Thank you so much for all the helpful and considerate reviews!

All characters belong to Matt and Trey, I'm just borrowing them.

Kyle blinked when the man pushed past him and walked down the driveway. He frowned. Another one of Ms. Cartman's 'boyfriends' no doubt. He sighed and adjusted his trapper hat, awkwardly walking to the door with his crutches. His ankle was pounding in dull pain. He didn't dare take the Perkaset. The little white pill was still wrapped up in a lunchroom napkin at the bottom of his backpack. Knowing Cartman, it was something that would have him throwing up for days…or worse. Hell, Cartman had been trying to kill him for years, and since that not-so-subtle comment about putting him down he trusted nothing.

He struggled up the two steps to Cartman's door, grunting when his leg refused to drag up the last step. He propped the crutches under his armpits, grabbed the leg and forced it up. The pain was almost unbearable. White hot shards shot up his leg and he choked back a scream. Kyle stuffed his glove into his mouth, screaming against the knitted fabric until the stars faded from the backs of his eyelids. His blood rushed in his ears for a moment, and then the pain died down.

"Cartman!" he shouted, a slight squeak tingeing his voice. He checked the doorknob. Locked. He pounded his fist on the front door, anger welling up in him. The fucking anti-Semitic asshole had asked he be here early, he was here fucking early. It was eight o'clock for Moses' sake…Kyle's mom woke him up at seven no matter what day of the week it was.

"Door's open!" Came the muffled shout from inside.

"Fatass get down here! It's fucking locked!" Kyle shouted back hoarsely, still recovering from having to drag his leg up two steps. His knee worked fine, but the weight of the cast had done a number on the joints in his leg. His knee hurt so badly when he got home from school he had to ice it while he did his homework. "Cartman! It's freezing and my leg hurts! Get down here!" he shouted again.

Silence reigned for a moment. Kyle clenched his fists, gritting his teeth. "Cartman get the fuck down here you lazy, fat, racist asshole! I'm not going home! I spent too long getting here because my mom won't drive me to your house! Cartman!"

He took a few deep breaths, then heard the heavy footfalls on Cartman's stairs. "Finally…" Kyle muttered, glaring at the door until it opened. His angry expression practically fell off his face when he saw Eric Cartman standing there, breathing hard like he had to run down the stairs, hair messed up, smelling like a house of ill repute. His shirt was buttoned oddly, his fly was down…wait a minute! He'd actually noticed that?! What the hell was wrong with him?

"Cartman…" Kyle began, wrinkling his nose. Cartman smelled off. Like he'd been running miles…it was a weird, musky odor. "…when was the last time you took a shower?" he asked finally, noticing Cartman's death glare.

"Look Jew, this is mah house. Not yours. Mine. I can bathe whenever the hell I want to." Cartman snapped. He stood aside, raking his hair down with his fingernails as Kyle came in. The boy took in the surroundings. Something was different about this house. The TV was a different, cheaper brand and propped up on an apple crate like the ones they left behind the supermarket. The couch was replaced by a cheap, college dorm room thing that looked as though it had been beat up by all the other couches and left to die. There was no side table next to the couch, no coffee table. There was even a faded square on the wall where the picture of Cartman and his mother at Mount Rushmore had been.

"What's going on?" Kyle turned to face Cartman when the boy shut the door.

"Uh…rats. My mom moved her stuff into storage so it wouldn't get all gross when the exterminators came. Fucking lame. It's just temporary." Cartman said dismissively, but Kyle could see his defensive hackles raising. He always hunched his shoulders slightly and put his head a little farther down on his neck like a cornered dog. "Ahem. So Jew let's go to my room. I can't have you rooting around when my back's turned. I'm going to be counting the silverware later."

Kyle rolled his eyes and nodded at the staircase. "What makes you think I'm in any mood to get up and down those stairs, fatass?" he demanded, folding his arms. Cartman rolled his eyes, mimicking Kyle.

"What the hell do you suggest Jew? There aren't any tables down here and no lamps." He sneered.

"I'm not going up the stairs with this leg Cartman! I don't care if you just want to watch me suffer, reading Mein Kampf is bad enough without you taunting me!" Kyle snapped.

Cartman's eyes narrowed. "Up the stairs, jew-rat."

"No." Kyle dropped his backpack on the floor and turned his back on Cartman, intending to go sit on the couch. He made a small sound of surprise when two thick arms wrapped around his waist and he was slung over Cartman's shoulder like a sack of grain. "Cartman put me down!" Kyle shrieked in outrage, driving his elbow into the back of Cartman's head. The other boy swore loudly.

"Do you want me to fucking drop you, you stupid little kike?!" he shouted back at Kyle, ascending the stairs. Kyle shut his eyes with each jarring step, tightening his fingers in Cartman's red sweater. This was so humiliating…if Leanne saw this what would she think? Her son with his worst enemy over his shoulder, walking calmly up the stairs. Come to think of it…Cartman wasn't breaking a sweat or complaining about his weight at all. All he felt under his fingers and chest was pure muscle. He poked Cartman in the back experimentally. It yielded a little, showing that Cartman really wasn't Hulk Hogan yet. He was still fat, but he hadn't realized before how much it had masked Cartman's strength.

"Stop poking me Jew!" Cartman snapped, and Kyle coloured. This was going to be a long night.