Fahrenheit

by Elendraug

When he was little, he thought that if you hid yourself under the covers until daybreak, no harm could come to you. Kenny was sadly mistaken. Slash. Kyle Kenny.

Fahrenheit

By StarWolf

11/28/2003

Title: Fahrenheit

Author: StarWolf (elendraug@yahoo.com)

Fandom: South Park

Pairing: Kyle/Kenny

Genre: Angst

Rating: R

Warnings: Slash, darkness, domestic violence

Disclaimer: I don't own South Park or its characters, places, events, et cetera. They're property of Trey Parker and Matt Stone, the lucky geniuses. *worships*

Summary: When he was little, he thought that if you hid yourself under the covers until daybreak, no harm could come to you. Kenny was sadly mistaken.

Authoress' Notes: I think South Park has a lot of fanfic potential if you look at it in a different light. Also, I have almost no idea what Kenny's house really looks like, so I'm improvising. I haven't watched it quite that much...yet. Beware occasional of tense-changes.

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"I never thought I'd die alone

I laughed the loudest -- who'd've known?"

- Blink 182, "Adam's Song"

"What the hell is going on?
The cruelest dream: reality."

- The Offspring, "The Kids Aren't Alright"
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When Kenny steps into his bedroom at night, he glances around and sighs. The filthy carpet, peeling wallpaper, and the broken glass in his window only add to the feelings of uneasiness and insecurity that plague his sleep. As he curls himself into a shaking ball of teenage boy beneath the thin sheet and the torn comforter that offers no comfort, he wishes that he was Tweek. A strong, bitter cup of coffee would prove itself quite useful now -- Kenny desperately wants to stay awake. Even as he restlessly tosses and turns on the worn-out mattress, he struggles to escape the madness that surrounds him. When he was little, he thought that if you hid yourself under the covers until daybreak, no harm could come to you. Kenny was sadly mistaken.

Through the thin wood paneling of his door he can hear his mother's shrill screams. His father, obviously drunk, yells something indistinguishable, and Kenny hears the scraping of something heavy being dragged across the splintered floor. A crash, a thump, and all is silent. Kenny shivers and wraps his arms around himself, closing his eyes tightly. He can choose to not see, but he cannot keep himself from hearing. Slurred swearing reaches his ears as his father stumbles into the wall -- at least, Kenny assumes it was the wall, considering that the house shook -- and collapses to the floor in an inebriated stupor.

Rolling onto his side, Kenny stares at the faded and shredded blue wallpaper that once brightly covered his bedroom. Cerulean trains with cornflower-blue smoke puffing from their smokestacks travel endlessly on azure tracks that run along the baseboard and near the ceiling. The rest of the space is covered with a soft, wispy cloud pattern that would be soothing, if not for the fact that the clouds outside are dark and grey and foreboding. Kenny grabs his pillow and covers his head, burying his face into his mattress.

It reminds him of a time that he was at Stan's. He, Kyle, Stan, and Eric had been playing video games late into the rainy night, and eventually into the early morning. Kenny had been exhausted, and his weary blue eyes were sore from the bright light of the TV screen. Yawning, he slumped against Kyle's shoulder and drifted into a peaceful sleep. The other boy hadn't noticed until the power went out and his own eyes were torn from the screen. Stan had stormed off to find a flashlight, and Eric had utilized one of his best skills: whining. Cartman's complaining was lost to Kenny's ears, however, and Kyle, though obviously upset at the sudden loss of their gaming progress, had other things to ponder. Like the fact that his friend had just curled up against his chest. Like the fact that it hadn't really surprised him. Like the fact that he didn't really mind at all. Kyle had wound a reassuring arm around Kenny's slight frame and listened to the thunder sounding outside, the rain pattering on the roof, and Kenny's steady breathing -- so different from the erratic rhythm his inhalations follow when he's awake. Kenny could vaguely sense the strong beat of Kyle's heart against his ear, and he subconsciously snuggled closer to the other boy.

Kyle's chest was warm.

Kenny wishes that his door had a working lock. It might alleviate some of the paranoia that constantly surrounds him, fogging his sense of the world. But in Kenny's world, it isn't safe anyway, and everyone does seem to be out to get him. So whether or not he's truly "paraniod" isn't an issue here; he doesn't care. The approaching thunderstorm looses an ear-splitting "boom," and he bites down harshly on his chapped lower lip. Kenny tastes blood, and it's something he's familiar with by now.

This makes him think of another time that he'd wished his door locked properly. He and Kyle had been pressed against each other in what would definitely be a compromising position if someone accidentally walked in, and Kenny could only pray that such a thing wouldn't happen. He wasn't prone to praying, though, and refused to ask any higher powers for their help. Kyle might have asked God to keep their secret a secret, and for all Kenny knew, he probably would have, but Kyle hadn't been in the best state of mind to do such a thing. Kyle's hands had been inside Kenny's hoodie, and Kenny's hands had been down Kyle's pants. And their tongues, wet and slick against each other, had been locked in a quite heated battle of their own. And at that moment, it wouldn't have mattered if Officer Barbrady himself had somehow wandered in -- nothing could have distracted the two.

Kyle's mouth was warm.

Kenny burrows further underneath the scant linens of his bed, and shuts his eyes against the lightning crackling outside. Wind and rain rush through the shattered glass of his window, and he shivers, completely alone and doomed to remaining abandoned. Kenny now longs for someone to huddle with in the disconcerting desolateness of his room. But his parents have forbidden Kenny to visit with or even talk to any of his friends, because one day he and Kyle had been caught. And no words could reconcile the maliciousness of his father's angry scowl or the utter disgust on his mother's stunned face. Kenny had been beaten so savagely that day that he still cringed at the horrific memory. Clenching his fists in frustration and despair, Kenny wants to bleed. To bleed and bleed and bleed until there's not enough oxygen traveling to his brain. Then he'll pass out and not have to -- nor be able to -- think anymore.

Kenny's eyes are cold.

He extracts himself from the tangled mass of cloth and stands near his window, the chill breeze assaulting the fine blond strands of his unbrushed hair. He gazes, eyebrows narrowed, at the moonlight filtering through the ominous, dark clouds. Rain pours down and Kenny kneels down, picking up a particularly sharp shard of glass from the worn carpet. He raises it to eye-level and examines it, then nods -- it will do. It will do nicely. Kenny rolls back the soft orange fleece of his hoodie and slices open the delicate skin of his wrist, wincing. The blood seeps out faster and faster until his world is spinning and Kenny, dizzy, thuds to the ground in a mangled mess of metallic red, fuzzy orange, and golden yellow.

Blinking against the unexpected tears that flow from his eyes as surely as blood flows from his wrist, Kenny strains to draw ragged breaths of dusty air. His vision clouds and his skull throbs in time with his heartbeat. His headache grows stronger as his pulse grows weaker, and suddenly life is entirely too difficult to endure. Irregular breaths coming less frequently, he lays his temple against the rough cobalt carpet, and closes his tired eyes for a final time. His action has stained the carpet, and his mother won't be very happy about it.

Kenny's heart is cold, and now no one can heat it.