AN: Okay, I owe you guys a serious apology, I know it's been waaay too long since I last updated :( Part of it has been block/performance anxiety and part of it has been new school/moving, but I should have updated much sooner than this. You guys have all been amazing readers/reviewers everyone who's been reading this and reviewing it and faving it and alerting it. I'm really glad so many of you have liked it so far and I hope you keep enjoying it. So, not gonna lie, I'm always terrified of disappointing you guys, so I hope I don't do that with this chapter, but I'd love to know if I do.

Also, would you guys prefer shorter chapters (6-10 pgs in Word) as opposed to longer ones (15-18 pgs in Word) if it means they're more likely to be written/published sooner?

I don't own SP, I do own this story though and I owe a lot of thanks to everyone here. I apologize for the informality of this, but I wanted to thank everyone who reviewed the last chap:

Thank you!- Aku-Hitokiri-Kitsune, plentynothing, .rawr, Genesis Galilea, Amberr-chan, Sunshine-aki, Jana-Z95, Hubajoob, "Feedback", "Your biggest fan from Finland" (which is awesome btw!)...and I apologize to anyone I've missed who's been faving or alerting as well, b/c I really appreciate that too!

Okay, so here goes nothing guys. I sincerely hope you enjoy this next chap and I appreciate all reviews :)

"You're no good for me,

Baby you're no good for me

You're no good for me

But baby I want you

I want..."

-Lana Del Ray "Diet Mountain Dew"

This was a moment that called for questioning, a time that called for reflection and internal dialogue. It was a time that begged for a break from the outside world to meditate on the inner.

Kyle, however, was in no mood for analyzing. He was in no mood for thinking of any kind. Still his brain persisted.

His heart was pounding so hard it rang in his ears, his breath was choked in tiny bursts within his stopped-up throat, but his brain still insisted on churning out questions, answers, muddled emotions, signals of every heightened sensation in his keyed-up body as he stomped back to the cleared area where the party raged on.

His whole body burned. The scorched impressions of fingertips lingered on his shoulders where bruises were forming, and on his hips where he imagined he could still feel the remnants of Kenny's thumbs pressing just above his hip bones, and Kenny's own protruding bones digging into him. On his tongue was the sour taste of booze, a barely familiar experience now etched unfavorably in his sensational memory. And the thoughts just wouldn't stop.

"yer mine" "ya were watchin' me too" "Ya knew!" "why do ya keep doin' this shit?" "how fuckin' disappointed would've ya been if I hadn't followed ya?" "Huh, Kyle?" "Huh, Kyle?" "Huh, Kyle?"

Huh, Kyle? Kyle? Really Kyle, really, didn't you want it to happen? What did you think would happen, huh? Are you sure this wasn't all some fantasy concocted by your incredibly fucked-up mind?

In his mind's eye a scowling, mocking version of himself taunted him with Kenny's words and his own self-doubts. Had he wanted it to happen? No...no, of course not!...maybe...no...not like that? He didn't really want it right? No...maybe...he didn't know...

He didn't know and his head was pounding. He couldn't breathe.

Kyle stopped and threw his back against a tree and banged his head against the rough bark hard enough to sending dark starbursts dancing across his eyes. When his vision cleared he saw the empty space before him again; the darkened trees and ground illuminated by moon and starlight. His throat was completely, painfully, swollen shut. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes and the convoluted mess of emotions enveloping him swallowed him whole.

"God fucking dammit, son of bitch!" There was no reply to his directionless curse.

He kicked his heel against the solid form behind him and half-slid down the tree trunk to sit on the frozen ground. Gloved fingers flew to run through his curls, seeking to vent his frustration; when they were stopped by the edge of his cap he growled and ripped the green covering from his head, wadding it in his hands and throwing it on the ground beside him. Freed from their confines and limp with sweat, his mane of fire hung haphazardly about him and shook with his attempted breaths.

Against the tight constriction of his jeans the evidence of Kenny's effect on him strained despite Kyle's profound desires otherwise. For a few minutes Kyle sat there, forcing air in and out of his abused lungs while flurries began to fall from a slowly clouding sky. The memory of Kenny's hands, Kenny's mouth, had a will of their own on his body, as though they followed Kenny's own wishes and fought against the calls of Kyle's own mind.

Even his own fucking body was against him.

Slowly but surely Kyle forced down the memory of those hot, unwanted touches and his body's malevolent response. Frustrated tears suppressed, erection softened, body taut, and mind, very temporarily, blank, Kyle stood and closed the remaining distance between himself and the noise and light of other human beings. His respite from Kenny, physically, mentally, metaphorically, metaphysically, was only going to be the briefest of brief moments if left to his own devices; and he was very determined to silence all of the questions and doubts pounding mercilessly at his state of being.

So focused was he that he marched straight ahead without first looking for Stan, and without stopping when he saw who stood beside his intended destination.

"Sup, Jewfag?"

Corpulent, relaxed, possibly intoxicated Eric Cartman stood resting against the hood of a pickup truck, right next to large array of booze; half-empty and empty handles were laid about, some missing their caps or with mismatched ones of clashing colors jammed on top.

Kyle didn't stop to look up at Cartman when he spoke; he walked straight up to the skewed line of bottles and began to examine them closely, raising them up to gauge their label and color in the dim light of the circle of lamps and the flickering fire behind him.

"Shut the fuck up Cartman," the murmur was a ghost of their usual faux-malice.

"Hey Jew, you should be—Shit, you're actually drinking Kyle?"

Kyle's first response was a grunt through his gritted teeth. He prepared himself for the onslaught of more verbal humiliation from Cartman and let his fists curl around the handles of bottles while his muscles tensed. He was ready to snap, waiting to fight; all he needed was for Cartman to give him a justifiable reason.

"Yes," he finally pushed out between his clenched teeth, shoulders tightened up near his neck.

He almost swung when a beefy hand landed on his strained back.

The hand quickly retracted when Kyle whirled back around to face his 'enemy'. "Dude, chill the fuck out Kahl." Cartman was rolling his eyes, hands up in a mock-submissive stance. He held out his hands to take the booze from Kyle. "Hand 'em over Jewfag. Christ knows you won't be able to make a decent drink."

For a second Kyle's shoulders dropped in bewilderment and his arms began to automatically press the alcohol in his friend's direction before he remembered exactly who it was he was talking to. He quickly snatched the bottles back toward his body, bringing them possessively to his chest.

"No fucking way Cartman. You're going to poison me or spike it with sugar or something." Kyle glared as forcefully as his remaining energy dictated; he tried to feel certain in his assumptions, but even he heard the paranoia creeping into his voice.

"Jesus Christ Kyle, I'm gonna make it right here. In front of you. What the fuck am I gonna do to it Kahl? Now stop being such a fucking pussy and hand over that shit."

Kyle watched his own hands accordingly press the objects in his hands out in offering and felt them pulled roughly from his hands with surprising ease. He watched numbly, dumbly, as Cartman made a dramatic show of opening each bottle and bringing his nose to the lip as if to smell the delicate bouquet of a finely crafted wine rather than the odoriferous, gaseous fire that scorched Kyle's nose several feet away. Cartman lifted one bottle after another, carefully sniffing, wrinkling his nose is disgust with exaggerated expressions and placing them back down to grab another. Finally, on the fourth bottle, he sniffed once, sniffed again and nodded sagely. He proceeded to search for several minutes through the bottles and their companions on the ground while Kyle watched from his shell-shocked position, trying to focus his attention solely on the movements of Cartman's body and far from the thoughts threatening to form. He just needed to hold out a little longer.

After what seemed entirely too long, Cartman stood and tossed something at the stock still basketball player, who reflexively caught the projectile: a medium sized bottle with dark liquid washing against its plastic walls.

Too frayed to even shoot his historical arch-nemesis a suspicious glance he merely unscrewed the cap; it clicked and hissed at him, spitting up sticky foam all the way. He gave the bottle a quick whiff before bringing the lip up and allowing a mouthful of sweetness to rest idly on his tongue, where the bubbles of freshly freed carbonation burned as they exploded. Once the bitter aftertaste of aspartame filled his mouth he swallowed down the familiar substance quickly to make room for air.

"Thanks," he muttered; he refused to look the other in the eyes while he said it. After well over a decade of frienemy-ship making nice with Cartman was still painful on occasions such as these.

Luckily his normally outspoken friend seemed to be in an unusually patient mood this evening, whether out of empathy, which was doubtful, or because he was already a little drunk, a much more likely scenario, didn't matter; there were more pressing issues at hand tonight. Instead of pushing Kyle's buttons, he simply chose to snort and roll his eyes again before holding out a hand for the bottle of diet cola that was silently passed over.

"Jesus fucking Christ Kyle, I'm not going to fucking poison you. You can stop staring at me, I don't wanna get your fagginess infested in me or something."

A pounding had begun in Kyle's brain, brought on under the pressure of forcing all thoughts of Kenny from his mind. He was tired and if he wasn't quick the images and sensations that were already starting to leak through the cracks would all spill out to the forefront of his brain. Instead of explaining that he wasn't actually watching Cartman, or correcting his English, or getting pissed for the insult and gay slur, he grunted and glanced away momentarily while Cartman took far too long to make the simple concoction of booze and soda, pouring alternating substances into a bright plastic cup as though it were a difficult science and mastery of art, cursing every time he, frequently, missed the cup and spilt liquid on his hand or the ground.

After what felt like an eternity, what Kenny must've felt like after several hours without porn, as Kyle unwittingly, darkly mused, a full cup was pressed back into his gloved hand. He wasted no time in throwing back his head and drink to drown his thoughts in an eighty-proof sea.

"-Mpmh! Here he is Craig." The sound of snapping twigs and crunching needles and pine cones stopped just behind his back.

"Yeah. He is." The smell of tobacco smoke mixed with marijuana was pungent in the fresh air, newly lit and acrid.

"-Erg. What should we do?"

"Nothing. Let's leave him."

"We can't do that Craig! Urgh!"

"Why the fuck not?"

"What if he's got alcohol poisoning, gah?"

Despite the speaker's sense of urgency, the reply held no similar sentiment.

"He got a lot of it up. He's fine." The smell of his own vomit, acidic and sour, hit his nose again.

"Gah-! Craig."

"Let him sleep it off, he fucking deserves it for this fucking afternoon." Somewhat dimly he realized that it might have been the most emotional he'd ever heard the usually stoic Craig.

One of the bodies shifted, feet crushing the foliage beneath.

"Craig," spoken softly, gently. For some reason it made his chest hurt a little, deep in a foreign, recently built space.

"He can sleep out here all fucking night Tweek, let him fucking freeze." The scent of tobacco and marijuana came in a fresh stream.

For a moment there was silence.

"-But! Gah! But Craig! What if he gets hypothermia or something?"

"So what if he gets hypothermia?"

"He could, like, die! Then you'll get charged with manslaughter! And then-"

"Tweek, it's okay, okay? Here, just chill and take one of your pills. Don't get worked up over him, he was being a dick."

"Fuck you." His speech was still slightly slurred, and when he rolled from his side onto his back it was with a groan, but he was awake goddamnit.

"See Tweek? He's fine." Another strong wave of mixed smoke punctuated the deadpanned response.

He sure as fuck didn't feel fine.

"Gah! Kenny, you're alive!"

"Yeah," he mumbled loudly, "yeah, I'm fucking alive." He kept the "and yippee-ho-fucking-yay" to himself.

Kenny stared at the dark sky above, where the stars still twinkled, winking at him smugly, mocking his state of awareness and the mess he'd made.

Where was Kyle now? What was he doing? Was he telling Stan about what he'd done? Was he too embarrassedto tell Stan what had happened? Was he trying to clean the taste of his foul-mouthed friend from his violated lips?

Was he trying to forget Kenny, Kenny-fucking-McCormick, altogether?

A not-so-friendly kick in the side of his ass jarred the blond's attention back to the present.

"Hey dickwad, you really fucked up huh?" There was almost a laugh in Craig's somewhat stoned, only somewhat monotonous, voice.

"Shuddup Craig." Kenny shut his eyes and raised his forearm to drape it across his eyes, blocking out the nonexistent light that surely must have been the source of his pounding headache. He savored the soft, worn cotton that rested on his eyelids, one more barrier between himself and the reality of his mistakes.

"No." The sound of a shift in movement signaled Craig dropping to a squat with an ease surprising for his obviously increasingly fucked-up state. "Hey Tweek? Why dontcha go back to the party? You're gonna get too cold just standing out here. I'll get this asshole back okay."

"You sure Craig?" Tweek's voice still wavered slightly, but, for Tweek Tweak anyway, sounded almost calm.

When was the last time he'd heard Tweek so calm? Was it just whatever mystery pill Craig'd given him? And why was Craig the only one he did it around?

And why couldn't he be like that with Kyle?

"Yeah, go 'head Tweek. I'll be there in a minute."

"Alright."

The sound of the distancing crunch of frozen ground and the faint noise of ruffled brush followed by a surprised "Gah!" and a quick "I'm okay Craig!" signaled Tweek's departure, leaving the two remaining teens under the seabed of stars above.

"Hey, look at me asshole." Craig reached out with his, thankfully, empty hand to shake his the prostrate blond's shoulder.

With an irritated grunt Kenny slid his forearm slightly from his face and moved his head just enough to pop open one blue eye and settle it on his "helper" in a despondent gaze.

"What?" he demanded.

"So, what'd the fuck you do to Kyle dude?" Craig's voice was tittering again, full of giddy near-laughter.

"Fuck off Craig." He turned his head away and mumbled into his own shoulder.

The rare sound of Craig's laughter cracked loudly in the chilled air, first a hard snort then a succession of amused chuckles.

Kenny, lying on the frozen ground, wearing an equally frigid set of worn out clothes, with a throbbing in his brain, numbness in his chest and the taste of vomit in his mouth, did not find the situation nearly as funny. "Fuck you Craig," he croaked harshly, mood further soured.

"What're you now? Stan? You fucking emo pussy," Craig was still laughing out his replies, comments free of their normally scathing sarcasm.

"Must be some strong shit there," he spoke without turning to look as the air around him became smoggy once more. "You're less of a fuckin' douchebag when you're bein' a douchebag."

Craig managed to hold out long enough to expel all of the mixed smoke in his lungs before bursting into another fit of laughter. "Least I didn't get bitch slapped by my fucking little pussy boyfriend, fag." He paused momentarily to laugh at his own words before continuing, shaking Kenny roughly as he spoke, "He gotcha fucking good." Another wave of smoke punctuated his words.

Kenny lightly shoved away Craig's hand with his own, then brought the free one at his side to brush against his jawline.

"Fuck!" The exclamation was soft as he winced; his jaw was already swollen and extremely tender, and no doubt in the process of turning a very disturbing shade of deep, dark violet. Kyle didn't have to hit him that hard. Kenny twitched the fingers that had so possessively attached themselves to Kyle's frame; okay, maybe he had.

"You're lucky he didn't rip your fucking head off dude," he laughed again and went silent briefly. "Fuck."

"Shit! Watch it dickweed!" Kenny shot up, moving frantically to brush the smoldering remnants of the hand-rolled cigarette that had been casually tossed only to land accidentally, or "accidentally", on a piece of pale, exposed flesh.

When he'd finished, and burning had ceased, Kenny turned to its cause. The culprit was sitting on the ground now, legs splayed open in front of him and resting on his palms with a dopey smirk half-visible under the light of the stars and moon. Even more powerful than the urge to sock that smirk right off, there was a sickening wave of nausea brought on by just looking at Craig's knowing, taunting face. Kenny wanted to blame his powerful desire to retch on the residue of booze still lurking in his bloodstream...He had a feeling it had more to do with those nasty feelings of remorse and shame trickling in through the cracks of clarity in his conscience.

He looked away again and focused on trying to copy Craig's seated position; the boozing and puking made his limbs too shaky to manage, and eventually he settled on sitting Indian style, slumped forward and staring at the dark abyss of ground in the open space between his legs.

"What'd ya see?" Kenny felt raw, exposed. He pulled up his hood and drew the strings tightly; he knew Craig could understand him just as easily, even if he didn't want to be. Right now, he just wanted to shut out the answers and everyone who held them. He wasn't sure if he could look any of his friends in the face just yet.

Craig let a gentle hum of mirth escape his lips. "Just Brosflov-, Brofloss-, Kyle bitching at some tree."

"Was he talkin' 'bout me?" He kept his eyes on the ground, trying and failing to rake his naked fingers through the icy earth.

"The fuck should I know?"

A thread of anxiety pushed its way alongside bile up his throat. "When?"

Craig's hearty laugh drilled into Kenny's ears. "'Who? What? When? Where? Why?' You're the fucking stalker, not me. I'm not trying to fuck Kyle."

The bile had reached the back of his throat, where it stayed as each of Craig's words seemed to wrap itself around Kenny's neck, constricting, choking the life out of him.

"You're fuckin' useless Tucker," his managed taunt sounded hoarse and weak even in his own ears; he cleared his throat.

Craig just laughed loudly, at Kenny and to the sky. As soon as his laughter died silence surrounded the two teens, one reeking of cannabis and sangfroid self-satisfaction and the other crowned by a halo of self-loathing, seated only feet from a puddle of his own vomit.

Clouds washed over the light of the clear sky. A few flurries of snow fell about them and then ceased, leaving the gray clouds behind.

For several minutes they sat there like that, each in their own world.

"Fuck, Tweek." Just like that Craig made to stand. His alarming realization seemed to have shocked him slightly from his intoxicated state, though he when he stood now he stumbled quite a bit, holding out his arms to maintain balance in the process.

When he was firm on his feet Kenny followed suit, this time much steadier than he had been on the way down. Though that wasn't saying much.

Craig strode toward the party without checking to see if his friend was following him, singularly focused on another blond. Kenny slunk behind him, a few steps back, hands shoved into his jeans pockets and shoulders hunched. His head was still pounding, and he was in desperate need of something to clear the taste from his mouth, but he felt alright. Sort of. Kind of.

Not at all.

The distance from where they had sat, under the formerly clear sky, to the chaotic gathering of his peers seemed entirely too short. Out of sight but within earshot people were still 'celebrating' in the circle of lamplight, undoubtedly drinking and laughing and hooking up in dark corners. Normally this would have been his personal heaven, but tonight he only wished he wasn't here.

Partying harder than he had was not going to lift his spirits tonight.

He hesitated for a moment, stopped short, letting Craig venture on ahead, oblivious and uncaring about the fate of the his other blond friend behind him.

Kenny gave the unlucky tree beside him a soft kick, one softer than he'd intended.

There was a very slight buffer between the toe of his shoe and the hard surface of the tree, just noticeable enough in the drag in movement and the muffled thunk to catch his attention. Lightly he shook off the encasement from his shoe and cautiously bent to pick up what had caught on his toe. A fabric something touched his hands, still warm. He brought it up, but half way to his face he stopped. It was too dark to make out the color or shape, but it didn't matter. He knew that smell. Kyle hadn't changed his shampoo in years.

Something indigestible seemed to form in his gut.

The ushanka was shoved into the large pocket of his parka. He resumed walking.

The blond, wearied boy entered the circle of his damnation with hesitant, skulking steps. He looked up to see that Craig already marching off in the direction of Tweek, just in time to notice the way Tweek's posture relaxed when he noticed his stoned friend heading over. Reluctantly, Kenny started to follow Craig to the small circle of conversation, but stopped still as soon as he saw who it entailed.

On one side of Tweek there was Craig, with an inebriated arm slung casually over the other's shoulder, chatting with Token. On the other side, as Tweek gravitated between both groups with some unease, was Butters...and standing next to him was that Bridon kid again.

A quick glance showed him that Kyle was not there, but wherever Bridon was he was sure Kyle would soon be. He just didn't feel like dealing with it all right now, and he didn't think he could stand being within ten feet of the angelic sophomore without developing a jealousy ulcer or giving into the still potent temptation to give Bridon some physical encouragement to keep his hands off Kyle.

...Not like he'd recently proved he deserved Kyle either though.

Kenny bit back a snarl, and balled up Kyle's hat in his tightly clenched fist. He turned and relaxed his expression, wiping away the emotion as he released the ushanka from his hot hand. Later there would be plenty of time for thinking, now was the time to search for his salvation.

With a brief visual sweep of the area, Kenny's eyes luckily alighted on Stan's back, standing off to the side, doing the "boyfriend thing".

The beloved football player was standing hip to hip next to Wendy, an arm around her waist pulling her snugly to his side, and Wendy, outspoken and confident Wendy, was doing the same to Stan. Stan's cup-bearing arm moved about occasionally to bring the drink to his mouth, and as Kenny approached them he could see Bebe and Wendy, as well as a few girls he didn't know, talking animatedly and giggling. Clyde had joined them, obviously vying for Bebe's attention, but his attempts to talk to her or break into the girls' conversation seemed to be failing rather splendidly as they ignored or outright yelled at him. Kenny rubbed a piece of Kyle's hat between his fingers while he watched the scene.

When Kenny reached them he put a hand on Stan's broad shoulder as he stopped half-behind and half to his side, in no mood to possibly get sucked into the gaggle of females. Or Clyde. "Hey," he said through the muffle of his hood.

Stan's head jerked up and when he turned to Kenny a dull, glazed-over look in his eyes evaporated into something like relief. "Hey dude," he greeted Kenny with a heartfelt smile, "What's up?" He squinted at Kenny for a moment and furrowed his brow. "Dude, you look like shit."

"Thanks Stan," he deadpanned. "Do you have any water? My head's fuckin' killing me."

"Uh, no, sorry d—oh wait," he bent his head closer than strictly necessary to the other raven-haired teen's ear, "Babe, do you have any water or anything?"

"Yeah, I have some in Bebe's car. Stan, are you feeling okay, did you drink too much?" Wendy only turned to head enough to look up into Stan's eyes as she half-inquired and half-nagged.

The hairs on Stan's hat-free head shook with the movement of his head. "No, it's for Ken."

For a moment Kenny had thought he was saved, but no sooner had his name passed from Stan's lips than Wendy Testaburger moved to strike. In one fluid motion she slipped her hand from her boyfriend's waist and whirled about in his arms, sending him slightly off kilter, her long dark locks of hair a flying curtain about her face. When she stopped moving Stan belatedly and slowly followed her, and Kenny found him staring into the hard, keen-eyed face of one of his worst nightmares.

"Oh, hey Kenny," her voice, like her face, was cold and piercing, laced with a faux-casualness they both knew could only possibly fool one person there. She crossed her arms across her chest as Stan made to resume holding her waist. "What happened to Kyle?"

And now he was fucked.

"Kyle?"

It was Stan who interjected this question; he was watching his girlfriend with bewilderment, but momentarily flicked his gaze to Kenny's barely visible, but decreasingly impassive face with a frown, as though he was beginning to put all of the pieces of the puzzle together.

"Yeah, he and Kyle walked off together a little while ago. They went into the woods." Once again there was that barely passable note of nonchalance, dripping with underlying, underscored, prodding and pushing; her face had graduated to an almost outright glare.

Kenny said nothing; he was spending most of his energy trying not to tell Wendy to mind her own fucking business in front of her boyfriend. He ground his teeth to protests of his jaw and his head, everything throbbing with excruciating intensity.

"Kyle's probably fighting with Cartman or something. I'm gonna go with Ken to grab that water, alright babe? We'll check up on them too. I'll be back soon." Without really waiting for a reply Stan swiftly placed a firm kiss on Wendy's cheek and motioned to Kenny to follow away from the group before any protests could be issued from the young woman's lips.

"Thanks dude."

"Kenny I just listened them talking about shoes for twenty minutes, cut the crap."

Their long legs strode further from the edge of the party scene where Wendy still stood, holding onto the cup that had been left in her care. As they neared the street, out of sight from the party-ers below, Stan stopped abruptly.

"Do I even wanna know about Kyle?"

Kenny stopped as well and thought for a minute. "No."

Without another word Stan continued and Kenny followed. When they reached the curb they walked alongside the line of cars interspersed up and down the road, bending to inspect under the lamplight which car was the one they sought. Kenny hung behind as Stan found the baby blue sedan, popped open the passenger side door and bent to rummage on the floor. When he straightened he threw the capped bottle in Kenny's direction more forcefully than needed and didn't apologize or move to help him search along the ground when the surprised teen missed the missile by a mile.

Stumbling a little, Kenny grumbled and muttered as he was forced to grapple for the rolling bottle, but when to grabbed it and stood he only shot a mute death glare in Stan's direction as the other boy frowned back at him, his hands shoved in his pockets. They stood there for a moment, the only sound that traveled between them was Kenny's gargle and spit, gargle and spit, as he rid his mouth of the horrible bitter taste lingering there. Uncharacteristically unquestioning Stan didn't say anything, just gazed at the blond in a way that suggested his patience was beginning to run very thin.

Finally Kenny reached the point of actually drinking the water, letting its purity settle his stomach and cease the blood vessels' screaming in his head. The duo headed back in the direction of the chaotic gathering in silence. Walking at a distance past his girlfriend, Stan pursued Kenny's close footsteps and as Kenny made to bear right toward the woods Stan put one strong, football trained hand on the back of the other's upper arm and squeezed. Hard.

The look Kenny received when he turned back to tell Stan to fuck off spoke in volumes: It was in Kenny's best interest to be directed by Stan and go quietly. Reluctantly he let himself be steered by the force of the steel hand inconspicuously keeping his arm in a vice grip. He kept his head down, save for when he needed to chug more of the water in his hand.

He didn't need to look up to know where they'd be heading. One of his hands fisted the green ushanka.

Several voices were all joined together, surrounding them as they approached, making it impossible to clearly distinguish which ones belonged to who or where they were. They stopped in front of a group of them, or at least two of them, judging by the number of shoes.

"Hey, you guys see Kyle?" Stan's tone remained amazingly calm, but his hidden hold on Kenny's arm gripped more harshly, most definitely leaving a series of bruises on his pale flesh.

A beat of silence passed before one gentle voice spoke up. "Well Stan, last time we saw him he was with Eric."

"Cool, thanks Butters." Stan turned and made to move, taking one step, and Kenny along with him, before stopping and turning back around to casually pose a question with acting skill that would have easily fooled anyone who knew him. "Oh, did you see where they went?"

There was another, briefer beat of silence before a different voice spoke, sweet as its predecessor, but more melodic; one that caught Kenny's attention.

"They were over by the drinks before. They went off with some of the others," Kenny's head snapped up to stare Bridon dead in the eye, and the younger teen paused. He held Kenny's gaze, eyes wide with a perturbed awe; cool air touched his cheek and sure enough Kenny raised his hand to find the hoodie skewed, readjusted it and pulled the strings more tightly. "I think they went down to the pond."

"Thanks man. See ya later Butters."

Without waiting or giving instruction Kenny was jerked away, dragged off roughly by his more muscular friend. They traversed the short distance to the pond quickly, barely avoiding the pitfalls of wayward branches and dips in the ground they knew like the back of their hands. The last vestiges of dim light vaporized and the sound of uproarious laughter guided them the last bit of the way, where a few teens were hanging around, dangerously close to the edge of the pond's black surface.

"Hey!" Stan called out in greeting as they approached and tried to let their eyes adjust to the dim light of the darkening sky.

"H-hey Stan!" First came Tweek's reply, followed by a casual "Hey guys," from Token; Cartman chimed in with a "Sup fags?". Although two more voices were clearly present they seemed too rapt in laughing their asses off to pay much attention to their surroundings. One was clearly Craig's, he'd heard that all-too familiar sound all-too recently. And the other's, it couldn't be, but it was.

Kyle.

And just what the hell was he laughing at?

AN: Thanks for reading guys! I really appreciate your taking the time to read it and also seriously appreciate feedback. Hope you enjoyed!