Disclaimer: I don't own the characters mentioned. Matt, Trey, and Comedy Central does.
Warnings: Really mild hinting at Kyle/Cartman
A/N: Just a little New Years special, short, simple, to the point.
There are a few holidays that can be classified as purely American; the fourth of July, Thanksgiving, and New Years. I'm sure the Chinese could argue that fact with their own New Year festivals, but let's face the facts. There is nothing more American than blowing up a small piece of the country with bottle rockets and TNT fireworks while getting buzzed on alcohol stored over the year just for the occasion. America was founded by drunk old white men that liked to see explosions, it's just in our blood to continue the ritual twice a year and piss of he neighbor's dog while doing so.
The town's makeshift ball f papier-meche has yet to drop, yet everyone above the age of sixteen (and a few under) have already had a drink or two. My generation is now seventeen, and yet watching a million-dollar crystal ball plummet in New York has yet to become repetitive. Now, instead of just holding our breaths to wait for the moment while the lights glitter across the sky, we have access to booze, and know how to impair judgement during use of explosives and arsenic.
"We", as in Mr. (now Mrs.) Garrison's old third and fourth grade class. We're all still friends, because it's a small town where everyone knows your name, and who do you have after family? So we're all out on Stan's front lawn or in the area, having a blast and making too much noise, that in a normal place would get you arrested.
But it's South Park, where everyone is a noise-aholic, quiet-aphobic.
Stan and Wendy are on the front steps, the girl passed out in his lap, snoring softly in her sleep while he strokes her face lovingly. They got back together and have been highschool sweethearts, surprise surprise. They make a great couple though, overzealous, political tree-hugger slut with socially dependent, sensitive, obsessive-compulsive baseball player. Their kids will be the fugliest people ever in personality, and probably so fucked up it would be like Springer.
Wendy drools a bit on Stan's leg, he sighs like the love-struck person he is, and I have to look away, sick.
Kyle, Tweek, and Craig are lighting fire crackers on the lawn, running over each over to get away, laughing drukenly, a sign they all have had a bit too much to drink. Did I mention Tweek and Craig are totally gay for each other? No? Well, they are. They sort of brought around a revolution in South Park in the consideration of homosexuality during school. Of course, despite changing the public view on buttsex and being able to display in the school's walls with protection of hate-criming, it didn't really do much good, because they are the only gay couple around. Even Kenny doesn't pound ass.
Speaking of that piece of poor trash, he's on the grass, spinning sparklers between his fingers, juggling them in the air in vain. No one is watching, everyone is too busy making out, or stumbling around. A few people are passed out, like Red and Mark, who are sitting on the hood of Stan's car, or rather, laying. I glance briefly to Marsh, wondering how he'd like a vomit encrusted windshield, but I don't think he'd really mind by the look he's wearing.
A tug on my sleeve and I turn, met face to face with pink cheeks, dilated eyes, flaming curls and the most lopsided smile ever. "You don't seem to be having fun, Cartman."
"Well, Jewsus, despite the numbers here, I don't need to drink to have fun."
"Neither do I," Kyle argues, brows furrowed, but he's still drunk, and hardly looks intimidating or persuasive.
"That's why I smell the Sex on the Beach on your breath, huh?" I ask sarcastically, hands on my wide hips. Details about our friendship: we argue, fight, joke around, throw a punch or two but still at the end of the day, we can't help but grin and laugh it off, because we're both stuck in the same exact position.
"I'm sure you know a lot about sex on the beach, Cartman, mmm," he says, moaning as he leans close, face an inch from mine and bats those drunk's eyes. I push him by the shoulders away and raise a brow as he stumbles, falling to the ground and burst into a fit of giggles. God, I hate drunks.
I make my resolution then, to never get drunk, ever. Usually I don't go through the trouble of making one; resolutions are just stupid guidelines we wish to change somehow with easy solutions, just like this one. They're stupid. You want to lose weight, get off your fat ass and exercise. Want a boyfriend, be the inner slut and snog that guy you're after. Just don't bitch about it.
"So this is the New Year," Kyle says from behind me. I turn to look down at him questioningly, seeing him pointing. I follow his wavering finger to the charred body of Kenny. Poor kid never witnesses that electric feeling hat last only a second as the year transitions into a new one. We made the theory this is why he continued to die and be reborn, because he doesn't witness the transition of years he can't witness the transition of death. So you'd assume he wouldn't do dangerous things during the New Year, right? Well he's afraid of never coming back and makes sure to set himself up to die the second before one-year ends. We don't argue, it's his life, if he wants to continue being "cursed", we'll let him.
I extend a hand to Kyle and he takes it with a wry grin. The second the contact is made my hand tingles and electricity runs up my arm, but I don't let go, instead I pull him to a stand like I intended. Now when I try to pull away I can't, Kyle is grasping my hand tightly, lacing fingers as he leans against my shoulder like the drunk he is.
"Have a wish for the New Year, Cartman?" he asks, tripping over himself. I give a nod and stop, thinking it over.
"I don't want the sun to come up," I say finally, not elaborating out loud. Really, who wants to see the mess the drunks made in daylight? I don't. Of course, if we were younger Kyle might have thought I meant I wanted everyone to die, and would call the government or his Mom on me.
He laughs a bit at my answer, obviously amused the way he took it. He stops with a hand over his mouth, and within seconds I'm splattered in potato salad, Cheesy Poofs, and four Sex on the Beaches. I curse in disgust as Kyle hits the ground, pleasantly unconscious, and the domino effect starts on the other tipsy teens as retching fills the air.
God I hate drunks.