Characters don't belong to me, etc etc.
Chapter Track: Beautiful Loser - William Control
"What the fuck are you listening to, dude?"
Kenny looked away from his ceiling – which he'd decorated with Call of Duty and Playboy posters; it was a nice-looking ceiling, he thought – and to the doorway to his bedroom, where Kyle stood, his green hat slightly crooked, and a cup of Tweek's coffee in each hand. His friend went on, lifting his brows at Kenny's secondhand stereo, "Seriously, what is this shit? It sounds like that crap the goth kids listen to."
Kenny exhaled smoke from his cigarette and took a swig of cheap beer, which he'd snagged from his dad's stash. He chuckled, "They probably do. I'm in a fucking bad mood and it seemed appropriate, okay? Why are you even here? I told you I was busy, dude."
Kyle set the cup of coffee he'd brought for Kenny on the boy's messy bedside table, and flopped back onto the beanbag chair situated on the floor. Kyle shrugged, "You sounded fucking weird on the phone, man. I thought maybe something was wrong. Instead I find you sitting in your bed, drinking and smoking. What the fuck, dude? That doesn't qualify as 'busy.' Me and Stan wanted you to hang out."
Kenny sat up on his bed, his legs crisscrossed. He waved a dismissive hand at Kyle's accusation, and a smirk appeared on his face.
"What?" Kyle demanded.
"You called me when I was getting blown, Kyle. Of course I fucking sounded weird."
This revelation caused Kyle to blush. He glanced down at the stained carpet and muttered, "Oh. Sick."
Nevertheless, Kyle and Stan were used to their best friend's antics. Stan's philosophy was to let Kenny do as he pleased, that it wasn't hurting anybody. Kyle insisted that Kenny used sex to keep his mind off of the less savory aspects of his life – his constantly fighting parents, his jailed brother, his lack of any money for anything…it had to equal a lot of damn stress. And so he reigned at South Park High as the school slut. How did he have the energy for it, anyway?
Kenny guffawed, "Oh Christ, I wish you could see the look on your face right now, man. Poor virginal Kyle!"
"Fuck off," retorted Kyle, "I'm not."
"Not what?" Kenny egged him on.
"A virgin, fuckstick," Kyle punctuated this with a swig of coffee.
Kenny didn't often admit to being surprised, but this revelation about Kyle Broflovski definitely fell into that category. When did Kyle even have time to have sex? Kenny wondered. When the dude wasn't studying or doing homework or nerding out with himself on the internet, Kyle was with Kenny and Stan.
This time, Kyle had a chance to laugh. He said, "Oh, my god, your face, dude. Am I really that innocent?"
"You sure as hell seemed like it," Kenny murmured, cigarette still between his lips. Then again, everybody seemed innocent in comparison to him. Sex-wise, Kenny found himself up for anything. And he meant anything. He hadn't worried himself with telling his best friends about his pansexuality, though he figured they wouldn't be bothered. It was his parents that would care…Conservative to the bone, if they discovered that Kenny liked dick, he'd be on the street in ten seconds flat. And, as poor as the McCormick family was, Kenny at least had a mattress and enough money to buy Marlboros.
There was a short silence between the two friends before Kyle said, "You wanna go hang out with Craig and Token at Stark's Pond? They said there'd be vodka and girls. They asked if you could score some weed. Then again, you seem already drunk…"
Kenny shook his head. He stood, stretching his arms above his head and giving his armpit an experimental sniff. He replied, "Of course I want to go, dude. Just let me change my shirt. Can't remember the last time I did. And I've only had like three beers. I'm not even buzzed." He tugged his shirt up and over his head, causing his blonde hair to stick up in all directions.
"Dude." Kyle stated.
"What?" Kenny cast his friend a look.
"When the fuck did you get those scars?" Kyle asked. His voice was almost a whisper.
Kenny glanced down at his chest—among the smaller scars of various deaths (a few from being stabbed, plenty from being run over, a couple burns and a nice, thick decapitation scar at the base of his neck) , one fluid marking stood out from the rest of his collection—autopsy scars. South Park's resident mortician had only once made the mistake, before she figured out Kenny's curse. She was the only one that knew about it, and not because she remembered, either. Just because she believed him.
"Oh," Kenny said flatly, "they're autopsy scars."
"What? Are they from that one time you got run over when you were playing that Heaven and Hell game? But you didn't die?"
Kyle's bewilderment annoyed him. It always did, just like it annoyed him when he walked into school after a particularly painful death and his friends greeted him casually. What's up Kenny? You look tired dude, are you alright?
"Damn it, Kyle. I tell you this shit all the time. You always fucking forget, since we were just kids. I can't die, dude. I mean, I die all the time, but I always come back. If it happens when you're around, it usually goes something like 'Oh my god, they killed Kenny!' and 'You bastards!' but you forget by the time I come around," Kenny scowled, before putting out the butt of his cigarette in his novelty ash tray—it was ugly, and shaped like a hamburger.
Kyle laughed. He actually fucking laughed.
"Shit, man, that's funny. And you can pull that off with a straight face, too. Oh god. That is hilarious," Kyle clutched his sides as he laughed.
Kenny rolled his eyes and scrounged around his drawers for a t-shirt that might be clean. His only success was an ancient Terrance & Phillip shirt that he'd probably last worn when he was thirteen. When he pulled it on over his head, it was snug, but would do. He didn't care how stupid he looked in the too-small shirt and ripped up, hand-me-down jeans that were too big , and sagged past his boxers despite the belt he wore. He just wanted to get nice and thoroughly drunk. And high. High was good. High was happy, and comfortable, and safe, at least for a while.
He rummaged in his sock drawer, before pulling out a decent-sized plastic baggie filled with marijuana. It was one of his more expensive ones that he could have sold, but Kenny was too irritated with Kyle to care about the loss.
As Kyle hovered in the frame of his bedroom door, Kenny slid on his worn sneakers and zipped his traffic-cone-orange hoodie, stuffing the weed into the back pocket of his jeans.
"Alright," he said, "let's go."
The air outside was stale, the kind of midsummer Coloradan air that drove Kenny crazy when he was trapped in his house without AC. He wondered if maybe he should have stopped Kyle when the redhead had begun to laugh. He wondered if he should have said, No, Kyle, I'm completely serious. I mean it. I die more than you play World of Warcraft.
Instead, he did what he usually would. As he Kyle walked down the sidewalk, he elbowed his friend and told a crass joke about Bebe. Kyle laughed, but said, "C'mon, dude, that's unfair," like he always did.
One day, Kenny thought. One day, I'll tell him.
Hope you enjoyed, and constructive crit is always welcome.