A/N: Kenny's position here is like my worst nightmare. I have travel in my blood. If, for some reason, I was prevented from doing it, I would probably have to kill myself. True story.

Kenny worked every day surrounded by adventure. That was how he saw it. So what that it didn't strictly belong to him? He worked every day surrounded by other people's adventure, and that was good enough.

There was only one travel agent in the whole of South Park. It was called Wings, and Kenny had been detouring past the place for years. As a child he had been mesmerised by the shiny posters in the windows which showed endless blue seas, dreaming spires, and feathered tribal costumes. There was a whole world out there, Kenny had come to realise; a real world that you could see and hear and touch. It had been almost unthinkable to his elementary school self that there were places other than this cold and soulless pocket of America, where snow didn't choke every corner and where people weren't too bigoted and hateful to really live their lives. The small scraps of experience of other countries and cultures that Kenny had scavenged in his youth had kindled a steadily growing fire inside of him that had now matured into blazing wanderlust.

Unfortunately for Kenny though, travel was a luxury that people like him were not entitled to. Travel required money, a lot of money, and time off work. The two things didn't exactly go hand in hand and that was why, when he'd seen the job advertised in the window of Wings, Kenny had stopped dead in his tracks on the icy sidewalk.

After the others had fucked off to college or settled down to chase dreams of power, Kenny had left his high school job in a fast food restaurant because he had known that he was totally better than that. He might not have been college material, nor had the drive and ruthlessness to really make something of himself, but he was better than a life of that anyway. The job at Wings was the perfect way out. It was safe, (because as much of a buzz as death was, it kind of sucked when you weren't expecting it and were paid by the hour) it was respectable and, most importantly, it fed his soul just enough each day that he was able to keep himself whole.

Kenny was pretty good at the job, too. He had a way with people; he knew how to make his smile so open and friendly that they couldn't help but do whatever he suggested. Besides, Kenny spent so long poring over travel websites, guidebooks and copies of National Geographic in order to nourish the yearning itch at the bottom of his heart, that he had amassed an incomparable bank of knowledge. Beneath his desk at work were piles of dog-eared Lonely Planet guides that Kenny had bought for a dollar each at the second hand book store. Choice passages of the books were now highlighted in acid yellow so that he could find them more easily. The desk's top drawer was stuffed full of crumpled maps which had routes and itineraries scribbled across them in marker. In short, Kenny had made himself into an expert on places he had never been and things that he had never done.

The only other employee in the place was a chubby, middle-aged woman named Charlene who didn't like dealing with trips to any country whose name she couldn't pronounce, which was most of them. Charlene hated backpackers, believing them all to be slackers and drug addicts. She couldn't understand why a person would ever want to leave America for any reason other than to lie on a beach sipping cocktails, and she was highly suspicious of anyone who did. So, Kenny handled all of 'those types' and became the Wings go-to guy for adventure travel.

Business was pretty quiet a lot of the time. Most of the people who came in either wanted Charlene's brand of package vacation or had mistakenly assumed that Wings was a Chinese restaurant. But, since they had started advertising in the local colleges (Kenny's idea) the flow of people looking for something quirky and independent was steadily increasing. On occasion, they had days when people actually had to wait in line to sit in front of Kenny's desk and watch in awe as he would use his maps and guidebooks to weave together a life-altering voyage out of thin air.

Today was definitely not one of those days. Charlene was filing her nails, whilst humming tunelessly to the radio and there wasn't a client in sight. Kenny sat on his wheeled chair, his new Laos Lonely Planet open on the desk in front of him. Kenny wasn't thinking about Laos, though. For once, his mind had wandered away from his charmed imaginings of rough seas and bustling bazaars to fixate instead on the memory of Kyle's heated kisses trailing over his throat.

Kenny had grown up in deprivation. He'd never had the things he'd wanted as a kid. But with people it was different. When Kenny decided he wanted someone, he damn well got them, no matter how complicated it made things. He was no stranger to rushed, panicked affairs conducted entirely in illicit gaps of time. But, when Kenny had decided that he'd wanted Kyle, he had never expected it to get as intense as it had done, as intense as it was now. Some nights, the wait for Stan to leave for work was practically torture and the second that the front door closed on Stan's oblivious farewell, Kyle and Kenny would be on each other as desperately as if the very hounds of hell were snapping at their backs. Kenny's original deduction that Kyle was hot had been an understatement; the man was dynamite. The first time they'd fucked had damn near blown Kenny's mind. Kyle was a natural. Kenny realised that, as they had grown up, it had been too easy for him to forget what he already knew resided beneath Kyle's repressive neatness and advanced vocabulary. At his core, Kyle was passionate, impulsive and stubborn as fuck. Kenny felt privileged to have been able to uncover that side of him again.

Lying in bed after that first time, Kenny had trailed sated fingers across one of Kyle's exotically angled cheekbones and watched Kyle's calm, green eyes tilt in his direction.

"You know," Kenny had said, "You're not taking all of this like a gay virgin."

"That's because I'm not one," Kyle had replied, after a moment of calculated hesitation. Kenny had kind of suspected this, given that all the supplies they had needed had been right there in Kyle's bedside cabinet, but that didn't stop him from smiling teasingly.

"Kyle Broflovski. What would your mother say?"

"Nothing. Because God-willing she will never, ever, ever know," Kyle had said, pointedly narrowing his eyes at Kenny in warning.

They kept it clandestine. That was obviously how Kyle preferred it, and Kenny was totally on board with that because it made the whole thing more interesting.

It wasn't that it was easier that way, because it really wasn't. Keeping this kind of shit secret was a fucking nightmare, particularly from people like Cartman, who had a God-given instinct for uncovering things that he had no business messing with.

Which was why, when Kenny got home from work that day to find Cartman leaning against the wall outside of the apartment door, he almost turned on his heel and made a break for it. Unfortunately, Cartman's beady little eyes had already clocked him and it was too late to make a retreat.

"'Ey!" the fat-ass bellowed at Kenny down the corridor, "What fucking time do you call this?"

Kenny sighed, fished his keys out of his pocket and slouched reluctantly down the hallway towards Cartman.

"End of work time," he said, squeezing past Cartman's bulky form to reach the door. Kenny had to let Cartman in. He didn't have much choice; once the door was open, he obviously couldn't keep Cartman out. So, Kenny settled for being as unwelcoming as he could.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, folding his arms across his chest.

"I'm here to see the hippy," Cartman said. He stomped inside and looked around the apartment disdainfully.

"Stan's working."

"What?"

"He's at work. Working," Kenny reiterated, slowly, because sometimes you had to speak to Cartman like he was a child. Cartman shook back his sleeve and peered at the chunky Rolex he wore strapped to his wrist.

"Jesus," he muttered, "That guy is so whipped."

"Uh-huh. Look, do you want-"

The words 'to leave' had been on the tip of Kenny's tongue, but Cartman was already lowering his gigantic ass onto the couch, so Kenny switched to saying 'a drink or something' because once Cartman was down, there was really nothing you could do about his presence until he decided to remove himself of his own accord.

"Don't mind if I do, Kenny. Don't mind if I do," Cartman said, as he kicked muddy, loafer-clad feet up onto the coffee table. Kyle was going to totally freak out when he made it home, Kenny thought.

He was proved right ten minutes later when Kyle stepped through the door, tie hanging loose around his neck and his cheeks splashed with colour from the cold. Kenny felt his blood thrum gleefully at the sight of him, but, as Kyle's expression darkened abruptly, Kenny realised that while Cartman was present, he had even less chance of getting his hands on Kyle than he did when Stan was around. He felt an all-new lurch of dislike for Cartman as the fat-ass pulled the beer bottle away from him lips with a wet smacking sound.

"Why, hello Kyle," he sneered, dragging out the syllables, "How nice to see you."

Kyle ignored this saccharine greeting and directed his full attention at Kenny.

"What the hell is he doing here?"

"Dude, I dunno. He just turned up. I couldn't get rid of him. Look at him. He's like twice my size," Kenny said.

"Yeah," Cartman retaliated with lightning speed, "Because my parents weren't too poor to feed me when I was a kid."

Kenny opened his mouth to retort, but Kyle was already there.

"Shut up, you fat fuck!" Kyle spat, the anger rippling off of him in thick, sensuous waves.

"'Ey! Don't you speak to me like that, you ass-ramming Jew!"

Kyle's eyes were blazing and for a moment, Kenny thought that Kyle might throw himself across the room and beat Cartman to a pulp, which would have been pretty awesome to watch. Sadly, the adult side of Kyle won out.

"Screw this, man," he muttered, with a shake of his head, "I'm out. Kenny, come tell me when that bastard gets the fuck out of our house."

"Yes, sir," Kenny grinned, saluting Kyle lazily with two fingers. Kyle's eyes had locked with his for just a second too long and Kenny hadn't missed the promise they had held. His gaze automatically followed Kyle's ass out of the room, because he was getting used to looking.

Kenny was lost in smirking fantasy when the lard-ass interrupted him by coughing fatly.

"What do you want, supersize?" Kenny snapped. But, when he turned and saw the look on Cartman's face, his irritation ebbed quickly away.

"Dude," Cartman breathed, eyes twinkling as if he had just stumbled across buried treasure.

"What?" Kenny asked, playing dumb, even though he could see in Cartman's face that the fat-ass already had it perfectly figured out. Cartman glanced very theatrically in the direction that Kyle had gone and then looked back at Kenny.

"Did you fuck the Jew?" he asked eagerly.

The bastard hadn't even bothered to lower his voice. Kenny thanked God that Stan had already left the building.

"No! Jesus Christ, Cartman. That's sick, dude. Come on," Kenny protested instantly. But then, without thinking, he ran his tongue over his front teeth. It was a habit that Kenny had when he was uncomfortable with a conversation and Cartman knew it too well.

"You did!" he crowed in delight, "You fucking banged the Jew!"

Before Kenny had even thought about moving, he had lunged out of his seat and seized the front of Cartman's shirt with both hands.

"Cartman! I didn't bang...Kyle," he ground out.

"But you want to," Cartman pressed, one chubby hand closing over Kenny's to safeguard against the blonde throttling him. Kenny quickly decided that it was the lesser of the two lies and as such, it would be easier to convince Cartman of.

"Yeah. Okay? I want to," he hissed.

"Weak."

"You say anything about this to him or to Stan or to anyone else," Kenny growled threateningly, "And I will suicide bomb your fucking house, dude, I swear to God."

The pitying smile on Cartman's face nearly made Kenny want to hurl Kyle's honour right out the window and own up to the truth.

"Aww. Don't worry about it Kenny," Cartman cooed, mockingly, "Your sick little Jew-loving secret is safe with me."

The sympathy was revoltingly fake, but, as Kenny held the door open for Cartman a half hour later, he knew that the fat-ass would keep the secret. As long as Cartman thought that telling people would do nothing to hurt Kyle, he wouldn't breathe a word of it. Deep down, beneath all the layers of blubber and prejudice, Cartman was actually an almost decent guy. He wouldn't deliberately try to harm Kenny if he wasn't going to gain anything from it himself. And Cartman had to keep it secret, because if anything were to jolt Stan out of his ignorance, then this whole thing with Kyle would be over in a heartbeat.

Kenny knew that he was screwing Stan over. Stan hadn't figured it out yet, but seriously. The guy was getting screwed. And Kenny didn't feel guilty about it, because he somehow suspected that Stan still had the upper hand, even if Stan didn't realise it. Okay, so that seemed insane when it was Kenny's name that Kyle came moaning every night, but Stan and Kyle? Those two just had a way about them. And if it came to a contest, Kenny didn't rate his chances against the all-mighty power of the super-best.

Kyle and Kenny never talked about why they were hiding what was going on between them from the one person it would have made the most sense to tell, but they didn't have to, because really, Kenny knew already.

A/N: For those who are reading this for the Style, I promise that it will come. But it needs to come second and it needs to come slowly or this story won't work. Rest assured, though, some of my favourite scenes I have sketched out for later chapters are the Style ones. I know I might seem like I'm totally on Kenny's side right now, but K² hasn't quite won out yet! Style is still fighting its OTP corner good and hard...