A/N: We are continuing according to plan. Almost.

But, holy crap, this chapter has given me a run for my money. It has refused to co-operate every single step of the way...

For everyone who has taken the time to review, particularly the wonderful acidspin, who wrote me a review the length of my arm and who I then accidentally lied to about when this chapter would be posted (I swear I didn't think it was going to fight back the way it did!).

Eric Cartman liked to think that he was a simple man, of simple pleasures. He enjoyed good food, quality liquor, and well-written accounts of history's great events. He busted his ass around the clock to maintain the supremacy he had already achieved and his rare work-free evenings were deservedly spent wrapped in his burgundy dressing gown, with a softly clinking scotch on the rocks cradled in one hand and his tired feet propped up in front of a juicy documentary on the History Channel. The very last thing that Cartman wanted on an evening off was to be forced, by incessant doorbell-ringing, to open his door to a spazzed-out wannabe vegan with a lame haircut and more vagina than dick.

"What the fuck? Shouldn't you be offering hand-jobs to the sick right about now?" Cartman snapped, because seriously, he had much better things to do tonight than anything that involved Stan Marsh. Cartman scowled at the stiff, glove-less hand which gripped at the doorframe; if he wanted to slam the door in this hippy's face, he was probably going to have to sacrifice some of Stan's fingers. That dilemma was being weighed up with serious consideration when Stan blurted something which he would never know had saved him half a hand.

"I think I want to sleep with Kyle," Stan said in a voice like broken glass, and for a brief moment, Cartman could do nothing but stare.

The whole beauty of verbal bullying was that it took smarts to do it properly. The most effective course of action was to identify something that was true but largely unacknowledged, and then latch onto it, worrying at it mercilessly until the victim cracked and ran screaming through the streets like madman. It was not just coincidence that gay jokes had always been Cartman's weapon of choice when it came to Stan. Fucking obviously the pussy had an enormous boner for his 'super-best friend'. Their faggy terminology was only the tip of the giant, fudge-packing iceberg. Kyle and Stan wanted to sex each other up good. They had done since back in third grade, when they hadn't even known what the hell sex was. It was fucking sickening.

So freaking yeah, of course Cartman knew that. It was totally unfortunate for Stan that he hadn't worked it out way back in high school when Kyle had been ready to Juliet himself all over the hallway if only that would have gotten Stan's attention, but Cartman had figured that it was only a matter of time before the first shreds of awareness eventually filtered through the tender walls of Stan's tiny, tree-hugging brain. Naturally, that was destined to be at a point way too late, when the Jew had more than moved on and totally hardened his black little heart to those impure thoughts about his super-best. Life sucked ass like that, no matter how virtuous you were.

Cartman knew all of this. But, what he honestly hadn't seen coming was South Park's most whore-tastic piece of trailer-trash slipping under the radar and beating Stan to the punch. It didn't matter what Kenny said. Cartman was smarter than that. He knew what he'd seen pass between those two in the apartment and didn't believe Kenny's lies for a second. Poor people couldn't lie for shit. It was why they never got anywhere in life. Kenny didn't just want Kyle; he'd already been there and done him, probably repeatedly. In other words, Stan was fucked, which was really kind of sad for him.

Cartman didn't give a shit. Of course he didn't.

Except that...really, he nearly, almost, sort of liked Stan. He'd been the best of the shit-poor bunch of retards and queermos who had plagued Cartman at school and Cartman had always thought that it was more than pathetic that Stan had chosen the filthy Jew to project his super-repressed ass-ramming tendencies onto. Kyle liking Stan and not getting a damn thing out of it had been a fucking riot, but that shit going the other way? Something was very wrong in the world if that was the case. Of all the people on this Earth, Cartman could perhaps tolerate Stan Marsh the most, and Stan did not deserve to come out of this messed-up queer-fest worse off than the Jew and the homeless-junkie-in-training. Cartman couldn't believe that God would allow such a travesty.

Those guys were all Cartman's bitches, and whether they knew it or not, the douche-bags would be totally freaking lost without him. As such, Cartman had always felt a certain responsibility for them. He was not going to sit back now and watch them drive each other to self-destruction. There was nothing for it. He was going to have to get involved. So, he looked Stan in the eyes, swallowed down the words 'Kenny is pounding your Jew's ass! Go beat the shit out of him' and faked the most sympathetic sigh he was capable of.

"Wow, Stan. I don't know what to say. You'd better come in."

Cartman laid a fatherly arm across Stan's shoulders and guided him into the house, kicking the door shut behind them with one slippered heel.

"I've gotta say, this is a shock to me," Cartman said, leading Stan over to the couch, "You damn near knocked me on my ass with that."

Stan was distracted as fuck, dragging his hands through his already screwed-up hair and making these gross little gagging noises. Cartman swore to God that if this bitch puked up on his carpet, it would be the last the world saw of Stanley Marsh.

"I know," Stan said "I'm sorry. But, dude. I am freaking out."

"No shit."

"I don't even know why I'm here, but I had no idea where else to go. I mean, I lost the paper with Wendy's number, like, the second she gave it to me and fuck knows where her cousin lives. And, Jesus Christ, dude, I couldn't stay in the apartment with Kyle. He thinks I'm at City Wok," Stan dashed out in one big, garbled mess of verbal barf.

"Sit down, Stan," Cartman said slowly, after a pause, because apparently this was going to be messier than he had thought. "Let me fix you a drink."

The calm authority in Cartman's voice was all Stan needed. He sank onto the couch with grateful obedience and let his head fall heavily into his hands. Cartman poured Stan a double, then on reflection, added an extra shot for luck. He passed the glass into Stan's quaking fingers and stood over him, watching as Stan drained the scotch like a seasoned pro before muttering his thanks. Cartman lowered himself carefully down onto the couch beside Stan.

"There you go," he said, in his most comforting voice. "You shouldn't feel bad, Stan. Jews are sneaky, manipulative rats. This is totally not your fault."

Stan didn't appear to take comfort in this. He looked at Cartman with the sad, guileless eyes of a cow.

"What do you think I should do?" he asked.

"Well. If you want to bang him, I wouldn't worry about telling him that, dude," Cartman said, without preamble. "I mean, Kyle's pretty gay anyway, it's not like he's gonna beat you up for being a fag. And if he tries, you know, you're bigger than him. You could fucking smack the crap out of him."

Stan sifted with practised ease through the biased excess that spilled from Cartman's mouth and pulled from it the gleaming fragments of sense.

"You think I should tell him," Stan reiterated, just to check.

"Yeah. You guys have been, like, married since you were five. I'm sure it'll all work out for you and you'll be pounding ass in no time," Cartman said, not bothering to suppress a shudder at the mental image that those words evoked.

Overconfident and businesslike as ever, Cartman made it sound like a done deal. But things just weren't that simple, because this was Kyle and sexual feelings towards Kyle felt fucking wrong. Stan might as well have been having the same kind of feelings about Shelley. That was the level of perversion he was looking at here. Kyle was the super-best. He was supposed to be protected from this shit by some kind of impenetrable fraternal bubble. Instead, Stan had to face the concept that all those years of friendship might actually have been based on this. Tremulous, quicksandy this. What if Kyle's green eyes weren't the source of comfort that Stan had always seen them as but were in fact just vehicles for his own twisted fantasies? What if he didn't admire Kyle's spirit as he had always thought, but had subconsciously decided that it would translate well into the bedroom? Thinking about Kyle that way felt damn near abusive.

This all made sense in Stan's head, but when he tried to translate the feelings into words, Cartman just stared at him in alarm.

"Holy crap, dude," he said, eyes popping, "What the hell did you do to him?"

"Jesus Christ. I didn't say I like, literally abused him. I meant more, like, an abuse of trust."

"Those are words they use about paedophiles, Stan. Start talking more sense," Cartman snapped with characteristic lack of patience.

"I mean, what if I don't love Kyle for Kyle, but only for what I might be able to take from him? If that's the case, then the super-bests are on their way out, dude. I don't think I could handle that."

Cartman was quiet for a long time. Then, he sighed heavily and leaned his weight back into the couch cushions, eyebrows lowered thoughtfully.

"Huh. This is pretty fucked up, right here," Cartman said eventually, which was the one thing that Stan knew already. "Seriously though, dude," he added, "Tell him. It's the only thing you can do."

Cartman was right, of course. The only way for Stan to find out was to tell Kyle how he felt. And he was going to tell Kyle. He was. But then two days later, while Stan was still waiting for the right moment, Kenny was dead in Kyle's bed and suddenly things were a whole lot more complicated.

* * * *

Kenny was still dead when the housewarming for Cartman's new apartment in Denver rolled around. Kyle almost didn't go because things with Stan had been totally weird for the past couple of days and the thought of sitting in the confined space of a car with him all the way to Denver was kind of too much to stomach. Besides, this was a party all about Cartman, and who the hell wanted to be a part of celebrating that asshole?

Stan had been all evasive and pointedly understated when Kyle had told him he wasn't coming.

"Okay, dude. That's cool. Do whatever you want," Stan had said, with a blasé shrug of his shoulders and the same eye contact avoidance game he'd been playing for days.

"I will," Kyle had returned and had been so caught up in being equally blasé that he had collected together the work papers which were strewn across the coffee table and started down the hall to his room before he had quite realised what he was doing.

Just one glance at his firmly closed bedroom door had been enough to change Kyle's mind about the party, which was unfortunate, because it was a shitty party and Kyle had a shitty time there.

Stan was still treating him as if he had broken some unwritten law of super-besthood and deserved to be punished for the indiscretion. The behaviour was totally unreasonable, so Kyle wasn't going to stoop to asking Stan what he was supposed to have done. Instead, he allowed the smouldering sense of injustice to mingle with the feelings of betrayal and loss which were already blazing in his chest courtesy of Kenny's latest stunt. And, because things weren't already bad enough, an hour into the party, Cartman decided to take advantage of Kyle's friendless state to sidle up to him and start poking his bigoted nose where he knew it didn't belong.

"You and the Marsh are like, totally avoiding each other tonight. What's the matter?" Cartman sneered, "Lover's tiff?"

The words sent a raw, lust-haloed image of Kenny rocketing into Kyle's mind.

"Fuck you, dickwad," Kyle snapped, elbowing his way spitefully past Cartman, who raised an interested eyebrow.

It was way too early in the conversation for that level of venom to be in Kyle's voice. It normally took more work than that. Unless, Cartman thought, he had struck a nerve. Unless...

Kenny's conspicuous absence from the party snickered at Cartman from all sides.

"Holy shit," he muttered to himself, before lunging forwards, seizing Kyle by his unsuspecting shoulders and using his substantial weight advantage to drag the redhead out the open door and into the yard. Once he'd regained his momentum, Kyle jerked away from Cartman's grasp, hissing and spitting like a cat.

"Get off of me! What the fuck?!"

Cartman rolled his eyes. Kyle's histrionics were so old by now. Cartman had always allowed Kyle to remain in his gang because he seriously was about the only other person in South Park who could maintain intelligent conversation. Kyle alone understood when Cartman used phrases like 'gross profit margins' or 'proportional representation' and thus, the Jew was a necessary source of intellectual stimulation. When Cartman was in the mood, Kyle wasn't on his period and no-one else was there to see, they actually got along pretty well. Unfortunately, because it also totally got Cartman's non-sexual rocks off to watch Kyle lose it, their getting along was kind of sporadic. Tonight was certainly making no promises.

"What happened to poor-boy? I'm really missing seeing his baby blues around the place tonight, aren't you Kyle?" Cartman asked, lacing his voice with just enough smug understanding for Kyle to be able to work it out. Despite his noble agenda, Cartman couldn't help delighting in the way that Kyle's eyes widened in horror before narrowing abruptly into predatory slits.

"You don't know what you're talking about," Kyle growled.

"Ah. But see, that's the thing, Kyle. I totally do know what I'm talking about. And, you know, I'm really only bringing this up now because I'm concerned for you."

"Oh, fucking spare me," Kyle murmured, raising his eyes heavenward.

"No, no, really, Kyle. I am honestly concerned. You shouldn't be touching dicks with white trash like Kenny, dude. You don't fucking know where he's been. You'll probably catch something." Cartman said carelessly, partly to confirm what he already knew, but partly for the reaction. He wasn't disappointed. Sure enough, Kyle snapped and flew at him so furiously that Cartman had to catch hold of Kyle's wrists to avoid getting a black eye. He waited until a fraction of the fight had ebbed out of Kyle's muscles before he released him and pushed the redhead back to a safer distance. He held Kyle back with a warning stare.

"Easy, Jew. Touch me again and I'll scream rape."

"Don't fucking speak about him like that. You don't even know him," Kyle spat, enraged, because neither had Kyle, before all of this shit.

Cartman observed the angry flush making Kyle's pale cheeks look almost alive, the steely clenching of Kyle's teeth, and realised that this was a hell of a lot more serious than he had thought. The whole situation was about to veer off the rails. He switched tactics with disarming speed, dredging up the kind of open sincerity that Kyle always fell for.

"Kyle. Listen to me," he said, holding up placating hands, "Kenny's crazy. He will wait until you least suspect it and then he will rip you to shreds and leave you for dead. I've seen him do it a hundred times before. You're just a stopgap, dude."

"A stopgap?" Kyle shot back quickly, eyes alert.

"That's what I said. A stopgap."

"A stopgap between what and what?"

"Holy crap, how the hell should I know? Between Kenny and the fucking rest of the world?"

"Bullshit. What does that even mean?"

"It means, fucking forget about Kenny already before he drags both you and Stan down into the depths of his depravity."

"Stan? Stan doesn't have anything to do with this."

"Goddamnit!" Cartman burst with genuine frustration, "Stan is in love with you, you stupid Jew!"

Kyle looked through the window into the kitchen's warm glow, picking out Stan's familiar face, and realised that, deep down, he had known that for years.

"Whatever, Cartman. Leave me alone. I'm out of this shit," he muttered before marching determinedly back inside the house, and doing the only thing he could think of to do in a situation like this: get wasted.

Five glasses of wine later, all downed in quick succession and Kyle was leaning against the wall in the hallway, his head spinning. His thoughts assaulted him with a frankness they wouldn't dare assume during his sober hours. He was angry, blindingly so; at Cartman for presuming too much, at Stan for not being straight and married off by now, but most of all, he was angry at Kenny, for not being here, for the ease with which he had deleted himself from Kyle's life and for the gaping hole his absence had left.

The alcohol was still thudding in Kyle's blood when he heard his name, wrapped in Stan's warm voice. He turned his head listlessly towards the sound and saw Stan standing uncertainly outside the kitchen door, squinting down the dim hallway at Kyle's silhouette.

"Dude? Are you alright?" Stan asked, his concern undisguised.

Kyle stretched one arm out along the wall in response, spreading his fingers in Stan's direction.

"Come here," he murmured and Stan did so instantly, summoned by Kyle's words without a second thought.

"What?"

Kyle twisted his wrist against the wall, fingers flexing absently over the smooth gloss of the paint. Kyle watched with interest as Stan's gaze followed the motions of his hand before trailing along the length of Kyle's arm and roaming over his body. The telltale dilation of Stan's pupils and the quiet hitch of his breath were almost enough to drive Kenny's clamouring presence from Kyle's chest and so, fuelled by the hedonistic charm which Kenny had left clinging to his skin, an idea to make himself feel better slid easily into Kyle's head.

"Why are you ignoring me?" he asked, letting the flirt creep gradually into his voice. The words made Stan's gaze snap back up to Kyle's face.

"I- What? I'm not ignoring you."

"You are."

Kyle stepped forwards under the pretence of needing to lean his weight against the firm muscle of Stan's shoulder to maintain his balance. Stan's hands darted automatically to Kyle's waist to support his friend's intoxicated body and Kyle couldn't help but marvel at the way that every ounce of Stan's consciousness seemed so sharply focused upon him. Almost overwhelmed by the power he knew he could wield over his super-best, Kyle leant forward the extra inch and pressed to Stan's lips the first kiss which had been chasing the two of them all their lives.

Stan didn't respond right away. In fact, Stan didn't respond at all and even the insane amounts of alcohol in Kyle's blood couldn't disguise the lifelessness of Stan's lips beneath his own. The contrast to the velvet motions of Kenny's mouth was so extreme that Kyle thought he had somehow missed something. Only when he broke the connection, stepped back and really looked at Stan did he realise that Stan hadn't reacted because he was trying not to. Stan's deep blue eyes were squeezed shut and his sculpted all-American jaw was clenched tight. Kyle watched in amazement as Stan mastered whatever emotions he was battling with a level of stoicism that Kyle could only dream of.

"Kyle. You're really drunk," Stan said quietly. When he opened his eyes, their gaze was calm and accommodating, but there was a feathery tremor in his voice which made Kyle feel sick with guilt. He let go of Stan's shoulder, stepped free of Stan's hands and bowed his head in deference.

"Yeah," Kyle breathed, barely recognising his own voice, "You're right."

"Go find your coat. I'll take you home."

Kyle swallowed. Stan's clinical, matter-of-fact tone cut to the bone and brought sobriety crashing down on him like a tonne of bricks. The life was ebbing out of Stan's eyes by the second and it was so much worse than watching Kenny die, because there was no assurance that Stan would be coming back. Kyle wanted to catch whatever was escaping in his hands and press it back into Stan's chest, to stem the flow and undo making Stan look that way. But he had no idea how, so did the only thing he could do to make this easier and followed Stan's instructions to the letter, while the long drive home from Denver stretched ahead of them, cold and silent.

A/N: Sheesh. That was a BATTLE. I am used to writing scripts and poetry. Prose feels like such an unnatural medium to me! Please excuse the clunkiness of this chapter. I plead ineptitude... ^^;

I'm uncertain what's going to happen in the next chapter. I mean, I kind of know, but it could go two ways...high drama and a splash of more hardcore Style...or tense and understated and full of British reserve. I don't know which to go with.

Good Lord. I am beginning to feel that I am in way over my head here... *cold sweat*