Kenny can't believe how fucking stupid he is. Just an isolated incident? Really? Is he that goddamn retarded that he honestly believed that crap? He's done some real stupid shit in his life, but buying into his own feverish delusions? Yeah, he hoped this'd all blow over, miraculously cured in a week like a formulaic comedy show, but he goddamn knows better! Rather than face the reality that he has a condition, Kenny decided to cheese on optimism, huffing false positivity like cat piss, and getting high, high, high on his own pretty lies, making it all the worse when he crash, crash, crashed. What a dumb motherfucker!
The initial onset tricked him, lulled him into a false sense of security, made him think physical separation was key to quelling the songs in his soul. When Kenny rushed home that day, stumbling through the front door completely out of breath, he wholeheartedly thought distance was all it took to stop his internal stereo. He kept thinking that as Karen jumped up from the couch, eyes bulging, scared shitless. She rushed up to her big brother, asking what the hell happened, expecting a story about Kenny outrunning a rabid black bear, not a pissed off ginger twink. Kenny muddled words together, speaking in fragments broken up by heaving pants, unintelligible and incoherent. He managed a few broad stroke statements, keeping things vague, then he mentioned Kyle and…
[It's scary, yeah! I think I need some hypno-therapy, yeah! This thing is so very!]
The moment Karen heard that Japanese exclusive, Kenny knew he was beyond fucked. His mouth hung open, song blasting from his head, and Karen shut her eyes. She mimicked Craig Tucker's flat nasal tone and said something about calling the doctor, then walked into the kitchen to schedule his appointment. Kenny watched her leave in silence, wishing her brother told her before things got bad, then stared at the beer-stained carpet, wondering what he did to deserve this sick punishment. Kenny has a problem, a problem he can't hide, a problem that won't stop getting exponentially worse. It began in his heart, then spread to his brain, and now he can't even think of him without…
[It feels so good, I don't wanna stop! So, baby, come with me and be my OOH LA LA!]
He dropped by, too, not long after Kenny got home that day. Stan must've dragged his feet the whole way, telling Kyle to give Kenny space, trailing behind him as his advice fell on deaf ears. Kyle is the type of person who stays at someone's bedside when they're sick in the hospital, but also the type of person who digs deeper and deeper when secrets elude him. So, when he started pounding on the plywood, fist banging so hard he nearly punched through, Kenny found a knife and jabbed it into his heart. Not literally, despite the temptation of death's cathartic embrace; Kenny turned to Karen, got on his knees and begged her to deal with his friends, to tell Kyle he wasn't there, he wouldn't see them, anything to get him away. She stared at him, pity in those big brown doe eyes, her lips pressed into a flat line. He knows what she was thinking, that her brother was a pussy, a chickenshit over a few gooey feelings, no better than a high school drama queen.
Karen should've told him to go fuck himself, told him to man up and grow a pair, except Karen isn't that type of person. No, she simply let out a slow, steady sigh, and told Kenny to go to his room, to wait things out while she handled it. Kenny laid on his bed, staring at the ceiling, and hating himself for making his baby sister clean up his mess. He listened to their muffled voices, but it wasn't drywall or plaster that deterred his eavesdropping. The haunting piano from "Everytime" played whenever Kyle spoke, drowning out exact words, and taunting him with a soulful ballad. After a while, they gave up, and Karen poked into his room, shared her success laced with bitterness, devoid of any joy. Kenny's chest aches, remembering the look on her face, the gleam in her eyes: hurt that wasn't hers.
[My weakness caused you pain… And this song's my sorry…]
Thanks to a clerical error on Medicaid's part, Kenny can't see any medical professionals for at least another week. Their insurance won't cover any sort of visit until they fix their system, and they don't have the funds to out-of-pocket a non-emergency bill. Kenny doubts anyone with a white lab coat can help, confident that science cannot fix whatever's wrong. The music playing from his head is a symptom, not the full affliction. There's just one prescription, and it's a damn hard pill to swallow. Kenny could be honest, tell Kyle that he makes him tik-tik, tik-tik, tik-tik—boom! An explosive confession might be enough to detonate his cranial stereo, though its fallout might be enough to obliterate everything they have. Kenny can't lose him, not when he doesn't know how to live without him, without his love, like he was born to make him happy.
Guilt sears his heart, an astringent sting igniting every crack and tear. Denial, he always picks denial, because it's safer, because it's easier, because it's convenient. For a damn long time, he denied liking Kyle the way he does, chronically writing off his affection as purely friendly, refuting any possibility of romantic or sexual attraction. Bebe constantly teased him, said Kenny was so obvious, and Kenny kept telling her to lay off the yaoi, remained oblivious until the senior year ski trip. Kenny accidentally caught Kyle getting out of the shower, glimpsing his wet naked body for a whole two seconds. They bathed together as kids, so seeing him nude wasn't that awkward; the boner he popped, on the other hand, made him question just how he defined platonic. He stopped denying how he feels, sure, but he keeps denying Kyle that, denying him a direct admission, denying him the full truth.
That's why this is happening, isn't it?
Kenny hunches over the kitchen table, looks down into his oversized mug. He stares at his sad reflection, mopey face swimming in dark roast, strong whiskey stench burning his nose. No, he isn't solving anything pouring Jameson in his brew, isn't doing much drinking his ghetto Irish coffee. Alcohol won't reverse his acute insomnia. Caffeine won't eradicate his draining fatigue. His bare-bones cocktail will make him feel better, or make him tipsy enough to pretend he feels better. If Stan's taught him anything, it's that being miserable and drunk beats being miserable and sober. He really shouldn't take advice from a lowkey alcoholic.
With a sigh, he brings the mug to his lips, takes a slow, contemplating sip. His brooding-boozing stint doesn't have much longer, Karen's patience wearing thin. She's tolerated him so far because she feels bad, because she sees the despair warping his features, because she mistakenly mentions Kyle every now and again. Any exasperation she harbours melts, turns to regret, their strained conversation replaced with "Before the Goodbye" or "I Run Away." Thick melancholy glazes blue eyes, dims their bright light, and Karen blames herself for what he's done to himself. Whiskey trickles down his throat, burns with hints of hazelnut. Irish coffee tastes like denial, and Kenny always picks it. Kyle should hate him for this.
['Cause I don't wanna move on, so I gotta hold on! Baby, because you and me are sinkin' like quicksand!]
Kenny relies on his extensive trivia during song spells, his niche knowledge a decent distraction, deterring him from fixating. He focuses instead on "Quicksand," only available on the European iTunes Deluxe edition of Circus, along with a few other tracks needlessly barred from American release. The song was co-written by Lady Gaga, whose hit "Telephone" was originally intended for Britney Spears. Although she rejected it, Britney recorded a demo, the rough experimental cut eventually leaking online. During his brief and atrocious 'little monster' phase, Cartman compared the unfinished rip with the polished release, claiming it proved Britney the inferior vocalist. While Kenny doesn't typically punch people over music opinions, he made an exception for Cartman, shut him up with a mean right hook. He clutched his nose, blood gushing between his fingers, avowing his undying hatred, as Kenny made a fake phone with one hand, a middle finger with the other, "Sorry I cannot hear you, I'm kinda biz-eh."
"Hey, Kenny."
He perks up, waves of coffee crashing against ceramic, a few drops splashing over the rim. Thanks to his cerebral woofers, Kenny can't pick up on sounds the way he used to, his finely attuned hearing severely stunted, edge vastly dulled. Karen could never sneak up on him before—even with headphones—always detecting some subtle sound cue, a footstep or giggle, and then expecting her arrival. Despite its annoyance, Kenny misses his hyper-awareness. These days, he's barely aware.
Kenny glances over, gaze falling on Karen in the archway. On her way out, he judges, backpack slung over her shoulders, ready for another afternoon at Park County Community. Sometimes Kenny forgets she's not a little kid anymore, especially when she puts her tawny hair up in cute little pigtails. They used to braid each other's hair and play Pretty Pretty Princess, now Karen babysits while Kenny binge-drinks. Kevin dodged a bullet enlisting in the army, he doesn't have to see what's become of brother and sister.
"Ya leavin', Kare Bear?" He drawls, forces a simper. It feels wrong talking to Karen without smile, granted the one he flashes can't be all that convincing. He can't put on a guise of happiness when there's nothing left of the mask. Not so lucky, not a star, telling himself not to cry, cry, cry in his lonely heart. Or not in front of Karen, anyway.
"Yeah, won't be back 'til five," Karen says, tugging on a strap. Her eyes scan the kitchen, gliding across the counters, sweeping under the table, avoiding Kenny entirely. Kenny raises a brow, watching her lick her bottom lip, shifts her weight from one knee to the other. Something teeters on her tongue, but she hesitates, because, whatever she has to say, Kenny won't like it. As he lowers his mug, he raises a brow, watches her chest rise, lips blow out a sigh. Then, in a low mumble, "'N you've got a visitor."
Betrayal burns in the blue, "Kare, I told y—"
"It's not one of them," She cuts him off, pruning shears snipping a bothersome bud. Her tone bites, announces that Karen is officially done, with the coddling, with the hand-holding, with the woe-is-me sulking. Her stare steels, warning Kenny against any further objection, in no mood to fight. Regret lurks in the brown, apologising to her brother, even though he forced her hand.
Kenny bites his lip, heart panging. Karen is too kind, too empathetic to stand idly by. Of course, she'd intervene, step in before Kenny suffered a full mental break. After all those times Kenny rescued her from bullies, Karen's the one to swoop in and save Kenny from himself. He inhales through his nose, exhales through his mouth, "Who is it?"
"Hiya, Kenny!"
That shrill voice rings in Kenny's ears, and Butters appears over Karen's shoulder, materialising out of thin air, a too cheerful grin plastered on his face. No, Butters isn't an inherently bad person; in fact, he can be a genuinely nice person, though his upbeat pep grates after a short while. He's just extremely gullible, a clump of Play-Doh ready to be manipulated, sculpted and warped into whatever someone else wants. Kenny rarely goes out of his way to be an asshole, a firm believer of treating people with decency, but he still finds Butters annoying, irritating, and fucking obnoxious.
"I'll let you catch up," One moment, she's there, the next, she's gone, skipping off to class, "See ya," and the door slams shut, Kenny left behind, abandoned. Never mind, Karen has no mercy.
Kenny's eyes dart to pale grey, bright and colourless, same shade as soft pencil scribbles, brimming with nauseating glee. His whole aura is abrasive, corrosive happiness, a harsh acid threatening Kenny's delicate grasp on sanity. Clearly, Butters was sent, a new messenger of torture, ensuring his plight worsens exponentially, as if things aren't bad enough. His smile fades, giving up on illusions, resigning to his sorrowful state. He takes another swig and then, mustering minimal effort, "Hey, man…"
"So, uh," Articulate is not a word that describes Butters, especially when leading a conversation. Trepidation swiftly creeps into his voice, his jitters rocking his timbre, clueless without guidance. He knocks his knuckles together, a nervous tic, and uncomfortably wades into the room, "How ya been?"
Whiskey saturates his taste-buds, acerbic tingle tickling his throat. Could've used more, Kenny figures, could've made it stronger. Hell, if he knew Butters was coming, he would've ditched the coffee entirely, drank straight from the bottle. He gulps, a hard swallow; why won't the alcohol hit already? Frustration mangles his tone, Kenny speaking in snarls, nasty and snide, "Been shitty, Butters. Real goddamn shitty."
"Y-yeah," Agreement, Butters' default response, straw hair bouncing as he nods his head. He plods over to an empty dining room chair, gingerly taking a seat next to Kenny. He scoots his chair closer—too close—inclined towards comforting others, whether they want it or not. From his peripheral, Kenny spots the faded scar over Butters' left eye, the mark left by Kenny's shuriken, "I heard a lil' talkin' to Stan and Kyle…"
[Deep in my heart, I know there's only you!]
"Jesus," An alarmed pipe, and Butters shoots back, propelled by the blast of lively lyrics. He startles easily, yelping over firecrackers on 4th of July, scared of cheap effects in horror movies. The guys might've warned him, mentioned the effects of Kenny's issue. Probably kept things vague, because neither of them knows what to call this, and Stan won't label Kyle a trigger. How much has Stan put together by now? How much has Kyle?
[And right from the start I always knew!]
Kenny's head droops, muscles limp, lets out a tired groan. A palm pats his shoulder, warm gesture with good intentions, compassionate. He receives the touch coldly, Butters' sympathy unwelcome, rebuffing him with a stirring twitch. Kenny should've hung on to those cheap ninja stars. Butters could use another one lodged in his skull.
[I never let go! 'Cause I love you so!]
"Do you…" Reluctantly, he retracts his hand, reaches behind his head. Grey flickers in every direction, searching for the best approach. Kenny's being too hard on him, shooting the messenger because he can't face his friends. After all, they could've sent Cartman, who'd bring a bag of popcorn and commentate Kenny's spiral like a Let's Play wannabe. Butters scratches the back, nails scraping shaved scalp, "Wanna talk about that?"
[Ohhh! I want ya for the rest of my life!]
"Not much to talk 'bout," Kenny shrugs, stares at a scrape on the table-top, refuses eye contact. He can't say he's embarrassed, or mortified, or ashamed; he doesn't feel anything, inside empty and vacant, because of the songs he adores, because of the person he loves. This is a battle—him against the music—and he's getting his ass kicked. What'll be left of him once it's over?
Butters bites his lip, breathes a huff out his nose. He wants to be supportive, be helpful, be a friend. Not a lot of people are nice to Butters—ever—so because Kenny is—occasionally—Butters thinks highly of him, respects him. He probably knows he gets on Kenny's nerves, too, and appreciates Kenny for shoving aside his grievances and putting up with his existence. Weird how acting like a decent human being pays off sometimes. Then, finally, "You sure like Britney a whole lot, huh?"
A laugh escapes his lips, one of those nervous reflexes, what happens when someone says something that's not comedic, but somehow funny. Tension ebbs from his cheeks, Kenny blessed with a slight reprieve, a gasp of relief. Guess he can't hate the guy too much, least not right now. He leans back in his chair, a finger gently tip-tip-tapping on the mug. His eyes flit to grey, offering him a weak smile, "Sure do."
He returns with a grin of his own, a shaky breath bordering on a chuckle, expelling his anxieties. He gulps air, replenishing his lungs, breathing no longer culled by internal panic. His shoulders ease, roll back with his recline. Butters settles into composure while Kenny takes another sip. The bitter burn trickles down his throat, and Butters blurts out, "Kinda like how you like-like Kyle a whole lot?"
[I want your love forever! Ohhh! I want you for the rest of my life!]
Butters couldn't've timed his revelation better, whiskey diverting down Kenny's windpipe, alcoholic choke coupled with jiving pop. Coughs rock his system, saliva sputtering from his mouth, tears welling in their ducts, random and involuntary responses to other random and involuntary reactions. No point in arguing—denying—not with a soundtrack broadcasting his emotional roller-coaster. Besides, Kenny's never been good with discretion in love. He wipes the drool from his chin, tongues the inside of his cheek, and softly says, "Yeah… Kinda like that."
"You, uh…" He tilts his head, for a better view of Kenny's face, "Wanna talk about that?"
Kenny stares ahead, blank and blind; does he want to talk about it? Come to think of it, has he talked about it, seriously? If anything, his feelings are an open secret, something known but rarely spoken, acknowledged but not elaborated. Small towns love gossip; however, it needs to go somewhere, otherwise it goes stale within a week. Kenny liking Kyle is too simple for the rumour mill, no further developments or complicated twists, a statement not a story. Amongst a select few, it's common knowledge, so Kenny hasn't dwelled on the subject. Before everyone else, it's scarcely worthy of a footnote, so Kenny hasn't given reason for expansion.
Quick answer: no, he hasn't talked about this all too much, and it's about time he changes that.
His foot knocks against a table leg, tremors jostling the precarious top, ripples spreading across the coffee's surface. A lot of people said Kenny broke out of his shell once he ditched the hood, started speaking clearly, showing off his pretty face. They probably said that because, shortly after, he earned a reputation, blessed with the power to wink and smooth talk his way into any bed he pleased. No one ever mentions that it's others who initiate those encounters, or that Kenny consents because he doesn't mind, because he doesn't care. He actually cares about Kyle, so his supposed charm has never worked. Kenny takes a deep breath:
"Guess it started a long time ago. Iunno when, 'cause I was the last person to know before him. Like, didn't think I really liked 'im like that 'til I was way too deep to say I didn't, y'know?"
[Just the thought of being close to you… (Close to you…)]
For reasons unknown, "Can't Make You Love Me" never released as a single, despite being a highlight of Oops… I Did It Again. It was a new millennium, and Britney was the hot trend, but the industry wasn't sure how long she'd last as Miss American Dream. Her first three studio albums dropped back to back, the time crunch a likely factor in its rude exclusion. He's no better than the big buck execs, his aimless ramblings cutting through the bridge:
"After I figured it out, I guess I didn't wanna fuck anything up, or maybe fuck anything up. Told myself that if I played it cool, kept doin' what I was, things'd just… work out. 'Cause that's how it is in the long game."
[It's incomparable… (Oh, baby…)]
"'Cept it's not, it's not the long game it's just pussing out," Over and over and over, "'Cause ya think your cock's gonna screw shit over," Throw years straight down the gutter, "'N even though I wanted to tell 'im, I didn't wanna lose what me 'n 'im have, didn't wanna risk it."
[Should be happy with the life I live…]
The crescendo builds, passion fuelling volume, and Butters' nodding slows. Warm understanding dims, caution and confusion taking its place as Butters opens his mouth, tempted to interrupt. But Kenny bangs his mug on the table, his attention elsewhere, raising his voice with the lyrics:
"So, instead of makin' Kyle all con-dick-ted, I shoved it. I shut my goddamn stupid mouth and let a bunch of other guys do what I fuckin' wouldn't."
[And the things I do…]
"Listenin' to 'em say all the shit I wanted to say," Words like babe, phrases like love you, "Heard 'bout 'em draggin' Ky' off to do all the shit I wanted to do," Holding hands and kissing sweet, giving head and screwing rough, "While I just stood there like a dumbass loser thinkin'…"
[Seems like I have it aaaall…]
"Uh, Kenny?" Butters leans closer, unaware of the timer counting down, the bomb charged and set. He doesn't realise his error until the nuke goes off, until Kenny bangs his mug on the table, until emotions belt out through her singing, through his screaming.
[Can't make you!]
"Why the fuck can't it be me!?"
[Make you love me, baby!]
"Why is it always some douchebag like David or Token or Craig?"
[It's my life!]
"Shit, even dirty French prick?! But not me?!"
[What can I do?]
"He doesn't want me—!"
[Can't make you!]
"But I want him to—!"
[LOVE ME!]
"He's never, ever—!"
[(Alright!)]
"KENNY!" Butters jostles his shoulder, desperate attempt to breaking Kenny from his symphonic psychosis. His grip tightens, an ironclad clamp, glued to the bone. He squeezes—hard—more force than Kenny expected. And it seriously hurts.
[I'm just a girl!]
"What?" The tears glazing his eyes obscure Kenny's sharp glare, glower neutralised by a wobbly film. He doesn't have a problem with crying, does have a problem with crying in front of Butters. Things can't be that bad, can they?
[With a crush on you!]
One, two, three blinks, as the chorus pours out his ears, as a drop leaks out his eye. His skin crawls, warm streak dribbling down his cheek, one stray tear cementing his brand new low. Drum beats and techno-synthesisers fill the room, and Kenny looks away, looks down, looks into his mug. He stares at his same sad reflection, same mopey face, and Butters' hold softens, morphs into a soothing pat. Yup, Kenny should've added more whiskey.
"It'll be alright, buddy," Butters' cooing reminds Kenny of a pigeon, relatively harmless, vaguely sickening.
This whole damn thing has Kenny feeling sick, stomach churning with acid and bile, head pounding with electro-pop and dance, chest aching with self-pity and remorse. Stan used to get so nervous around Wendy that he'd puke all over her, drench her with vomit because he loved her so much. Kenny gets so fluttery about Kyle that he projects Britney Spears music, blares cheesy love songs because he loves him so much. Somehow the compulsive upchucking sounds easier to control.
"Y'know, I think I may know a fella who can help ya," Something lifts in Butters' voice, stumbling onto a grand revelation. Kenny looks back at him, in time to see the high grin dominate his face, the clarity twinkle in the grey. His optimism beams like the sun, blinding and overwhelming, infectious. Something in his eyes rekindles the tiny spark of hope in Kenny, the one he tried burying under a mountain of denial, the one that resurrects like he does. He might be stupid, falling back into positivity's snare, but holing up and bunkering down isn't doing him any good.
At this point, Kenny will try anything.