Kenny often wonders if he would've been better suited as a banker than a firefighter, always finding himself wandering through the same quandary as calloused fingers slip so fluidly along oiled, crumpled bills. He remembers nothing of algebraic torment from his high school days, he can't calculate just how much extra that 2.9 percent sales tax will tack onto his minor impulse purchases, but he can damn well plow through a stack of ones and fives with almost agitating accuracy. A few years stuck as a late-night waiter for a second job had made him beyond practiced at sifting through his tips and making change. Knowing just how much money was in his hand is a habit he still can't seem to shed, spending far too long throughout his youth pinching pennies for himself and his siblings for their secret food stash or even managing to afford the purchase of a treat for all three of them. Even with a more than comforting savings account and an easily maintained lifestyle under his belt, he can't seem to shake the rampant fears of his childhood, of overestimating just what he had and finding himself fighting for his home and few pleasantries alike.

His eye catches on a blatant scribble in pen atop a bill, halting in his counting and telling himself to remember the twenty-four dollars he'd reached before focusing back on the markings. He cocks his head with a tiny smirk, teetering on amused at the juvenile defacing of Washington with the amateur devil horns and the curious addition of dimples and a red scribble along his cheek bones. Kenny snorts, wondering if ol' George is just embarrassed that people are so willing to break the law literally in front of his face. Doesn't really matter, he supposes. At least it wasn't one of those damn 'Where's George' bills that'd circulated back into his hands too many times to count. He wonders if those notes had ever left South Park, knowing damn well enough that travelers rarely stopped along their way to bigger and better places and the citizens left so seldom they may as well be classified as a federal prison of a town.

The thought makes him sigh, a teeny part of him wishing he could take all his money out of the bank and just go on the road, make sure his own currency got out to every damn mainland state. It's nothing but leftovers from his days in high school, sitting on the bleachers with Craig and Stan and staring off into nothing, trying to keep his cigarette smoke from flooding Stan's damn asthma-infested lungs and talking droning nothings about their futures.

Stan had his hopes dug into a football scholarship that'd let him breeze through college, later getting said money and arriving at school with the startling realization that he had no idea what to do with his life. He'd always said he wanted to protect the environment, do something that meant something. Kenny can't help but tease him even still that instead of pioneering a groundbreaking alternative fuel, he'd locked down into statistical analysis. Stan hates it with a passion, always sneers at himself when he puts on work slacks and snags a bundle of reports. But it's money in the bank, and he's decent enough at it, he claims, so he can brainstorm on his downtime about ways that he can finally make that difference.

Craig had no aspirations, nothing more than 'not retail'. A smart exclusion by Kenny's measure. No, Craig had looked to the horizon and found nothing but a plethora of job sites and some freelance photography. That is until finally landing a place at Skeeter's when he was twenty-two and a "sweet grooming gig" the year following and never looking back. He was more interested in browsing pet stores and only allowing Kenny's company for the sake of getting high on the weekends than "wasting his life at a desk like Marsh" as he'd put it.

Kenny himself had no clue at the time what he'd wanted. He knew he wanted something, something that gave him reason to get his ass out of bed in the morning and face the day that wasn't merely getting the money for food. He'd announced the week before graduation that he was just going to pack up and go for a while, then come back to take care of Karen once Kevin had the funds saved to move out himself. A father's poisoned liver and a miserable mother's pill-popping depression spree only three weeks after caps were tossed had severely skewed their plans. Any spare money went to a funeral and a needed trip to rehab for their mother, the three McCormick kids finding themselves again trapped in their home and the future as dull as ever.

It still pangs Kenny, knowing that he and Kevin were both so close at one point. Eventually, they had all gotten out once Karen finished college, but it'd taken what felt like such an eternity to get there. It's a confliction, even as it was years ago. Kenny finally walked away from his childhood home for the last time, finding his new home filled with the flooding of both gratefulness and bitterness.

Now any plans of going on the road have hit a screeching halt, focus locked down on keeping up mortgage payments and trudging through twenty-four-hour work days. Firefighting had come out of necessity before anything else, never having an interest in his youth in such a dangerous profession. But schooling was quick and cheap, EMT and physical training were nothing he couldn't handle, and the pay is far more than he thought he could make with no college degree. Not the dream, but good enough for now; it's the McCormick way.

Besides, he's found his ways to even the field for himself a bit. Only two days of work a week means five to do as he pleases, and earning some tax-free tip money for a lifelong hobby is his idea of a good use of his time. Even if it's only covers he can manage, even if he sometimes gets lost when someone more knowledgeable comes up to him discussing the potential hindrance of nodules and how maybe he'd be better suited for operettas, it's a tiny portion of his life that he can take pride in. It's his own, even if his audience is nothing but drunken rednecks that often roll their eyes when he steps up onto that shoddy pallet stage. But there's always enough people that appreciate him to keep him coming back.

That and the upwards of thirty dollars a night is never too shabby to take home.

Soft noise grips his attention from his cash, eyes fluttering up to see the last party finally making way out of the bar. He glances to the analog clock on the far side of the wall, reading a marked 2:43 atop a yellowed face, a remnant of better times when Rob Reiner hadn't gotten his way and the pungent kiss of nicotine lingered around patrons in a musty haze. He smirks, looking behind him at a familiar grumbling and laughing at Craig staring daggers after the retreating customers. "Took their sweet time with last call, huh, Buddy?"

"Shut up," Craig mutters, rubbing his temple. He wanted to be home nearly an hour ago, hoping that for once people would down their drinks and get the hell out of the building so he could just go sleep. An early shift at the groomers seemed foreboding, knowing every minute was one less that he had to rest once he finally got home. "Leave," he says flatly, stepping from his station and making way to the abandoned table.

"Rude," he mocks, sliding off his barstool and standing on his toes to stretch. "I'm so loyal to you, Baby."

"McCormick. Leave," he spits. "And take your fucktoy with you," he waves his hand towards a quietly napping Stan propped up on the seat beside of him, head rested on folded arms and a finished amber bottle clutched in his inner elbow.

Kenny grins, shaking Stan's shoulder enough to rouse him out of a confused sleep, looking around to figure out just where he is as Kenny turns back to watch Craig. "C'mon, now, don't be jealous. Stan just can't get enough of my dick, not his fault."

"WHAT?!" Stan snaps, drowsiness faltering with a sharp glare at Ken laughing incessantly at his humiliated expression. "I'll rip off your dick, Kenny!"

"Can't keep your hands off me, huh, Sweetcheeks?" he winks, snagging his guitar bag and sliding it over his arm to rest on his shoulder. "You comin'?"

Craig looks at them shadily, grey eyes flashing with the impending storm of impatience, "Well, he's not staying."

Stan rolls his eyes, barely managing to stifle a yawn as he slides onto the floor and rubs under his lashes. "Again, good to see you, too, Craig."

Craig offers him no more than an irritated grunt as he wipes down sloshed beer from the tabletop, Stan and Kenny shaking their heads and turning to leave. "See ya, Craig," Kenny sings. "Don't miss us too much, now!" Another huff is all he gets, Kenny snorting and Stan sighing tiredly. Neither of them know why they continue their friendship with him, but their triad just seems incomplete without his oh-so-whimsical mannerisms.

Stan is the first to step out of the bar into the pre-springtime air, nose scrunching at a mess of cold and dampness crawling up his sinuses. Kenny follows, taking in a lungful and exhaling, wanting to fall comatose to its implications. He loves spring, loves when the snow takes on that attempted thaw crunch. The few visitors that come through their town outside of winter always comment on how strange it is, how they expected soft, powder-fresh flakes ripe for tossing into the air to flutter back in a glittering mist like a dollar store snow globe. Kenny knows better. This is the snow of childhood wars, where you can't tell if you packed a piece of ice into that snowball, but whoever you hit with it is sure as hell gonna take notice. Spring in South Park is survival of the fittest, flora and fauna alike. Birds come back later than outsiders would expect, pollen comes in one speck at a time, redistributed to turn the town into a communal sneezing fit.

Spring is Kenny's reset button. Once he meandered over the existential crisis of his birthday immediately following the season's beginning, it would be smooth sailing. Occasionally he wonders if he has seasonal affective disorder, always hitting a personal slump once Halloween was done and passed. Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years; every event just dragged him deeper into self-pitying pits. A cocky smirk and perverted ramblings seemed to fend off the questions he would otherwise get if he acted as he felt. The feeling was always heavy, like the painfully sharp snow beneath his feet had turned to crush him, keep him stuck and cold. He always wants to finally take that trip out, go down South where the sun would beam on his face and remind him that it was still there, it was just taking its sweet, sweet time getting back to him.

But, he always had this time to look forward to. Less darkness, more smells, more life. It was worth the wait every time. He just wishes that winter didn't start back so goddamn soon in their mountainous borough.

"How much you make?" Stan asks, looking at the stack of bills still clutched in Kenny's fingers through drooping lashes as they walk out towards the back parking lot.

Kenny looks down at the rag papers illuminated by subtle amber streetlamps and a waning gibbous moon playing peekaboo behind weighty, tarnished silver clouds. 'Twenty-four,' he reiterates, quickly making his way through the stack separated by his ring finger from the accounted. His lips move, mindlessly slipping through the numbers before hitting the end of the stack and nodding to himself. "Looks like thirty-nine," he says. "And some-odd change," he shakes his left leg pointedly, the sound of trapped coins rustling in his deep jeans pocket.

Stan nods, impressed, "Not too bad." He watches as Kenny folds his earnings and shoves them in atop the change.

Kenny looks at him and smirks, "Well, maybe your friend gave me a lil' extra, huh? Way he was starin' I thought 'e was just gonna hand me 'is credit card."

A groggy face falls into a tight frown, thick brows furrowing at the mention. He's been wanting to bring it up since Kyle had finally exhausted himself through such a lengthy trip out of his home and went to leave, caught by Kenny at the door and held hostage in his dopey state for another good ten minutes of Kenny's boisterous ramblings before finally being led out by Stan. "Yeah, we need to talk about that."

They stop at the forefront of Stan's Mazda, automatically moving to lean against it and Kenny struggling to move his guitar out of the way behind him. "Talk about what?" he drawls, crossing his arms and watching his friend expectantly.

Stan tilts his head the few inches needed to meet his stare, a steady, unamused breath seeping through his nostrils and revealing a stream of condensation in the wrought light sources. A dragon, Kenny thinks, knowing that serious expression anywhere. It was rare for Stan to direct at him, but when he meant something, he damn well meant it, and always gave him the look that fathers besides Kenny's own seemed to always carry in their back pocket. He always thinks such a stern face more than disproved Stan's theory that he'd be an awful dad. "Leave Kyle alone," Stan says simply.

Kenny blinks, "He came to me, Stan."

"Okay, yes, but I know your damn looks too well at this point," he retorts, an impatient bite in his tone. He's not sure if he believes what Kyle told him about his disinterest, that yearning, dreamy expression saying much more than Kyle's simple brush-off ever could. But no matter how Kyle may feel, Stan knows the true danger of the situation looking down at him with a baffled expression.

Ken pouts, "I dunno what you mean-"

"You know damn well what I mean," he snaps. "I thought you promised not to goddamn flirt with my friends anymore."

He scoffs, eyes rolling dramatically. "I flirt with everybody. So, I was a little friendly, so what?"

He pinches the bridge of his nose and Kenny shakes his head. He hates that habit of his, he only uses it against Ken when he's reaching the breaking point of his irritation with him. "Listen," he finally continues, dropping his hand and holding it with his fingers outstretched in emphasis. "I like Kyle. I don't want him to avoid me because you decide to fuck around with him and make him feel awkward."

He can't help a tiny snort, "To be fair, he was covering the awkwardness pretty damn well all on his own."

"He's new," Stan practically whines. "He's always sick and he's moved like, a thousand times. Just because he's not your pinnacle of social grace or what-the-fuck-ever doesn't give you permission to move in on him like that."

Kenny's face falls back into its frown, staring at his friend and heaving a deep breath. "He complimented my music. What the fuck was I supposed to do, Stan? Pat his head and shoo him away? Tell him 'sorry, we'd talk more, but Stan apparently is your chastity belt'-"

"No, that's not what I'm saying," he cuts him off. "I'm saying that you were just laying it on pretty damn thick. Expected your damn eyelid to twitch off as much as you goddamn winked at him. And then the whole dedicating a song bullshit. You aren't subtle about what you want," he reminds him.

He offers him no more than a one-shouldered shrug, head tilting further up in superiority. "He started it," he says plainly. "You saw 'im. Ain't never had no one have so much trouble talkin' t' me. Guy wants it bad."

Stan growls under his breath, wishing he could tower over him for just this instance. "You don't know that. I've lost enough people in my life because of your dick, McCormick. And I work with this one."

"He that awkward at work, too?"

He pauses, lips twisting up in thought. "Somewhat. Depends."

Kenny cocks his brow, intrigued. "On?"

"What the topic is," he shrugs. "Talk numbers and he'll keep a conversation, albeit quiet and quick as fuck. Talk about literally anything else in the world and he shuts down. You know how damn long it took me to get him to actually hang out?"

He smirks, "No, tell me, oh-so-patient one."

"He's lived here for almost six months," he sighs, eyes drooping tiredly. "I feel so bad for the guy. You can tell he wants to be included but he just can't be."

Kenny blinks, "Because of his headaches?"

"Yeah, Dude. Migraines all the damn time. He's always cringing like someone's hitting him if someone's talking to him. And it's every day. Sometimes he's like he was tonight, but he's had some awful ones," he winces. "Like, pass-out level awful."

"Jesus," he breathes, face scrunching. The notion seems almost laughable, something so simple as a headache bringing a grown man down into an unconscious heap on the ground. Kenny remembers his mother complaining now and then about so-called migraines. He'd read online that they could be crippling, that light and sound could decimate a sufferer. But, as he'd never met anyone else who made such claims, he now wonders if his mother had been exaggerating, and not just 'one of the lucky ones' as he'd previously thought. After all, she only pulled it when she was watching television and wanted to hear what was happening over her children's banter. "Figure someone like that would just stay home away from, like, everything," he remarks.

Stan nods, "Exactly. He doesn't go out like, at all, Ken. Don't fuck with him. Last thing he needs is to be upset enough to give him a reason to be a recluse."

Kenny shakes his head, "You have no faith in me, do you?"

"No. I don't."

"Wow," he scoffs, ignoring the sliver of hurt wriggling through his chest. He's long grown used to such accusations from anyone he grew up with. But it always stings when it's Stan throwing out such statements. "Listen, I won't do nothin'... 'Less he makes a move first," he amends. He looks down to see Stan's frown deepen and he shrugs, voice going cool and controlled. "What? Who am I to deny someone a ride on this train?" he gestures along his torso, cheekily wiggling his brows.

Stan's teeth grit, "Ken."

"Last time I checked, we're all adults here," he reminds him. A pause as he considers his next words carefully, deciding that Stan's insulted him enough to get a nice glimpse to know just how right on the money he is. "And fuck you, he's cute. I can't tell that face no."

"Oh my god," Stan groans, beating the heels of his palms against his forehead. "You keep depleting my goddamn friend circle outside of you."

Kenny grins, reaching over and pinching his cheek. "Let's face it, Stanny, my boy, I'm the only one ya need anyhow. 'N I wantcha all t' myself." Stan makes another displeasured noise, shaking his head as though in pain. Kenny sighs at his fussing, scratching up through his hair. "I'll be good," he drawls at last, wondering if they're halfway to having to make a damn pinky-promise the way Stan is acting.

Stan glances at him, eyes straining as they glare from the side. "You won't pull your damn one-night bullshit?"

"Only if he wants it," he snorts. "'Sides, I think he can make his own damn decisions without you."

"Kenny. Please," he begs.

Kenny narrows his eyes, curious as to his insistence on the matter. "You wantin' 'im or somethin'?"

His face screws up in distaste, "What? No! Dude, I'm with Wendy-"

"And sick of havin' a beard so you wanna snatch yerself up a lil' redhead," he teases, cackling at Stan's face contorting further. An easy blow, one that Stan took every goddamn time. Kenny flicks his arm lightly, rolling his eyes in amusement at the embarrassment on his face. "I don't think he needs you protectin' him. Why do ya care so damn much?"

Stan's expression simmers, considering his question. It's a fair one to ask, and he's not sure if he can really answer it. "I don't know," he says. "He's nice. You don't get nice people that come through here. And he's…" he hesitates, vision blurring a tad as he winces. "He's just kind of… naïve?" He's more than once seen Kyle getting coffee at the office, overhearing coworkers describing their weekend exploits in astonishingly graphic detail. One of the downsides of working alongside a good number of people they grew up with. But Kyle always seemed lost, awkward around such talk. When he'd settled into the environment and most knew him on a first-name basis, he'd been drafted into the banter, despite trying to get his creamer and escape in one dignified piece.

"How 'bout you, Kyle?" Jason had asked through a mouthful of tuna melt that penetrated the office with such a sour aroma. "You hook up with anyone yet? Been a few months since ya got here."

Kyle had subtly sunk, whisking through his drink with a stirrer far too short for his twelve-ounce mug. "I-I haven't really… settled in yet…" he'd worked out, staring at glossy French vanilla swirls twisting around his dark roast.

A senior accountant had scoffed, "It's South Park. Takes about a week to get settled, Kid." Stan still doesn't know if the man had said such in encouragement or as a full-on insult. The relationship between Kyle and the older worker was already strained at that point, Kyle practically taking over his job upon his arrival and demoting him down to mere bookkeeping.

The others gathered around the break area had laughed, agreeing in chorus at his sentiment. Kyle had done nothing but blush and quietly worm his way out of the locale, speed-walking back to his cubicle and not leaving until nearly everyone had gone home for the day. Stan's never seen someone so off about such subjects, doesn't know if it's merely an upbringing factor or something more personal. He wonders if members of this town are just foul-mouthed and have no boundaries with one another in comparison to everywhere Kyle seems to have lived. Or if Kyle's heard those questions far too many times in his life and still just doesn't have a decent response for them.

"Naïve how?" Kenny breaks through his train of thought.

Stan shifts his weight from foot to foot, dark eyes flittering down to stare at the cracked pavement doused in slush. "Maybe that's not the right word. But… I don't know. I just don't think he's really had… friends. Or attention. Just kind of gives off that loner vibe, ya know?"

Ken nods slowly, glancing to his waiting truck a few spaces down the lot and sighing. "Well… try t' bring him out more," he suggests. "Not good for a person t' be like that. It ain't that hard t' make friends in this town. We're all usually plastered," he half-heartedly jokes, both shaking their heads at the truth ringing through the allegation.

He agrees with the sentiment, but suspicion still lingers through his stare as it rises back up to Kenny. "Be cool."

"As a cucumber," he scoffs with a light smirk. "Believe it or not, Marsh, I'm pretty big on makin' sure it's mutual."

"I know," he mutters, kicking at the ground. "But then you never call them again and I get to play middleman."

Teeth lightly gritting, he forces a bubble of anger to quell. He wants to yell. Wants to hit Stan with his guitar and make him listen to his side of the damn story for once. But it won't matter. It never does. If he ends up with someone, it's all over town within hours, and everyone just shakes their head and goes 'Well, that's Kenny for ya'. The "abandoned" get sympathy and Ken gets dirty glares from their companions when he walks down the street. It's an aggravating game that seems to always be in play, but at this point, it's routine enough he takes it with a grain of salt. It keeps him busy, reminds him there's more than work and bills. It lets him live, even if only for a couple hours. "I ain't gonna hurt your damn friend," he mutters, standing up off the car. He's had enough of this interrogation. "Night."

Stan watches him tromping away, face falling back into a stern frown as Kenny fumbles with his truck keys and a pack of cigarettes, shaking his head. He always throws a mini tantrum when they talk about this, but he never changes. Whatever, Stan supposes. So long as he keeps true to his word.

Kenny manages at last to open the door to his pick-up, hinges releasing an ear-grating rusty screeeech. Clambering in, he sets his guitar on the floor of the passenger seat, looking at the neck jutting up to let the covered headstock try to see the world. He flops back against his cloth seat, seared lightly in rimmed specks from runaway cherries that the wind caught. His eye is drawn to a glimmer in his side-view mirror, watching as Stan's headlights attempt to blind him before he drives off and away. A relieved breath seeps through the side of his mouth, head shaking as he watches glaring taillights heading off and away.

Stan means well. He always does. But, he seems to have a hard time trusting Kenny over anyone else in this particular matter. One time of lying to him in high school about a fling with Annie Knitts had doomed Ken to that mistrustful glare, to Stan going out of his way to lecture a grown man on proper conduct.

Small towns breed small minds, he's learned this well enough. You do something once and no one will ever forget about it. You either steer into the skid or spend the rest of your life walking with your eyes downcast and shame lingering upon your shoulders like a chatty parrot. Kenny learned to go ahead and let the car do its thing when he was a kid, sick of making excuses for his family's reputation and deciding to just embrace their personification of the stereotypical white trash hicks.

Doesn't make it easier, though.

He shakes his head, fumbling with his crushed pack of cigarettes and swiping out one of the five stranded in cardstock prison. Need to buy more, he notes, heaving a sigh as his fingers slip around a cherry red Bic lighter, thumb gaining another irritating line of friction as it flicks along the spark wheel. A long inhale floods down his throat, a nip of menthol hitting his pharynx and a Pavlovian relaxation spreads down the length of his back. He hums, hearing his subconscious' little lectures it loved to give on how he could ruin his voice, how no one can sing with a hole in their throat. But just as quickly, he shuts it down. He doesn't care, temporary solution to a temporary problem.

The lighter in his hand catches his attention, looking at the minute tears beginning to creep up the plastic coating. Good. Red lighters are bad luck anyway. Can't force the removal, though. It must be natural, the lighter has to reject its own misfortune, has to shed the identity that society has placed upon it. His mouth quirks. If only it were so easy, to get caught on the abandoned knick-knacks of someone's pocket and begin to break from the chrysalis. No temporary solution for that, unfortunately. Only smart-ass misdirection and lathering on the trademarked charm until people forgot who they were talking to.

He shoves the cursed object back into his pocket, moving to slam his key into the lock cylinder, wincing as his truck sputters to life. Next thing that needs an upgrade, he decides. Right now, money is just a tad tighter than he prefers with an extra mouth to feed for a provisional stay. He figures it'll be simple enough to start putting back for that within the next month, giving himself a small nod of confidence.

He can't control how the town views him, can't take a hold on how quickly the sun will be back to greet him in the mornings once more… But he knows damn well what he can control: Himself.

And, as far as he was concerned, that was more than he could say for the majority of South Park.

When Kyle had gone apartment shopping in South Park, his options had been limited to say the least. Three complexes in the city, all with their own 'uniqueness', as he'd awkwardly told his mother.

The buildings on the outskirts were sketchy, Kyle had nearly fallen on his face tripping over a splintered piece of hardwood flooring. Their benefit was an allowance to do as he pleased to the walls, but little else seemed to stand out to him. And finding himself locked in eye contact with a not-so-friendly seeming group across the hall didn't seem to be his safest option. Kyle had been greeted by a manager who doused in bathroom cologne as opposed to bathing. He'd asked him upon meeting at the end of his water-stained ceiling tour if he'd be paying the cash right then and there and holding out his hand.

The lofts in the "ritzy" SoDaSoPa district had been filled with the buzzing hum of constant chatter and happenings. The windows were thin, he could easily hear the couple in the apartment across the street ensnared in a circle of arguing the health benefits of quinoa. That manager had been overly dressed, spent more time telling Kyle about the fascinating culture that surrounded them as opposed to discussing utility plans. No changes allowed made to the rooms, they needed 'kept uniform to preserve their individuality'. Kyle's head hurt enough, he wasn't going to live somewhere with that contradiction beating him over the skull.

He'd settled, albeit by process of elimination, for a complex seated in the middle of town. It suited all the needs he'd had: An ability to paint the walls, windows thick enough he could at least muffle some outside disturbance, and seated on the end of the block with only one neighbor. It was as good as he was going to get outside of finally settling and putting money down for a house.

But Kyle knows himself too well for that, knows the string of events no doubt ready around the corner. He knows he'll one day have to hire someone to paint the walls back, pack up, and move on to the next affordable option. It's only a matter of time.

But, for now, Kyle thinks nothing of that. He doesn't think about the sound of restless teenagers walking by his bedroom window, barely hidden even through his suede blackout curtains, advertised so prominently to aid in noise reduction. He doesn't think about the bareness of a room painted midnight blue, and the pleasant hum of a car engine it projects towards him. He thinks about his laptop screen with the contrast ratio so out-of-whack any normal person who looks at it complains. But, Kyle has screen calibration down to an art, hues of greys and blues and muted oranges that he can observe with minimal anguish.

A long sigh leaves his lips, eyes lingering on the search bar atop the darkened YouTube homepage. He can't fucking remember. He'd heard it twice, but was so damn lost in the Heaven he'd stumbled upon he can't seem to recall anything not said by his savior himself.

"Started with a 'Mc'…" he mutters, fingers sliding along rubber-domed keys as he types in 'Kenny Mc', watching a slew of suggestions drop down from the box. His lips twist, clicking on the first result of McIntosh. A soft noise of frustration leaves his throat at a list of what seemed to be an archive of has-been wrestler interviews.

"C'monnnn," he whines, leg bouncing impatiently as he goes back to the suggestions, head filled with desperate pleas to get what he wants. The room is a dark void around him, set atop the end of his bed and the screen's dim light hardly illuminating anything but anxious green eyes and the gleaming lenses set before them.

Not McDermont, not McAllister, not McPherson.

He's growing more and more frustrated with every hack game reviewer and animator he's wading through. These people probably have no talent. They don't deserve to come before this Kenny's name. Kyle wonders if there's a function to flag users who simply need bumped down the roster, some way to make room for the true star.

His bottom lip is sharply trapped by his teeth, finger sliding along his trackpad to click on the next one down: 'Kenny McCormick'.

'Like the spices,' he mindlessly registers, eyes widening at an array of videos all bookended with [Acoustic Cover], icons nothing more than song names. He eyes a premade playlist, the creator one 'PrincessuKenny' and bites his lip. "Please," he whispers, selecting the 'play all' option and heaving a nervous breath.

No words of introduction, nothing but what seems to be shuffling with the microphone and settling down to play. Kyle hears a foot tapping in time, counting off before a guitar comes to life, playing a soft, slow melody. He gulps. Even if this is the Kenny he's met, will hearing him through a computer change things? Will it ruin the one ray of hope he's found?

He prays not.

Kyle's face scrunches, the guitar continuing for a few measures, his body quaking with anxiety. He just needs to hear the fucking voice so he could know if he's involuntarily tormenting himself, if he can exit out of the video and try again.

He hears the subtle sound of a breath being drawn in, bracing himself, fingers clenching until they ache around his laptop and eyes unmoving from the stasis, dim screen.

And then, the world goes orange.

"Shadows all around you as you surface from the dark."

Kyle's breath releases, body racking with tremors. His head leans back, a smile playing on his lips directed towards his darkened ceiling. This is it. He's found it. That husked, angelic voice is at his fingertips. His home is safe, he's safe.

"Emerging from the gentle grip of night's unfolding arms"

Kyle wants to cry, he's never felt so comfortable in his own room. The night has always been so full of dread. Just because he sleeps doesn't mean the noises don't stop. An insistent cricket outside his window could launch his dreams into a hallucinogenic frenzy. He can so easily be trapped by his own mind, unable to differentiate between fiction and reality, so pained in both forms that waking is an all but impossible task.

But now, now he has this.

'Darkness, darkness everywhere, do you feel all alone?'

He can't help a coy smile. No. No, he doesn't. Not tonight. The world is warm as he checks through his mystified haze for the autoplay's positioning, popping the volume another two notches. He sets his laptop on the nightstand beside him, facing the screen away to escape the glare. He's unable to help a comforted moan as he moves to slide under his covers, drowning in his sienna paradise. This is slipping into a hot shower on a blizzardy day. This is a mother comforting her child over a scraped knee with their favorite stuffed bear.

'The subtle grace of gravity, the heavy weight of stone.'

Kyle smiles, nestling down into his mattress, clutching his dark blue comforter and indulging himself in a cocoon of bliss. His eyes are heavy from the late hour and his exhilarating discovery, his body sinking out of its consistently tensed state for the first time in he didn't know how long. He watches his eyelids play their games, the subdued pulses behind Kenny's veil as he strums. So many colors he didn't know he could enjoy, so much happiness in rest that he never thought he could have. A high, joyous moan can't help itself, eking out and sending a line of mauve straight up under the mist. Even he's beneath Kenny's power, even in his dopamine-heavy state, he recognizes that this spell has him utterly trapped.

"You don't see what you possess, a beauty calm and clear."

From one prison to another, into one he will gladly settle into and allow to keep him for as long as it permits.

This is what life should be. This is perfection at its peak. This is what the world has been waiting for him to get to, to roll out the red carpet and announce his arrival, telling the rest of society to hush, let him have his moment and let it draw out for as long as he pleases.

"It floods the sky and blurs the darkness like a chandelier."

He chuckles to himself, head nestling down into his pillow and letting Kenny's voice come back to lull him further into the darkness of the night, into a lucid state outside the realm of his imagination.

He's just sorry he took so long to finally get here.

A/N: Song Ken is playing is 'You are the Moon' by The Hush Sound

Thanks for R&Ring!