Disclaimer: South Park and all characters in it are copyright Matt Stone and Trey Parker, not me.

A/N:

I like this one. I was really stuck on this; I knew what I wanted to express, but not how to express it.

Also, I was really pissed today. But that's not important.

Thanks for the reviews Zak :D

Title: The K Squared 100
Author: Zoshi the Confused
Rating: Ranging, mostly PG-PG13
Category: South Park
Genre: General/Romance
Collection may contain: Shounen-Ai/Boy Love, Violence, Adult Situations, Swearing

Theme 7: Furthest

It wasn't in the morning, when breakfast was being made in the kitchen. The eggs in the frying pan might've been sizzling, but it was hard to tell from what: the fire under the pan or the glare from the redhead above them. A plastic spatula was held in his right hand, occasionally descending to push the eggs around in the sputtering grease.

At the kitchen table the blond sat, flipping through the Saturday morning newspaper and doing an insanely good job ignoring the heated atmosphere of the small room. The crinkle of newspaper pages turning joined the sputter and spit of sizzling grease. The table was set: two placemats, two plates, two pieces of toasted bread on each, two forks and two knives. A glass of orange juice at one, a cup of strong, black coffee at the other.

The blonde at the table leaned away a little as the redhead carried the pan over and deposited one half of the eggs onto his plate. They landed a little awkwardly, slightly hanging off at one edge. The redhead ignored them and went to serve himself. The blond, finally looking away from the classifieds, reached out a hand, pushed the eggs all the way onto his plate with a finger, licked it, and returned to scanning the page he was on. The redhead deposited the pan into the sink with what might have been a little-too-loud of a clatter, then returned to his seat and ate his breakfast.

The morning was silence before the storm, but it wasn't then.

It wasn't right before lunch, when the blonde took a cigarette break on the small balcony outside the living/dining room with the sliding door half-open. It wasn't a windy day, and the cigarette smoke hung around the small area almost as if it were reluctant to let go. The redhead, passing by with a load of laundry that needed folding, stopped with an irritated grunt to slide the door closed.

A moment after he disappeared from the room the blond, still looking out at the view, reached back with one foot, hooked the edge of the door, and slid it open again. The redhead, returning a moment later to retrieve a fallen article of clothing, stopped abruptly at the sight of the open door, and the smell of the smoke coming in through it. Something on his face twitched, and when he sighed it was the slow hiss of steam being let out of a coal train's engine. The door slid closed again, and, with formerly-lost article of clothing in hand, the redhead whipped around and headed back to the room.

A little while later, clothes folded and put away, the redhead returned to the living room to watch the news only to find the sliding door, once again, half open. His stiff legged approach did not go unnoticed; the blonde on the balcony, cigarette nearly finished, turned an impassive gaze in in his direction.

The sliding door slammed closed so hard the curtain rod above it nearly jumped out of its hooks.

A moment later the blonde crushed his cigarette on the railing, tossing it down to the street below, and, sliding the door open, entered back into the apartment. Closing it carefully behind him, he passed the seething redhead on the couch and entered the kitchen to make a sandwich.

Lunch time was thunder across a canyon, but it wasn't then.

It wasn't at dinner time, with the microwave beeping its last seconds. Out of it came the prepackaged, previously-frozen-but-now-baked chicken pot pie that would be dinner for the blonde. He took it out carefully, sliding it out of its box and onto a cutting board to cool. The fridge opened, and he poured himself a glass of iced tea he'd made during lunch, setting it next to the single plate on the table. A radio was playing the newest rock songs from the living room, and the blonde bobbed his head along to the beats as he carried the cooled pie to his plate. He picked up his fork and ate slowly.

The redhead had gone out that night.

Dinner was an echoing ravine, but it wasn't then.

Night, with both in bed, covered in a thin sheet, one with a fluffy pillow, one with a firm one. If attempted, the points of separation could be counted: First, at the heads, which usually were propped against one another. Second, at the shoulders, which generally touched when they slept side by side. Third, at the spines, which mostly met when they lay pushed against each other back-to-back. Fourth, at the hips, a position that usually led to more interesting positions. Fifth, at the knees, where their legs usually tangled after everything was said and done. Sixth, at the ankles, that crossed whenever they pulled close under the covers.

An inch-wide divide; a chasm of separation.

It was when they were nearly at their closest that they were furthest apart.