Kenny was honestly really impressed that Top Pot was up and running again so soon after the whole meth situation. Yet, here he was, hobbling around on his throbbing ankle like there was no tomorrow. Participating in P.E. that morning had only served to worsen the agony of his potentially fractured ankle. The blood in his body ran cold at the thought of causing irreversible damage to his abused body. Still, it wasn't like he had a choice. He needed to go to work. He needed the money.
At least it was a calm evening, with not many customers and only one remote order from a woman named Mary Stewards. He recalled the name Mary Stewards from somewhere, however, he could not quite place it.
"Hi, welcome to Top Pot. What can I get for you?" He chimed, pulling up to a table where a sweet-looking old lady sat.
The lady smiled at him, waving her wrinkles across her scrunched-up face. Strands of her white hair that had escaped the confines of her tight bun sprung out in several directions. Her face told the story of a woman who had lived a long life, filled with smiles and laughter. She looked like a grandma.
"Hello, young man," She croaked, her voice wearing the same marks of age as the rest of her. "Are you okay? You appear to be injured. You're limping."
Kenny's breath stuttered as he accidentally put some weight on his bad ankle. He had really hoped his injury wasn't so obvious. "I'm okay, ma'am, can I get you anything?"
Age and concern mixed together etched onto the sweet old lady's face. "Are you sure?"
"Yes, I'm sure. No need to worry." Kenny repeated, his every word punctuated by a throb in his ankle. "Would you like to order something now, or should I come back later?"
Old, gray eyes peeled themselves off Kenny and onto her wrinkly, faded hands. Her fingers fiddled with a ring of a black rose.
In that quiet moment, Kenny's own eyes shifted to the window. A small movement had caught his eye. Just outside, the sun had set, leaving only the streetlights to illuminate the road. It was a long time coming; the sun was always so greedy in the summer and early fall, stretching its fingers into the late noon.
However, the darkness outside did not catch Kenny's eye. On the many tables and chairs placed outside the café, sat more than a dozen crows, a murder of them, staring him down with black eyes and judgmental squawks.
"You have to be okay," The lady stated, looking back up from her fingers. "You see, I met someone recently."
Kenny's curiosity died as he listened to the sweet old lady's words, not once distracted from the persistent pain in his ankle. He gave her a nod, a mix of politeness and genuine interest evident in his eyes.
"Oh? Someone interesting, ma'am?" he inquired, setting aside the strange remark about him having to be okay. He didn't have to be anything.
"Yes," The lady smiled again, "A very charming young man, but worrisome. The future is not set in stone, yet he has touched the flame without retracting his hand. No, he has closed his fist around the fire."
Kenny's brows furrowed at the old lady's cryptic words. He exchanged a puzzled glance with her, unsure of the meaning behind her description.
"He sounds like quite the character," Kenny replied cautiously, trying to stay polite to this delusional woman. "What do you mean, he closed his fist around the fire?"
The old lady sat up straighter. She was very beautiful for someone her age. "Perhaps he hopes to extinguish it. But for now, it only burns his tender flesh. At this pace, it will soon sear every part of him away."
Kenny's eyebrows furrowed even more. He had an inkling feeling he knew who he was talking to and about. "Are you… Ms. Corvus?"
The old lady's eyes twinkled with a mix of surprise and acknowledgment. "Ah, you've heard of me, young man. Call me Agatha; it suits me better. Say, who told you about me?"
Kenny cleared his throat. "I, uh, Trent mentioned you. He said you told him to embrace some pain. He thought it was weird." He was not exactly excited about talking to the woman who seemingly only spoke in riddles. And he was much less excited to have the memory of Trent flirting with him on repeat in his head for the next two hours.
Agatha smiled again. Kenny could certainly tell why the smile lines were the ones etched deepest onto her face. "Yes, Trent, a bright young man. I asked him to feed the crows, in the hope that they could protect him. But they cannot do anything when he keeps seeking the pain out."
"Mhm," Kenny said, mostly because his mind was barren of anything else to say. It kept finding its way back to that image of Trent shirtless. And, also, this lady was clearly not all there, and it seemed Trent had clearly been entertaining her out of pure politeness. "I guess he took your advice and 'embraced the pain' or whatever it was."
The old lady chuckled, a sound that seemed to echo a lifetime of experiences. "What a silly idea. All he will embrace that way is misery. Some dance in the rain, while others get swept away by the storm. But Trent is determined to drown in it. He even reeks of death."
Kenny, still perplexed, nodded politely. Even though he highly disagreed. He didn't know what death smelled like, but he doubted it smelled like sea salt and ocean breeze or whatever kind of cologne Trent used. "Well, I hope he figures things out. Anyway, can I get you something to eat or drink, Agatha?"
Agatha turned her head to the murder outside, then back to Kenny. "If he told you to run, could you do it?"
"I, uh," He wanted to say yes. If Trent told him to run, he'd bolt. But he made the mistake of shifting slightly on his feet, sending a spike of agony up his leg. "I guess not." He vaguely gestured to his ankle.
"Would you drown, if he told you to swim?"
"No," Kenny stated, with more confidence this time.
Agatha nodded knowingly. "Water is quite tricky. It gives life and yet it takes them in return."
"Yeah, I know. I don't think anyone's really gotten over Kentwood's death," Kenny responded a little less soft this time. He was not in the mood to converse with this riddle-obsessed lady, who seemed to imply things. It was like she knew what Kenny knew and just wanted him to spill his guts. It seemed, in the end, Trent Boyett would be the more polite one of the two, "Listen, ma'am, we don't permit people to be in here without ordering."
Agatha's eyes twinkled again as if she found amusement in Kenny's straightforwardness. "Ah, I suppose I've kept you long enough with my ramblings. I'll have a cup of black coffee, young man. And do take care of that ankle. Not everything that's broken can be fixed."
Kenny nodded, "Coming right up," as he hobbled away, doing his best to avoid seeming too pained, time stood still, and he looked behind him to the lady. She was gone, the only trace of her left was a small glimpse of a crow flying away.
How strange. Kenny could have sworn he would have heard her leave. Or seen her. Nevertheless, without her here, there was no point in making her order, so he crossed it off his notepad and limped back to the counter, his poor ankle sending a wave of misery throughout his body with every step he took.
The familiar chime of the bell on the door rang, and Kenny instinctively turned to see. A tall man stood in the door frame, propping it open with one hand. He wore a police uniform.
"Rick?" Kenny asked, as though he couldn't already tell who he was looking at. "What're you doing here?"
Rick scanned the café, his judgmental eyes searching every little nook and cranny in sight. "Nothing much, honey. Just picking up an order."
Kenny felt a chill as Rick's gaze landed on him and lingered for a few too many seconds. He shifted uncomfortably, suddenly more aware of his throbbing ankle and the vulnerability that accompanied it. "Oh, right. What can I get you?" he asked, trying to maintain a casual tone.
"Does the name Mary Stewards ring a bell?" Rick's tone was as condescending as ever, as he moved fully inside the café, slowly as if to appear less - or maybe more - threatening.
"Yeah, um," Kenny started, trying to keep the stutter out of his words. He had no reason to be too scared. Butters and Tweek were in the back room, doing some coffee bean sorting, so he was not entirely alone with Rick. "I think she placed a remote order."
"Bingo," Rick said. His voice was low and he seemed to hold the 'o' for too long. "I'm here to pick it up."
Naturally, it seemed Kenny's memory chose to awaken only at the worst possible times. He remembered Mary Stewards; she was the receptionist at the local police station. Kenny nodded, feeling a sense of unease settle in the pit of his stomach. He quickly retrieved the order for Mary, a bag with a dozen doughnuts inside, from the counter and handed it to Rick.
Before Kenny could say his usual customer service banalities, Rick made his thesis statement.
"You know, sweetheart, it seems you're getting real cozy with that Boyett boy," He spoke, his tone low and threatening. He leaned against the café glass wall, showing no signs of leaving. "I thought you were supposed to be afraid of him,"
The sweet, little café seemed so much darker and emptier today. There were next to no customers on this quiet, lonesome evening. Kenny cleared his throat, cautiously, "Well, he's a friend, now. That's all."
"A friend?" Rick cocked an eyebrow. If only he just his mouth. If only he never moved again. He would be perfect if only he were a statue. Motionless, passive, inoffensive. "Is your little friend the reason you're limping?"
"No!" Kenny said, too quickly. "No, he-"
"You were walking just fine last I saw you." Rick leaned closer to him, and he wanted to back away, but his abused ankle protested aggressively. "I know Boyett served time. So, don't go pretending he's some innocent little puppy."
Rick was so close; Kenny could feel his body heat radiating off him. It was twistedly comforting, attracting people to his warmth only for them to get burned by the heat. "Trent didn't do anything." He hissed a little more than he would've liked.
"Huh?" Rick huffed, standing up straight.
"I said Trent didn't do anything," Kenny mustered the words up slowly, his whole leg throbbed, scorched by Rick's hellfire. "How dare you even insinua-?"
Rick cut him off with an uncannily soft chuckle, "Right, of course, I'm sorry, babe, I forgot how fragile you are."
Kenny tried to keep his voice steady, he didn't want Rick to pick up on how much he was seething, "I'm the fragile one?"
Rick barked out a laugh, "Aww, did I touch a nerve there, Ken Do-"
He didn't know what exactly it was that had caused him to step backward. The fact that Rick's hand had reached to touch his cheek, or the fact that he was about the call him Ken Doll, about to ruin a cute little nickname that in no way was his to use. So, Kenny instinctively took a step back, and the sound of it shocked both himself and Rick.
A sickening crunch echoed throughout the small café, followed by the agonizing hurt from his ankle. He had walked around on it all day and was now paying the price. It danced with pain and gave away beneath his weight, and he watched himself fall on his backside. Hard.
His hand immediately shot up to his mouth, gatekeeping any cries and whimpers of misery. It was a bad habit his hands had picked up, and it hardly proved effective as his motionless ankle began throbbing in torturous waves. He wanted to cry.
"Shit, fuck" He heard Rick mumble before he walked closer and squatted, placing an uncomforting hand on his shoulder, "Holy shit, don't move."
The ache surged through Kenny's body, intensifying with every passing second. He winced, gritting his teeth to suppress any audible expression of agony. The atmosphere in the café felt heavy, the air thick with tension as Rick hovered over him, his unwanted touch only adding to Kenny's discomfort.
"I told you not to move," Rick scolded, though there was a hint of genuine concern in his voice. His usual malicious tone was momentarily replaced by a rare display of something resembling worry.
Kenny, still reeling from the pain, glared up at Rick. "I didn't move on purpose, you know," he muttered through gritted teeth and with a curdled voice. He could cry from the discomfort alone, and Rick didn't make a single thing better with his hand still lingering on Kenny's shoulder. "Get your fucking hand off!" It was loud. Louder than he meant for it to be. But it got the job done; Rick's hand tightened to a painful degree but eventually released.
"Fine, be that way," He grumbled, as he sat back, observing rather than intervening. Kenny was always good-looking. But Rick had made it clear that he most enjoyed the look when Kenny was crying or in pain, or both. So, he must be enjoying the show. "Hey, isn't Tweek s'posed to be working too?"
Kenny's hand had long since come back to cover his mouth. He couldn't start crying out in distress, not in front of Rick. Even if his poor ankle hurt like a motherfucker. He still couldn't. Somehow, he willed himself to respond, "What's it to you?"
Rick smiled his signature half smirk, half smile before responding. "Spicy tonight, huh?" He barked out a laugh, "It's just that you look so pathetic right now. I thought maybe Tweek should come see."
Kenny didn't respond. He didn't get a chance too, because as he tried to get back up, or at least sit up, his ankle brushed against the ground a little too hard and he was sent back down. Debilitating. That was the word he would use to describe this. But there were probably more words that applied: excruciating, harrowing, agonizing. Involuntarily, his body was wracked with sobs. Humiliating, breath-catching sobs that only served to intensify the unbearable pain. He was only vaguely aware of the tears that had escaped the confines of his eyelids.
"Ugh, fine," He heard Rick grumble as if Kenny had somehow forced him into doing something. "Tweek! Get your ass out here!"
Kenny, still on the floor, tried to compose himself despite the pain and humiliation. He wiped away the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand, trying to swallow the sobs that threatened to escape.
He heard Tweek's footsteps from the backroom and his voice called out, "Jesus, Rick, I should ban you. I've already said I'm not gonna fight yo-" His voice halted, and his footsteps sped to a jog. "Oh, fuck, what did you do?!"
Tweek rushed to him, eyes wide with shock as he took in the scene. Kenny lying on the floor, crying in pain was a rare sight. After all, he had a pretty good tolerance.
"Fuck, fuck," Tweek hissed, as his eyes landed on the ankle. Kenny hadn't even looked at it, but from the sound of Tweek's comment, it looked bad. "Damn it, Rick, what the fuck did you do?"
On Kenny's other side, Rick stood up fully, towering over them like a giant. He let out a low, mocking laugh, "Aww, don't gimme credit for that. It was all Trent Boyett."
Tweek pointed to the exit in an almost accusatory manner, "Get out, Rick," He commanded, looking all shades of furious. "I'll make you swallow your teeth!"
He had done that once, punched someone so hard their tooth fell out, and they swallowed it.
Kenny turned his head; he wanted to assess the damage. Walking around on his injured foot all day had evidently caused some damage, and something must have snapped as a result. But before he was given the chance to look, Tweek scooped him up - he was always so much stronger than he looked - and made toward the break room.
"Get fucked, Tweeker," Rick muttered, turning to leave with a smile and hand in his pocket, fishing out a cigarette. The door closed itself gently behind him.
The world swayed and danced as Kenny was softly placed on the table in the breakroom, his vision blurry and his body heavy. Right now, there was nothing he desired more than to go home and cry. Who knew life could kick your ass so badly?
He moved a hand up and felt his face. Wet. Great, he was still crying. He heard some footsteps leave, Tweek yelling something to Butters, and then the footsteps coming back.
"Alright, l-lemme see your ankle," Tweek said, kneeling down in front of him.
That sentence made Kenny wince. There was no way he could let Tweek see. If he did, he'd send him home or maybe even make him go to the hospital. And he couldn't afford either.
"No, it's okay," Kenny tried to smile and hide the pain that had etched itself onto his face. He sniffled slightly. "Everything's great."
Tweek ignored him and started removing his shoe, prompting Kenny to speak a little louder, "Seriously, I'm fine,"
Tweek paused, looking up at Kenny with a mix of concern and determination. "Dude, you're not fine. Just let me take a look. We need to see if it's broken or something."
Kenny shook his head, his hands gripping the edges of the table. "No, Tweek, I can't. I need to work. Just gimme a few minutes, and I'll be back out there."
"Work can wait." Tweek wasn't convinced. He gently reached for Kenny's injured foot again, but Kenny recoiled, pulling it away. "Kenny, stop being so goddamn stubborn! This is about your well-being."
He grabbed his ankle, hard, causing Kenny to yelp in pain. "Let go, Tweek!" He tried to pull away, but that only intensified the agony. "What the fuck is wrong with you? Can't you just take 'no' for an answer?"
Tweek's grip tightened momentarily but quickly released, "I'm sorry. But you can't keep pretending everything is okay when it's not."
Kenny's eyes narrowed. He knew Tweek wasn't just talking about an injured ankle. He was talking about the whole Rick situation. Frankly, it was none of his business.
Before he knew it, the room was becoming blurry, and a single droplet fell from his face to his lap. He spoke, his voice curdled, "Okay. Just don't make me take time off. And no hospitals, okay?"
Tweek placed a hand on Kenny's knee and moved so their faces were closer, "Kenny, your foot is pointing in the wrong direction," Kenny looked down. Tweek was being hyperbolic; the foot was only pointing very few degrees in the wrong direction. He gave him a pleading look. "Fine, fine, sorry. No hospitals. No time off."
He kneeled back down and gently, gently, removed Kenny's shoe and sock, gasping slightly when he saw the swollen, bruised mess that used to look like a perfectly healthy body part a mere 30 hours ago. Immediately, he stood up, went to one of the many drawers in the break room, and found a med kit. It was mostly for workplace-related accidents like burns from spilling hot coffee or cuts from broken crockery. Though, he supposed it held more items than that.
"Who put that brace on your ankle?" Tweek asked.
Kenny sniffled a bit and wiped some tears off his face, "Trent did. Did he do it wrong or something?"
"No," Tweek said, after a moment of consideration. "It probably just loosened a bit when you walked around on it."
He kneeled back down and tightened the brace. If Kenny had to judge he'd say it was a little too tight now. It was certainly more comfortable when Trent put it on him. Then, Tweek wrapped a bandage around the ankle, providing support to it. Now, the ankle was about as secure as it could get without an actual cast. It was a struggle to move, which was good, moving it now would be counterproductive.
Kenny moved a hand up to wipe his face, but it was still wet, and he was still sniffling. It was honestly pathetic to cry so much over an injury. But then again, it probably wasn't just the injury. In between sniffles and the occasional little sob, he was vaguely aware that his phone dinged; someone had texted him.
A mellow hand cupped his cheek, and he instinctively leaned into it. "Sorry," He mumbled, his voice small "I can't really stop now that I've started."
Tweek's thumb brushed gently against him, wiping away stray tears. "You don't have to apologize. You're going through a lot."
There was a lump in Kenny's throat, making it hard to respond. "I just… I'm so, so tired."
Tweek placed a hand on his other cheek, cupping his face. He knew. He knew Kenny was talking about Rick. "It'll pass." He said, possibly due to a lack of a better response.
"No, no it won't pass, Tweek," He sobbed a bit, "It's going to happen over and over again, maybe not with him but someone else. That's how this shit works because I have awful fucking taste, so I guess I'm just fucked for life."
"How do you know that?" Tweek asked, trying to keep his voice soft, "How do you know someone like Rick wasn't just a one-time thing, and you won't meet someone who loves and respects you?"
Kenny wanted to laugh because he sounded so dumb, "Because Trent flirted with me, like, twice, and now I can't stop replaying it in my head."
Tweek moved closer so their foreheads were touching. It was oddly comforting coming from Tweek. Kenny had always thought of Tweek as the one who needed to be comforted. "But Trent isn't even like Rick."
"What?" Kenny asked. He knew what Tweek had said, he heard it clearly. But the thought of Trent being inherently different from Rick seemed so foreign. It felt like Tweek was just going against the common consensus.
"Well, I-I'm not a psychologist, and I don't know what's going on inside his head, but he seems friendlier, you know?" Tweek asked, but he didn't wait for an answer. "From what I've heard, he's the kinda guy who babysits his neighbor's kids and protects assholes like Kyle when they get in trouble and is waaay too polite to strangers."
Kenny half-chuckled and moved a hand to wipe his face again. It was dry this time. "I haven't seen him be too polite to strangers?"
"Well, I have. At school." Tweek started, half-laughing, "And it was so awkward! He kept trying to, like, excuse himself and failed."
Kenny let out a little laugh. Somehow, the image of Trent Boyett, the tough and intimidating guy, being awkward and overly polite was quite amusing. He quickly killed that laugh. This was Trent Boyett, the guy who threatened to hurt Karen, the guy who cornered and interrogated him. He could absolutely not, under any circumstances think about him that way. He had burned himself when he dated Rick, and it would be stupid to dive his hands back into the flames.
And even if, by some miracle, Trent turned out to not be who he thought he was, someone would get burned. If not by a flame, then by the scorching waters of Stark's Pond. It had happened to Max Kentwood, who knew if it could happen to Trent?
"Trent wasn't the one who hurt my ankle by the way," Kenny eventually said, not finding anything else to. "I know Rick said he was, but he was wrong."
"Okay," Tweek mumbled. He evidently didn't care how Kenny got hurt, just that he got hurt.
They were still very close, maybe a bit too close for comfort. But then again, Kenny was always a physical touch kind of guy, so he wouldn't complain. It was practically common knowledge that physical touch of almost any kind was the way to go if you wanted to cheer him up. And he'd be lying if he hadn't noticed Tweek do this more often lately.
However, comforting or not, all things must come to an end, and this time, that end was not pretty.
"What the fuck are you doing?!"
The voice cut through the moment like a sharp knife, and Kenny and Tweek both turned to see Craig standing in the doorway behind Tweek, looking like he was about to cry. Behind him, three unidentifiable figures moved to see. Kenny and Tweek scrambled and rushed to make some distance between them, both keenly aware of just what kind of intimate that moment may have looked.
Kenny didn't speak. Tweek didn't speak. Well… they did speak, but nothing of value could be found in their word vomit. Eventually, one of the three figures identified himself, "See, Craig, we warned you!" Stan spoke
Another figure let his veil of mystery fall, "Yeah, I bet you feel real stupid now, huh Craig?" Cartman added. Of course, it was Cartman. No one better to kick a man while he was down. Those asshats were making the situation ten times worse.
Or maybe not. They caught Craig's attention, and he yelled at them, "Get the fuck out!" The two, much like Kenny and Tweek mere seconds earlier, scrambled and rushed, leaving the drama they had just caused. Now, there was only one figure left.
The poor thing. Craig looked so… so… Kenny didn't have the vocabulary to describe exactly what Craig looked like at that moment. Few words truly captured the anguish on display right in front of his very eyes. Rick had cheated on Kenny a lot of times, but Tweek cheating on Craig seemed like another thing entirely. Even if that wasn't actually the case. Tweek had not cheated and probably hadn't planned to do it either.
It was hard to think that Craig could even express, let alone feel emotions so strongly. Yet here they were clear as day.
"Craig, it's not what you thin-" Kenny started.
"Save it, slut," Craig cut him off harshly. "Just leave! Go home!"
The words hung in the air, heavy and painful. Kenny felt like he'd been slapped, the sting of betrayal written all over Craig's face. Tweek stood there, looking anxious and unable to find the right words.
"What're you waiting for?!" Craig hissed. It was becoming increasingly evident that he wanted to talk to Tweek alone. "Get the fuck out, Kenny!"
The atmosphere in the room became thick with tension as Kenny reluctantly got off the table, his injured ankle protesting his every movement. He cast a quick pleading glance at Tweek, who avoided his gaze. Great. He had to walk home alone. After Rick had just been here.
Or maybe not. By the time he was out of the break room, he felt someone put a big warm jacket around his shoulders. The third figure.
"Hey Trent," He said, his voice sounding hoarse. "You know, I usually get Tweek to walk me home after work."
Trent nodded, "I guess I'll take his place today. If you'll have me?"
Kenny just nodded and pulled the jacket closer around his body. It smelled like saltwater, like the ocean. It brought some comfort, as he limped toward the café's front door. Trent had already made it there and was holding it open for him.
"Wait, Trent," Craig called out from the break room. "I'm sorry I yelled at you…"
Trent, still holding the door open, smirked at Craig. "No worries. You can make it up to me." He spoke with a small hint of playfulness. "I'll see you tomorrow."
And they left
Kenny didn't say anything on the way home. He didn't feel like talking, and Trent didn't invite him to. Thankfully.
This day had been way too long: his ankle hurt like a motherfucker, he was now on Craig's shitlist, and Rick kept showing up to mess with him. God, he was so tired.
"Ken," Trent caught his attention. "I think I have some crutches at my place."
He looked up at Trent, and down at his feet. He realized he was limping incredibly slowly, and Trent was making an active effort to walk slower so Kenny could keep up.
"I'd like that," Kenny smiled. "Can't hurt to avoid walking on it."
Thank Jesus, South Park was such a small town. They were already at Kenny's house. The cold, empty, dirty house. At the front door, it struck him that he would be completely home alone for a few hours. After all, they hadn't expected him to get off work this early.
"Cool," Trent said, sounding only slightly less tired than Kenny. "I think I could get them to you later tonight. See you then."
He made a move to leave. "Wait, Trent," He turned back around and gave Kenny a questioning look. "I… I, uh…" His voice stuck in his throat, and he struggled to properly word his request. He kind of wanted to slap himself for sounding so needy and pathetic. 'Hey Trent, please stay because I'm afraid of being home alone. Even though Rick has never actually tried to break in, I'm still a scared little pussy.'
As Trent looked at him, his eyes softened, "You what?"
Kenny cleared his throat and tried to speak again. Trent already thought he was a weak scaredy cat, there was no way his opinion of him could go lower anyway. "I don't really want to be alone right now. Would you maybe stay for a bit?"
The McCormick's lawn was littered with cigarette buds, glass from broken beer bottles, and scrap from a D.I.Y. car. Everything was so dirty and unorganized, it looked out of place with all the clean houses in town, with their cleaned-up yards and put-together cars. But for once, the lawn didn't look out of place. Trent did. Somehow, he looked too clean, which was odd. He was most certainly not too clean.
"Sure," Trent eventually said, pulling his phone out of his pocket. "I'll call Bebe to bring those crutches." It was a mystery in and of itself how someone like Trent could appear so soft mere days after he seemed like the end of the world.
For a second, Kenny thought about sending Trent away again. He didn't feel a great wish for him to see the stained couch, the broken windows, the ripped and peeling wallpaper, and whatever else his eyes could dissect. But then again, there wasn't much that could be seen inside that couldn't already be seen from the outside.
They entered together, Kenny immediately taking a seat on the couch to give his abused ankle some leisure. It showed its gratitude by sending a wave of throbbing pain in his leg. It was in the same beat as his heartbeat. Trent appeared to make himself at home. But not in the throw-yourself-on-the-couch way, it was more of a rummage-through-the-house-looking-for-something way. In the meantime, he had called Bebe.
"Hey, can you do me a favor?" Trent's voice said. He moved into the kitchen and could no longer be seen. Usually, Kenny would be pretty mad if someone just searched through his house, but he was too tired to care now. "I need you to go into my apartment and find a pair of crutches for me … no, you won't need a key … I almost always forget to lock the door… it's obviously not breaking-and-entering if I'm telling you to… … thanks."
Kenny wanted to chuckle. It felt like such a Bebe-thing to question everything about the other's motives.
Eventually, Trent came back. In his hand, he had a hot water bag that he had filled with the warmest water the tap could give. "Put your foot up," He said, and Kenny obeyed.
He placed the hot water bag under Kenny's injured ankle. The warmth seeped through his sore muscles, providing a soothing contrast to the chilly atmosphere of his rundown house. "Thanks," he said, and his voice sounded so small.
"Do you guys have cardboard and duct tape or something?" Trent asked. A little off-topic, but whatever.
"Yeah, a lot's lying around," Kenny answered. "You can just take it."
"Cool," And with that, Trent went back into the kitchen. And soon, Kenny heard the familiar sound of duct tape being used. It took a few moments before he realized it, but Trent was fixing the broken window in the kitchen. He hadn't been asked to, and it was mildly embarrassing that he even noticed it. But it was nice to know someone had the motivation to fix anything around this shithole.
It wasn't like the McCormicks hadn't wanted to fix the broken windows; they really did plan on it. But they somehow never had the time, energy, or general joie de vivre to care. It had become one of their trademarks in recent years: the McCormicks were always tired. Always working.
At least a broken window could wait. An ankle? Not so much. But it would have to too.
Footsteps and the light crunching of glass beneath said feet told Kenny that Trent was moving. Perhaps he was looking for more broken windows? Kenny cringed a little at the thought. They hadn't even swept the floor for broken glass. At one point, they all just accepted that they had to wear shoes inside.
It hadn't always been like this. In fact, the severity of these conditions only really worsened a few months prior, when their dad lost his job again and became a drunken money pit. Then, Kevin moved out and moved his income with him. And then it was just Kenny, Mom, and Karen. It was hard to believe that three separate incomes could struggle to make ends meet. And it was even harder to believe that Kenny was the one who earned the most, despite only being a barista.
The sound of bristles temporarily broke Kenny out of his thoughts. Trent was sweeping the floor. That asshole.
"Damn, Trent, I didn't think you were such a neat freak." Kenny half-stated, half-accused. Maybe he just never thought Trent would care.
"I'm not. I just don't wanna step on glass. And neither should you." Trent responded.
He was almost certainly wondering how they could let the situation get this bad. To that, Kenny only had one answer: always tired, always working.
Now that he was thinking about it. The situation didn't become too hard to handle until two months ago. Kenny set up slightly, eyebrows furrowed. He looked out at the messy living room. The floor was covered in stuff: old magazines that seemed to be rotting, beer bottles, rat shit, broken beer bottles, old dolls, newspapers, random cardboard, and so on, until it seemed like there was more junk than floor. There was also a coffee table that seemed more stuff than table. But at least this stuff was actually useful, like paper towels and dish mats.
What happened two months ago?
Kenny's eyes landed on a box. One of those boxes that new phones come in. He knew exactly where it was from. Rick had given it to him as an apology gift. 'Sorry, I got mad and broke your arm, babe. Here, have a phone.' He still had yet to use that phone. He didn't trust it.
Kenny pulled out his own phone, the one he bought from Tolkien back in the day. He had gotten a message from Stan only an hour ago. It read: "Were coming 2 Top Pot. Go make Tweek look suspicious." Kenny slightly, a dumb uncertain smile. At least he had achieved that. A bit further down, he had gotten a new text from him. "Gr8 job Kenny!" And then a thumbs up. He didn't write a response. It wasn't like he wanted to celebrate. After all, Craig would definitely find a way to cut his hours.
And the family would be in for even more trouble.
Then it struck him.
The breakup was two months ago. And they had lost the little financial support Rick was giving them. To think that such a small amount could tip their finances so rapidly was beyond him.
"Ugh, for fuck's sake," Trent groaned from the other room.
"You okay?" Kenny asked. He had hoped he could just sink into the couch, but that seemed too late now.
"Yeah, I'm fine," Trent stated, walking into the living room. He had covered some of his face with his hands. "'s just a nosebleed. Courtesy of Rick earlier today. Fucking shithead."
"There're some tissues here you can use."
Without a word, Trent grabbed the tissues and plopped down next to Kenny, holding one to his nose. The sofa pillow dented slightly at his presence, and Kenny found himself keenly aware of just how close he was sitting. The scent of the ocean on his jacket - which he was still wearing - seemed stronger now that Trent was so close. It was probably some really high-quality cologne.
With the tantalizing smell clouding his mind, Kenny decided to speak. "Ms. Corvus showed up at Top Pot earlier. She said you smell like death."
"Like, in a literal way?" Trent asked already sniffing his shirt and looking mildly embarrassed.
Kenny shook his head a laughed lightly, "No, well, maybe. She might think your cologne stinks."
"I don't wear cologne," Trent promptly said, like it was some odd accusation. He was obviously lying though, if the sweet scent of beach on him was anything to judge from. Trent's demeanor quickly changed and he let out a small laugh and said, in a joking but serious way, "Yeah, you know what? Maybe I'll just die soon. Maybe that's what she's saying."
Kenny lightly smacked his arm, "Don't joke about that; dying isn't funny." Naturally, Kenny would know. Although, he knew it was probably just a sensitive subject for him.
"It'll probably be Rick too," Trent said. It felt like he was mocking him. "He'll definitely kill me one of these days." He paused, almost letting Kenny say something before he gave his suggestion. "I mean, unless I beat his ass."
Flabbergasting. Trent was seriously trying to convince him that fighting Rick was a good idea. "No. You promised not to fight him, Trent!"
He smacked Trent's shoulder.
There was something mesmerizing about him. It almost seemed calculated the way he moved his hands to stop the blood from his nose. "Yeah, well, that was before he started hunting me down every chance he got."
Usually, Kenny would've been able to smell the metallic scent of blood from the tissue. There seemed to be a lot of it too. But the presence of blood only seemed to exacerbate the beachy fragrance that seemed to linger around Trent. Maybe Corvus was right. Maybe death was an alluring, almost seductive scent of beaches and sea salt.
The thought didn't give Kenny the slightest bit of comfort. If anything, it spurred him on to confess, "I think I made him kill someone." And his voice sounded so shaky.
He couldn't quite describe it. Even though he knew nothing had changed, it felt like the room got colder, the floor became more cluttered, and the white tissue in Trent's hand became crimson.
"What?" Trent asked. He sounded more taken aback than anything. Not scared. Not angry. Just surprised.
"I-, He-, uh…" Kenny tried to find the words. He had never told anyone about it. In fact, he tried to not even think about it. Not even when Cartman had tried to worm the information out of him, did he tell. Perhaps he didn't want to admit it. Or perhaps he couldn't convince himself it was real. "Last year, I found a guy named Max Kentwood dead in Stark's Pond." He couldn't believe how much his voice was shaking, it was crazy.
"And you think Rick did it?" Trent asked his voice with a slight skeptical edge.
"He did it! I know he did!" He hadn't meant to sound so aggressive in his accusation. Rick had never even been a suspect. "I know because Max encouraged me to leave him, and Rick-"
He had tried to continue but his voice cracked, and his hand instinctively went up to cover his mouth. He didn't want to cry. He had cried way too much these past few days. He had cried way too much today. It would be like inflation if he did it again.
The room fell deathly silent for a moment, only broken by the distant sound of the wind outside and the occasional desperate crow caw. Trent looked at Kenny with a look he couldn't quite read.
"Is he… Pond Boy?" He eventually asked, the hairs of his arms visibly standing up. Then his tune changed, "Listen if Rick found out someone wanted you to leave and then killed that same someone that's on him. You can't make someone commit murder."
Kenny's next words were so quiet, he barely heard them himself. It came out raspy like he was running out of breath. "I told him."
"What?" Trent asked, putting the tissue away after he stopped bleeding.
Kenny took in a shaky breath and spoke, "We had a fight because I wanted to break up."
'You can't fucking leave me! You'll regret it!'
"And I told him that Max Kentwood had promised to protect me from him."
Max had always been a big guy, a gentle giant. He wasn't afraid of Rick, and he was probably twice as strong as him.
'You think that floater's gonna do anything against me?!' Rick had yelled. It was a warning that Kenny didn't heed.
"And he had stormed out. I really thought that was the end of it. He hadn't even hit me. The very next morning, I got a text from Max, telling me to meet him at Stark's Pond."
Max had big blue eyes. Kind eyes that wanted to do nothing but good in the world. But that morning, they had been washed of life. Wide open and staring at him, his skin pale as he floated on the surface of the water. Even in death, he looked kind. The water was his casket, and the lily pads were his burial flowers. It was a cradle that rocked him back and forth in a docile motion. Doomed to eternal passivity.
"Shit," Trent whispered. "That's fucking dark."
Kenny nodded. There were so many details about that situation that left him shaken. It had been the very first time he heard of Rick going up against a person his own size. He knew Max was the stronger one, and it was difficult to think of how Rick could not just overpower him but drown him. But it was even more difficult to believe that it was just some drowning accident.
"See? That's why I can't let you fight Rick," He had tried so hard, but the salty drops were overrunning his eyelashes. "I can't be the reason you die too."
It seemed self-evident that the big, bad Trent Boyett, who carried a switchblade around and had spent more than half his life in juvie, would be terrible at comforting people. But a pair of muscular arms wrapped around him, enveloping him in a soft yet strong embrace that made Kenny rethink every thought he had ever had about him until that point.
"Your logic is shit," Trent said, "That Max guy was clearly way too soft to go up against someone like Rick."
Kenny sniffled, wiping some tears in Trent's shirt. "Don't blame Max. I was the one who told Rick in the first place. It was my fault, I encouraged him to do it." It came out muffled because he was shoving his face in Trent's chest.
"Okay, by that logic, I've killed someone too," Trent said, his tone almost sarcastic. Almost. "You're not special."
Kenny's words came out muffled as he spoke, "Do you ever blame yourself?" He knew he should ask how in the hell Trent could convince someone to commit murder, but for now, he thought it wasn't his place to ask. Besides, he was afraid that the story would be too dark for him to handle.
"Only when I think about it too much," Trent responded, his voice reverberating in his chest, making a deep echoing sound that mixed with his heartbeat. "But at least I know for a fact that my guy did it. Rick might just be innocent."
"You weren't there." He sounded so tired, and the warmth of Trent's arms around him didn't make him anymore awake, especially not when the rest of the house was so bone-chillingly cold.
Realizing that his shirt was no longer actively getting wetter, Trent made a move to unwrap his arms, but a hand grabbed his shirt and pulled him back in. It was like the embrace served to hold Kenny together like he would fall apart into a million little pieces if he wasn't physically bound down.
There was something very comforting and yet very odd about Trent's touch. Kenny knew he leaned to the touchier side, so it made sense that he would find comfort in being embraced. But Trent's arms held a gentleness that seemed unbecoming like he would break him if he tightened the embrace just a bit. Then again, Trent probably could break someone if he hugged them too hard, so Kenny supposed there was nothing too gentle about this embrace.
The living room was silent, save for the subtle sounds of the wind outside and the occasional caw of a distant crow. He knew exactly who that crow was here to see, but it would have to wait because Trent was currently busy being the only thing keeping the room's cold at bay.
Trent, despite his sarcastic tone, seemed to grasp the gravity of the situation. The echo of his voice, coupled with the rhythmic beat of his heart, provided an oddly soothing backdrop to the turmoil within the room. The warmth emanating from the embrace was a stark contrast to the chilling cold that enveloped the rest of the house.
This was bad. Terrible actually. Kenny was walking in his own footsteps: searching for warmth and inevitably getting burned. Like with Rick-
Sitting there in his own self-loathing, his eyelids felt incredibly heavy and only grew heavier with every heartbeat in his ear. Ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum. He moved his head to hear it clearer, and it sped up. Before he knew it, his eyes were closing on their own, and he found himself falling into a deep slumber. He supposed it was partly due to basically forcing Trent to cuddle with him, partly being tired, and partly having spent months associating the couch with sleep to the point where he rarely even used his bedroom anymore.
With all those odds stacked against him, how was he supposed to defend himself against the lullaby that was Trent's heartbeat?
Kenny awoke in his bed, the familiar sensation of warmth and comfort replaced by the solitary chill of his room. Streams of morning sunlight fell through his window, making it appear foreign. How long had it been since he was last in there? For a moment, he wondered if the events of the evening had been nothing more than a vivid dream, a product of his exhausted mind. As he sat up, rubbing his eyes, he couldn't shake the feeling that something significant had occurred.
His gaze fell upon the crutches placed next to his bed, a stark reminder of the events that unfolded. The memories flooded back, the conversation with Trent, the revelation about Max, and the unexpected comfort in Trent's arms. He could feel his face getting hot. 'Damn it, Kenny! You fucking moron!'
His eyes searched the room for anything else. Anything that might take his mind off of his cyclical predicament. They landed on something that answered questions Kenny thought were meant to be forever unanswered. Max Kentwood being bigger and stronger than Rick had thrown him off and confused him. Because how could Rick manage to overpower him to the point of drowning him without leaving any injuries? It was clear that Rick never started fights with people bigger than himself or his own size either.
The thing in Kenny's room explained it all. You see, Rick used to give Kenny lots of apology gifts. The biggest one was a phone when he broke Kenny's arm, then there was a box of chocolates when he hit him for the first time. All those 'gifts' eventually blended together and became just as meaningless as the apologies themselves.
But right there, hanging half-dead and wilted in the morning rays from his window, stood a single glass with a single flower inside. A wilted, dead black rose, surrounded by its fallen petals.
