A/N: Hey, it's been a while! I was actually away on vaca, so there weren't any new updates for a while. But here, have some Style! In Kenny's first person POV, of course.

A/N 2: From here on out, if there's any Bunny in a chapter, it's going to be in first person. Otherwise, the story is in third! Confusing, I know.

Disclaimer: I don't own South Park.

It's common knowledge in South Park that the McCormicks are white trash. I'm white trash with white trash parents and a white trash brother (Karen doesn't count, she's different from us, she'll make it); hell, we're so white trash the term probably came from our fucking direct ancestors. That's how white and trashy we are.

I live in the South Park ghetto. In the only house in the ghetto. My dad binge drinks daily and is still perpetually on the cusp of liver failure: never healthy enough to function like a normal member of society, never ill enough to kick the bucket. Seriously, with all of us being walking, talking clichés, all signs point to me being a horrible gambler and losing everything I own in Las Vegas by age 40.

Luckily, I am a fantastic gambler, so I probably won't lose the mortgage to my house like my dad did. Unluckily, all the bad luck I should have suffered with gambling seems to have screwed with my Law of Probabilities. How else do I explain the whole resurrection thing? Why else would all the guys in the closet pick this week, this one week, to come out?

And why to me? Fuck it all – they can go around fucking pigs for I care (Cartman was probably created that way). But why are they coming out to me? Worse, why do they want answers?

But then again I'm Kenny fucking McCormick, white trash and poor boy, and the universe would probably implode if I got anything good except for my luck in gambling.

Yup. So I'm definitely going to blame my Law of Probabilities as the cause for Stan Marsh sitting on the floor of my bedroom. Shit, does he look uncomfortable. Well, I guess that's what happens when you come to the house you've been avoiding for seventeen years because you hate being reminded that your friend was as poor as shit.

Stan clears his throat and clasps his hands in his lap, opens his mouth and closes it again. I just watch him as he struggles through an internal war, a little freaked out at how he's acting because Stan has never been this confused before. He's always the confident, easygoing leader who doesn't stand out too much on a regular basis. Even when his parents got divorced and remarried again, he wasn't this antsy. Depressed, yeah. But Stan's just as bad as Kyle about the whole premenstrual attitude thing, so I'm used to his mood swings.

This? Whole different ball game that I don't know how to handle.

"Dude, do you want a joint or something?" Might as well be hospitable or some shit like that while he's going through an existential crisis.

"No thanks, man. I just need to talk to you really quick."

"Alright, go ahead. You're here and everything."

"Okay, so. Uh. What – " he mumbles something quick and fast under his breath, so low that I can barely catch the first word.

"Yeah. Didn't understand a thing you said there."

"Whatdoyoudowhenyouhavedrunks exwithyourbestfriend." Stan's breath collapses in a whoosh, as if the words had physically taken all the air out of him with it.

I almost laugh at the absurdity of what he's just asked. All that buildup for a stupid question like this? "Uh, let it go? It's not that big of a deal."

"Sure." Stan snorts. "It's probably not a big deal to you, but it is to me."

"Okay…well, try and forget about it?"

"I can't!"

"Dude, I can't help you with this if you're going to get dramatic about it – "

"Well, I don't think you could handle it calmly either when all you can think about is how your best friend looks underneath you during sex with your girlfriend!"

"Oh." I'm honestly not sure what Stan wants me to say at this point, although I can pretty much guess what he came here for.

No, that's a lie. I know exactly what he wants me to say. Stan's looking up at me as if he's waiting for me to burst out with some astounding revelation or sob story of how I became the openly bi guy in town. He's hopeful that I'll have the answers, that I'm about to tell him that he's just being a little "bi-curious" and it's a phase that'll blow over and that he'll go back to being straight as a ruler in no time flat. He wants me to tell him he's as normal as he was before. That he's not hot for his best friend.

I don't tell him any of these things because, hell, they're not fucking true. He and Kyle have been attached to the hip for for-fucking-ever, and this is just the next step forward. It's a logical step forward, considering that Stan winds up at Kyle's house after most of his dates with Wendy and he's cancelled on her a million and one times for Kyle. I can count the times he's cancelled on Kyle for Wendy with one finger.

Now that I think about it, maybe that's why Wendy's so bitter towards the four of us.

I sigh, run my fingers through my hair, and take another deep inhale of the smoke that's curling from my joint before patting the seat beside me on the bed.

"Dude, do you want my real opinion on that?"

Stan nods, a little apprehensive now because I've unlaced my hood, just enough so that my mouth is free.

"Well, I think you've had this fucking coming."

"What?" That's obviously not what he's expecting, because he leans away from me as if I've just announced his mom's a chicken or something. "I had this coming?"

"Yeah. You obviously felt something with Kyle that you've never had with anyone else, right? And I'm not just talking about the sex here, although that must have been pretty damn awesome. Why else wouldn't you have sex with Wendy more and go over to Kyle's less?"

"How did you – " Stan looks absolutely horrified at what I've just said. I kinda understand where he's coming from – I'd be completely offended too if someone told me I wasn't boning my girl enough. But I don't want to listen to him defend his masculinity right now, so I just wave my hand around to shut him up.

"Trust me, I know what an undersexed girl looks like." Stan looks like he wants to protest this but I wave my hand again before he can open his mouth. I have something to say and goddammit I will say it because Stan and Kyle together is the most obvious thing in the world and they are just so much better as a package deal.

"Anyways, you love Kyle 'cause he's Kyle. And you love him more than just a crush or best friend, right? It's totally obvious, dude. You love him because he gets you like nobody else does. He takes it when you act like a pussy because sometimes he acts like a bitch and you take that. When he moved in fourth grade you went and wrote a fucking song for him. When you were about to get blown to nuclear bits he broke into the goddamn Pentagon for you. You think I'd do that for Cartman? Hell no, dude. You guys got something special and you know it."

"And do you know how we talk about you guys when you aren't around? StanandKyle. Like you guys are a fucking package deal and we can't separate you or the whole thing falls apart. Face it, dude – this whole sex thing? It was only a matter of time. Besides, it's kinda unfair to ask any girl to compete with something like what you guys have. Even Wendy."

Stan just stares at me for a good couple minutes before giving me a weak smile. "Dude, I don't think I've ever heard you say more than three sentences together until today."

"Yeah, well, duty calls and all that."

"And we're you're duty?"

I snort. "Of course, dumbass. How else are you guys gonna get it on if I don't push both of you onto a bed and take your clothes off?"

Stan pinks, and I can tell he's thinking about it. Vividly.

I snort, just a bit, and laugh harder when the blush becomes less of a delicate pink and more of a deep scarlet.

"Kenny! Could you stop laughing while I'm going through my sexual identity crises?"

I grin at him, putting a comforting hand on his back until he shoves it off. "Aw, don't be offended dude. It seems like everyone in this fucking town needs someone to push them forward."

"What do you mean, everyone?"

"As in everyone? I mean, first Clyde and Token, then Craig and Tweek, and now you and Kyle. I should start charging for this matchmaking shit."

"Oh, shut up dude. You aren't as good as you think you are."

I raise an eyebrow at him. "Oh really?"

He snorts, grabbing my joint from my hand and taking a big drag from it. Damn, I really should get better reflexes. "Yeah, dude. You still haven't told me what I should do."

"Well, now that we've settled that you're Kyle-sexual – "

Stan coughs and pounds at his chest. I ignore him.

" – we really should get Kyle on the same page. Is he still blissfully unaware of how gay you guys are for each other or is he past that point already?"

"Shit, I don't know. But," Stan broke off and gave me a wicked smile. "But I think he liked the sex."

I whoop, slapping Stan on the back. Shit, this is why I like the guy. "You serious?"

"Yeah, he was, like, moaning and everything."

"Did you get him to cum?"

The pink comes back, but Stan keeps on grinning. "Hell yeah, dude. I'm not bad at sex."

"Hell, never said you were."

"Yeah, yeah." He flicks some ashes from the joint in my direction. "Hey dude, can I stay here tonight?"

I think about the parents, about how they scream and bitch and fight all the fucking time and how tonight would not be an exception. I think back to all we have in our fridge (some frozen waffles, cereal if we're lucky and Kevin hasn't scarfed it down already) and what the house must look like to Stan. Hell, his dog lives better than we do.

So I just ask, "Why?"

Stan scratches his head a little sheepishly, but I'm not fooled at all. His eyes are murky and his forehead is bunched into deep worry lines, like it always gets when he's particularly upset. You can't be friends since before preschool without knowing little things like that.

"Well," he chuckles sadly, a combination I thought I'd never hear. "Well, you're not really the first person I came to for advice."

"Who'd you ask?"

"My dad." He won't look at me, just stares straight down at his mittens as if he's determined to memorize each seam and thread.

I blink. "Uh, how'd he take it?"

Stan sighs and takes off his cap with one hand, balling the cloth so tight his knuckles turn white. "How do you think?"

"Bad?"

"Yeah. Real bad. So, I can't really go back home tonight."

When Stan finally did turn around, his smile didn't seem to quite fit on his face. It's broken, like he'd forgotten how to smile and had to paste on the closest thing he could find. It's a painful, quiet thing and I can't look at it for long, have to wince and stand to give myself an excuse to avert my eyes.

"Hey man, no worries. You can stay here for as long as you need." I hear myself saying, and he nods at me.

"Thanks, dude."

"No problem." I place my hand on his shoulder and let it rest for a moment before turning to walk out the door. "Hey, I'm going to go out. You coming with?"

I can hear Stan snorting from behind and the bed creaking as he stands to follow. "If I stay here by myself I'm going to get molested by your sister again."

"It's cool, just tell her you play for the other side."

"Whatever. You know she won't care."

"True. But at least you have a legit reason to brush her off now."

Stan choke-laughs at this, and I wish fervently that I'll never have to hear it again. "Thank God for small miracles, I guess."

"Yeah, thank God." I mumble.

We're walking down the street, Stan walking closer than he has since we were ten and he was going through shit from his parents, when he suddenly nudges me in the side.

"Kenny?"

"Yeah?"

He doesn't answer for a moment, and there's loaded silence threaded with each step we take. It bears down on our shoulders, our heads, and both of our backs bow with the weight as we shuffle forward.

I glance into a shop window as we walk past and almost laugh at how cliché we look. Two gloomy teenagers, lounging around town, heads down and scowls on full force – it's not my proudest moment.

We've been walking for a while when Stan finally raises his head, just a little. "Kenny, my dad…he didn't mean anything. By what he said."

Stan isn't talking to me, not really, so I don't respond. Just listen.

"Really. He's not a bad guy, just a little shocked by what I said. I mean, I guess I could have worded it a little differently so it was partly my fault."

"But he didn't have to act like that." It wasn't an accusation. There was no heat in my voice. It was fact, and Stan knew it.

"No. No, that bastard, he really, really didn't have to. Goddammit, I'm probably not even gay."

"Just a little bit? For Kyle?"

"Shut up Kenny. Why can't you be a little more considerate? You think going through this is easy?"

I throw back my head and laugh. Stan flinches beside me.

"God, sorry man. I didn't mean it like that."

Yes you did. But whatever. It's not like he can actually see the bruises. I don't blame him for forgetting.

Stan goes on like nothing's happened. "So yeah. I just asked Dad for a little advice, you know? And he just looked at me…and then," Stan's voice cracks, "he just. Oh my God, he just said, 'I thought so since you were nine. I was hoping I was wrong.' Dude, my own Dad thinks I'm gay. And then he turned away. Like, as if I was some piece of shit or something that didn't belong there. I mean, my Dad can be a bastard sometimes – a lot of times – but he's never turned away before. He's always been the nosy parent, you know? The one who really doesn't leave you alone."

"Kenny, I didn't know what to do. So I left."

I don't say anything because Stan has started shaking and as bad as I feel for him, this is still massively awkward for me. Even if I'm bi, I'm still a guy, goddammit. I don't do crying.

So I steer him towards a nearby curb (since South Park is basically deserted of anything normal, like benches) and press him down onto it. He's still shaking and hiccupping and basically making a scene, but he does what I tell him to with a minimum of fuss, to my great relief.

It's one thing to be sitting next to a guy who's crying and something else entirely for him to be clutching onto your sleeve while stumbling around with snot dripping from his nose. One scene is pitiful, and the other one is just a little too undignified for my tastes.

There's another long silence filled with sniffles and the occasional sob. It would be awkward, but I've known Stan for too long and too well to be deterred by his sensitivity.

And I've been known to give blowjobs for very low prices. So awkward isn't really a new thing for me.

We sit until my butt's cold and Stan's stopped making pathetic sniffling sounds and we can both see the stars (they're beautiful tonight). We just sit and don't talk, because there isn't really anything to say.

It's probably well into midnight when I stand and hold out a hand towards the motionless figure besides me.

"Hey, dude, let's go home."

Stan takes it.

The next morning is a Monday, and Stan gets me up at the crack dawn. Well, eight o'clock, which is basically the crack of dawn for someone who gets up at twelve on a regular basis.

"Dude. Shut up and go to sleep."

"Kenny, it's eight. Get up, we have to go to school."

I groan and hit him on the head. Sensitive bitch has got to have a snooze button somewhere. "I haven't gone to school at eight since I was fifteen."

"Yeah, and that's why you're flunking out. Come on, let's go."

"No. Fuck off."

"Jesus Christ, why are you being so difficult?"

"I'm being difficult? I let you sleep at my house, cry on my shoulder 'till two in the morning, and I'm being difficult?"

I can hear Stan sigh in frustration from far away, but I'm already drifting back into pleasant dreams of heaven and all the boobies it offers, so I really can't care less.

Until I'm flipped off of something soft and land on something really, really fucking hard.

"Goddamn it, Stan!"

"Get. Up. Kenny. I will not be late because you and your late ass."

"This ass is staying here."

"No, that ass is leaving. And if it doesn't leave by itself in three seconds, my ass will be taking that ass outside. In the nude."

"Do it."

In retrospect, it was a really dumb idea to dare a football player to lift a scrawny ass like me outside, even if I do have two inches on him. Because, heaven help me, Stan is fit as hell and cares about school enough to actually do it. He's about to dump said ass on snow, bare bottom down, when I twist in sheer desperation to punch him in the face.

"Okay, okay. Fuck, Marsh, you need to stop acting so anal. I swear, you get more and more like Kyle every day."

He stiffens, but I'm still pissed at him for tearing me away from my glorious dreams of boobies, so I can't spare too much sympathy.

I do let him grab the last waffle as we leave, though. 'Cause I'm just that nice of a guy.

Stan and I have been tight for the past couple of days, and since I definitely haven't been imagining the strange looks Kyle has been giving us, a confrontation was inevitable.

I was expecting it. I just didn't think it would happen like this; with me stuck behind a door and Kyle on the direct opposite of it. Moaning.

And talking, I suppose. But the moaning was a tad bit distracting.

The whole thing was just a giant coincidence. Really. It had started off as one of those godforsaken awful mornings where I'm woken with a bucket of water to the head, courtesy of Stan. And it's really not as funny as it sounds.

So I'm walking, right? Just minding my own business after ditching Stan in the parking lot (because no matter how many times it's happened, having water dumped on your head is not a pleasant way to start the morning and there should be a basic human right to ditch people who think it is)when I hear noises from a nearby door. Sexual noises.

There are moans, grunts, little urgent whispers – the whole shebang. To make things even better, it's coming from the janitor's closet. Considering countless occasions I've gotten my rocks off in there – ha! I own the janitor's closet.

Therefore, I own all the sex that goes on in there, too. That's my excuse for listening in on what happened next. I creep forward, baby steps, until I'm pressed up against the dingy metal surface.

"Mmm…I just…don't know. I thought – oh, yes, there – he liked me. Just…ha…a little bit?"

Kyle? The fuck is he doing in there? Shit, if Stan finds out about this –

"Gee, I don't know Kyle. He's kinda giving off weird signals."

Butters?

"I…know…"

"B-but I still say he likes you. I know c-cause Big Gay Al and Mr. Slave love each other, and th-they look at each other like Stan looks at you."

"You…think? Oh."

"Gee, is that okay, Kyle?"

"Yess…it's great…oh, God, I'm going to – "

"Mmph."

I have to jam my fist into my mouth to keep from cumming right then and there. I could see why Stan was head over heels for Kyle – his voice mid-sex was amazing. Throaty and desperate and electrifying as Kyle shouts Stan's name, teasing, pulling forward, sucking –

Jesus, God, and fucking Christ, what I would give to be on the other side of this stupid door right this second. But Kyle has started talking again and I lean in to listen, just in case he's still talking in that gorgeous hidden voice of his.

"Butters, what you were saying before…"

"Oh yeah! Well, he watches you when he's walking around with Kenny sometimes. I – I mean, it's not like I watch them or anything, but – oh, jeez – forget I said anything!"

"Wait, wait, hold on a minute. He watches me?"

"Aw, of course he does Kyle! He loves ya!"

"You really think so?"

"Yeah! You guys are real sweet, boy-howdy. I'd love to have that with someone, someday."

"Uh, thanks Butters. That's…cool of you to say. Well, I think I should go. It's almost time for first period."

"Yeah, okay. But we should do this again soon!"

"…Weren't you just saying Stan likes me? And that we'd be, uh, good together?"

"Yeah!"

"And you still want to hook up?"

"Well, it was fun, right?"

"And you don't see anything wrong with that?"

"I don't know why you're asking, but you sure are making me nervous Kyle."

"Ah, whatever. I seriously gotta go now, so I'll be seeing you at lunch, okay?"

"Yeah, okay! See you later!"

I launch myself away from the door and down the hall, managing to prop myself nonchalantly onto a nearby locker just as Kyle's green ushanka pokes out from the doorway, his face a little pink and hair disheveled but otherwise looking exactly the same as he always does. It makes me laugh. If I can't tell – me, Mr. Sex and Worshipper of All that is Sexual – then he's doing a pretty damn good job of hiding it. And that means he's had a lot of practice. With Butters. Come on, it's pretty hilarious.

Except it's suddenly not, because Kyle's head whips around at my laughter and he sees me immediately, eyes narrowing as he starts to walk over. Scratch that – stomping over with all the intensity of a wolf-bear-hawk hybrid narrowing in on its prey. It's more than a little disconcerting, especially since Kyle is uncannily similar to Ms. Broflovski when he gets angry. Seriously, it's like a mini, male Sheila is hunting me down.

Oh God, I'm actually sort of frightened. Except I'll never admit that to anyone, God or Satan rest my soul.

"Hey, Kenny."

"Hey."

"You're here early." Suspicion's written all over his face, the smartass.

"Uh, yeah. Stan woke me up by pouring water over my head."

Kyle eyes my dripping wet bangs and pats me on the shoulder in a sympathetic fashion – he knows just how drastic Stan can get. "Sorry, Ken. But you know it's better for you in the long run, right?"

I shrug and leave him to his preaching, intent on treating this like it never happened when Butters comes out of the janitor's closet at the exact moment that I'm passing by.

"O-oh, heya Kenny!"

"Uh. Hi, Butters."

I really, really don't need this right now. Not when the only guy I might actually hate is standing in front of me, smelling of sex and glancing around with the most obvious I-just-got-fucked expression in the world. Not when he's not half as good as hiding it as Kyle, and especially not when Kyle is still watching us from a couple feet away, absolute horror inscribed on every inch of his face as he looks at Butters's dazed expression.

Goddammit. I might have gotten away without Kyle finding out I knew and skipped the ensuing drama that was sure to happen. I could have forgotten about the complete and utter weirdness of this whole situation, saved it up until I ran out of things to jack off to and put it to good use.

That's probably what would have happened if Butters hadn't had the worst timing in the whole goddamn universe. And now I was condemned to an hour, possibly an hour and a half, of the worst Kyle bitching I had ever been subject to. There would be words. And quite possibly a whole lot of accusations and Broflovski advice mixed in with those words, all served on the highest volume known to man.

God. Fucking. Dammit.

Butters is still babbling away about something I really don't give a shit about right now, but when I look down to make up a vague excuse and hurry away, I have to give him a double take. He's literally as red as a tomato, cheek's hot and knuckles rubbing against each other like they always do when he's nervous.

I – I mean, it's not like I watch them or anything, but – oh, jeez – forget I said anything!

Fuck. Did Butters have a crush? On me?

Well, only one way to confirm. I lean in a little closer, making sure I'm smiling in the way that always ends up getting me sex. Lots and lots of it. I have no idea what he's talking about, but there's one line that usually works on everything.

"So you like that, huh?"

Butters face reddens even more – so much I think he might actually need medical attention –before he squeaks something unintelligible. It's something along the lines of "Gee" and "oh, hamburgers!", which is all the confirmation I need.

It's just too bad for him that Butters is the very last person I would ever bone. So I lean backwards, give him a parting wink, and make off to leave –

"Wait! Kenny, stop! I have to talk to you!"

When I realize Kyle's still here and I'm still royally screwed. Shit.

"Uh, Butters."

"Yeah Ken?"

His eyes are shining with so much naïve hope it fucking hurts to look at him. But even that – the hope and the awkward flirts and the endless babbling – is better than the fuming Sheila-monster that's waiting for me.

"Let's ditch."

"What?" Butters just looks at me in horror. "I-If I skip school I'm gonna get grounded!"

"No, you're not. We'll come back in time for lunch and later I'll disconnect your phone wires or something so the school can't call your parents, okay? Just come on."

I tug him away from where Kyle's still glaring at me, undoubtedly understanding exactly what I'm doing and not appreciating it. We've almost made it to the end of the hall when I hear Kyle shout something unintelligible from the other side.

"Did you catch that?" I look to Butters, and he nods.

"Yeah! He said, 'this isn't over, Kenny McCormick!'. Gee, I wonder what he meant?"

"Who knows?" I mutter back, stopping for a bit to glance over my shoulder. I can't see Kyle anywhere, which probably means he's gone to first period, and since Kyle has a super serious relationship with school he's not going to ditch it to look for me.

I'm safe, for now. One more loose end to ditch and I'm out of here, faster than anything. I've been going to school entirely too much lately, a side effect from becoming temporary best friends with Stan. It's high time I've ditched. My lazy white trash nerves are itching for it.

I look at Butters and smile. "You know what Butters? Maybe it's not good to ditch."

Butters nods, an obviously relieved smile springing into being and smoothing all the worry lines from his face. "Yeah! I mean, it's not good to d-ditch, no sir!"

I cut him off before he can begin whatever babble he has in mind. I really, really want to get to Raisins and just drink this entire day down. "Yeah, so let's just go to class. Uh, tell your teacher you got sick on the way here or something."

"Naw, I couldn't! That'd be lying, and lying's no good, mister!" Butters looks appalled again, and I have to fight back the urge to just up and run. I probably would too, if I didn't know Butters would follow me.

"Okay, tell him the truth. Tell him you met Kenny McCormick and was trying to make him go back to class."

"Okay! I'll do that, then."

"Right. See you later, Butters."

I'm ready to hightail out of there, out of this cesspool of emotions and relationships and angst, when someone tugs on my hand.

"What is it, Butters?" The words come out as more of a garbled sigh, but Butters is apparently incapable of recognizing annoyance and he isn't fazed at all by it.

"Well, we'll see each other at lunch, right Kenny? Golly, we haven't talked in a while!"

"Uh, yeah." No way in hell. "I'll see you around, Butters."

I can feel Butters watching me go, his beam as sharp as Kyle's laser eyes in intensity. But finally, finally, I'm out the door and gone. Gone, gone, gone. Away from sharp-eyed people and their boyfriends, away from whiny, douchebag asses and straight into the lap of a gorgeous bottle of whiskey.