A/N: Hey guys! This is kind of an idealization of Cartman's personality? I guess I'm trying to say its a further look into what he's really like. Either way, I hope you guys enjoy it! ^^
Chapter 2
January 5th
Eric Cartman absolutely fucking hated anything sappy. That included the puppy dog eyes that Kyle would shoot off to his super best friend at whatever random moment he deemed proper. The rotund boy found it immensely disgusting, and entirely unfounded. Then again, he had yet to have someone make him feel like the butterflies are in his chest and not just his loins. He, honestly, wouldn't know what to do with himself if he had found someone who could take hold of his heart.
It was his honest opinion that the day he found someone who would actually try, the universe would implode.
"Go Stan!" Kyle cheered from the stands; it was a typical Friday night football game. Eric hadn't even planned to go, but when Kenny had told him that Kyle was excited to finally have time to see Stan in a home game...well...How could he miss a moment to add to his fire?
The day had started like any other. Eric found himself adding notes to his data about a certain redhead—he never did anything uninformed. And, had anyone asked, he certainly, one hundred percent did NOT have a chart constructed of data that would point him in the right direction. He did NOT have a color coded directory of what pissed the redhead off at any given moment. Eric Cartman was not a stalker; which was what all of his information had gathered up to. Nope.
Nada.
Not at all.
But he was a damned liar, if he was honest.
Good thing he was never honest.
"Fucking Jew," He muttered to himself just loud enough for Kyle to hear it. Just loud enough, so that when the redhead bristled Kenny would roll his eyes because he didn't know what Kyle was talking about. Then again, it was as if the redhead had sonar hearing for anything remotely insulting to his people. A perfect attribute when someone who had a lot of negative things to say.
It happened with a snap of his finger—mentally of course. Because why the fuck would he randomly be snapping at a football game? Snapping was for fags. Something he was definitely was not.
Anyway, Kyle's face was the first step to the process. His eyes darkened; like a storm was passing through. That was, Eric had noted, when the statement was setting into his mind; he was mentally absorbing what was going on. It was fantastically entertaining. By far, more interesting than whatever soap opera was popular today.
Then the color started at the nape of his neck and flowed its way up to his ears. The color paused, while Kyle did his best to figure out how to handle the situation. And of course, Eric had already foreseen every possible outcome; they all ended in the same beautiful face of rage. In every imaginative view, Kyle's face was contorted, his brows furrowed down, his mouth open in the largest 'o' shape that Eric had ever seen. His face would be as red as his hair, and sweat would bead his brow with the frustration that built up. The visual as a whole sent stinging sparks up his spine. A heat began to fill his lower abdoment, and thank all that was above that he had his fucking leather jacket draped across his lap.
"What the fuck," Kyle snapped turning quickly on his heel. Eric only watched as his jeans caught on the bleachers. He would go down. He would get hurt, and it would be a whole new high to watch. But, fortunate for the redhead, Kenny had caught him as he stumbled.
What a pity. Eric scoffed as he turned his view back to the football field. Stan was pacing the fieldline, his arms flailing about him as he seemed to argue with his coach. Yet another common scene. Stan was obsessed with football, and he would make damned sure his opinion about anything dealing with that stupid almond shaped ball would be heard. Even if it nearly got him kicked off the team more than once.
"What is your problem!?" Kyle snapped, his attention still on the brunette sitting beside him. "I didn't even fucking... Ugh!" Kyle threw his arms up in the air exasperated. He threw his arms over his chest, before deciding to collapse onto the chair in a tantrum. As childish as it was, it suited the redhead, if only because children were expected to be eruptive, and explosive.
Kyle was every one of those things.
"I don't know what you're fucking talking about," Eric snapped back. He made sure he sent the angriest glower he could; something to help him feign his innocence. Of course, Kenny would side with the brunette because he hadn't heard the comment. But that was all par the course; was what Eric wanted.
Nothing made Kyle angrier than when the world believed that Eric Cartman was innocent. After all, Kyle knew best, by now, that Eric was anything but. Yet, that was the beauty of it. That was Eric Cartman in a nutshell—the innocent manipulative fat ass that could get a rise out of him with just the blink of his eyes and it was orgasmic.
"Just...shit, switch seats with me then," Kenny sighed brushing his long thing fingers through his worn hair. The kid had to be freezing, but Eric wouldn't offer his coat to him if it was life or death. To the bigger boy, the blonde was below him. He was too poor to be worth his time, and it irked him. It irked him to see him so close to the redhead. It irked him to know that Kyle could stand him, and would give him thankful looks that Eric would never get to see.
It irked him that Kyle liked him.
Not like like. No. Kyle was a fag for fucking Stan. But he seemed to understand the blonde, and that was more than Eric ever got. Kyle wouldn't moon over the blonde, but he would send him grateful looks when he did little things like switching seats. That was more than Eric ever got. Kyle would hug him, or squeeze his arm when Kenny was feeling especially emotional, or void one day. That more than Eric ever got. But the worst, was when Kenny would moon over the redhead, and not say anything because...because no homo. And that was fucking more than Eric Cartman ever fucking got.
People loved to call him spoiled, but he wasn't. Not when he never really got what he wanted. And all he truly wanted...what really made him happy...was to watch Kyle fucking Broflovski.
So it was a wonder to him how he managed to stand from his position, sending an aggrivated scoff at the two that sometimes called themselves his friend, and walked away. He managed to ignore the stab in his gut as he secretly glanced over his shoulder and saw Kyle scowling at his back. But he was looking, and that was more than Eric ever got.
The walk to his car was freezing and lonely. Visions of the bubbling anger that fueled Kyle danced through his mind. A heat began to build in his lower abdomen, and he knew. He fucking knew that as soon as he got home, the urge would be too primal, too strong to ignore.
That was the worst part of it. When it came to the slender redhead, Eric had no self control. And it was wonderful, and terrifying, and confusing...and hot. He'd never admit it, but he loved that they had such a lack of control around each other. An argument that left Kyle ragged and tired could fuel Eric for a week. He would imagine, in his most intimate of times, that Kyle was sending that glare up at him while he was splayed out in a pool of red. Or Kyle would be glowering down at him from a position of domination, but he would never have full power. In his fantasies, Eric always held the power.
"Fucking jew," Eric hissed as he almost ran to his run down truck. His mother had bought it for him just last year, and he hated it. But it got him from place to place while he worked and saved up to get himself a better one. "Fucking..." His hands gripped at the steering wheel, and squeezed. He wanted something to break—something to prove that he had control over his heart and the situation and that stupid fucking thumping that was happening in his damned chest.
Inhale.
All he had to do was inhale.
Just fucking breath.
And he did. He opened his mouth and gasped; his mouth flapping over itself as he fought for the breath that the damned selfish jew had taken. Fuck, how could he steal his breath and not even be in sight? His chest expanded, and finally, it seemed as if the air was rushing into his lungs—small particles running a marathon into his bronchioles. First one to reach his blood was the winner.
His fingers fumbled with the keys and the starter. His brain wasn't able to send the waves of electricity needed to get his fingers to understand what to do.
"Jesus fucking christ!" Eric snarled slamming his fist into the rim of his steering wheel. "This is fucking ridiculous!" He thrust his fist forward, forced the key to turn, and proceeded to back out of the parking lot. He would hear about the game from Stan tonight no doubt. The douche loved to drunk text after a win, and Eric wasn't exactly leaving them in a losing position. When he shoved the stick shift into drive, he glanced at his phone, debating on what his other hand should do. After all, no matter what his driving instructor had said two years ago, he didn't really need both hands to keep his truck on the road.
But he did need to concentrate, and if he had that damned piece of technology, then he was almost positive he wouldn't make it home in one piece. If not physically, then most definitely mentally. Instead, he decided he would drum his fingers against his jean clad thigh. Just a patter, just something to keep him mentally stimulated, and busy. Something to keep his mind off a certain fiery redhead and what possible faces he might make tied to a bed and tortured.