Author's Note: So it took me a little while longer than originally expected to update this lovely little fic, which of course I do apologize for but midway through writing it, I decided that I really wasn't satisfied where I was going so I made a snap decision to hold off on an update and instead so a little re-write. That's my excuse and I'm totally sticking to it. Oh, that and the fact that I also currently am sick - like really really sick, so that sucks.

Anyway, I'd like to thank all of you people who review and subscirbe to this little story and I hope that you all enjoy this next chapter of Better Left Unsung. Reviews are rewarded with faster updates ;)


Chapter 4: Kiss with a Fist

Cartman and I step off the bus, me shooting a death glare at the creeper in the front seats as he blatantly checks out my friend-in-drag's ass, which actually made me gag a little bit. It's a short walk to the bar, during which neither of us speak, especially after that whole awkward incident. The last thing I want is to actually talk to the fat-ass about that – I mean, isn't it weird enough that I'm accompanying him to a strip bar where he can entertain several drunken men all the while wearing nothing more than a few strips of leather?

We enter through the front door, the bartender – Mick, I think – acknowledges me with a deft nod as he wipes a scotch glass out with a towel. Once again the hall is filled with smoke that just seems to float, giving the bar this darker atmosphere plus the dim lighting. Cartman asks in his girly voice for a cosmopolitan and orders me a martini on the rocks before clacking off to the stage.

"A little surprised to see you back here," Mick comments dryly, focusing on his task at hand as I watch she-Cartman make 'her' way up the stairs.

"Well, I didn't want hi – erm, her to have to make the trip alone again, so I figured it was the least I could do."

The man set both drinks back down on the wood in front of me, eyeing me carefully as I pick up my glass for a sip. The alcohol burns its way down my throat but it felt good to have the liquor back on my tongue again, especially after the stressful week I'd been having.

Once again, I'm a little surprised by his lack of concern over my age, but I figured hanging around the 'entertainment', namely Cartman, had given me an exempt quality somehow. Not questioning this little miracle anymore, I pick up my own drink and Cartman's very colorful one with a little orange spiral hanging decoratively off one side and go seat myself in a booth this time closer to the stage.

Cartman's off to one side, talking to the mildly concealed band animatedly, turning on his charm.

Then, the lights begin to go down, one stage light coming on, and so the din of the bar conversation begins to die down as well. It's time for the show to start.

"You hit me once, I hit you back."

The smooth voice of Cartman drifts across the stage and out to the audience as he begins singing an unfamiliar tune, so far only the solid thump of a concealed drum keeping pace. Now without the trench coat on, I can see that Cartman had traded outfits, this time it's a black mini dress with dark blue lace frills and bows for trims. With that, he has on a pair of fish net leggings and knee-high heeled boots, and as before a boa, though this time it's black, the feathers glint oily rainbow colors under the lights.

"You gave a kick, I gave a slap – you smashed a plate over my head then I set fire to our bed."

Somewhere off stage, a base started up with a back-up guitar followed swiftly by an upbeat piano. This song seemed to be an instant crowd favorite as Cartman began to belt out the chorus, the audience keeping beat too by clapping along.

"Your slaps don't stick, your kicks don't hit, so we remain the same."

Cartman looks directly at my as he delivers this line, smirking slightly back at me.

"Love sticks, sweat drips – Break the lock if it don't fit. A kick in the teeth if good for some…"

His dark brown eyes seem almost to twinkle with mischief under that wig as he takes a deep breath between the beat, body swaying slightly in time. The more drunken patrons of the bar whoop and holler, whistling excitedly.

"But a kiss with a fist is better than none!"

The audience explodes with cheering and off-key sing-a-longs as people try and join Cartman as he continues with the song. I find myself even humming the tune as my foot taps underneath the table. Back and forth, the woman-Cartman jumps and jives across the stage, meanwhile singing loudly and proudly. His voice seems to breath life into the bar, bringing everyone alive once more and out of their stupor.

"I broke your jaw once before, I spilled your blood upon the floor. You broke my leg in return, so let's sit back and watch the bed burn," he shrugs as if casually, putting on his own little act along with the song.

"A kick in the teeth is good for some, but…a kiss with a fist is better than none."

I can't help but feel that the song is directed at me slightly, especially since when anything violent was mentioned, Cartman would cast his devious look across the room over to me. Obviously, Cartman is anything but shy and doesn't seem to mind performing in front of me, so yet again I find myself wondering why it is that he is so desperate for me to keep this a secret.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining, but more often than not, the fat-ass has some sort of evil scheme behind all of it, even if he has to play the fool in some parts. It only makes me wonder what his angle is, what – if anything – he would gaining from this. But then again, maybe I'm just over estimating him.

The song draws to a close, leaving the bar buzzing with cheers and conversation. I gingerly pick up Cartman's drink before catering it over to him, smirking a little bit at his flushed face.

"You're good, fat-ass," I say over the ruckus, handing off the martini glass to his awaiting hand, "much better than what you used to sound like when we'd play Rockband."

Cartman smirks and, taking a sip of the hot pink liquid, opens his mouth to retort but then a few people make wolf whistles at the both of us so I duck my head, fleeing back to my own spot once more. I figure that conversation with Cartman could wait, and until the end of his shift, I should enjoy a few free glasses of whatever I damn well please and my own secret show.

. . . . .

My skull seems to vibrate. Yeah, I'm definitely a little more than buzzed at this point and nearing something more along the lines of tipsy. I don't when, or how, but I'd changed locales to one of the tables in the level right below the stage where a blurry Cartman-in-drag bounces back and forth.

One hour, two, maybe even three – I can't exactly keep track of time and songs seems to slur together. Only on my third martini and I'm already half way to drunk, so I decide suddenly to abandon my fourth full glass sitting in front of me. I'd tried to stir up conversation with the men around me, but they seem too hammered to even realize that they're even in a bar still.

Vaguely, I can hear the music begin to wind down, and then I'm aware of someone sitting beside me, pulling me up from the barstool by my upper arms. Wherever I'm being led, I don't bother to question, too dizzy and happy to really take anything too seriously.

That is of course until I'm confronted by a blast of freezing cold air which comes like a bucket of ice water to my face. I'm startled out of my giggling fit to see a woman supporting me but once again it dawns on me that it's really just Cartman and I'm really just a lightweight when it comes to holding my liquor.

The cold stirs me a little bit, making my world a tad clearer than it was for the past couple of hours. Outside, it's dark and everything is covered with a fresh layer of snow that crunches underfoot anytime I take a step. It has to be at least one o' clock in the morning, if not later, and I moan in agony to myself I realize how dead I'm going to be when I come back to my house. I can already hear my mom's boisterous and nasally shouts about how disappointed she is in me for sneaking out just to go get drunk.

"What's wrong, Jew? Forgot to take your birth control?" Cartman sneers, trying to coax me into an argument. I retract from him as if I'd been bitten, stumbling to stay on my own two feet. My labored breaths swirl before my face in thick clouds.

I'd almost forgotten about us still hating each other, as ridiculous as it sounds, but having that solid reminder keeps me from getting too close again.

"You're really in no position to talk." I pointedly eye the dress underneath his opened trench coat, to which his face reddens slightly.

"Whatever," he grumbles, "fuck you too, asshole."

We walk in silence, my boots crunching, his heels clacking. I'm suddenly thankful for having long legs because each wobbly stride I take keeps me in pace with Cartman who is significantly sober though tottering on an extra 3 inch sticks. I don't bother to question where we're going – I figure Cartman knew where the bus stop was at and that he wasn't about to pull me behind some dumpster to murder me.

This got me to thinking. Cartman and I hadn't been arguing as much as before, most of our fights lacking the usual venom. But yet some deeply ingrained part of me flinches at the thought of trusting the Nazi, undoubtedly due to all of the shit he'd put me through over the years. While he may not be the murderous sociopath we all grew to hate, he was still Cartman – the rude, insensitive asshole that I grew up with.

However, when I turn to say something to the fat-ass, I find myself staring into an empty space as if he's disappeared right into thin air. Briefly, I wonder how drunk one would have to be in order to lose a hundred and something pound guy in a dress. As I stare blankly at the stop where I was certain he-she-Cartman was standing a second, it was apparent that not very was the answer.

Crash! The sound of metal grinding against stone fills the air, my ears stinging as the terrible screech persisted. I dizzily turn enough to see long shadows cast against the brick wall of an alley just a few feet behind me.

"Get off of me!"

Cartman's distinguished voice, him dropping the sickly sweet pitch he used all night at the bar and back to the cold dangerous sound that I had once been so accustomed to. My stomach clenches and suddenly, adrenaline floods my system, pushing out the intoxication as I dash toward the sound of his voice. Pounding in my ears, my own blood rushing is all I can hear for a terrible moment until I reach the alley, rounding the corner like a maniac.

The sight that greets me is beyond words.

There's Cartman, trench coat rumpled upon the soiled floor behind him, with his dress pushed up on his thighs and his wig entirely off his head. His mousy brown hair is sticking up at odd angles and below, his face is contorted into a look of sheer hatred. Endlessly deep brown eyes ablaze with a fury I'd only ever witness a few rare times when Cartman was truly consumed with rage. Even with that glare not directed at me, I still feel my insides churn anxiously.

"What the fuck?"

My attention shifts to Cartman's attacker, who sure enough is the creepy guy from the bus, his flop sweat gleaming under the orange light of the streetlamp. He seems uglier than before, lips pursed like a gaping fish and the rest of him akin to that of a walnut – dry and wrinkled. His own temper flares as a look of scorn crosses his face, mixed with disgust.

Time slows.

The man's body jerks forward, fist clenched tightly to strike – it's like watching a train wreck happen right before your eyes. I'm moving myself before I lose my nerve, my legs carrying me forward faster in hopes of reaching my target in time.

And then it's like someone hit the fast-forward button.

I slam into the opposing wall with pain exploding across the side of my face and spine, seeing white in my searing agony. Dazed, my legs give out as I slump against the wall, wrapping my arms tightly around myself. The world seems to spin, the ground rocking beneath me like a boat. I blink a few times in an attempt to clear my vision, at one finding a pair of dark brown eyes parallel to my own.

Cartman's crouched down before me, his wig hastily back upon his head and trench coat retied around his waist. Behind him, I could see the man in a similar position to me own though his nose was gushing crimson liquid down his shirt and his head was hung limp almost lifelessly.

"I beat the shit out of that asshole pervert," Cartman says to me proudly. Before I have a chance to respond, Cartman slips his hands underneath my arms and hefts me easily to my feet as if I weigh nothing.

"You know…," I trail off, leaning against my nemesis for support as he helped me back toward the bus stop, "I just took a punch for you even though you are technically my slave."

Smirking, Cartman replies softly, "Shut you dirty Jew mouth, Kyle."

. . . . .

I flop down upon Cartman's couch, my limbs splaying out in all directions as I'm glad to finally be off of the bus, out of that bar, and back to South Park. Inhale, exhale – the scent of Cartman's house fills my lungs like cheesy poofs and laundry detergent. The only light on illuminating his house if the street lamp just outside the living room window which casts its eerie light upon the floor in consecutive lines, split up from the blinds across the glass.

"Slave?"

Cartman looks up from his intent gaze upon the digital clock sitting on his fireplace across of me, bathed in the dull glow yet I can still see his unvoiced question in the bright depths of his stare within the smoky makeup still decorating his face. He blinks once, his eyelashes fluttering.

"Get me an icepack or something for my face," I gingerly brush my fingers across the sensitive bruise forming on my cheek just below my left eye. "I really don't want this to be too noticeable when we go back to school on Monday."

With a grunt of recognition, the drag-teen exits the room, leaving me to rest my aching head back against the supple cushions of his couch.

If it were possible, I'd think that my hangover was already beginning to form like a thick lump in the back of my conscious mind that with every beat of my heart would pound in my temples. Swiping my tongue back around my dried lips, I swallowed, my Adam's apple bobbing up and then back down.

Slowly, my mind began to drift back to Cartman. I wonder, why did he need that job? What was it that he needed that money for so badly? I already knew that a long time ago his mother Lianne began saving for him, so college was probably not it, so I could only really speculate. Perhaps he was planning something sinister again, and, knowing Cartman, that was entirely possible. I sigh to myself – I will never understand him.

Suddenly, something cold is being pressed against my wound, making me jolt forward slightly in surprise. My hand clamps around something warm while I pull myself back up into a sitting position, finding the old Cartman sitting in front of – no make up, no fake lashes, and just in a loose black t-shirt and an old pair of jeans. It's starkly different from the painted feminine face I was gradually becoming accustomed to.

I glanced down to see me gripping onto Cartman's wrist, who, in turn, was holding a bag of frozen peas wrapped in a thin kitchen towel. Steadily, I raised his arm back up again until the chilled make-shift icepack was replaced back upon my cheek. Satisfied with the calming coolness resting against my tender skin, I settled back into the sofa's cushions with a content sigh.

After seeming to realize my silent command of staying put, he makes himself comfortable beside me but puts enough distance between us to where we aren't touching.

"You shouldn't have done that, you know," his low voice interrupts my peaceful moment. "Take that punch, I mean. I can take care of myself, Jew-rat, and I don't need your scrawny ass trying to protect me."

I open one eye, glancing at him from out of my peripherals.

"I know that, fat-boy."

He looks stumped. "Then why did you…?"

"I plead momentary insanity."

We default to an awkward silence, him half-heartedly pressing the frozen vegetables against my face while I let my eyes drift back shut once more. The only sound that can be heard is our rhythmic breaths as they slowly fall into sync – harmony.

"Does it hurt?"

The cold icepack is traded for warm, deft fingers than roam fleetingly across my numbed cheek. In my fuzzy mind, I think of how odd it is that Cartman's touching me without the intent of harm and even weirder that I was letting him, not flinching back from our contact. But then the logical side of my brain, how ever dull or muted, helpfully supplies that I'd had one too many drink and my foe also had his own share of cocktails and martinis.

"Don't start acting all concerned on me now," I joke with a breathy chuckle.

"In your dreams, kike."

"Suck my balls, fat-ass."

"That an order, Jew-fag?"

"You wish."

We fall back into our normal banter but Cartman's still vaguely touching me, no longer just on my bruise but rather straying up under the hem of my trapper hat to free a few strands of hair. I'm warm and comfortable enough to the point where my eyelids droop and the world begins to fad in, and then back out of perception.

"You're falling asleep," he states simply.

"So?" I challenge softly, my lips feeling heavy and my tongue sluggish. With a muffled thump, Cartman tosses the bag of thawing peas onto the glass top of the coffee table.

The distant roar of tires across the gravel street could be heard as the headlights of the passing car slid across Cartman and me before disappearing into just an echo into the night. The world seems peaceful, unbelievably serene, as I feel my body giving in to my desire for sleep.

Mmmm, sleep. My mind practically moans at the very idea which sounds about like the best thing ever. Warmth is spreading up one side of me as I vaguely begin to tip sideways until lying flat, with each breath taking in the deep scent of Cartman and his house. Little spirals of color dance behind my eyes tauntingly as my eyelids fall firmly shut.

The last thing I'm aware of before slipping away into my dreams in a thick arm curling around my waist.

. . . . .

"Gah!"

My eyes fly open in time to see Cartman go crashing to the carpeted floor, his brown eyes wide and horrified, clothes rumpled and hair askew. Morning light spills in and brightens the room – it feels like I'd just closed my eyes only a moment ago before opening them again as if I'd just blinked for a long time. Oddly enough, I find myself feeling refreshed and less hung-over than ever before what with the amount of alcohol I'd consumed last night.

"What time is it?" I ask, sitting up and pushing my messy hair back out of my face as I glance absentmindedly around for my hat which must have at some point fallen off whilst I was sleeping.

Meanwhile, Cartman is looking blankly at me with his jaw open not unlike that of a fish before hefting himself back to his feet and shaking his head whilst mumbling under his breath. Every other word I catch, it's something about 'Jew-germs this' and 'Ginger-vitus' that, which in turn makes me roll my eyes.

Honestly, I can't believe I let myself crash on Eric T. Cartman's couch and even had the audacity to sleep with him practically spooning me. The thought brings an unpleasant wave of disgust over me, causing me to shudder involuntarily, and by the look Cartman's wearing; he's feeling about the same way. But yet again, we were pretty drunk and after all that happened last night, I guess it was excusable, but definitely not something I'd want to repeat.

When I glance at the clock, I find that it's only a little past nine. My stomach drops as soon as I'm reminded of my mother and father who by now must have realized my absence – I'm going to be in some deep shit. I can't contain the groan that passes through my lips as I warily stand up, cracking my back and neck.

I leave Cartman's house without much of a goodbye. Once I had gathered all of my shit, I just told the fat-ass that I'd see him Monday and waved him off, heading out the door. By the time I was finally going however, the asshole seemed back to his normal self, dropping the strangely awkward demeanor.

Sneaking back in through my window is out of the question I realize as I approach my house. Knowing my mother, she was probably going to yell at me, make a few more comparisons between Ike and myself, and then ground me for eternity. Hopefully she's not in too bad of a mood and won't be too upset that I snuck out. A man can hope.

I slip my key into the front door, unlocking it, and then slipped back inside almost noiselessly. I'm greeted with a strange silence which seems to be happening more and more often. Usually, after a family fight, my house is loud as my mom crashed around our kitchen, vainly looking for something to clean or cook.

"Son?"

My dad calls for me and I mentally curse his cat-like hearing, trudging over into the dimly lit dining room. It's déjà vu as I'm reminded suddenly of the fateful fight that my mother and I had which led of course to finding out Cartman's dirty little secret. How bitter sweet.

As expected, my dad is seated at the kitchen table, still dressed simply in his plain white pajamas while he sips at his steaming mug of coffee, the paper spread out before him. His eyes flick up to meet mine as he gestures simply for me to sit down, which of course I do obediently.

"Hey dad," I croak, my throat drying up.

"Kyle…," he sighs, staring intently at his hands wrapped white-knuckled around his cup, "I went in your room to check on you last night…"

"Dad-,"

He holds up hand to silence me before continuing.

"We both know where I'm going with this, son. You snuck out last night, and against my better judgment, I withheld this information from your mother. Now, I trust you, so whatever it is that you did, I believe that you were being responsible. However, I want you to go back to your room, do any homework you may have and finish your chores."

"You…you covered for me?" I ask dumbly. Dad nods slightly and opens his mouth as if he wants to say something but I'm up out of my chair before he can even form the words. I wrap my arms around his shoulders, pressing my face into his shoulder and smiling idiotically. "Love you, dad."

He pats my arm affectionately as he mumbles, "I love you too, Kyle."

. . . . .

My weekend passes quickly until I find myself staring blankly into my opened locker well after first period. As it turns out, my dad told my mom that I had a bad stomach ache, so my mom was relatively civil to me for the rest of Saturday and Sunday, plus I even got to hang out with Stan and Kenny for a bit.

All in all, I felt as though I'd come out of this whole situation with a major win.

"Dude, who fucked up your face?"

Craig Tucker leans casually against the metal siding of the lockers, his arms crossed as he examines the remainder of the bruise on my cheek. It's faded now but still a fairly darkened color, kind of like the color of pomegranate lemonade – sickly pinky purple. Unconsciously, my fingers sweep across the injury, though with this simple gesture, it brings about the fuzzy memory of Cartman and me on his couch along with a strangely giddy type of nausea.

"Leave the Jew alone, Fucker."

As if by my sheer thoughts alone summoning him, Cartman walks up behind me just as I slam the locker's door shut. Craig gives a shrug and flips him his middle finger before heading back off to class, mumbling something with the 'f' word colorfully spread into it. The halls begin to clear out as the warning bell rings, annoyingly reminding all students that we now have only one minute to get to class.

"Hey, fat-boy."

"Jew-rat," he greets evenly.

I make a move to bypass Cartman, deciding that I'd rather not get detention than talk to the Nazi asshole.

"Kahl."

As I turn, Cartman's suddenly right behind me staring up at me with those dark penetrating eyes that leave you breathless with fear. He's got this mischievous glint in them again which of course makes me feel sick slightly as I take a healthy step away from him.

He leans forward, tapping his fist gently against my jaw almost in a mock punch, the sound of our skin lightly slapping all I can hear.

"I'll catch you later, kike," he says almost nicely – almost. I watch, befuddled, as Cartman turns and walks away, leaving me to stare at his retreating form forlornly. Vaguely, overhead the late bell dings a few times, alerting me that I officially am late to second period but I couldn't care two shits less about a fucking tardy.

I don't think I'll ever understand Eric T. Cartman, not now, and probably not ever. Yet, as my fingers were now lingering upon the new place upon my face of interest, I couldn't help but feel the tiniest bit of hope prickling up in my chest that maybe, just maybe he and I could have a civil relationship. Just maybe.


Author's After-note thing: Please tell me someone gets that! Pleeeeeaaaase! It took me forever to come up with this so refer to the beginning of the chapter if Cartman's little action doesn't make any sense.

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