this desire is a threat.
He doesn't drink that much anymore, though. It fucks with his blood sugar hardcore and he can't afford another scare like the one he had when he first got to college.
They drive back to Sharon's house in relative silence, one of Stan's mix CDs playing some innocuous eighties song that Kyle's mocked him for before, he's pretty sure. Stan really likes eighties pop, and Kyle will actually never understand why. When they pull into the drive, Cartman's ridiculous brand new black Escalade is already parked out front, effectively taking up half of the street. Stan sees this and sighs, and Kyle buys himself some time by scoffing so he can think of something stupid to say to cheer him up.
"What a cock," is the most clever thing he can come up with, but Stan laughs anyway so Kyle counts it as a success.
"Fuckin' dickhole," Stan agrees, and they both get out of the car. Kyle waits until they're walking up to the door to drape his arm around Stan's shoulder.
"If she's pregnant," Kyle says. "I'll kick her in the stomach, okay?"
"You're the best," Stan snorts and leans his head against Kyle's for a second.
"And if she's not, I'll help you sterilize her," Kyle adds, just before Stan pulls away to open the door. "And Cartman. Both of them."
Stan shushes him through a laugh as they walk through the door. Shelly and Cartman are on the couch already, Cartman's arm draped around her on the back of the couch, while Sharon is looking rather uncomfortable in a nearby armchair. She looks more than relieved to see Stan and Kyle walk through the door.
"Kyle!" she greets him brightly. "I had no idea you were back in town!"
No one did. That was the point. He knew he couldn't hide forever, but this was why he hated coming home. He hated getting this kind of attention. He loved Sharon and everything, but if he had to listen to one more person say that they didn't know he was here, he was going to kill something.
"Hey, Shel," Stan nods, "Hey Cartman."
Shelly stands to give him a hug. She turned out to be a lot prettier than Kyle would have thought, even though all he can ever see when he looks at her is greasy hair, pink corduroy pants, and headgear. She's tall and curvy, and has definitely inherited her mom's fantastic rack. Kyle can't say he blames Cartman—if Shelly were a halfway decent human being, Kyle would've gone after her himself.
Okay, probably not, because Stan's his best friend and dating your best friend's sister just strikes him as a little strange.
"All right, now that everyone's here," Sharon claps her hands, "let's have a little wine."
Sharon's obviously heard whatever Shelly has to say. Kyle's only ever seen her drink heavily on a few occasions, and it's always on the tail end of bad news. The moment she disappears into the kitchen, Kyle sees Shelly roll her eyes and look back at Cartman.
"Eric, don't be rude," she snaps. Kyle and Stan give each other a look when they see Cartman mobilize almost immediately. For a second Kyle wonders if Shelly Marsh has done the unthinkable and managed to tame the untamable Eric Cartman. Except then Cartman rolls his eyes and tells her to stop being such a miserable bitch and Kyle snorts into his hand.
"'The fuck you laughing at, Kahl?" Cartman snaps. Kyle shakes his head, but knocks one of his sneakers up against Stan's boots. Stan kicks him back and gives him a little shove with his shoulder, because Shelly has managed to get Cartman into a nice sweater and khakis and he's combed his hair and he looks nice and it makes Kyle want to piss himself with laughter because he just looks like such. a fucking. tool.
"No-nothing," Kyle stammers, trying to keep his laughter at bay. They look like your typical preppy couple, the kind Kyle sees littering the east coast in the summer time, and Kyle will bet anything that they'll belong to a country club and do things like play doubles tennis on Saturdays within the next five years. And the only reason it's so fucking funny is because they're actually terrible fucking people.
"You guys are such assholes," Shelly rolls her eyes and goes to loop her arm through Cartman's, resting her hand on his huge, meaty bicep. Then Kyle sees it—the biggest fucking rock he's ever seen glittering on her left ring finger.
"Holy shit!" he exclaims half a second before he can think to stop himself. Stan gives him a look, following his line of sight and immediately letting out his own "Holy shit!" before he flies forward and pulls Shelly's hand to his face. Kyle moves next to him, wondering just how fucking much they're paying Cartman at his fucking cushy office job.
"What the fuck is this?" Stan yelps.
"It's a ring, genius," Shelly snatches her hand back. "Eric and I are getting married."
"Fuck off," Stan laughs, looking up at both of them. They're not laughing. Kyle brings his hand up to Stan's shoulder and squeezes, digging his nails into warning him to keep his mouth shut because the last thing he needs is to be offensive.
"Ah," Sharon returns, open wine bottle and a few empty glasses hanging from her fingers. "You've heard."
"Eric and I are in love," Shelly says, resting her head on Cartman's shoulder. "He finally popped the question on our anniversary last week, and we wanted to come tell you guys in person."
Kyle knows he's staring, just like Stan and Sharon are, except they're both staring at Shelly and Kyle can't take his eyes off of Cartman. He's fucking tall, like, monstrously so, and even though he's still fat under every definition of the word, he's thick and meaty and looks all around like the type of guy you wouldn't want to fuck with. Kyle doesn't particularly like it, mostly because he knows that under all that bulk and fat, there actually is a homicidal fuck lurking, waiting to come out.
Maybe he channels all of his rage into business.
Kyle doesn't know.
He just accepts a glass of wine from Sharon and downs about half of it in one gulp, because he'd rather be up in Stan's room playing Gamesphere or X-Box or something, eating out of the same bag of Cheesy Poofs and getting orange dust all over Stan's controllers. Instead he's here, being an adult.
Being an adult fucking sucks.
They sit down to dinner after a long stretch of awkward conversation. Kyle's on his second glass of wine, Stan's on his third; Sharon is opening another bottle, getting ready for her fourth. She's never liked Cartman, none of the mothers have, and every single parent in town prayed that he wouldn't date their daughter. Poor Sharon probably thought she was safe.
"So, Eric," Sharon says, obviously a little more inebriated than she needs be as she carves up the roast, waving the knife around in a way that makes Kyle laugh more than it should. "How is work going?"
"It's great, Sharon," Cartman replies, grasping the glass of wine like a goblet in his meaty fist. "We're up three percent since last quarter—"
He descends into a bunch of lingo that Kyle doesn't understand, and in fact Kyle believes Cartman is mostly making up as he goes. Kyle busies himself with cutting his meat, looking down at his plate at kicking Stan's foot again. He looks out of the corner of his eye and sees Stan smiling before he kicks back. Kyle has a more difficult time keeping his snickering to himself after this much wine, and so gets the attention of everyone at the table.
"Oh, I'm sorry Kahl," Cartman frowns, pretending to look genuinely concerned. "I didn't mean to bore you. You do what, work with computers? How does it feel knowing you're going to be obsolete in the workforce in ten years?"
"People are always going to use computers, fuckface," Kyle rolls his eyes and Stan elbows him in the ribs.
"Don't talk to my fiancé like that, asshole," Shelly spits. Stan's hand is on Kyle's knee, gripping him hard in his attempts not to laugh. Kyle ignores how hot the hand feels, radiating warmth through the thick denim of his jeans, and mumbles out a half-hearted apology. They continue with the meal, knives and forks awkwardly clanking against plates, Stan and Kyle looking at each other and snorting into their wine every so often, but mostly going through it without consequence.
"Have you told your father?" Sharon asks. Kyle can hear the laziness of her tongue slurring around the words, and realizes he's never seen her like this before. Sharon's always the calm one, the cool one, the one who was always the sober presence in a houseful of chaos.
"I was going to call dad after we came to talk to you," Shelly shrugs and sips at her wine. Cartman looks like he's about to say something, but his phone rings and he insists that he take it. Shelly watches him walk all the way out of the house and into the front yard before she turns back to her mom and gives her an excited look.
"Okay," she begins, "I wanted to wait until we were alone to talk to you about this."
"Fantastic," Kyle gives a little toast with his glass, but Stan grabs the tail of his flannel shirt and drags him back down into his seat.
"Shut up, Kyle," Shelly glares and turns back to Sharon. "Mom, I was thinking. We're planning on having the wedding in June, but I sort of don't think it's appropriate for us to be living together until then—"
"Have a heart," Kyle rolls his eyes. "You already gave him the milk for free, he's doing you a fucking favor buying the goddamned cow."
Stan full on barks out a laugh; Sharon starts choking on her wine. Shelly looks like she's about to issue a beat down, so Kyle tosses out another apology through his own laugh and puts his head down on the table, hoping the conversation will continue and everyone will forgive him for being belligerent.
"As I was saying," Shelly continues. "I was wondering if you'd let me move back in before the wedding."
"Oh, honey," Kyle hears Sharon say. He doesn't want to look up because he knows he'll say something rude, but Stan's gripping his leg again and his hand's getting higher up and with this amount of alcohol in his system Kyle may not be able to keep his dick disinterested. "Shelly, that's a lot of people back in the house."
"Mom, I can't live with him before we get married," Shelly says. "I have to revirginize."
Kyle can't take it anymore. He busts up laughing as he hears Stan's fork clatter to his plate and Sharon mutter 'oh, for the love of God' like this is the last straw and she just can't fucking take it anymore. Personally, Kyle's feeling a little loopy from the alcohol and lightheaded from the lack of oxygen to his brain, so he resolves not to drink anything else for the rest of the night.
Only he can't stop laughing, and when Cartman comes back into the dining room Kyle actually falls off his chair like a bimbo at a frat party. The commotion sets Stan's dogs barking from somewhere inside the house and before he knows it Kyle's being hauled to his feet by Stan and escorted upstairs. Kyle can't stop laughing, because that the fuck does a bullshit term like 'revirginize' mean? They go into Stan's room and are immediately accosted by Trapper and Hawkeye. Kyle's met Trapper before, back when he was a puppy the last time he was here, and either he remembers Kyle or he's the friendliest dog on the planet.
"Hey, Trapper, get down," Stan snaps, grabbing him by the collar and tossing him off to the side. Trapper gives a playful bark, obviously thinking this is a game, and attempts to jump up again. Stan shoves him away again, laughing, and sits Kyle down beside Hawkeye, who appears to be hanging back on the bed and not getting too excited.
"You," Kyle says and runs a hand over Hawkeye's sleek black fur. "I like you. You're quiet."
"Dude," Stan laughs and sits on the bed beside Kyle. "What in the fuck just happened?"
"I don't know," Kyle says and scratches Hawkeye behind the ears. "Your sister apparently feels that it's possible to regrow a hymen."
"Aw come on," Stan groans. "Don't talk about my sister's hymen."
"I can't," Kyle shrugs. "I can't talk about something that doesn't exist."
Stan shoves him, and Kyle shoves him back, and they're both laughing and Kyle feels like he's a fucking kid again. He could never forget how much he loves Stan, but sometimes that swell of happiness in his chest is a lot more prominent than other times.
"You're a fucking lightweight," Stan laughs as Kyle kicks off his shoes and stretches out on Stan's bed.
"Bullshit!" Kyle exclaims, feeling altogether too queasy to do anything. The amount of food in his stomach is settling in, and it doesn't quite feel like the alcohol is doing him much good either. He buries his face in Stan's pillow, which smells like dog and Stan's shampoo and Stan, and vaguely registers Stan saying he'll be back up in a little while. Kyle nods and tries not to vomit when Trapper hops up onto the bed and settles in right up against his stomach. He fades in and out of consciousness, drunk and full and too happy for words, until he's pretty sure Stan's going to be gone for a while.
He only realizes he's drifted off to sleep when Stan comes back into the room and wakes him by flopping down onto the bed. Trapper and Hawkeye hop off the bed when Stan gives them a push to the side and Kyle finds himself missing the warm bodies against him. But then Stan inches up beside him, still a reasonable distance, mind, but close enough for Kyle to feel his body heat radiating off of him.
"How're you doin', big guy?" Stan asks through a laugh.
"I'm fucking fantastic," Kyle replies, eyes slipping shut.
"We've gotta build up your tolerance," Stan snorts. The bed shakes and Kyle feels a socked foot kicking at his shin.
"Shh, stop," Kyle kicks at him and opens his eyes. His contacts have shifted out of focus, so he has to do that rapid blink thing that makes him wonder why in the fuck he doesn't just switch back to his glasses and be done with it.
"Hey," Stan says, frowning. "I never asked how your mom's appointment went."
"No, you didn't," Kyle shakes his head. "You dickhead."
"Shut up," Stan laughs. "Is she gonna be okay?"
"Yeah, probably," Kyle shrugs and inches closer to Stan. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knows that he shouldn't, but he's not sure why he shouldn't, so he goes ahead and rests his forehead against Stan's. "Know who I saw on our way out, though?" he asks, already starting to feel sleepy again with Stan, who's like a fucking furnace, this close to him.
"Who?" Stan yawns.
"Butters," Kyle yawns back, eyes shutting again. "I think he's seeing a shrink."
Stan's silent for a moment before letting go of a soft, simple, "huh."
Kyle wants to talk about it more, to speculate, but Stan's breath is puffing out of his nose in a steady rhythm and lulling Kyle back into a state of sleep. He opens his eyes one more time to see Stan, mouth slightly open and eyes flitting behind his eyelids. Kyle yawns again and decides it's the best course of action to roll over and falls asleep without another thought.
Thanks everyone for reading! I hope you're all enjoying this as much as I am. :)