A/N: I keep forgetting this story exists. Oops. So thank you, guest reviewer for reminding me pft T-T

Alrighty, enjoy~

September 8th

I'm really regretting agreeing to go along to Stan's game. The smells of cheap concessions, the incessant droning of people cheering and yammering on and on about who's doing who is not my ideal Friday night. But I suppose it doesn't particularly matter. I agreed and the last thing I want to do is start backsliding already so soon into my little 'mission'. I let out a deep sigh, huddling deeper into my sweatshirt and looking out the corner of my eye, watching Kyle walking beside me. He has his hands shoved in his pockets, his face clearly screaming that he doesn't want to be here anymore than I do. I know Kyle well enough to know that he doesn't get a sliver of enjoyment out of watching Stan running around a field, but being a best friend has its responsibilities, at least that's what he told me.

He glances up at me and his lips curl up a bit, that dissatisfaction seeming to melt off of his face. "Where do you wanna sit, Dude?" he asks.

I shrug as we step onto the bleachers, blearily scanning around for an empty spot. I point upwards and look back at him. "Up top?" He nods in agreement and we make our way up the metal stairs, him hot on my trail. I duck and weave around people flinging their arms around in enthusiasm, unable to help rolling my eyes. These people are ridiculously happy to be sitting in the cold watching a bunch of teenagers playing fucking fetch. I sigh, watching my breath coming out in the frigid air and swirling around in front of me as I mosey towards the top of the stands. This past week has probably been the hardest of my life. Trying to pay a compliment to people has proven to be much more difficult than I imagined. Telling Stan that he and Wendy looked great together, lying to Cartman and saying his joke was funny, telling Kyle I was 'proud' of him for winning another goddamn academic award. A part of me feels engrossed in guilt for this. These three are my best friends and I feel like giving them the least I could is taking all my energy. But it's working nonetheless. I have ten little barbs on my chest to prove it.

Kyle and I finally make it to the top of the stands and sit down together, jumping at the coldness underneath us. We end up sitting with our thighs pressed against one another, and a part of me wants to move away, but Kyle's so goddamn warm I'm inclined to stay put. I look at him and raise my brow at a light blush dusting his cheeks as he looks out onto the field. "You that cold, Ky?" I ask.

He snaps his head towards me and blinks rapidly. "Uh, yeah," he nods. He shrugs and leans back onto the railing behind us, trying way too hard to act nonchalant. I know him better than he seems to think I do. "Hopefully they'll win," he says dismissively. "I don't want to deal with Stan's whining again," he chuckles a bit, smiling at me softly.

"Well you know this is his life," I wave down towards the field aimlessly.

"This and Wendy," he comments quietly, his eyes drooping a tad before he shakes himself back into his regular demeanor. A part of me bristles at that. He notices when Stan is missing from his life, but not me. How fucking kind of him. For a smart kid, he's a dense asshole sometimes. He notices me tensing and cocks his head, "Ken? You okay?"

"Fine," I mutter, putting my chin into my palm and looking away from him, ripping my thigh off of his. I see him sitting up and staring at me from my peripheral, but refuse to acknowledge him. He rustles around in his bag hanging from his shoulder and I let my eyes scan around listlessly, watching people moving together in some odd discorded harmony. Murmurs are picking up rhythm, peoples' gestures seem to be dancing along in front of me in the most bizarre of songs. A part of me is enticed, the rest is disgusted. What do these people do that earns them wings? Or are they all doomed with Satan's signature already inscribed on them? Either way, why are they all so much luckier than I'll ever be?

I jolt as something comes up towards my face and look down, seeing a sandwich in Kyle's hand held under my nose. He clears his throat, "It uh...it's ham, bacon, and mayo," he shrugs. "I know it's your favorite."

I blink, taking the sandwich from his hand and looking at him curiously. "You brought me food?"

He nods, taking his own turkey sandwich out of the bag and smiling at me crookedly. "I figured you'd be hungry. You didn't eat anything at lunch today."

I shrug, picking at the saran wrap around my treat. "Well, that's what happens when you're poor, Dude. Ya kinda just deal with it." I pause, cocking my head. "Wait, where did you get ham and bacon? I figure your mom would've kicked your Kosher ass."

He snorts lightly, taking a bite of his turkey. "Bought it after school, made your sandwich and six more," he shows me a small collection stashed in his bag. "Then I went to the neighbors trash and threw out the evidence and sprayed air freshener like a madman."

I can't help but burst into laughter, unable to get a picture of Kyle running around frantically with Lysol out of my head. I die down a little and can't help but smile at him. He pisses me off sometimes, but Kyle's always at least tried to be good to me. "Why'd you make me so much food?"

"Because you're poor and you kinda just have to deal with it," he echoes with a raised brow. I roll my eyes and shake my head, unwrapping my sandwich and taking a long, wonderful bite. My eyes practically roll to the back of my head, an explosion of flavor that I haven't had for so long singing a beautiful aria. Being poor and getting a good meal puts orgasms to shame, I can verify that much. I look over, seeing him still staring at me with that smile. He clears his throat awkwardly, "I uh...tried to make it an even number in case you wanted to share with Kevin and Karen," he says quietly. "But hey, if you wanna stuff your face with 'em, that works, too," he shrugs.

I smile a bit and nod, "They'd love that, Dude. Thanks."

"No problem," he waves off the notion. "Consider it a thank you."

I raise my brow. I didn't do a damn thing for him today. "For...for what?"

"For coming tonight," he explains, that blush still riding his slender cheekbones like it's permanently airbrushed on. "Stan is really glad you could come. He loves any kind of support he can get," he laughs a bit. His face drops a bit as our eyes lock. "He wouldn't stop asking me if I thought you really would or not," he winces.

I let out a long breath and look away from him, staring down at my sandwich clutched preciously in my hands. I didn't think the game was that important for me to be here to see. I know Stan well enough to know his world is football, and as Kyle reminded me, Wendy, but I didn't think my being here really meant a damn thing. I figured he just invited me as a formality with Kyle standing right there. "And what did you say?" I ask quietly.

I can feel him staring at me and hear him sighing. "I didn't know what to tell him, Kenny," he answers honestly. "I just told him I hoped you would...We miss you, Dude."

I narrow my eyes a bit in confusion, looking back up at him to see him looking down at the field. "Whaddya mean? I hang out with you guys," I say.

"Not really," he mutters, refusing to look my way. "This is the first time we've seen you outside of school or one of our houses in months..." he trails off, grating his lip nervously.

I shift a bit, taking another bite of my food, the taste not nearly as delicious this time around. A part of me wants to cry like a goddamn baby, just let out every ounce of anger and depression onto Kyle's shoulder. Another part of me wants to scream at him in a blind fury, tell him if maybe he'd fucking remember what happened to me now and again, I'd consider spending more of my time with him. But I know well enough that won't get me anywhere but an angry and confused Kyle and a lost chance at my end goal. "Sorry," I manage to mutter. "I've been busy."

He finally looks back over at me, "With what?"

"A lot of shit at home, that's all," I shrug. Always the easy go-to for an excuse, my house. Kyle, Stan, and Cartman are more than aware of the bullshittery that is my family: the abuse, the drugs, the hate, the filth...They just consider it to be a part of me at this point. It's definitely not something that one wants to be constantly associated with, but it's just who I am.

"Ken," he says, poking my arm to get my attention back. I look up and my stomach drops, his face swimming with so much guilt he's practically drowning himself in it. I hate that. I hate pity, at least for that circumstance. I have much bigger problems than my dad hitting me, but that seems to be their biggest concern all the damn time. "Kenny," he starts again, "If you need to...ya know...stay somewhere else, my door's open, Dude." I blink, feeing my body trying to fold into itself. This has always been embarrassing, taking handouts, hiding at other people's places to avoid getting beaten...but once again, it's just who I am. Stan and Kyle have always extended their hands for me, but so rarely have I grasped them back. The few times I have, I've been filled with such irrevocable shame that it made me want to hide away in the woods for fear of them giving me that look. The one that always says 'man, I can't believe how hard it must be to be Kenny. I have all this stuff and he has nothing'.

I see him still looking at me worriedly, his eyes scanning over my face in that analytical way that can only come from Kyle. "I'm fine," I lie.

He reads right through it, typical of himself, and frowns. "Kenny, there's absolutely nothing wrong with accepting help."

I scoff and shake my head. It's adorably naive in a way, how everyone thinks that there's some magical cure to the kind of life I live. Like a call to the police, a helpful neighbor, or 'sitting down and talking it out' will lead to some Lifetime movie where me and my family make amends, grab onto each other, and cry out the shame and anger as it fades to the credits. No. No people in pristine homes who live with proud relatives have no idea of how it gets on the opposite side of the spectrum. Their attempted empathy has always done nothing but pissed me off. Kyle offering to 'hide' me like an escaped convict will only result in one thing: I'll have to eventually go back home and my dad will beat the shit out of me and then my mother when she tries to intervene. It's a simple formula, one that I've grown disgustingly accustomed to. It's a life that the ever prim and proper Kyle Broflovski could never begin to imagine.

"I'll be fine, Kyle," I finally spill out. "I'm used to it."

I can see him readying himself to go into an angry rant, no doubt him screaming about how I shouldn't be used to it, that I'm a human being, that I deserve to be treated kindly. I've heard it all from him before. I raise my brow in surprise when his face falls defeatedly and he just lets loose a long sigh, shaking his head. I watch his curls bounce around his face before focusing back on his green eyes as they open to me again. "I...I hope...you get used to something better," he works out in a fluster. "You're too good of a person for that kind of life, Ken."

I blink at him in shock. Good? No. No apparently Kyle doesn't know the first thing about me. Had he said 'apathetic' or 'empty' I'd be inclined to agree. "Maybe I'm not as good as you think," I reply smartly, scarfing down the rest of my sandwich and leaning back against the railing. I cross my arms and focus my attention down onto the field, watching the football team coming out. My eyes hit a bright red 35 and a frantic waving hand. I glance to the face, seeing Stan smiling at me widely. I give him a subtle wave back before he beams, putting on his helmet and rushing out onto the field. I flinch a bit as that telltale sting swipes over my chest, letting out a shuddery breath. Apparently this really is important to the guy. Never would have figured. He seemed happy enough just basking in the glow that's his never-ending popularity. Though how he's maintained that stance hanging out with myself, Kyle, and Cartman I'll never know. Either way, I can't help but stew a bit in rage. He's so happy to see me here, but did he ever really take notice that I wasn't at the others? Did he ever stop to think why I wasn't sitting here freezing my ass off for his benefit? No. No he just figured I was a dick and made a constant point of thanking Kyle for coming to his games profusely in front of me, like trying to rub it in that Kyle was his 'real friend' and I was nothing more than a jerk. Whatever. Works well enough for me.

"I think you're a good guy," Kyle suddenly murmurs just over the cheers erupting from the crowd as we both watch Stan taking his starting position. "And so does Stan. I don't think you give yourself enough credit, Kenny."

I roll my eyes a bit and sigh in aggravation. "Ky, I ain't interested in a goddamn after-school special about my attitude, okay?"

He looks at me and I watch in confusion as pure hurt flashes through his jade stare. "Sorry," he says quietly. "Guess I just miss the old Kenny." He turns back and puts his attention back onto the game as I stare at the side of his head in complete befuddlement. He looks almost crushed, like I told him I bought him a puppy and handed him a fucking wasp.

'Old' Kenny? What old Kenny? The one that they consistently ignored and literally just followed them around with nothing more than the occasional quip? The one that did nothing but hide in his fucking hood trying to blend into the pavement? The one that died in front of them time and again to the point where Kyle and Stan had their fucking little spiel down to an art form, but moved on away from my body the second afterwards? I sigh angrily, wishing that my sweater's hood could provide the complete closure my parka used to. I snap it up over my head anyway, blocking my view of Kyle and glaring down towards the game. A part of me really wants to pick up the kid and throw him down the bleachers, I won't lie. He's acting like he knows me, like he has the slightest inkling of what's been going on in my life, not to mention my deaths. But that's just how he is. Kyle has always tried to read us all like books. And with Stan and Cartman, he's more often than not succeeded. With myself, however? All he wants to do is open the cover and read the synopsis. He's barely broken the surface of who I am, skimming along the pages and only pointing out things that have caught his attention. He doesn't want to take the time to read my soliloquy, only interested in the occasional monologues that burst out every few chapters.

But I suppose that's something he and I relate on. We don't care much for delving further than we have to, relying only on what's in front of our faces to get us through the day. I'm not interested in his thoughts on me and he's apparently not interested in mine on him. I suppose it's lasted us well enough our last eighteen years, kept us as friends with a very basic relationship and nothing more. But that monotony will be good enough of a routine between the both of us for the remaining 401 days. Then maybe he can finally close the goddamn book.

A/N: Kenny is such an angsty little muffin. Wait what.

I'm actually kind of having fun being so fucking cynical. Usually I try to throw in some optimism, but Kenny is just pure freakin' emo and it's been a fun little ride so far.

I'd love to make this story my next focus since I have the whole thing so intricately planned out, so we'll see how it goes /shrug

Thanks for R&Ring!