Brace Yourself

Chapter Ten: Were The Color Of Insanity

By: Jondy Macmillan

A/N: No. Inspiration. At. All. It's like I'm in a writing dead zone. Save me. Please.

"I need to talk to you," Kyle's voice is tinny through the cell, but his tone is enough to make me drop this whole screwy conversation with Wendy, tell Christophe that I have an emergency, and race off at the speed of light. We've only been friends again for a day, and already I'm treating his calls like they're life or death.

I hope Craig doesn't find out. I usually take hours to respond to him.

Kyle's sitting on a bench at Stark's Pond. Even though September is slowly creeping into an unseasonably warm October, there are still spotty patches of snow on the ground. This is South Park, after all.

The second I climb out of my car, I'm watching him, and I don't know why. His hair is the same red-gold color the leaves are turning. He's watching the pond. Tiny white caps are forming on the miniature waves being stirred up by the wind. They wash up on the banks along with broken beer bottles and syringes. Our town used to be pristine; beautiful. That's the way it is in my memories, when the entire world was my playground, and Kyle and I used to rule like kings.

Sometimes I think South Park's been corrupted from the inside out. The people living here used to be just plain stupid. Then Sundance came, and a myriad of other insane, unbelievable events. This place has always been magical that way. But after the film festival and everything, we became more than a town.

We're on the map, now.

I've heard Clyde Donovan's dad keeps a framed copy of an old county map, one where the words South Park never even show up. Everyone spends all their time wishing we could go back to being insignificant, and I'm the same. Being Raven has made me stick out in a way that Stan Marsh never did. I'm not just another jock; I'm a school wide target. Lucky I can fend for myself.

Lucky I've finally got Kyle back. Kind of. No use trying to smother our newfound friendship before it even takes off.

My boots crunch through the frost, squishing the still soft grass beneath it. Soon enough the ground will be frozen and hard. We've never had an ice-free Halloween to date.

I stop, watching my friend. There's something tragic about his stance; half-turned away, but his shoulders squared. It's like he's steeled for a blow he can't see, but he knows is coming.

It's then I realize I'm bordering on psycho-stalker and shake myself out of my Kyle-induced reverie. Stomping through the snow, I yell, "Dude!"

He turns towards me, and his emerald eyes are startled. He has gorgeous eyes. Like he can see everything, like he can see through everything. I hadn't realized how much I missed him looking at me with them. Then again, I missed everything about him.

Okay. Gay. Not what I meant. I just was implying that a friend like Kyle comes along once in a lifetime, alright?

"Hi," Kyle waves, his fingers red and white and blotchy with cold.

"Hey," I nod, trying to do that cool-guy thing that Craig does, where he acts like he doesn't actually give a shit.

"Sorry to call you out like this. I didn't realize you had work," he confesses, "I don't even think I know where you work."

I take a seat beside him, "Harbucks."

His eyes widen slightly, and he queries, "What the hell is it with you and the coffee shops man?"

It takes me a second to grasp his meaning, but when I do, I laugh, "I've got a thing for sugar and caffeine. And come on, Coffee Blue isn't just a coffee shop."

Kyle rolls his eyes, "Yeah, yeah. It's a garden of magic, or whatever."

I snort, "Well, there's that."

His head lolls back on his neck, like he's trying to glimpse the sky though the still thick foliage over the pond, "So."

"So," I prompt. Being with him feels warm. Familiar. Like we've sat here a million times before, and I guess we have. We just haven't done it in a long, long while.

"This feels weird, doesn't it?" Kyle asks, and now his eyes are studiously watching his fingers pick at a hole in his jeans. I'm surprised his mom hasn't thrown them out yet. Last I checked, Sheila Broflovski was pretty much in charge of her son's wardrobe. Then again, I haven't seen him wear dorky plaid button downs and khakis since eighth grade, so I guess I'm not really a reliable source any more.

"Not that weird," I reply, cautious that he might bolt at any minute. I hate having to be so careful with him. He's not some fragile doll. He's a guy. I'm a guy. Can't we just act like…guys?

"Oh," he seems let down for some reason. It's as if he wanted to know that my nerves are every bit as unsteady as his. He should know better. If I'd comforted him that way, it would have felt more like we were on a date or something. All this coquettish eye lowering and awkward silence is better reserved for chicks, in my opinion.

"Dude, get on with it," I sigh, trying to catch his eye. I know that the bumper of my car isn't nearly as interesting as all his staring makes it seem.

"What?" he asks, surprised. I decide to give up on being polite. He's known me for seventeen years, and been my best friend for fourteen of them. Maybe I'm rushing things, but…If he's decided to be my friend again, my lack of subtle tact must not be a decisive factor in that choice. At least, I hope not, because what I say next could make for a deal breaker.

"Come off it. You have something on your mind, and while I'd like to think my very presence is making you all jumpy like that, I seriously doubt I have that effect on you."

He visibly relaxes. It's like the tension drains from every inch of his body. Now he's looking at me with those incredibly clear eyes, but even now, I can't read them. The days where he was an open book to me are gone.

"Yeah. Yeah, you're right."

"It's been known to happen," I reply with a wry grin. It's a miracle. He hasn't walked away yet.

Kyle snorts, "Rarely."

"Hey!" I exclaim, reaching out and pushing him with one hand. His shoulder is hard through the nylon of his jacket.

"Hey yourself!" he pushes me right back. I kick snow up onto the bench, and it settles on his leg; a growing damp spot. He does the same. Soon our hands get involved. We're flinging snowballs like Stark's Pond is the Wild West and we're at the O.K. Corral.

I score the winning shot with a massive snowball that splatters not only all those delicious red curls, but spills half down his back. Despite my epic snow slinging prowess, he doesn't give up. Green eyes blazing, Kyle tackles me full onto the ground, his soaking jean clad legs straddling my hips.

"Give up!" he pants.

"Never," I retort, grasping for snow with my numb fingers. All I scrape up is dirt. For the first time, I wish winter had come more quickly.

"Do it," Kyle brings one of his knees uncomfortably close to my crotch, but the threat isn't working. He's got more dignity than to crush a man's balls. I hope.

"Nuh unh," I answer childishly, finally touching something cold. Betting that its dirt laced with snowflakes, I throw it in his face. Bull's-eye. Right on target.

He sucker punches me in the stomach, but it barely hurts. Thank God I've kept up with football practices with Clyde and Craig. Kyle's got all those basketball muscles, and that hit could have stolen my breath if he'd meant it. But he doesn't mean it, evidenced by the fact that he rolls back onto my feet, cracking up.

"Sweet Abraham," he laughs, "I think you," cackles, "got fucking," snickers, "dirt in my eye, asshole!"

I'm laughing too. I haven't had a snowball fight in ages. Totally worth it, dude.

"Pssh," I kick him lightly in the side, "Suck it up."

We must lay there, on the cold grass and dirt and snow for at least ten minutes. He's still on top of me, his sneakers on either side of my face. We're wet, freezing, and suffering bouts of hysterical chortling that is probably scaring away anyone who thought Stark's might be a good hangout spot for the day.

I don't care.

I'm ecstatic, and it's embarrassing how happy I am at this moment. I don't want to move. Ever.

When Kyle's breathing calms, I feel him still on top of me. Straining to lift my head up, because that's the only mobility I have with his ass sitting on my stomach, his legs holding down my shoulders, and his arms pinning my knees, I ask, "Are you going to tell me what's wrong now, or do I have to kick your ass again?"

"I won that fight," he replies, but the cheer's all gone.

"We'll do a rematch some other time," I strain to keep my head up, but all I can see is the bottom of his chin from this angle, so I set it back on the grass. The sky is patchwork; blue, white, blue, gray, blue.

"Okay," he replies, and I can tell he's building up to whatever it is he called about, "I guess I called you because…well, I can't tell anyone else."

My hopes rise. He's chosen me to confide in? Above Cartman? Above Kenny?

"Spill," I command, watching a bit of cumulus that looks vaguely like a bunny rabbit pass by.

"It's about the other night. You know. Kenny," he says by way of explanation.

Oh. Guess choosing me to talk to wasn't actually a choice after all. No way could he tell Cartman; the fatass would rip on him til kingdom come. And I doubt Kenny is up for listening to Kyle's careful analysis of why anything between them would be a bad idea.

He does think it's a bad idea.

Right?

"Um, yeah, man. I know what you're talking about," I bite my lip, trying not to feel like too much of a pussy for being let down.

"Here's the thing. Kenny's one of my best friends. I mean, he's really one of the only people I talk to, other than Eric."

Why anyone would want to talk to Cartman about anything is completely beyond my faculties of understanding.

"And when he kissed me, it was…I don't know. Awkward. Terrible. Uncomfortable…"

"Repulsive?" I suggest.

"No!" I think he's offended that I even say it. His whole body stiffens, like he's about to get up and whale on me for dissing Kenny McCormick. I place a hand on his knee to tell him I didn't mean it. Kyle relaxes into the touch and sighs, "You would think that. Getting kissed by a guy is supposed to be…well, it's supposed to be gross."

I don't like where this is going one bit.

"And it wasn't?" I blink, blocking about bunny shaped clouds and blue skies, because I have to brace myself for the worst. Except I don't really know why hearing that Kyle liked kissing Kenny would be the worst thing. My mind is fuzzy; muddled.

"No. I guess not," Kyle says softly.

I feel trapped and uncomfortable, like when someone is about to take a picture and tells you to make funny faces. Truth be told, I'm not really a funny face kind of guy.

"Kyle," I say, because what else is there to really say? I don't want to sound like some kind of Hallmark card, and I don't want to come off as a total douche, either. But what he's saying unsettles me. I don't like it. At all.

I feel like a jerk, because I don't know if I don't like the idea of Kyle and Kenny for some unfathomable reason, if I don't like it because I don't want Kyle to give into his homo side, or if I just don't like how he refers to Kenny as 'one of his best friends'. No matter what the reason, it makes me ache in a way that I won't; can't understand.

"I know it's stupid," he begins to move again, but I keep my hand on his knee, and he stops shifting.

"It's not stupid, dude. Do you like Kenny?"

"Of course. He's my friend."

"You know that's not what I mean," I respond in my strictest voice, "Do you like him more than you like Bebe?"

"No. I mean, I don't jerk off to him at night or anything. The only stars of my wet dreams are girls," he answers firmly.

"Then that's your answer."

"That's not an answer! Kenny won't even talk to me right now! I've been calling him all morning!"

"It just happened last night, dude. Maybe he needs space, or whatever. Why don't you wait until Monday at school to talk to him?"

"I haven't gone a day without talking to Ken in four years."

"Yeah, well," I can't keep the bitterness out of my voice, but I stop myself from ending the sentence. I think he knows what I'm implying. Before freshman year, he hadn't gone a day without talking to me, either.

Instead I force myself to mutter, "You'll do fine."

He sits up, and this time I can't stop him. The way he's looking at me now makes me wish I never laid eyes on Kyle Broflovski. He's staring at me like I broke his heart.

I can't figure out if it's because he has to wait to talk to Kenny, or because he waited so long to talk to me.

"Look," I say, anything to keep him from staring at me like that, "Wait until tomorrow, and then tell him that you want him to stay as your friend, but that you just don't feel that way about him. It'll work out."

I force a grin, "I promise."

He blinks, and the moment passes. I can tell he's thinking over what I just said, because he finally nods and murmurs, "I need something to take my mind off this."

"You do that."

He's looking at me again, but in a good way. His voice turns jokey, "I know I dragged you out of work, and what with that whole coffee fetish you've got it must be terrible, but what are you doing tonight?"

"I believe," I pretend to check an imaginary schedule, "I'm going to the movies with you, dude."

"Blade of Terror 53 is out."

"I was about to suggest the same thing," I grin. Just like that, we're okay again. Even if it's just for a little while.

A/N: This chapter. Sucks. So Hard. I apologize. Review, if only to tell me how badly I fail at life.