A/N: So I haven't updated since Halloween and I hate myself for it. School just took over my life and I didn't have time to work on this, which really sucked because I love writing this story and I'm so jazzed by those of you who are reading, favoriting, or commenting on the text.
This bit is some filler and I apologize for that, but there's more to come soon!
Love,
Kyle, Your Local Garbage Gay

"Can you hear me say your name forever?
Can you see me longing for you forever?"

-GHOST, "Life Eternal"

November 9, 2008

The lengthy, ice cold glass dagger stared at him. It intimidated him. Kenny McCormick karate chopped the fucker out of his path. Thick ice struck against the bony surface of his hand and spun hard to the ground, plunking a barrel shape void into the sleet. He hated icicles or anything else that rhymed with "sickle."
His foot slipped off the tree branch when Eric Cartman's piercing voice shot up through the crisp winter air, "Watch what the fuck you're doing, asshole! That could have hit me!"
"It would have served you right, dick!" Kenny gripped the section above him and spread his knees farther apart to gain a better stance. His heart was thumping fast. Despite the chill, he was toiling from stress. Normally, he could mount and jump from buildings with ease- but buildings are so much more different. Buildings are man-made structures. Nature has its own idea of structure. One of beauty interwoven with chaos. He was nervous, yes, ascending this ultra large tree, but he wasn't about to let Cartman know. "It didn't even land near you, so shut your whore mouth!"
Kenny eyed his little orange parka, strangled in the branches a few feet away. Cartman, to show how much stronger his throwing arm was becoming, had thrown Kenny's coat so high up, it became caught in the branches, and they had nothing else to throw up there to chuck it out.
From a nearby sidewalk, Stan Marsh saw Cartman standing alone, howling profanities to the sky. Convinced that he had ultimately lost it, he approached with caution, hands stuck solidly in his coat pockets.
"What are you doing?" he asked, trying his best to sound neither very interested nor too accusatory.
"Kenny's being an asshole," replied Cartman, not even looking at Stan.
"I'm being an asshole?" Kenny screeched, jarring Stan to look up at his shivering friend, clad in cheap snow pants and boots, and a raggedy Def Leppard shirt with stained armpits, "You're a god damn cyst on the ass of the world, Cartman!"
Stan frowned, "you can get cysts on your ass?"
"I don't know," Cartman shrugged, "Ah, Kenny, the word you're looking for is a boil. You get boils on your ass."
"Whatever," Kenny muttered.
"And you're the one who's more likely to get boils because you don't fucking shower."
"Fuck you!" Kenny spat, firing a sizable lump directly at Cartman. The ball of saliva broke over his face.
"Oh, sick!" Cartman hastily wiped the splatter away, gagging as he did. "Stan, did you fucking see that? I probably have the god damn plague now, gross!"
"Well, that'll be fucking fitting because you're a rat!" Kenny retorted.
"Ay!"
"Um, Kenny," Stan interjected, "I think you should stop. You're too high up… it's not worth it."
"It's the only coat I have."
He continued to shuffle along the branch, closer to the tree trunk.
"You can have my coat," Stan unbuttoned himself, "I'll just say I lost it and my parents will get me a new one."
Kenny stopped for a moment to consider it.
"Oh, how charitable of you, Stan," Cartman squealed in the mocking tone of a shady housewife.
Kenny retracted and placed a foot on an adjacent, thinner branch.
"Thanks but no thanks, dude. I got this."
From below, Stan groaned and Cartman continued to rattle off derogatory comments about poor people.
A crow settled on the branch in front of Kenny.
They glared at each other. The fowl glowed in the pleasant winter sunlight, its feathers showcasing dark tones of blue.
"Go away," Kenny whispered. It didn't obey him. It cocked its head at the 10-year-old with inquisitive amber eyes. Kenny glanced at his friends. They didn't seem to notice the bird. Not that they would care.
But he wondered if it was really there, or if it was one of the crows he saw when he went to the "nightmare place."
He stopped thinking about it. Get the coat. Fuck that bird. And fuck Cartman. He wanted to pummel him when he got back.
Steadying himself by clutching the branch above him with both hands, he kicked out his other foot. Now he held onto the branch above and behind him, his body in an uncomfortable slash position.
"Kenny, don't!" Stan called out.
"What? I'm fine."
"You look like you're stuck."
"I'm fine!" Kenny repeated. But his shoulder blades were stiff and his hips buckled.
"Yeah, we totally believe you," Cartman quipped.
"Oh, shut up Cartman! This is your fault." snapped Stan. He looked up into the gnarled tree. "Kenny, I'm coming up after you!"
"Stan, no-"
Stan was at the base of the tree, jumping up for the closest branch. Kenny tried to move again.
He noticed that the crow left. He didn't even hear it fly away.
His foot slipped. Trying to regain stability, and in a flash of a blind frenzy, he bit down heavy on his tongue.
"Fuck!"
The metallic quality of blood oozed over the bottom of his mouth and he let go.
"Kenny, no!"
The boys watched, horrified, stuck as wax models, as Kenny fell backward screaming.
The shriek tore away when the back of his neck struck a large branch, breaking it in two. His lifeless body struck another branch on the way before falling into the soft bed of snow, next to the cylinder grave of the icicle.
Stan backed up against the tree, arms splayed out, stared with his mouth open.
Cartman approached the mangled Kenny. Blood dribbled across the edge of his lip. Eyes, pale and blue, still open.

"You killed him…" Stan's weakening voice fluttered and crumbled around the two.
Cartman sunk to his knees beside Kenny's twitching body, his bulbous face suffused with shame, shock- taking in the truth. Outside the timbers, the roads were mute. No one saw besides them, and now they were cornered. In death, he had them trapped.
Stan followed, collapsing to his knees beside the now still body.
"I didn't mean to," Cartman said faintly. Slumped over, shoulders seemingly larger. Stan ran a palm over Kenny's eyelids.
"Okay," Stan removed his coat.
"Okay? Just okay?"
"What else do you want me to say?" he drew his coat over Kenny's chest as if he were tucking him into bed. A final rest.
"It wasn't my fault, Stan!"
"Yes, it was," Stan leveled his glowering gaze at who he now looked at as a former friend, "You have to own up to this."
Cartman wrung his hands, "What do you mean?"
Stan suddenly stood, bare arms trembling, "I'm telling Kyle. And then we're calling the police.
"Don't fucking tell Kyle!"
"I'm going," Stan huffed. He shifted toward the way of the roadway before a tight grip clamped his wrist. Cartman spun him around and clutched Stan's neck with the other hand.
"I'll kill you too, Stan," he growled between gritted teeth.
Nausea overtook Stan, swelling in his breast and mouth, gagging under the abnormally strong grasp and scratchy texture of the yellow gloves. Dizzy and stupefied, he grasped at Cartman's arms, trying to unclasp his neck.
"Y-You're insane," Stan rasped in between gags. The grip tightened.
"I'm not getting in trouble for this. We're leaving him here," Cartman shook the boy angrily, "And if anyone asks us, we don't know what happened, okay? We were at the other park playing. And if you tell anyone anything different, including Kyle, I'll fucking kill you. I'll kill you both."
Tears cascaded down Stan's reddening cheeks, making beads that coiled over Cartman's fingers. His vision dissolved in and out, superimposed with fizzing pink and yellow blotches, head turning to styrofoam. He peeked over at Kenny's corpse cradled in the snow, and a staggering sense of anger, a revulsion of an injustice rose in him. With the measure of energy he had left, he raised a knee and delivered a striking blow to his assaulter's abdomen, underneath the ribs. He could just barely feel the bone of the tip of his boot. Cartman's fingers loosened as he doubled in pain. Both of them fell to the ground, coughing.
Stan propped himself on his elbows and crawled toward the neighborhood, leaving behind a heaving Cartman.
"You've… always… been a… bully… Cartman," Stan managed to say in between raspy breaths, "And now, and now, you're a… murderer."
No reply from the other, folded in a fetal position next to Kenny, but Stan knew he was heard.
With a groan, Stan hoisted himself up and ran away, kicking up snow with each forceful step.
He couldn't follow. He hurt too much.
This is it. It's all over.
A noise- breaking wet celery resounded behind him. Cartman jolted and swung over.
Kenny was moving again.
But it wasn't normal.
There were lumps moving under his skin, following each other in synchronicity akin to railway routes. His legs flopped crazily, and his chest swelled. Cartman frantically scooted back. To him, Kenny looked like a rag doll or a glitchy video game character. Or both.
Kenny's face turned toward the sky. He blinked once. Twice. With a long exhale, he sat up, looked at Stan's coat, confused, fingering the red collar.
"How come I'm not in my bed?" He whispered to himself. Cartman gasped. Kenny's eyes snapped to him, "Eric?"
Cartman just shook his head, embracing himself.
"Uh, I'm sorry… I fell asleep."
Cartman continued to stare, fixing to say something, but the only that came out was a petrified squeak. Kenny turned to stand up but instantly recoiled. Spine, pinned with handfuls of invisible daggers, separating it, one vertebra at a time.
"Fuck! That fucking hurts!"
It wasn't usually this way. To die, yes. But to host the sensation of his undoing the next day was newborn and terrifying. He tried to steady his breathing until the pain subsided and looked at Cartman with wet eyes.
"Eric, what happened? What did you see?"

…

It didn't take long for Stan to reach Kyle's house. As his feet pounded on the alkaline concrete, arms pumping, he couldn't recall why he was rushing. Now he was standing out in air, his mind dull.
Sheila came out, encased in a weighty poncho, rubbing her hands. She recognized the boy standing on the sidewalk, looking dumbstruck.
"Hello, Stanley."
"What?"
"I said 'hello'," she walked out to the mailbox and opened the small metal door.
"Oh, hi," he said delicately.
She eyed him before tugging at a small bundle of business envelopes. "Ugh, bills and more bills. Don't ever grow up, Stan," she gestured at him with the stack in her large but friendly hands.
"Okay."
She closed the mailbox and looked at him again, "Where's your coat, bubbe?"
Stan shrugged, "I guess I just stepped out. I guess… I guess I didn't need it."
"Ah. Well, it's nice to step out for some air now and then," she started back toward the house, "You can come in if you want. Kyle just got back from grocery shopping with his father."
"Oh, okay. Sure. Yes."
He followed Sheila into the house, his mind trying hopelessly to remember… remember why he couldn't.

…

June 8, 2017

"I love this one," Kenny said, holding out a typed note. He was squatting cross-legged on Stan's bed while Kyle lay on the floor, sifting through photographs for a picture board.
"Which one?"
"My father was a hard worker/he wore suits like a fish wears scales."
"Oh," Kyle glanced up at him, gripping a few photos of them playing Guitar Hero. "He must've liked it too if he actually typed it." He placed them down on the teal carpet and dug into the cardboard box further, dragging out sheets of paper lined in crayon. "Holy crap."
"What?"
"It's that project that we did in the fourth grade. The one about South Park being a hotspot for hiding alcohol during the Prohibition… Look at the little beer bottle you drew," he said, holding up the art for Kenny to see and be exposed to the same nostalgia and sadness.
"Oh, yeah, I remember that. I can't believe he kept that."
"I can," Kyle smiled sadly. "He kept everything."
He continued shuffling through old photos while Kenny silently read Stan's poetry.
"It's neat how he wrote from your point of view."
"Huh? My point of view?"
"It's really obvious that this is about you… the other son? Stan doesn't have a brother."
"Who's to say it's not about you? You have a brother, too."
"My dad doesn't wear suits like a fish wears scales. That's definitely your dad. My dad wears jumpsuits like… giraffes… wear… I don't know. I can't word things. I'm not Stan."
Kyle sighed. His thumb grazed over a picture of the four of them at the carnival- at least, it was four, but Cartman was ripped away, riding on the carousel. In the picture, they were all laughing, but Kenny was smiling peacefully in the backdrop.
"You say things only when it's necessary," he said, "Most people talk just to hear themselves talk. There's actual meaning behind everything you say. I've always liked that about you."
Kenny put the paper aside, shifting, taking in the sudden compliment and feeling as though he didn't deserve it.
"I think people just assume I'm quiet because I have nothing to contribute."
Kyle leaned over and handed Kenny the photo. He took it with a timid hand.
"I've never thought that. Still water runs deep, Ken."

Tearing himself away from the urge to climb down and pin him, Kenny looked away, adjusting his ponytail, making it a tighter so that the blond tendrils tugged his scalp. Pain as a distraction. Out of the corner of his eye, Kyle was checking his phone, absentmindedly scratching the back of his neck.
I'm a bad person.

A break to the silence: "I have to get going," Kyle announced.
Wait, we were having a moment…

"Where?"
"To the airport… to pick up Wendy."
"Testaburger?"
"Yes."
"Wow… That's a name I haven't heard in a while. Um, is she staying with you?"
"Oh, no. She's staying with Stan's parents," Kyle stood and looked around the floor, at all the carnage of memories.
"That sounds like it's going to be an awkward car ride… do you need me to come?"
"It's okay. I really don't mind. I actually invited her but then my parents said she couldn't stay at our house... so yeah, it was a whole big thing."
"You didn't tell me."
"You've got enough on your plate."
"So do you! Your plate is fucking broken, Kyle."
Kyle pursed his lips, "I'm just… trying to do the right things."
"By putting all the stress on yourself?"
"No, I… I don't know," Kyle stammered. Quickly, he snatched his keys up from the dresser, "I really need to get going. You can pick out some photos… but leave room in case Wendy has some too."
Kenny sighed, "Okay, Kyle. Drive safe."
Tugging on his left Converse, the 18-year-old Kyle with unwashed hair, a Trevor Something tee, a pack of cigarettes in his pocket, and a heavy heart, gave one last friendly glance before turning around and heading out. The back of his shirt read "DIE WITH YOU" in bold, black lettering.
"I hope it doesn't come to that," Kenny uttered quietly to himself, the phrase branded in his brain. "I hope to fucking God it doesn't come to that."