Soundtrack: Frank Sinatra – Cake
"Not you, too," are the words that wake Kenny up.
He feels as though he's been hit by a bus.
Which is exactly what happened to him.
Before Kenny opens his eyes, he tries to figure out how long he must have been out of the real world. Not that Hell isn't real or that it isn't a big part of his life (or his death, is you're getting technical), but he prefers to consider his time on earth the important time. Maybe Damien would be offended by the fact that playing poker and knocking back some drinks isn't Kenny's favorite activity, but, ah, oh well. Hanging out downstairs is tolerable at best. It's stuffy and hot and he thinks he's been returned to Earth with a hangover this time.
Kenny's suspicions are confirmed when he opens his eyes.
"Ah, fuck," he complains, covering his eyes with his arm. He's back in his old jacket as per usual, most likely missing his pants, also as per usual.
"I came over to see if you wanted to come have dinner at my place tonight," Kyle's voice says testily from above him, "but maybe you're too busy getting fucked up."
"Fuck you, dude," Kenny mumbles into his sleeve, "I'm fine. Fuck."
"You've been missing for three fucking days, asshole," Kyle snaps back.
Three days? Shit.
Kenny, though still holding his arm over his eyes, sticks out his tongue and licks suggestively at Kyle. He says, his voice still garbled from his Hell-hangover, "So you do care."
"Of course I care," Kyle says, sounding frustrated. A moment later, the mattress sags on Kenny's side. Kyle sighs heavily before running his hand over Kenny's greasy hair, which he has just found out has not been washed in three days. Kyle's been getting like this, lately. A little more affectionate. It's in the little things – small touches to the elbow, secret smiles, stroking Kenny's hair like he's doing now.
He and Kyle aren't actually an item, though Kenny knows a couple people who have them figured out. Stan, as always, is oblivious. Cartman, as always, pretends that he isn't oblivious but doesn't actually know squat. He thinks Wendy has them figured out, though, and definitely Craig.
He and Kyle have been sleeping together for almost a year, now. It started the summer before they entered their senior year of high school. Kenny was over at Kyle's and Stan and Cartman were MIA. He and Kyle didn't get a lot of time to just the two of them, and maybe Kyle suddenly realized that, because he expressed worries to Kenny that Kenny didn't know Kyle concerned himself with at all. Namely, Kyle's virginity.
"We're about to be seniors," Kyle had said, "and I like, haven't even messed around with anybody."
"I didn't realize it was that important to you," Kenny had said dryly, and he wonders now if the subject had come up because he'd been casually flipping through some retro porn rag that he found underneath his brother's bed (Kevin, at the time, had been missing for awhile. They found out later that he'd run away after a dramatic spat with their father. He now lives in a mobile home park in Rock Springs, doing God knows what for a living – but Kenny's guessing that he's cooking up meth or something).
"It isn't," Kyle had insisted, but he amended at the cock of Kenny's brow, "Okay, it shouldn't be, but it is, for some reason."
"If you buy me dinner, you can have my ass, if you want," Kenny offered, sort of jokingly, but not exactly. He does that a lot to his friends – cracking a joke about sex but meaning it halfway, so whether they took him seriously or not didn't matter.
"Ha fucking ha, very funny," Kyle says, "but I don't want to get my ass pounded by one of my best friends, thank you very much."
"Did I not just imply that you would be the one doing the pounding?" Kenny said, still keeping it in a tone that suggested it was a jest, just in case.
Kyle had stared at him. He loved when he could baffle Kyle. It was a game to Kenny, really – seeing whether or not he could stump Broflovski long enough to get him to shut up. The words that Kyle finally came up with were, "Dude. I can't tell if you're joking or not."
Kenny smirked and responded, "Neither can I."
"What does that even mean?" Kyle had demanded. His face was turning pink, the color creeping from neck to ears.
"It means if you treat me to some City Wok or something, I'll help you lose your virginity."
"By letting me have sex with you?" Kyle says questioningly, his face growing ever brighter.
"Sure, why not?" Kenny responded.
And so it began. That first time had been almost painfully awkward, however, on account of Kyle's fumbling and constant concern that he was going to hurt Kenny (even though Kenny assured him that he was plenty experienced in this area, and there was thusly no need to worry). Kyle took him out to get Chinese food after it happened, even though they were both fucked out and in need of a good nap.
Now Kenny and Kyle know each other in a strange, intimate way that neither of them had really intended. Maybe Kyle worried that this would happen – worrying is in his nature. But Kenny, Kenny didn't even consider that whatever's happening to him now was a possibility. Every time he sees Kyle he gets this happy soreness in his chest, a sort of ache. It's all over him now, hurting, but in a nice type of way. If Kenny had to feel one kind of pain for the rest of his life, he'd choose this.
And when Kenny's fucked up, or at least, was fucked up and is now hungover, Kyle gets upset. Mainly it's on the basis that Stan relapsed into his alcohol addiction not two months ago, and hasn't been seen much since. They pass him in the hallways at school, sure, but he's distanced himself from them yet again. It upsets Kyle more than anything in the world to see Stan like that, and though the fear is irrational, he's expressed to Kenny that he doesn't want the same affliction to befall him.
"Kenny, I'm serious," Kyle says, "What the fuck were you doing for three days? You look like hell. I can only assume you were doing shit I've told you I don't want you messing around with."
Kenny inwardly sighs and replies, "Don't worry about it, dude. Did you say something about dinner?"
"Don't worry about it?" Kyle repeats incredulously.
"I'm fine," Kenny says, finally moving his arm away from his face. Kyle is frowning down at him in an expression that is slightly deeper than his typical Broflovski disapproving look. He looks good – good enough that, if Kenny didn't know better, he would say that Kyle had gotten gussied up for him. But Kyle always looks good. He puts in twice the effort into his appearance than any normal dude. Some would say it's because he's vain, and in a way, Kyle is vain. But Kyle's vanity lies no place near his physical appearance. Kyle is a little full of himself when it comes to academics (okay, a lot full of himself, but he's a smart-ass kid, so Kenny doesn't hold it against him), but underneath all his ego, he's definitely concerned about his appearance. As in, he doesn't find himself all that good-looking, even though that notion is the height of ridiculousness.
For example, now, he's looking a little suspiciously hipster-esque (Kenny will tease him about this as soon as he works up the brain power) – wearing his plastic-framed glasses instead of his contacts, a patterned cardigan over a band t-shirt – you get the gist. Kyle has no idea how to put together an outfit, so he tends to disguise that in ugly hipster things.
"Seriously, I'm fine," Kenny assures him, "I'm just a little hungover, is all."
"Maybe I should just leave you to your drinking, then?" asks Kyle, sarcasm high in his voice.
"Look, moron. Hungover means I was drinking, not that I am drinking. Jesus, dude. You could let a guy party a little more, if you pulled out the stick wedged up your ass," Kenny complains. At that accusation, Kyle snatches his hand back from Kenny's hair and scowls at him.
"You're a dick," Kyle says plainly.
"I'm hungover. I'm entitled to being a dick," Kenny shoots back. He leans over and gives his pit a casual sniff before asking, "Is dinner still on the table? I'm fucking hungry, but I need a shower first."
Kyle's glare softens just a smidge, and he says, "Yeah. Go for it. You're fucking disgusting, dude."
Kenny stays still for a couple seconds more, relishing the last of the feeling of being comfortably tucked into his bed, before he swings his legs over the edge of the bed. Sure enough, he's buck naked except for his stained orange jacket.
"Aw, dude, sick," complains Kyle.
Kenny winks at him and says, "You know you love it," before shedding the coat entirely and giving a stretch. When he turns around with a wicked grin plastered onto his face, Kyle is covering his eyes with his hands. Kenny lets out a bark of laughter and leans down, applying a sloppy kiss to Kyle's lips.
Kyle makes a noise of frustration that does not sound like sexual frustration, but actual annoyance with Kenny. Kenny takes this as his cue to leave.
He doesn't linger in the shower. He never does, really. If he stays standing under the water for too long, not only will he be costing his parents more money on the water bill, he'll have too much time to think. And if Kenny has time to think, he'll start thinking about death again, or maybe Kyle and how Kyle is getting a little heavier and more meaningful in his touches. Kenny doesn't know that he likes that, but he's also not certain that he doesn't like it.
He towels himself basically dry with a probably-not-clean towel that he found on the floor and returns to his bedroom naked, fishing in his closet for something reasonably clean to wear to the Broflovskis. He knows that Sheila worries about him (a little unnecessarily, as Kenny is quite skilled at looking after himself. Still, he appreciates her concern nonetheless), and so he hates going over to their house looking like the grungy shit that he is.
He sneaks a glance back at Kyle, who is watching him out of his hawk-like green eyes and says, "Checking out my ass, Broflovski?"
"What's it to you?" shoots back Kyle.
Kenny snorts but doesn't bother replying. He finds an old t-shirt that smells a little of cigarette smoke but seems otherwise okay, and slips it over his head before pulling up underwear and holed jeans over his hips. The jeans are a hand-me-down from Kevin, who is definitely thicker around the middle, and so Kenny begins the hunt for a belt to keep them from falling off his skinny body. He finds his prize in the form of a gag gift that Stan had gotten him a couple years ago, a cheap-ass faux leather belt printed with pot leaves all the way around. He's gotten a surprising amount of use out the cheap piece of shit, considering it was given to him for laughs in the first place.
"You're not really going to wear that, are you?" Kyle says censoriously, as Kenny threads it through the belt loops of his baggy jeans.
Kenny says, "I don't have another option, dude. Unless you want me to flash my junk at your mom."
"Here," Kyle sighs. He lifts up his sweater and undoes his own belt, a much nicer looking black one, and hands it over to Kenny.
Kenny inspects it and says, "Dude, is this like, designer or some shit?"
Kyle shrugs, "Dunno, my mom bought it."
Kenny shrugs but accepts it, tossing the pot leaf belt onto the carpet and swapping it for Kyle's much nicer one. He grins as he tugs on his jacket and asks, "How do I look? Like a proper Broflovski?"
Kyle punches him in the arm and mutters, "Shut up."
They pass by Stuart and Kevin, who are watching a football game, cursing at somebody fucking something up – Kenny doesn't care enough to listen to what they're bitching about. He announces half-heartedly, "Dad? I'm going over to Kyle's."
"Get out of the way, you shithead," Kevin says, craning his neck to see around Kenny.
"Yeah, whatever," Stuart expresses.
Kyle drove to Kenny's house in Sheila's minivan. Kenny smiles fondly at it, wondering if the woman has any clue how many sins have been committed in the back seat. He rather hopes she doesn't. Sheila is a shrewd woman, but sometimes she misses the most obvious thing. Like her son fucking the McCormick kid.
Kenny's stomach growls when they enter the Broflovski house. The air is permeated with the smell of cooking meat and spices and home, something that the place where Kenny lives never smells like.
"Kenneth!" Sheila exclaims when he and Kyle saunter toward the stairs, "How good to see you. I was worried when you didn't come over for last night's dinner."
"Thanks for the concern, Mrs. B," Kenny flashes her a toothy smile.
She smiles back and asks, "Would you and Kyle set the table?"
"Mom –" protests Kyle.
"Sure thing, Mrs. B," Kenny consents, making a beeline for the Broflovski's every day china. He hears Kyle give a surly sigh behind him, before he, too, comes into the kitchen to retrieve the silverware.
When they sit around the dinner table, Gerald looks exhausted from whatever was making him swear at his computer in the study, Sheila looks discerning as usual, and Ike looks as though he smoked a little something before joining them at the table, due to redness in his eyes and how eager he looks to get cracking on the eating part.
Kenny loves meals with the Broflovskis. Despite the fact that a lot of the conversation is Gerald and Sheila going on about Kyle and Ike's grades and bugging them about keeping up, Kenny always leaves feeling full and good about himself. He always gets seconds and Sheila always lets him have the first part of desert – tonight's is a peach cobbler with ice cream.
Kenny, Kyle and Ike all do the dishes dutifully afterward, while Gerald returns to his study and Sheila curls up in the living room with her Kindle (Kyle tells him she has recently converted to the e-reader craze and has since become more of a reader than she has ever been).
It's almost nine o'clock by the time that Kenny collapses back on Kyle's bed. Kyle's bed is far more comfortable than his own – the mattress springs don't stick up into his back, the pillows are well-stuffed, and the down comforter gets him warm in seconds. He could fucking live in Kyle's bed, let him tell you.
Just like in Kenny's bedroom a few hours ago, Kyle sits on the edge of the bed. Moments later, he's fiddling with Kenny's now clean hair, raking his fingers through it. He asks, "Do you want to spend the night?"
"That would be magical," Kenny tells him, casting him a shit-eating grin.
Kyle gets up for a moment, but only to lean over the banister just outside of his bedroom to shout, "Ma? Ma! Kenny's spending the night."
When Kyle returns, instead of sitting back down, he leaps onto the bed and shoves Kenny over to the side, laughing as he does. Kenny complains into Kyle's pillow, "Hey, fuck you. Don't manhandle me. I'll have you know, I am the most delicate of flowers."
Kyle ignores him, tugging Kenny forward so that they're close up against each other. He kisses along Kenny's neck, starting behind his ear and ending at his collarbone. He runs his tongue along the path of kisses, making Kenny moan softly into the pillow. This is something that Kyle has only recently become comfortable with. At first, he'd been afraid of embarrassing himself, in spite of knowing that Kenny McCormick is the last person to judge experimenting in bed. It's a new development that Kyle likes to try out new things (though he still hasn't given up on forever topping, no matter how many suggestions Kenny tosses his way).
When Kyle sucks Kenny's earlobe into his mouth, playing with Kenny's earring with his tongue, Kenny loses all semblance of himself. He groans low in his throat, stuffing his hand into his mouth so that he's not too loud. God knows the last thing Kyle needs is for his mother to walk in on her son pounding into another dude's ass.
But they're not rushed tonight, not like they usually seem to be. Typically by the time they're all over each other, both of them are horny as fuck and can't wait to tear the other's clothes off. But that's not what this is like. Kyle seems to be taking his time, hiking his hand up underneath Kenny's shirt to feel along his chest, to trace where he can feel Kenny's ribs, to stroke his thumb over Kenny's nipples.
Kenny, meanwhile, occupies himself by nuzzling his nose against the side of Kyle's neck, kissing wetly until he finds a spot that he finds appropriate to bite down on. Kyle makes a muffled noise when Kenny's teeth nip at his skin, and slides Kenny's jacket off of his body.
Kenny detaches his mouth from Kyle's neck to stare up at him. He says, "Yeah?"
A blush spreads across the bridge of Kyle's nose. He says, "I, uh, feel like I don't say this a lot, dude, but…you're really hot." He looks like he regrets the words the instant that they come out of his mouth, probably because Kyle seldom ever compliments people and doesn't know how to take compliments himself, being the surly bastard that he is.
Kenny threads his fingers through Kyle's curls and brings him in for a short kiss before replying, "I'm alright looking, I guess," he says, in the self-deprecating way that he tends to go because he can't quite take compliments either, "But you are even better." And because Kenny doesn't want to have a longwinded conversation during sex (which Kyle tends to enjoy), he tugs his shirt off of his head and casts it off to side, reaching for Kyle once it's off.
Kyle swings a leg over Kenny, straddling him. He runs his hands along Kenny's sides and kisses him, a strange little half-smirk playing at his lips. They're both hard, and probably both have been for awhile. Kenny's stopped being able to pinpoint the exact moments around Kyle that he gets an erection. They just tend to happen, so he's come to accept it.
Kyle's hands find their way to either side of Kenny's head, but only after Kyle has gotten rid of his hipster-esque sweater and torn his band t-shirt off of himself. Kenny smiles to himself at the sight of Kyle's chest. Kyle is this strange sort of athletic slender. He's skinny, but not in the malnourished, sort-of-fucked-up way that Kenny is. He's naturally built that way, but he has just a little muscle to fill in the blanks where Kenny has none.
He's tired of waiting. Kenny thrusts softly up against Kyle, who mmms before following suit rolling his hips forward so that their erections rub together through their jeans.
Kenny can't quite say why, since typically he'd say 'fuck foreplay,' but with Kyle, this is one of his favorite parts. He likes when they're just getting revved up. It makes him louder. He's quite practiced in the art of quiet sex, but Kyle somehow got to him and fucked that all away. Literally.
Kenny tangles his hands deeper in Kyle's hair, holding him against his chest.
"Your heart is beating really fast," mumbles Kyle, in between kisses.
And it is. Kenny's heart is on the fucking fritz. He almost didn't notice, because that's how it's been lately – pounding like it does in nearly the same way it does before he's about to die, when he sees the thing that's about to kill him. Like when he got hit by that bus three days ago. The only response that Kenny can come up with to Kyle's observation is a quiet, "Mm."
Kyle kisses up to Kenny's ear as they roll their bodies against each other in soft thrusts. He murmurs, "Mine too," and moves one of Kenny's hands from out of his red curls to his chest.
For a minute, it all goes to the same rhythm – their breath, their heartbeats, their thrusts against each other. The pattern at first is amazing, then comforting, then a little unsettling. Kenny is the first to break it because of that. He reaches down between them, to the fly of Kyle's jeans, unbuttoning with one deft hand, before slipping the same hand inside to feel along his cock. Kyle gasps into his mouth and tears his head back to cock a brow.
Kyle doesn't say anything, but Kenny can read the look on his face. It clearly says 'I'll get you back for that.' Kyle isn't, and perhaps never will be, adept at removing another person's pants. But he gives it his all, and Kenny's tempted to tell him 'A for effort' when Kenny ends up kicking off his jeans on his own.
And God, does he love the heavy-lidded look that finds its way to Kyle's face every time Kyle sees Kenny naked. Kenny's not delusional. He knows he's pretty nice to look at, even if he doesn't know how to take it when other people tell him what he already knows. Kenny's favorite activity is sex, and his body was built for that, by some grace of God. Or Satan, he doesn't know which. Even if he's not the tallest or most muscled, he does have a damn nice-looking dick.
Kyle seizes it without hesitation. Or maybe 'seizes' is too harsh a word. He takes Kenny's cock in hand and starts stroking warmly, a smirk riding his lips. Kenny smothers his face in Kyle's pillow and grunts, trying very hard not to cause concern and have Sheila parading into the room while Kyle has his hand on Kenny's dick.
"You're a tease," Kenny accuses hoarsely.
Kyle gives him a frown and replies, "I am not. You're the tease."
"Excuse me," Kenny retorts, "I am not the one with his hand on a cock right now."
"Maybe you should be," contends Kyle.
"Can't argue with that," mumbles Kenny, and he pulls Kyle closer, running his knuckles along the outline of Kyle's dick through his boxer-briefs. He suggests, "You should take these off."
Kyle, in a rare event, seems to agree. He slides off of the mattress just long enough to get himself completely naked. When he returns to his place, straddling Kenny, Kyle pulls his planet-patterned blanket up over them. He prefers it that way, always has, out of some odd embarrassment or modesty that Kenny doesn't really understand. He takes Kenny's cock in hand and resumes his work, his fucking teasing. At least Kenny can get him back now – except that he doesn't even wrap his hand around Kyle's erection. He just runs his fingertips over the swollen length of it.
Kyle glowers after he realizes what Kenny's up to, but they're both past the point of no return, now. Kenny's panting, bucking up into Kyle's hand mindlessly.
But then it stops.
Kyle gets up off of him and disappears into his adjoined bathroom.
"You rat bastard," Kenny complains, "Get your ginger ass back here."
Kyle pokes his head over the frame of the door and holds up his hand.
It's a bottle of lube.
"Oh," Kenny manages, because his mind was so blank that he didn't realize that Kyle is not the type to abandon one during sex.
"Unless you want me to go in dry, dumbass," Kyle says wryly.
Kenny doesn't even bother arguing after that, he just rolls his eyes and waits. Kyle squeezes a glob of lube onto his fingers and tosses the half-used bottle beside Kenny in the sheets. He situates himself between Kenny's legs and tosses Kenny's right leg over his shoulder. This is something that Kenny had to patiently teach Kyle over the course of many fuckings – luckily, Kyle is a quick learner. The first time was the most awkward – Kenny ended up fingering himself to show Kyle how it was done because of Kyle's concern that he would hurt Kenny.
Now, Kyle knows this process like the back of his hand. He leans forward to capture Kenny's lips in a long, languid kiss while teasing the outside of Kenny's entrance, slipping a finger inside him only after Kenny whines into Kyle's mouth.
After Kyle had gotten over his fear of hurting Kenny, he became an instant master at fingering, probably because he actually paid attention in anatomy class when their teacher had them label where the prostate was. He finds it in moments, crooking his finger just right. This always where Kenny loses his mind, and has to use all his brain power to remind himself that he needs to shut the fuck up so that they're not caught going at it. Sometimes Kyle is so persistent that Kenny has to wonder if the bastard doesn't want to be caught. Maybe he does. Maybe Kyle wants everybody to know.
Kyle eases in another finger, massaging. Kenny fumbles around, searching blindly for something to grab onto, and ends u with his hand on Kyle's hand.
Kyle threads his fingers through Kenny's. The action is surprisingly tender coming from this grouchy guy, and Kenny decides to savor it, squeezing Kyle's hand tighter with each thrust in and out of Kyle's other hand.
When Kyle withdraws his fingers to relocate the lube, he pushes a small, wet kiss to Kenny's forehead, stroking aside his sweat-damp blond hair to get to his skin.
Now, Kyle does not worry about hurting Kenny. It's rather the opposite, actually. He gets a kick out of surprising Kenny. For example, Kenny was not expecting the whole cock right away, and yet, Kyle just thrusts in without so much as an 'are you ready?'
Kenny chokes on a moan and gasps out, "Jesus Christ."
Kyle is wearing an all-too-merry grin on his flushed face, and once again, does not wait. He works up a rhythm before Kenny can even manage a coherent thought. It's pretty difficult to outwit Kenny McCormick when it comes to sex, but somehow, this jerk gets off on it.
"You know, Kyle," Kenny jokes, "Sometimes you're a real pain in the ass."
Kyle looks down exasperatedly, stilling inside Kenny, "Did you really just make that joke?"
"I dunno, did I?" Kenny sarcastically quips back.
Kyle gives an exaggerated roll of his eyes before pulling out of Kenny all the way, only to slam back forward unceremoniously. This bangs the headboard of Kyle's bed against the wall, and causes Kenny to cry, "Fuck. Could you be any louder?"
They stop arguing after this, however. Kyle tugs Kenny back, more toward the middle of the bed, probably so that he can be rougher without making as much noise.
The springs squeak with every thrust. Kenny tightens his legs around Kyle's torso and pulls him in deeper with each movement. There's barely enough friction against Kenny's cock to please him. Kyle, the mind reader, must have heard his thoughts, because he draws one of his hand out of Kenny's hair and grips his erection, handling it expertly.
Why can't Kenny handle himself tonight? Is it because he just got back from Hell? Is it because he's hungover? God, he doesn't know the answer, but he can't help but choke out a warning, "Gonna come," approximately a half a second before he does, spilling over Kyle's fingers and onto himself.
Kyle must want to cuddle or something, because he pulls out and comes onto the sheets underneath them. Kenny can't stand having come in his ass for longer than like, a minute. He will spend all the time in the world cleaning that out. Kyle knows it.
As predicted, when Kyle draws himself off of Kenny, he tucks himself behind him instead, spooning.
He's panting. They both are. Kenny likes this, though, in a way that he can't tolerate with anybody but Kyle. He wiggles back so that they're closer, even though they're both sweating like crazy.
"Forgot a condom," Kyle mumbles, eyes closed.
"S'okay," Kenny replies, "Haven't been with anybody but you since April." April, a month after this whole thing began. Kenny slept with one other person after his first time being with Kyle, and that was Bebe. Don't get him wrong, he loves Bebe, but he was surprised to find that day that she didn't do it for him anymore. He found himself thinking of red hair and his snarky-ass friend.
"I said I haven't been with anybody but you since April," Kenny repeats, yawning.
Kyle seems to be shocked into silence. That's understandable. Kenny was notably promiscuous before this whole affair began. He liked being that way, too. It's just that he likes being this way better. Even if they bicker all the time, even if Kyle's a domineering shithead sometimes, even if they're not "official," or whatever. He likes it.
Kyle nuzzles his chin against the back of Kenny's neck and kisses there, before saying, "Sometimes, I forget to tell you how amazing you are."
"How sentimental of you," Kenny returns.
Kyle hits him on the arm.
"Okay, okay, sorry. You are too. Amazing, I mean," Kenny says back. He means it, even if it doesn't sound like he does.
Kyle exhales out of his nostrils. Kenny imagines that he's probably rolling his eyes again, even as he pulls his down comforter over both of them and tightens his grip around Kenny's middle.
Maybe Sheila will find them like they are in the morning, naked and pressed together.
Maybe then they'll confess what they've been up to.
Maybe then they'd be "official."
Kenny doesn't think that he would mind any of that.