It's been a good three days saw the guys, Kenny imposing a quarantine on himself following the incident. Just a precaution, he assured himself, he just wanted some time to figure shit out. He sent a text the morning after, a feeble attempt to cover his ass, telling them that he came down with some awful brand of sick, attributing his momentary delirium to an imaginary ailment. He left out how, upon returning home, he spent the night scouring the dark corners of the Internet for explanation, cross-referencing Wikipedia articles and browsing Reddit threads. He didn't tell them that the closest he got to an answer was aliens implanting chips in his skull, which is pretty lame compared to the routine anal probing. He skipped over the big revelation he stumbled across that placed Kyle at the epicentre of this entire mess. Because this is South Park, and weird things happen once—maybe twice—and things go back to normal. Kenny just wants things back to normal.
So he lied, told Stan and Kyle and Cartman that he had some highly contagious bug, that he woke up the next morning with clogged sinuses and stalactite snot, a hacking cough and flushing fever, bleary vision and a throbbing headache. Okay, the last two were true, but they were due to his hours of staring unblinking at a bright screen searching the entire web. He specified every gross and disgusting detail issuing a warning that they stay away, and not even try to defy him because his badass baby sister would be guarding the door. Though he considered actually asking her, Kenny decided against actually involving Karen, spare her any unnecessary concern over her dumbass big brother. No, this is his problem, and it's gonna goddamn stay that way as long as he can help it.
Their responses were typical, pleasantly predictable in fact. Cartman ragged on him for bailing, promptly boasted after that they had the best night ever without him, then claimed that all of Kenny's flulike symptoms were clearly a sign of poverty-induced HIV. For once, Cartman's verbal cancer brought Kenny a slight degree of comfort, slight. Stan spoke more like a friend, questioning his health while sprinkling get well wishes, then offered to help however he could. Lurking between the blue and grey bubbles, Kenny read Stan's scepticism, but felt relieved that his doubts remained in subtext. Kyle used less emojis but expressed a similar sentiment, encouraging Kenny to rest and recover, then demanded they hang out as soon as he's up for it. He almost ignored Kyle's message completely, fearing just his words would trigger another impromptu pop concert, but thankfully nothing happened.
For a good three days, nothing has happened. For a good three days, everything has been normal.
Kenny repeats those two phrases to himself over and over, loitering by the Kum & Go, a cigarette between his lips. He was never an anxious smoker, his nicotine highs purely recreational rather than desperate stress relief. These past few days, though, menthols have been his saving grace, quelling those fears in the back of his mind that, all of a sudden, his head would go off again, start playing another hit single, further warp his comfort into cruelty. His ashtray at home filled up as he grappled over his playlist repertoire, needing some kind of buffer for the big bad world, but lacking the heart to put on any pop, let alone Britney. In all of this frazzle and frenzy, he's resorted to Billboard Hot 100's mortal enemy: country music.
His earbuds feed him twangy guitars, fiery fiddles, honeyed ballads. Sure, people call him white trash for liking it, people claiming the genre's just pickup trucks and tasteless drunks, wannabe cowboys and big-tit bimbos, John Deere Tractors and Pabst Blue Ribbon; but Kenny reminds them that they live in a white-bread, pissant, redneck mountain town. They might have an acute social consciousness, sure, but they're still hicks, just a more respectful breed. Some people—Stan—still deny it, constantly claiming he likes folk rock and not country, adamant on their total difference; but he's lying to himself. Whenever he's a particularly whiny prick about it, though, Kenny just hums a few chords of "Achy Breaky Heart," and Stan shuts right the hell up.
He takes a long, therapeutic drag, deeply inhaling the smoke, and praying that the outlaws and their honky-tonk can cure his bubblegum brain. He ignores the crossing pools between genres, disowning those like Kelly Clarkson and Carrie Underwood, and invites the ash into his chest, to mar his throat, coat his lungs. He wishes the division had more "Blank Space," that it wasn't as thin as Florida Georgia Line, that they were a whole "Generation Away." But rather than stress over the fusions, Kenny focuses on Brooks and Urban and Bentley, and maybe a few of the other country boys who share his first name. Seriously, what is it with guys named Kenny and singing backwoods anthems?
A cloudy puff leaves his lips, Kenny letting out a tired sigh. Embers swiftly crawl to the orange filter, most of his cig burnt to impotent cinders. He frowns, fingers twitching as he taps grey dust to the asphalt, contemplating whether it's worth lighting up another. The moment Kenny relented, sent the guys an all-clear, Stan and Kyle arranged plans for him. A walk around downtown in the mid-afternoon, so Kenny gets a spoonful of fresh air and a sprinkle of sunshine, boost his health through nature's bounty and fine company. And Kenny had to say yes, because Stan and Kyle are the best friends he has, and he can't worry them any more than he already has. Besides, what else is there to worry about? Nothing has happened since the incident, because, at least by South Park standards, everything is normal.
"Stan, you swore that if I deleted Tinder you'd delete Phone Destroyer."
"I will, okay? Just, y'know, after this team event finishes…"
Kenny looks to the crosswalk, the pale green man lit up in his box, pedestrians temporarily safe from a jaywalking charge, not that any cars are clogging the intersection. Painted asphalt guides Stan and Kyle to the curb, leads them to Kenny and his shroud of jittered nerves and cool mint. Their footsteps carry them closer, their voices loudening with each step. Stan tells Kyle he supports his move away from unsolicited dick pics and endless left swipes, but denies any app deletion agreement. Kyle references some text exchange from weeks ago, then hints at Stan relapsing on his freemium addiction. Stan shoots him a glare, Kyle rolls his eyes, and Kenny can't hear a single dance, electronic, or pop beat. A relieved smile grows on his face; maybe Kenny was overreacting, spent the past few days overprotected.
"Just remember, when you start making micropayments again you're gonna have to answer to Wendy," Kyle says as his closing argument, before his eyes flicker to Kenny. For a split second, Kenny fears his gaze, a surge of fright striking him as he locks with the green. He draws in a sharp breath, swallows thick chemical smog, but, although he grates his throat, no music plays. Not even when Kyle's lips pull into a grin, lets out a casual, "Hey Kenny."
"H—hhgh, hhgh," His lungs rebuke him, send him into a hacking fit. A little smoker's cough is nothing, is normal. Stan and Kyle reach the sidewalk, and Kenny lets his breathing temper out, clears his throat, "Hi guys."
"Should you really be smoking after being super sick?" Suspicion tints Stan's eyes, still uncertain after the incident's events. Not surprising, Kenny expected this would happen. He was standing at ground zero, suffered greater exposure than Kyle or Cartman. But he won't speak out prematurely; he'll harbour his conjectures until he sleuths out some sort of conclusion. So, for now, Kenny's safe. For now.
"Well really I shouldn't be smokin' at all," Kenny drawls, flicking the filter to the ground. The orange paper hits the concrete, and Kenny crushes the dimming flames beneath his boot, extinguishing them with a firm stomp, "But withdrawal's a worse bitch than any ol' cold."
Stan holds his stare a moment longer, his concerns unallayed, then shakes his head. Without any evidence, he pushes the matter aside, to stew and simmer until he finds more to add. And if the pot cools, ignored and then abandoned, Kenny will be all the happier.
"Well at least you're doing better," Kyle may have misgivings, have his own questions about the events that transpired, but he hides them for now. He understands the advantages of concealing speculation, extracting information easier when the process goes unnoticed. A light punch to Kenny's forearm, playful yet loaded, Kyle always hitting harder than he thinks, "You made it sound like you were dying."
"Just a lil' dying," His arm aches, and he feels a warmth in his chest, a cotton-ball fuzziness. Kyle doesn't even know how damn dangerous he is, the type of guy who should wear a warning, who doesn't have to do much of anything to send Kenny falling. He savours the feeling, and thanks every power higher than him for not outing his dumb queer flutters with a catchy melody, "Nothin' I couldn't get over."
"Long as you're totally over it," Bitterness flavours Stan's tone, though his words are harmless. He cuts in front of them, decidedly leading them away from the corner store and its stale chemical stench. Kyle looks between Stan and Kenny, sensing something amiss, but shrugs it off, proceeding down the concrete path. Kenny turns his foot, squashing the filter again for good measure, then trails after the other two. It only takes him a few long strides to catch up.
This, Kenny thinks, feels right, feels normal. Stan suggests they find something to do, and Kyle asks what there is to do in their shitty town. They start volleying ideas, most of the fun stuff too childish for grown-ups, and the adult stuff too bland for twenty-somethings. If they didn't have decent jobs they could do drugs, if they didn't have self-dignity they could drink before five. The three of them will probably just wander around aimlessly until something happens to them, and Kenny is fine with that. He's got his best friends, he's got Paisley's 5th Gear playing, and he's got everything back to normal.
Thank fuck.
[Too high, can't come down…]
The instrumental "Throttleneck" track won Brad Paisley is first Grammy, rounded up two more the following year, and boasts a good eighteen nominations in various categories. Clearly the Academy favours him far more than Britney who, despite her sensational popularity, only received eight nominations and, most offensively, only one win. However, despite the apparent vendetta against her, the Academy could not deny the musical genius of "Toxic," entranced by her raw and breathy voice, enamoured by the high-pitched notes from both strings and synthesisers, and enthralled by the lyrical fall into a passion-fuelled high, euphoric and sensual.
[Losin' my head, spinnin' round and round…]
Kenny bites his lip, tries concealing his panic as he pulls out his phone. Maybe it's Spotify playing a mean old trick, tearing him from the embrace of barbeques and trucker caps to cruelly tease him. Maybe the app noticed how Kenny steered away from his upbeat jives, just wants to check if he's interested, part of some algorithm thing in a matchmaking protocol. But when he checks the display, he realises how foolish such hopes were. His phone is playing cowboy tunes, his earbuds giving him guitar strumming, but Kenny doesn't hear any of it.
[Do you feel me now?]
"Aw shit," So much for this being a one-time thing.
Stan and Kyle stop talking about whatever they were talking about—whether fake window-shopping in Shi Tpa Town is entertaining or depressing—and both look to Kenny, curious about his frustrated muttering. Stan has that hard-boiled detective look, his eyes declaring to everyone how he's got a gut feeling about some funny business, nostrils flaring as if he can smell something fishy in the air. Kyle turns his head to the side, the slight tilt of disbelief, reckoning a repeat even if he won't admit it aloud.
[Oh, the taste of your lips, I'm on a ride!]
"Kenny?" Kyle's tone falls flat, and Kenny knows they can hear it, knows Kyle can hear it. And, unlike last time, he's standing in the blast radius. At this range, Kyle can easily steal his phone if Kenny lies and writes this off as more technical trouble, then he can yank out his headphones to put one in his ear and further confirm theory as reality. Hell, if Kenny tries bolting he might outsprint him at first, but there's no way he'll outrun him. Motherfucker's got as much stamina as he does determination, something Kenny usually considers a turn-on, but is, in this case, an existential threat.
What even are his options here?
[You're toxic I'm slippin' under!]
"What?" Playing it cool, he concludes, he just needs to play it cool. Maybe he had it all wrong before, maybe this is stress-induced. When it happened the first time he did nothing short of freaking the fuck out, so it might just be stress. General stress, not anything relating to Kyle, or Kenny's feelings, or Kenny's feelings for Kyle. He just has a lot going on, probably, and his body is reacting to it, strangely. But, considering nobody born after the year 1990 has a grasp on handling stress healthily, he does the next best thing: refuse to deal with the problem head-on and simply ignore it until it magically goes away.
Or he has a mental breakdown, whichever comes first.
[With a taste of a poison paradise…]
"Music's too loud again," Every word that leaves Kyle's lips dials up the volume, cranking up another notch with each syllable and sound. This must be because Kenny's panicking over Kyle finding out, not because of Kyle directly, just the immense stress he happens to be causing, "Seriously, I thought you said your phone was fixed."
[I'm addicted to you!]
"It was!" He says, too loudly, voice nearly cracking. Stan raises a brow while Kyle knits his.
[Don't you know that you're toxic?]
Kenny swallows, exhales through his nose, mumbles, "I thought it was."
[And I love what you do!]
Nope, this isn't working.
[Don't you know that you're toxic?]
This is just making it worse.
Kyle holds out a hand, a silent request to examine the phone. Kenny shouldn't be shocked; Kyle graduated college with a degree in computer science, and currently pays his bills by repairing other peoples' broken electronics. But Kyle won't find anything out of the ordinary on his device, only fully realise the problem lies somewhere in Kenny's stupid head. His heart beats a little faster, and he can't quite tell whether it's fluster or fear.
Kenny stares into his palm, rethinks his options. No, he doesn't have many—barely has any—but he has some. He can cooperate, surrender his cell and expose himself, or he can withhold, back away hastily and hightail home. Bailing won't end well, even if he escaped unscathed the later consequences would sting, but admitting his problem leads to all sorts of uncertainties. They all cross his mind at once, overlapping images of ridicule and repulsion and retching, before he remembers the music's steady amplification. Understanding he can't stall forever, Kenny heaves a deep sigh, and pulls out his earphones.
He opens his mouth, about to explain, but pauses; the music stopped. No chorus reprisal rings in the air, no violins or surf guitars, just the normal sounds of the neighbourhood, just Bud Light bottles rolling in the gutter and Doritos bags rolling like tumbleweeds across pavement. Stan's eyes widen, his look befuddled, but refrains from anything beyond a WTF face. Kyle blinks three times, opens his mouth, but holds his tongue in hopes Kenny shares some enlightenment. Kenny relaxes, his lips curling into a smooth grin.
"What can I tell ya?" Laughter sneaks into his voice, Kenny praying it doesn't sound desperate, "The buds must be junk!"
Bullshit, that's what Kyle's face screams, eyes displaying his inner struggle to refute. But for whatever reason—the sheer bewilderment of the matter or his own tiredness—he comes up empty. In an almost mocking tone, a scoff to guise his frustration, "Well, never seen that before."
"Those are the ones you got with your phone, right?" Stan doesn't let him off as easily, "The shitty Apple ones that last a month and a half?"
"They only lasted so short for you 'cause you dropped 'em in Mountain Dew," Kenny sneers, takes out his phone. He wraps the thin white wires around the middle, then tucks the buds under one rung to secure, "These puppies are goin' on three years 'r so. So, it's gotta be their circuits."
Stan sticks out his tongue, and Kenny laughs to himself. Wow, his explanation sort of makes sense, in an abstract sense. If he didn't just knowingly make it up, he might even buy it.
"Yeah, but they usually make music harder to hear," Kyle points out, voice sharp. He knows something's wrong, and it'll bother him to his very core, but he won't figure out why. This is all too dumb for his smart-person brain, so Kenny is safe from his powerful deductions. Much as he hates watching Kyle try to no avail, aware how caustic annoyance is when it festers in him, it's for the best.
Kenny shrugs, winks, "Guess I'm just magic."
Besides, what would he do if he knew the truth? How would he come back from that?
[The palest green I've ever seen, the colour of your eyes! You're taking me so far away, one look and you stop time!]
Blackout was Britney's comeback, an edgy electropop album with rave vibes and dubstep mixes. While everyone remembers the singles, with "Gimme More" hard to forget, every track is its own masterpiece, Kenny's personal favourite being "Heaven On Earth." Maybe it's the dreaminess lacing Spears' singing, or the slow tempo balancing lullaby and dance, or the lyrics' descriptions nicely matching Kyle. Even with lower basses and dropped beats, the raw spirit of pop-bred love comes across, and for that it will always hold a special place in Kenny's heart.
But, hearing it now, playing out of the blue, Kenny questions its place. His blood runs cold, heart skip-skip-stopping in his chest. His lips twitch, smile vanishes, and he forces a swallow. His phone weigh in his hand like a block of lead, a physical testament against his prior claims, proof his problem has nothing to do with technology. And, worse still, his problem has a shuffle function.
[Fell in love with you and everything that you are!]
Kyle, caught completely off-guard, "What the fuck?"
Stan, putting something together, "You're kidding."
[Nothing I can do, I'm really crazy about you!]
"Look," Kenny shoves both hands in his pockets, as if he can find a quick fix in their depths. While Stan and Kyle stand stopped, Kenny starts a sneaky back-peddle, "I don't really know what's goin' on, but I'm feelin' I oughta get ba—"
[When you're next to me, it's just like heaven on earth!]
"This is why you stayed home for three days?" Kyle asks and accuses, at the same time. Kenny picks out a few emotions, furious about not knowing, hurt about not being told, confused about the situation itself. He wants to apologise for all of them.
[You're heaven, (you're heaven,) you're heaven on earth!]
"I'm handling it, okay?" Kenny says, unconvincing. He notices Stan's eyes flicker, notice Kenny slinking away. Only a matter of seconds until he rats Kenny out, and the last thing he needs is both Kyle and Stan chasing him. No, he needs a new excuse, "I'll go to the doctor right now 'n get looked at!"
[Tell me that I'll always be the one that you want!]
"Kenny," Kyle growls, eyes narrowing to slits. Not the answer he wanted, but, unfortunately, the answer he'll need to accept. After all, the end of the verse swiftly approaches, and with it enough to really put Kenny in a pinch.
[Don't know what I'd do if I ever lose you!]
Kenny runs, faster than he has in a good long while. He zooms across the nearby intersection as the timer counts down, three-two-one second until traffic flow resumes. Only after his feet hit the concrete does he hear the sounds of revving oiled engines and purring hybrid batteries, of cars actually occupying the main roads, of a tangible obstacle between him and his friends. Though he maintains his pace, he glances behind him, glimpsing Stan and Kyle abandoned on the other curb. They both look pissed—rightfully so—Stan barely restraining a visibly angry Kyle.
[Look at you and what I see is heaven on earth!]
This is for him, Kenny tells himself, tries to tell himself. For the moment Kyle might hate him, for flaking out and for keeping secrets, for avoiding him and for straight up running; but it's for the best. It's for them, for their friendship, for Kyle. Or it's just for Kenny, because after all these years he's still too chicken-shit to say it to his face, say what Britney sings so easily:
[I'm in love with you!]
A/N: This chapter is shorter (and dumber) than the last one, but I hope you still liked it! Now atm I'm only planning on 4 chapters but depending on how the next part goes it might be changed...we'll see! Hope you're enjoying the ride! Thanks for liking/kudosing/reviewing it means a lot to me!