Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Joyous Kwanza! And a pleasant Sunday for those Witnesses out there who would never be caught dead reading a slashy South Park fanfiction!

Are You Lost?

It had been three weeks since we took Kyle home, and for once... Life was going good for me. It was summer, so me, Kenny, Cartman and Kyle spent practically every day together, swimming at Stark's (though Kyle insisted we wear shirts), playing videogames in my basement, playing basketball at the park, going to the movies to see lame summer flicks, just... Hanging out. Kyle and Cartman didn't even fight, not like they usually would. Normally, when forced to spend this much time together, they would be at each other's throats, but... Kyle seemed happier than ever, Cartman was fine as long as you didn't mention that construction had mysteriously begun on his half-burned-down house, and their arguments seemed almost... Playful.

"Hey, fatty!" Kyle ribbed, shoving the brunette with his elbow. Cartman mock growled, not taking his eyes from the screen as he tried to shoot down the sniper taking aim at him (Kyle, of course) with an SMG from long range. "What, you damn Jew?"

"Boom, headshot!"

I laughed as the kill screen popped up over Cartman's fourth of the screen, merely leaning away and setting my controller down as the larger teen tackled my super best -though not roughly- and began to playfight, rolling over and over and conspicuously not landing any hard hits. I glanced over at Kenny, mirth in my eyes, only to see that he had fallen asleep. He often got bored with games because his curse of dying, while not really a problem very often in real life any more, seemed to have carried over to the gameworld, where a stray bullet on the other side of the map meant death for player four.

I reached out and squeezed his knee, ignoring the yelps and curses from behind me in favor of smiling softly at the blond as he cracked his eyes open and yawned, stretching like a cat. He offered ms a sleepy smile and glanced at the screen just in time to see the game glitch and watch player four -randomly teleported upwards a couple hundred feet- fall from the sky and hit the ground, instant death.

Kenny laughed quietly, the sound soft and familiar. I blushed a little and he smirked at me before returning his attention to the pair who had finally given up and were untangling themselves, sending each other mock glares and smile-softened death threats. "You guys done making out?"

Both if their cheeks flushed red in anger and embarrassment and they simultaneous started yelling at the thoroughly amused immortal. I shook my head with a light smile and patiently waited for them to loose steam.

"It's getting late, guys." I mentioned as their indignation died out. "Doesn't Mrs. B. want you guys home, like, ten minutes from now?"

Kyle checked his phone and cursed, turning his distressed green eyes on the equally concerned brunette. "Dude, more like ten minutes ago, we better get home!"

"Shit." Cartman muttered, scrambling to his feet and almost absently offering Kyle a hand up. The redhead took it without thought, letting the bigger teen haul him to his feet with ease. "Here're your shoes, Cartman." he called, kicking them closer to the boy, who was frantically trying find said footcoverings.

Kyle shoved on his converse and zipped up his Pokémon hoodie -it can get pretty chilly during South Park Summer nights- scrambling up the stairs and calling back, "Bye, Stan! Bye, Kenny, see you tomorrow!"

Cartman offered no such goodbye, instead only urging Kyle to go faster with a hand on his lower back. "See you, losers!"

Jesus.The front door slammed shut.

"That was really weird." Kenny voiced immediately. "Scratch that, they've been really weird. What's been up with them? They've been acting like... Like friends. Only... Y'know... Weirder."

I snorted. "Oh, Kenny. You have such a way with words." I crooned sarcastically. He smirked at me, ignoring the dying cry of his respawned character in favor of leaning in for a short kiss. I shut my eyes on instinct, enjoying the now familiar sensation of his warm, chapped lips moving against my own. He pulled back and I reluctantly opened my eyes only to see him pulling himself to his feet.

I blinked up at him and his smirk melted into a fond smile. "As much as I would love to stay-" he winked-"Butters gets back from drama camp in, like, fifteen minutes, and I promised we'd have a sleep over the night he got back." He rolled his eyes in exasperation at the little blond's girly childishness, but I knew that Kenny was extremely fond of the innocent kid and that he'd missed him.

"Alright." I muttered a little reluctantly, pushing myself to my feet and winding my arms around my boyfriend's waist. "Kiss for the road?"

Kenny smiled up at me-I thought it was adorable that he was an inch or two shorter-and wound his arms around my neck, popping one of his feet up and planting a sloppy kiss on my lips with a wet Mwah!noise.

I chuckled as he pulled back and beamed at me like a dog who'd performed a particularly difficult trick. He was pretty in his own right, a very pretty young man with smooth skin and a mop of soft gold hair, clear blue eyes and a knockout easygoing smile. I smoothed one of my palms up his back to his neck, holding him still as I pressed my lips to his again, nudging his lips apart and doing my best to kiss him senseless, pressing forward until he was bent back so far that I was the only thing keeping him from falling.

When we parted both of us were panting softly from the effort, my arms trembling just slightly with the challenge of keeping the very solid teen up. I tilted him back up onto his feet and he pulled me tightly against him, burying his eyes in my neck. "You sure you can't stay?" I asked quietly, smoothing my hands up and down his back, feeling the muscles and the ridges of his spine and ribs.

He broke away and leaned up on his tippy toes to kiss my forehead, sighing as he rocked back onto the flats of his feet. "I'm quite sure." he murmured, resolve noticeably less firm, and I grinned, pushing back the selfish desire to get him to stay and instead urging, "Better get going then, or you might be late for the tea party!"

OoO

When we reached his door, Kyle paused, looked at me and whispered with a conspiratorial wink, "Play along and look apologetic."

"Mama!" he called as he threw open the front door, worry and guilt clear in his tone. Predictably, the Mother Jew was standing in the foyer, arms crossed, foot tapping. Kyle offered her his best stricken expression, and I bit my lip to push down my smile. Drama queen. "I'm so sorry, mama! We left for the house a half hour ago, but on the way home, there was this little girl..."

"And her new puppy had run off!" I butted in automatically, nodding a little when Kyle smiled thankfully at me. "She was a cute little girl, all brown pigtails and pudge, and she looked about ready to cry, and she kept calling for Daisy."

Kyle bit his lip. "So we helped her look, and eventually we heard a whining noise, and suddenly this adorable golden retriever puppy ran up out of nowhere and the little girl squealed and picked it up and thanked us, and we walked her home since it was getting dark. We would've been home on time, honest!"

Mrs. Broflovski eyed us both up and down suspiciously. "What was the little girl's name?"

Kyle faltered so I piped up, "I think it was Mary Anne or Mary Lou. She was a sweet little girl, too, only seven or so."

She still looked unsure. "And what kind of dog was it, Eric, dear?"

"A golden retriever." I answered without missing a beat.

She turned to Kyle. "And what was the dog's name?"

He froze for all of a second before responding almost flawlessly, "Daisy, Daisy May."

She eyed us both, arms still crossed against her chest, intimidating with her presence though she was only a short, dumpy woman, and a Jew at that. "Fine." she relented with a sigh as she turned around. "I believe you. Now, go wash up for bed, okay?"

We both nodded vigorously and thundered up the stairs, stopping at the top to cling to each other in silent laughter. Kyle recovered first, straightening up with a little difficulty under the weight of my hand on his shoulder, and whispered with a playful wink, "We make a good team."

That stopped my laughter. I straightened up and looked down, down, down at him, smiling gently back at him. "Yeah." I agreed, heart thundering. He was right there, right within my grasp, almost mine to take. Almost there...

I caught myself leaning down and stopped short, closer than normal, hand still rested on his shoulder. "Cartman..." he sighed, and I felt my heart lurch a bit in my chest. So. Agonizingly. Close.

"Eric." I corrected quietly, hesitantly. I don't know what made me say it, but I was glad I did, because he echoed me without thought, a whisper in hisvoice of my given name. "Eric."

My breath caught in my throat and he laughed, turning and calling over his shoulder as he disappeared into the bathroom, "Could you grab some pajamas for me? Thanks!"

The door clicked shut. Heart racing, I tried to collect myself. The shower clicked on and I forced myself to move, robotically shuffling into our shared bedroom, glancing over at the words scribbled across his chalkboard. "I see a red door and I want to paint it black-no colors any more, I want them to turn black."-Paint it Black by The Rolling Stones

I shook my head and knelt in front of his dresser, opening the bottom drawer on his side on instinct. What greeted me, however, was not clothes (preferably of the sleepwear variety) but a very thick leather scrapbook, old and messily put together. Belatedly, I recalled him telling me weeks ago, "Don't look under my bed, don't go through the boxes in my closet, don't go through my drawers, and don't touch my dry erase boards."

But, I reasoned quickly in a voice that sounded suspiciously like the speech impedimented slur of my younger self, it was much too late for that. Glancing around with a hint of guilt I wasn't familiar with, I picked up the heavy book and set it in my lap. I opened up the cover, and I was greeted with a childish, messy crayon drawing of the South Park sign on a page made brittle by age. I flipped the page again I was met with... My childhood. No, his childhood, Stan's childhood, Kenny's childhood, Butters' childhood... Our childhood.

The first lines were, "Things have been kind of weird around here lately, so I decided that maybe it was time to start keeping a journal."

Everything was there-and usually he had the full story, dates, anecdotes from other people, add ons from later dates... He had the first time I was abducted by aliens, the time Kyle saw Passion of Christ and I lead a march on the synagogue, the last day we spent with Chef, the time I convinced everyone I was psychic, when Mr. Mackey tried to teach sex ed, the time we went after Tweek's gnomes, the time Kenny died for a year, the Imagination land fiasco, the time I thought I died, the time Stan almost became a prophet for the Scientologists, the time the guys tricked ms into thinking I was Ginger, the time Michael Jackson moved in, the time mom hired a dog trainer, the time Stan got served and Butters killed more people with his dancing... Everything. All of it. News clippings, pictures, flyers, and handwritten stories-and on one page, a fuckton of obituaries, the vast majority of them being Kenny's but one for Pip, Chef, that crazy bus driver... Other friends and peers we've lost. There was a spot reserved for when Stan's Grampa finally bites the dust.

But after our last amazing adventures, ending around the time we started fifth grade with an unimpressive trailing off, he started to keep a personal journal. Was this what I heard him writing in late at night as he sang so softly to himself? Evidently. He still kept it. I read glimpses and pieces here and there, eyes flitting around too fast to take in anything, catching random words, my name, Stan's name, South Park...

OoO

I sighed as the soothingly cool water flowed over my back, through my hair, everywhere, like a balm to the daily stress of life, though admittedly, life hadn't been too stressful lately. Well, not in the normal sense...

My thoughts drifted back to how things have gone almost every night these last few weeks. I'd be woken-or sometimes just alerted-by a quiet whimper, the rustle of sheets as he tossed and turned fretfully. I'd sit up just as he little cries desolved into screams of terror, echoing through the house and probably waking Ike, but he was used to me waking up with nightmares and probably just sighed into the dark and rolled over. Jerking awake, he would hit the floor with a thump and sit up, curling into a ball and crying softly into his knees. The first night this happened, I rushed to his side and I almost got punched in the face. Since then I've learned to wait until he calms down, laying back as though asleep.

Eventually, he would straighten up shakily, taking in a shuddery breath, and he would stand with his back to me for a moment before he turned towards my bed, head down, fists clenched by his sides. I'd stay still as he moved to the side of my bed, eyes shut, and he would carefully crawl into bed like a child, under the blanket, pressing close with his head on my chest and his arm loosely slung over my hips.

"Kyle..." he had murmured.

I sighed. I didn't ask him about the nightmares, or why he crawled into bed with me. And he said nothing about it-he still waited for my medication and insulin to take effect before he said good morning, and by the time I felt like a human being and I was showered, it didn't seem to matter as much. And so it went unspoken, but we had grown so close in these last weeks, even during daylight hours. Less like we were enemies and more like we were merely rivals, perhaps even... Friends.

It was nice. It was comfortable. It would all crash down around me when I ventured out of the bathroom, confused by the absence of clean clothes to put on. Oh well. That's life. C'est la vie. So ist das Leben.

OoO

A shocked gasp sounded behind me and I slammed the book closed and panickedly threw the scrapbook into the drawer, kicking it shut as I scrambled away from the forbidden object I was caught looking through. I looked up at him, hair soaked, eyes bright with hurt, cheeks flushed with rage, clothes haphazardly shoved back on, fists clenched in rage.

"You looked through my book?" he snarled.

"You're gay?" I gasped back, something from his journal finally catching up with me. "A-and you tried to kill yourself? Your brother had cancer? Where was I for all this?"

He screeched in rage, marching over to me with murder in his eyes. I scrambled backwards but suddenly he was looming over me, and a moment later I hit my side hard against the floor, the right side of my face throbbing from the unexpectedly harsh impact of his fist. I pushed myself up to see him shoving on shoes -one red converse and one black, I noted dazedly- with his scrap book tucked under one arm.

"Wait, where are you going?" I cried as he stomped out, watching my chances crumble, watching our closeness dissipate. I pushed myself to my feet and raced out of the room after him, seeing him shove the book into a surprised looking Ike's arms and continue down the stairs, obviously heading for the front door.

"Fuck off, fatass!" he screamed, hurt and anger tangling dangerously in his tone. I caught up with him as he was shrugging on his jacket by the front door, ignoring his mother's inquiries about what had happened and where he was going. "Kyle, wait a second-"

"NO!"

I flinched. Mrs. Broflovski smartly melted away, disappearing up the stairs.

"No, goddammit! I'm tired of this little dance of yours! I'm tired of this game! I'm tired of-of thinking I can trust you!" Tears formed in his brilliant green eyes and fell down his cheeks like crystalized pain. I lowered my eyes for a moment as he continued in a smaller voice, "You've been doing this to me for too long, and I swear to God, Cartman, that was your very last chance. It's over and done with."

He opened the door and, through my heartbreak, I saw that he was serious. I had messed up. Desperately, I grabbed him around the waist, holding him tightly to my chest as he screamed and kicked and hit and fought to get away, fought to escape. I held him as though I were trying to press him into the wound he'd ripped across my calloused heart, as though he were the only thing in the world keeping me from falling apart.

"Let me go!" I ignored him, fisting my hand in his hair and yanking his head back, pressing my lips to his in a clash of teeth, a rush of anger, frustration, passion, lust. I pulled back, tasting the blood from some wound neither of us had noticed yet, staring nakedly down into his confused, pained, surprised emerald irises.

"Let me go, Cartman."

"I love you!"

Tears welled in his eyes again, and in mine, blurring my vision as I angrily blinked them away, watching one of them fall onto his cheek. "Let me go." he repeated again, tone quiet and soothing. My throat hurt. "Please!" I pleaded, voice breaking as I sobbed, sliding to my knees and clutching at his legs, face pressed into his abdomen. "Please, Kyle, please don't leave!"

He stepped delicately out of my hold and took off out into the night, running like a bat out of hell. I buried my face in my hands and cried, crumpling in on myself and shutting down.

Warning: Emotional Overload; You Have Reached Critical Mass

OoO

I ran and ran and ran, until I was far from the man who'd just turned my life upside down, far from the problems of my every day life...

I was close to Kenny's house, though, quickly moving from a bad part of town to a worse part of town, weaving through the streets until I came across the broken down home I associated with the young blond. I crossed my arms over my chest after knocking on the door, cheeks red with cold and eyes irritated from tears. A strong wind whipped through my jacket and I shivered, looking up gratefully as Karen opened the door a crack, looking up at me just slightly.

"Firecrotch?" she asked, confused. I laughed miserably and whispered reprimandingly, "My name is Kyle, Karen. Is Kenny here?"

"Nah, he's out wit' that flowerboy, Peanut Butter or whatever." She rolled her eyes, demonstrating her disdain for her brother and his choice of friends. I scowled, at a loss as to what to do. When I'm upset, I come to Kenny for advice and-

"May I come in?" I murmured politely, "Just for a moment?"

She shrugged and stood to the side, allowing me to enter the dirty foyer, stepping over a discarded beer bottle in the hallway. Karen disappeared and that was fine with me. I knew my way around.

Kenny's room consisted of a dresser and a musty-smelling old mattress on the floor. I didn't like to go in there, but I'd known the immortal for the better part of fourteen years and I knew where he kept what I was after.

Unfortunately, though, his drawer of forbidden things was distinctly lacking in what I was after-alcohol. Stan had always joked (with a slightly uncomfortable tone that indicated he was serious) that as soon as I could legally drink, I'd become an alcoholic. Personally, I just find alcohol the best way to soothe a mind that never stops going, and right then, I'd do anything to forget the look in Cartman's eye and how betrayed and pathetic I felt.

Perhaps that's why I picked it up-the fake ID Kenny had made for me months ago that I refused to take. It had my school picture from last year, my name, my age-twenty-two. I thought it was a bit of a stretch, really, which is one of the reasons I didn't take it-the other being that I didn't need something like this to go on my permanent record.

... Whatever. Checking my pocket to make sure I had my wallet, I pocketed the ID and, urged by strange noises coming from Kevin's room, made haste leaving the broken home, heading down the abandoned street towards downtown South Park, a dangerous place filled with seedy bars and seedy people. I've never been there alone, but I figured I'd be fine-who would bother me?

OoO

"On va chez toi ou chez moi?" the phrase came whispered into my ear. I jumped a little, shivering, spinning in my chair to see a tall, scruffy man with overlong, wild brown hair falling past his shoulders, a three day beard covering his neck, cheeks and chin and a cigarette dangling from his lips. "E-excuse me?" I stammered as the man leaned in closer, too close for comfort.

"Bonsoir, chaton." he smirked, sitting heavily into the chair beside mine. "Vous êtes perdu?"

'Did he just call me a kitten?'I wondered inwardly, realizing belatedly that I was being hit on. I blushed shyly on reflex and asked sheepishly, "Do you speak English?"

The man blinked once, twice. He shook his head as though to clear it. "¿Dónde estoy? Wait, zat's español, isn't eet, dearie? Where am I?" He spoke with a heavy French accent that I couldn't help but think rather endearing. I smiled, glancing down into the bitter amber liquid halfway filling my glass and then around the surprisingly quiet bar. "You're in South Park, South Park, Colorado."

"I'm een Amérique?" He seemed utterly perplexed for a couple seconds, before he visibly clicked into the universal, "Oh, yeah!" expression and relaxed. "Oui, I remember now. South Park, Hm?"

Suddenly, his eyes sparked with interest and he leaned in entirely too close (in my opinion, anyway), examining me like a particularly interesting specimen under a microscope.

"You are... Kyle Broflovski, non?" he inquired slowly. I nodded slowly, trying to think of where I'd seen the man's face before... He did seem familiar...

The man's cold brown eyes softened and suddenly, I remembered a little boy dying in my arms, an angry boy with an issue with God, a boy who called himself-"Mole?"

The brunette lunged at me and I just barely managed to set my second beer on the counter before I was swept up into the man's arms, hefted easily off my chair and into the air. His arms, strong and solid around the my admittedly delicate waist, tightened until his hold was almost painful. The mercenary's chest rumbled with a delighted laugh and I couldn't help but smile again, gently patting the man on the back.

"It's been a while." I murmured as I was sat back down on my stool, remembering the Canadian American War with a bittersweet crooked smirk. Christophe grinned wildly down at me and slowly lowered himself to his seat as well, suddenly seeming less calm and suave and more antsy and overexcited. "Mon dieu... Eet 'as been... Years. Si longtemps..."

"It's been a while since you were in the states, hasn't it?" I questioned curiously, noting that his accent was heavier and his English a bit worse since when he was a kid. He nodded approvingly. "Oui, very perceptive. I 'ave mostly been een France for ze last seven years. Spent some time een España, but mostly in France."

"Why are you here now, Christophe?"

"Ah... Per'aps I will tell you some ozer time, mon cherí." he rushed out, suddenly awfully distracted as he stared past me and out the window at the front of the bar, into the night. I twisted in his seat to try and see what he saw, but the man caught my jaw in a vice grip as he stood, tilting my face up to the light. The mercenary practically devoured my face with his eyes, flicking quickly over my bright green eyes and pale skin splattered with freckles. He leaned way down, brushing his beard across my cheek as he whispered ominously in my ear, "Don't hang out een places like zis. Eet ees much 'oo dangerous, chaton."

In an instant he was walking away, a shovel in his hand that I hadn't noticed before. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the bartender flinch. Guess he didn't notice either.

"Je vais vous voir bientôt." he called over his shoulder. I figured it meant something along the lines of goodbye and smiled, calling back a reflecting farewell a moment too late.

OoO

Finally, Christophe! Oh, I'm so excited. And if you want me to update soon...

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