In theory, putting a drunk in a cold shower sobers them up. In practice, the drunk gets wet and no less intoxicated. Kenny rarely associates showers with sobering experiences but, as soon as he got home, he needed one, a long one. He couldn't walk around smelling like a liberal arts campus, especially with Kyle coming. So, for once, Kenny forsook his innate frugality, damned the water bill to hell, and let the unfiltered tap purge his skin for a whole twenty-six minutes. And, some five minutes in, as the lime-crushed nozzle sputtered out an uneven drizzle, Kenny did something he hadn't done in a while, something he didn't dare during the week, something unthinkable: he sang.

"'Cause all I want, is what you want! And all you want is me!"

He scarcely realised the soft mumbles leaking from his lips, trying desperately to keep himself from dwelling, to keep himself distracted. But, as he lathered and rinsed with no-tears shampoo, Kenny felt his heart lift, lift, lift the more lyrics poured from his lips. His voice melded with the rhythm, and he felt comfortable, cleansed, free. Discount bar soap scrubbed away the grunge and grime as bopping dance melodies ebbed away the anxious daze. No more tension, no more terror, no more of those conflicting and scary emotions wrapped up in a frenzied ball. Once he screwed the faucet, dried off with a threadbare towel, Kenny felt sober, refreshed, alive.

"Yeah, all I want, is what you want! And all I want is you!"

Kenny can't tell if the music plays in or out of his head, and honestly doesn't care. He wants his songs back. He is taking them back. They're his, they've always been his, his relief and his comfort and his motherfucking jam. So he takes the crown of Glory, bobbing along to the snaps and claps and soda can cracks, enjoys listening to Britney for the first time in too goddamn long. A thin film of condensation frames the mirror's corners, Kenny reflected in the circle wiped clean of fog. And he barely recognises himself, barely recognises his smile, stupid and giddy, an-ti-ci-pa-ting.

"'Cause nobody should be alone if they don't have to be!"

Sky blue beams like the brightest morning star, cold as fire, hot as ice, mind occupied with beats oh so nice. Body and beat synchronise, Kenny swaying to the tune, letting the music seep into his bones and saturate his blood. He's been thinking of this whole thing all wrong, thinking of everything going wrong, instead of concentrating on what he has going right, on what can go right. He can control that, or some of it, enough of it. It will be enough, he tells himself, because it's everything he's got. No matter what, Kyle will see that, whether he says yes, whether he says no, he'll see that. And he can't hold that against him, right?

"Nobody should be alone if they don't have to be!"

Everyone knows that a slather of water-soluble lubricant improves any sexy situation; not everyone knows that a squirt of the stuff works wonders for the hair. He squeezes a dribble onto his fingers, then runs a hand though blond. He ruffles and tousles locks of gold, maintaining a stylish mess, fashionable chaos. He scans over his clothes, plain but presentable picks, fresh out of the laundry, warm from the dryer. For all his experience, the hook-ups and the on-and-offs, Kenny can't remember when he ever prepared beyond popping in a breath mint or possibly spritzing Lysol under his pits, let alone like this. No wonder girls spend take so long in the bathroom.

"Nobody should be alone if they don't have to be!"

A part of him is still ridiculously freaking out, a rogue power cable sparking and spazzing in the back of his head. It zaps his heart, a jolt to his pulse, blood electrified as it courses through his veins. But the difference this time is he doesn't short-circuit, refuses to lie back and let the voltage fry his will to crispy cowardice. Instead, he channels those fritzing currents, strips away the fearful casing, and hot-wires that raw racing energy. Excited, he's excited, to see him, to tell him, to trust him, to do what he should've done a damn long time ago.

"Should be alone—"

Because Kyle deserves the truth, not childish secrets and half-assed cover-ups. And Kenny trusts him, trusts that, no matter what he says, how he reacts, in the end they'll stick together. Doesn't matter what they term they use—best friends, boyfriends, some weird word for an undefined in-between—so long as they have each other…

KNOCK-KNOCK!

…They won't be alone.

"If they don't have to be…"

Even after his voice trails off, the words hover at his lips, hang in the air. He looks to his reflection, blinks—once, twice, once-twice—then realises he's wasting time gawking at his own dumb face. Kyle, knowingly or not, has waited long enough for this, and what kind of guy would Kenny be to invite him over just to make him wait around at the door? One last tease to his hair, then he darts out, strides long and steps hasty. He moves quick, so he doesn't fall back into pattern, hesitate and second guess until opportunity walks on by.

No, he won't make those same mistakes all over again, because he's confident, cool, in control. As he reaches for the handle, he reminds himself that empowerment is what Britney's all about. It's what drew him to her songs in the first place, because even the most saccharine and sappy melodies have that sense of validation. It's okay to feel, and it's okay to embrace it. It's okay to pine and yearn, and it's okay to admit it without any shame. It's okay to be bold and proud, and it's okay to be open and vulnerable. And it's okay to hope for bombastic love, even if things don't work out like they do in the movies. At least he can say he tried.

The hinges whine with the door's wide swing, but Kenny's too focused to let the pesky sound bother him. His gaze fixes on a floofy mop of crimson curls, on a sharp set of green eyes, on the one and only Kyle Broflovski. Somehow, seeing him feels like just yesterday, yet, at the same time, like a whole nine or ten eternities. Hyperbole aside, it has been a few days, and Kenny notices the exhaustion lurking, the inklings of violet under his eyes and the traces of red on his lips. Kyle hates admitting it, but he worries like his mother. Kenny wishes his caring didn't cost him so much.

"Hey," Alright, he doesn't want to come off strong at the start, but really? Just a hey? A measly freaking hey? How underwhelming.

Only Kyle doesn't mind or doesn't seem to. Kenny might be seeing what he wants to, but he swears Kyle relaxes, a little bit of tension fading from his face. When he blinks, the green looks brighter, grass gleaming with dew, brilliant and vivid and rich. A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, because, for the moment, he's happy Kenny's fine. Then he'll remember how much of bitch Kenny's been and be mad again. Although he tries hiding it, Kenny hears the fatigue crawl into his voice, "So you're done being a cuckhead, huh?"

"Yeah, realised that wasn't my best look," As he speaks, he feels a grin curve his lips. Kenny might not know when he fell, but he's pretty sure this is what did him in. For all his barbs and rough edges, Kyle's easy to talk to, fun to talk to. Sure, he talks more than some people like, but everything he says is loaded with thought and passion, his character stringing the sentences together, forming something Kenny can only describe as a joy to listen to. He takes a step to the side, "Now c'm'in unless ya wanna pay my heating bill."

An eye roll, a light snort, Kyle pairs contradictories without a second thought. In the same moment, he can find a joke lame and hilarious, judge and laugh simultaneously, a true creature of conflict. Yet, somehow, his complex paradoxes make sense, on some level Kenny quite articulate, because explaining it is hard, but feeling it is simple. Wine and cheese for the soul, but a lot less danger of mild lactose intolerance. Kyle breezes in, lingers by the coffee table while Kenny shuts the door. He bites his lip, pensive, except he encodes his expression. Kenny has a knack for reading people, but, when he wants to be, Kyle is impossible to decipher. After another few seconds, Kyle looks over, raises a brow, "Karen home?"

A reasonable question, because Kyle has manners and adheres to polite courtesy. Also a fair question, because last time he was here Karen played bodyguard and barred him from entry. Grudgingly, as he probably figured, but he understands the power of sibling survivalism. Of course, as soon as Kenny messaged her about his plan, Karen said she'd stay the night at Tricia's apartment, Kyle safe from sisterly coercion and Kenny guaranteed zero back-up. He really hopes he can thank her for that later. He puts on a simper, "Nah, big study-slumber party. Tonight's just you 'n me."

Kyle nods, words gradually registering. He picks them apart, meticulously analyses every letter and syllable, reassembles them and mulls the whole thing over. Painstakingly thorough, devoted to detail, yet somehow operating at a rapid-fire pace. A sigh slips out, Kyle reluctantly pointing towards his head, "And you know what's causing this?"

Right to the point, just like Kyle. Is this the best time to say it, or is there some lead-up protocol? He never paid much attention to romance movies, comedic or dramatic, too busy ripping on their translucent plots and heteronormative pandering. And all the gay ones either end in tragedy or border on pornography, so there goes using that as a base. Kenny shifts his weight from right leg to left, starts with simply responding, "Y'know, think I finally do."

"Me?"

Kenny hears it on the echo, as it reverberates in his ears, sinks into his head. His eyes shut, open, stare. Now he wants to be read, everything inscribed in the green. Kyle used elementary school sleuthing and basic deductive theory, No-Shit-Sherlocked his way to the grand conclusion. Doesn't take a Hardly Boy to notice that, whenever Kyle spoke, the music got louder, whenever Kyle looked over, it got louder, whenever he breathed, it got louder. But he only witnessed the confusion, the flurried fear, the shaken anxiety. Pain, his eyes brim with pain, he thinks all he causes is pain. He couldn't be more wrong.

He needs to know. Now. Kenny takes a deep breath, "Ky—"

[BBH-NNH-NNH!]

One second—in just one second, those three piano notes announce one of history's most iconic songs. Britney's debut, "…Baby One More Time," singlehandedly defined a new era of pop, topping charts across the globe, swiftly becoming the one of the top selling singles of all time. Few can indulge in nineties nostalgia without citing that killer loneliness, that confessed belief, that yearning for a sign. Kenny's probably listened to that song close to a million times, addicted since he first saw the video on MTV, saw her dancing in that school girl outfit with her braided pigtails. In one second, she became his idol; but, in this second, she betrays him.

No. No, no, no, no, no! This isn't supposed to happen—not when he finally he has a handle on this! Shenanigans! This shit is motherfucking shenanigans!

[Oh baby, baby! How was I sup-posed, to kno-oow?]

Kyle shuts his eyes, shakes his head. Those bass range bangs confirm his every sneaking suspicion, proves definitively that he's the cause of the rhapsodic mayhem, the source of Kenny's symphonic suffering. He chews the inside of his cheek, brow furrowing as he does what he always does: blame himself. Much as he tries not to be a stereotype, his self-loathing always slinks up on him. He projects his pride outwardly, presents himself as confident, but Kenny knows Kyle is constantly at odds with that voice in his head, the one ripping him apart and tearing him down. Kenny would give anything to mute that part of Kyle's brain. In a harsh whisper, he breathes out, "I fucking knew it."

[That something wasn't right here!]

"Kyle," Kenny raises his voice, up one octave, rivalling the steady percussion and wah guitars. He hears agitation creep into his tone, frustrated that the dial keeps turning up, up, up. The music vocalises what you refuse to verbalise—yeah, fuck that PC crap. Spiritual guidance is only a thing in kung-fu films and the good Star Wars trilogy. Guess he'll need to be his own Obi-Wan and improvise, "You gotta listen to me a sec, 'kay?"

[Oh baby, baby! I shouldn't have let you go!]

At first, Kyle doesn't look at him, fixated on the corn dish converted into an ashtray. He stares at the specks of grey ingrained between the bumpy ceramic kernels, green pensive yet panicked, that look people get when they tell themselves things are fine when they're anything but. His lips press into a tight line, then he lifts his gaze. When it comes to emotional matters, Kyle never quite nailed how to feign full composure, how to totally mask his emotions. With tart sourness sprinkled in, "Long as you don't bail right after."

[And now you're out of sight, yeah!]

Yeah, he's still pissed about that. Rightfully so, Kenny reckons, however Kyle has a nasty habit of being particularly difficult when his stubbornness gets the better of him. Of course, that biting resolve had a hand in stealing his heart, so it must be one of those 'what you see is what you get' situations. Kenny's fine taking him as he is, just a little less fine with Kyle shoving him back. He swallows, draws a half-smile on his face. Maybe it looks rakish and cocky, maybe it looks awkward and stupid; he only does it to hide the twitches teasing and tormenting his facial muscles, "Kyle, I fucked up. Haven't been straight with ya. For a while now. And I'm sorry."

[Show me! How you want it to be!]

"Yeah, I know," The words alone are dismissive, but Kenny hears the rest of his thought in their echoes. Yeah, I know, he says. You apologise even when it isn't your fault, his tone adds. Usually, Kenny's good at reading people, but Kyle's a puzzle, too many conflicting emotions overlaying one another. His expression is encoded so Kenny cannot decipher him, likely because Kyle can't quite decide how to feel himself, annoyed or angry or upset, at Kenny or himself or Britney Jean Spears. He raises a brow, holds his expectant stare.

[Tell me, baby! 'Cause I need to know now! Oh, be-ca-ause!]

Well he can't just launch right into it, not when Kyle's on a different page. He assumes this whole meeting is about his condition—which it is, sort of. He only knows the superficial, the effects. Kenny needs to frame the situation, give him background and context, give his ass a little padding protection before pressing the big red destruct button. That isn't stalling, is it? "Ya see…"

[My loneliness is killing me! (And I!)]

"This is all in my head," There are few things more retarded than stating the obvious, Kenny thinks. Soon as it slips out, he grinds his teeth, grin faltering. No, he can't get caught up on these things, stumble and trip until he bows out. He sees a flicker in Kyle's eyes—no shit—and steels himself, because he needs all the strength he can muster, "Like, started there 'cause—"

[I must confess, I still believe! (Still believe!)]

"There was some shit I really didn't wanna talk about," The chorus keeps matching his volume, but he tries not to think about it, "Like at all."

[When I'm not with you, I lose my mind!]

"And kinda-sorta-especially didn't wanna talk 'bout with you," Fighting pent-up repression is an uphill battle, even when armed with fresh expression, "Which is why this 's happening."

[Give me a siiiiign!]

"And—"

[Hit me baby one more time!]

"Kenny," He cuts him off, speaks over the second verse's start. Britney sings about her reason for breathing, and Kyle inhales, deep and sharp. He exhales through his nose, a slow and steady release, as grasps and gropes, collects himself. A blink, and the green glints, flash like a camera's shutter. It's blinds Kenny, so he can't tell what he's feeling, "If you hate me, just say it."

Oh, that's not the way he planned this.

"Dude," Kenny knows how he wants it to be, but Kyle doesn't, and he's wired. Emotions override logic and reason, his frantic brain filling gaps with his worst fears, connecting dots until they reflect his worries' prediction. Gingerly, Kenny takes a step forward, lifts his hands in reassurance, "I couldn't hate ya if I tried. You know that."

"I know you hate this," His strained timbre summons the chorus, his swaying wavers rallying them. The sentence passes his lips incomplete, the remainder etched in his eyes: And I know that I'm causing this, so you should hate me, too. Kyle misunderstands, because that's what the song is about, a misunderstanding, "You wanted it to stop so you ditched me and ghosted me like a goddamn Tinder hookup."

"Listen—" Kenny tries talking, but Kyle is a torrent. Even with the oh-baby-baby's filling the air, he's a waterfall of words, crashing and splashing and thrash, thrash, thrashing. Not even Britney's rising notes can blast over him, no matter how high the volume climbs. Nothing is more deafening than Kyle when he yells, when he blurts out something he really means:

"Only it hurts a whole lot fucking more when it's coming from the guy you actually like!"

[Oh baby, baby, how was I supposed to know?]

Something he never expected enter his ears, and, with the wind's gusting swooshes, Kenny goes numb. His heartbeat flutters, to piano keys' interlude, engulfed in the lulling rhythm, in Kyle's resonating words. The guy he actually likes, because the others were distractions, like the playlists Kenny puts on repeat, because the emotions were driving him crazy, like the world's ambient noise, because he never told Kenny, like Kenny never told him. His chest feels like teddy bear stuffing, soft and fuzzy, only some of that fluff floats up his throat, coats his tongue cotton.

Once Kyle realises what he said—loud and aloud—his eyes widen, bulge so much they might pop from their sockets. A fevered blush pools under his cheeks, the type of red-hot burning that exposes lovesick's delirium. Regret saturates the green, a swarm of panic descending upon him, cursing his brash attitude and his brazen impulses and his desperate crush. Because Kyle never wanted him to know, because he never thought Kenny would feel the same way. And, he still doesn't, or he wouldn't eye up the exit, wouldn't angle towards the door, wouldn't force down a gulp.

[Oh, pretty baby, I shouldn't have let you go…]

His head might be broadcasting, but Kenny isn't the one playing the song; Kyle hijacked his signal, cranked the volume to max, because this time his emotions are the ones on the waves. Perhaps Kyle always had a hand on the dial, since that first instance that night. This must be what happens when two hearts are attuned, although, when most people say that kind of shit, they only mean it figuratively. But Kenny's fine to tell him, literally, "Kyle—"

[I must confess!]

"Goddammit," He isn't listening, not even a little bit, too engrossed in his own turbulent thoughts. Kyle rarely shows his vulnerable side, because, more than anything, he hates being called weak. Except there's nothing weak about having a heart, even when one that pangs and aches, lusts and yearns. Green eyes evade, and Kyle, taking notes from Kenny's earlier stunts, guns for the quickest way out.

[That my loneliness!]

"Hey!" Kenny tries cutting him off, using an arm as a roadblock. His effort is fruitless, Kyle easily ducking under, employing the same skilful manoeuvres that thwarted rival basketball teams back in high school. Kyle moves quick, but Kenny has longer legs, right on his heels, "Stop!"

[Is killing me noooooow!]

"I'm tired," Kyle knows it's a half-assed excuse, would probably call himself out in any other situation. He just doesn't have a better one, doesn't have the energy to make-up a better one, not whilst backed against a corner. Or, more accurately, between an inward swinging door and Kenny McCormick, "Forget it."

[Don't you know I still believe?]

"Listen to me!" He says, though he knows Kyle won't. Right now, Kyle is only listening to the doubts and the anxieties and the bullshit white noise. They bog him down and muffle his ears, ignoring Britney's pleas despite their ear-splitting heights. Kenny comes to one simpler conclusion.

[That you will be here!]

"I said forget it!" Kyle Broflovski is completely and utterly oblivious.

[And give me a siiiiign!]

So oblivious that he's hurting, assuming his love unrequited, longing in solitude. He's like the pining lament of a '90s pop dream, except Kyle never got into the camp and queer idol craze. He prefers hard rock and hip hop, not bubblegum beats, tolerates the genre without paying much mind. No, Kyle won't listen to Britney.

[Hit me baby one more time!]

Or maybe he will, if Kenny makes him.

"My loneliness is killing me!"

Her music is his heart, her lyrics are his feelings; is there that much of a difference if Kenny sings instead?

"AND I!"

Kyle hears Kenny's voice, freezes mid-step. Confusing fast-tracks to confounding, because love rarely makes sense, but this makes no sense. Even for their standards. He whips around, expression riddled with shock. His eyes bore into the blue, searching for an answer, one that adheres to the falsehoods he's accepted as cruel reality.

"I must confess, I still believe!"

Crazy, he must think Kenny is totally batshit crazy. This entire ordeal scrambled his brains, and he's finally losing his last handful of marbles. Well, Kenny thinks that's what he's thinking, because Kenny would think the same thing in his shoes. Hell, he isn't fully convinced he's not totally batshit crazy.

"Still believe!"

It's silly. It's mushy. It's horrendously cliché.

"When I'm not with you I lose my mind!"

Most love confessions are, but proclaiming it in song?

"Give me a siiiign!"

That's just plain cheesy.

[Hit me baby one more time!]

The final reprise is spoken right from the soul, every syllable loaded with passion so pure. A lot of covers make the ending depressing, their notes low and whiny. They don't understand the sentiment. Those lines' beauty comes from the hope steeped in them, the dream of love kindled anew, from glowing embers to lively flame.

"I must confess, that my loneliness, is killing me nooow…"

Emotion pours from his mouth, rolls smoothly off his tongue. His chest lurches, his heart pounds, his blood burns. Yet, Kenny feels better, warmer, liberated. Singing what he feels is about the same as saying it, still counts as vocalising or verbalising or whatever the PC jargon is. He feels a smile curve his lips, unburdened at last, finally being truthful, to Kyle, to himself.

"Don't you know I still believe?"

He can't tell if Kyle's piecing it together, the green flooded with too many tints and shades, reflecting the entire spectrum of feeling, those with and without names. People like saying how actions speak louder, although Kenny doubts those people ever ran into any weird shit like this. However, Kyle likes action, because it reinforces meaning, because it reassures. Kenny lifts a hand, gently cups Kyle's cheek. He can't remember the last time he's felt skin so hot.

"That you will be here…"

He keeps their eyes locked, refuses to blink, to give Kyle a chance to second-guess what he sees. The two of them have been alone, because they only saw what they feared, not what they felt. They shouldn't keep making that same mistake, shouldn't let their loneliness be their miserable end. They can change that, change that in a moment, change that now.

"And give me a siiiiign…"

Thumb brushes over bone, and Kenny wonders if he's going too far, so overexcited he waded too deep. All actions have consequences, and sometimes the noblest efforts have the shittiest outcomes. Circumstances aside, he has no clue exactly how Kyle will react, whether it will be good, be bad, be something in between. He knows he'll have to accept it, though he isn't sure he's prepared. At the climax, the closing title drop, Kenny shuts his eyes, and braces.

"HIT ME BABY ONE MORE TIME!"

He expects a sock to the jaw, a left hook that'll knock a tooth out or loosen a few. Or perhaps a good punch to the nose, knuckles cracking the bridge or splintering the bone. Deep crimson spurting and spewing from somewhere, or muscle ligaments bruised the darkest violet, he expects something along those lines. A hit, he figures Kyle will hit him hard, with a fist or a kick. Not with his lips.

Kenny never imagined a kiss like this, Kyle dragging him down by the collar, their mouths mashing together, rough and uncoordinated and clumsy. Reminds him of third grade, when they were too young to care about Ookie Mouth's unveiled sexual implications, simply frustrated at its apparent difficulty. Kenny still remembers the thick layers of slobber that slathered their faces, how they both thought it was gross, but not nearly as gross as kissing a girl. His third-grade self was an idiot, because kissing Kyle might sloppy and messy, but he's never wanted anything else more than that taste, of double-shot espresso and kettle cooked chips, of wintergreen Altoids and arctic fresh Crest, of spit and breath and tongue. Without a melody keeping time, he loses track of the moments, though he savours every single one.

Eventually, they break apart, lungs starved of oxygen, heads dizzy and airless. Then, Kenny notices the silence around them, the tranquil lack of musical accompaniment, the blissful absence of background sounds. All he hears is him and Kyle, panting and heaving, in- and exhales harmonised. When Kenny opens his eyes, green greets him, clear and brilliant. Kyle licks the corner of his lips, and, chuckles mingling with words, "That has to be the gayest thing you've ever done."

Kenny snorts, and they both burst out laughing. Kyle eases his hold on Kenny's shirt, casually leans into his caress. Kyle's grin grows, and, staring at that smile, Kenny's pulse quickens. He traces Kyle's jawline, cocks his head to the side, "Y'know, I can think of a few gayer things."

A nod, and Kyle leans forward, requests another kiss. Kenny happily obliges with one, two, three pecks, just to make sure. He relishes the low hum of approval, basks in the not-that-innocent glint shining in the green, adores Kyle's thrumming tone as he asks, "Anything we can do?"

Their free hands lazily drift closer, until their tips tap against each other. Kenny intertwines their fingers, presses palm to palm. He steadies his gaze, "You wanna go?"

Another nod, and Kyle tightens his grip, clasps their hands together, "All the way."

Kenny smirks, seizes his lips again. After all that, he might just make Kyle a Britney fan yet.

A/N: Thanks so much for supporting this silly (mis)adventure! Hope you enjoyed! See you on the next story!