A/N: Ahh, hello again, guys :) An important note to the lovely people who take the time to follow my writing: I've withdrawn from the South Park Big Bang project (life is being a butt, what with applications and portfolio deadlines looming in the next month so unfortunately, I couldn't keep up with the deadlines of SPBB ...), but do not fear! I will still continue with the sequel to "A Brief Manner of Speech". I already have the first two chapters underway :)
About this one-shot: It's just a bit of fun, nothing to be taken too seriously, and it truly is a sincere attempt at writing humor. But I am the most unfunny person ever so /sob/ please don't hurt me. I'd classify this one-shot as stepping slightly into the crack genre, but only slightly (I hope, haha). I was never supposed to publish this (it started out as me just having fun with the idea of Kyle getting his first car) but then I just kept writing and thought, "Hey, why not share it?"
Anyway, I'll leave you to reading now :) I hope you guys enjoy it!
Bebe's house was shaking from its foundations, the surround-sound speakers blasting a booming dubstep remix.
It was ten minutes past one in the morning and the party still seemed to be in full swing.
Stan Marsh, however, was all partied out. The night had been full of shenanigans and being the designated driver apparently came hand in hand with babysitting his drunk friends. The night heralded the coming end of their senior year in high school and Stan had spent it being sober, making sure that Clyde was okay after crying for hours on the couch, telling Craig over and over again not to set the drinks on fire, keeping Kenny within his vision at all times to make sure that he refrained from jumping the fence to "bang the neighbor's smoking hot tamale" (whatever the hell that meant, but Stan thought it safe to assume that no good could ever come out of it), and that was only the beginning of the very long list of "Things Stan Has To Put Up With Because His Friends Are Assholes."
Now, at ten past one, he decided that calling it quits would be wise, because the peak effect of the alcohol had worn off two hours ago and anybody drunk who was previously lucid enough to run amuck doing stupid shit was now just tired and halfway into a coma, most likely laying about in a pool of their own vomit.
After doing a head count of the drunk passengers in his dad's SUV, Stan took note that he had yet to wrangle Kyle and Eric.
"Token!" Stan called out at his friend from across the front lawn. "Could you watch these guys for a second? I have to go look for Kyle and Cartman."
Stepping back into the humidity of the house, Stan immediately missed the cool night air of the outdoors. The speakers pounded. Bodies gyrated against each other on the dance floor.
"Everybody's doing a brand new dance now. I know you'll get to like it if you give it a chance now. My little baby sister can do it with me. It's easier than learning your ABCs. So c'mon—c'mon! Do the loco-motion with me!"
Good bye, senior year.
"Funk Anthem of The Triple X Groovy"
in other words
"Assumptions land you in very awkward places, dude."
"I'm your lovey-dovey bedtime playah. Call me your super-sexy boogie man slayer!"
Kyle Broflovski could sing most songs as well as he could dance—which meant that he was a godawful singer.
Even Eric Cartman, Kyle's worst and most open critic, would be at a loss for insults whenever Kyle belted a line from a catchy pop tune (The nightmare of the senior year spring bash: Kyle got plastered at Bebe's house party and some sadistic soul decided to get it into his head that it would be a good idea to sing "California Girls" on karaoke. As Kyle hopped onto a coffee table with suspiciously steady legs, Stan felt a sharp pang of fear when he saw his friend grab a mic and slur: "This goes out to you, babe!" Everyone at the party belatedly realized that Bebe's entire house was wired with ultra surround-sound speakers. The hellish screeching that followed would have made Katy Perry foam at the mouth in epileptic seizures).
Ever since Gerald Broflovski bought his son a Volkswagen Tiguan, Kenny made it his sole mission in life to steal Kyle's car radio and hurl it into the abyss of Stark's Pond. Thereafter he would find a way to get Kyle banned from every electronics store within the state of Colorado. Anything to prevent the usual "jam sessions."
After it was announced that Kyle would be presiding as valedictorian at the Park County High graduation ceremony, his proud parents decided that young Kyle had earned himself a good old slice of adulthood before he went on his merry way to Colorado University that upcoming fall. So it came to be that one May morning, Kyle awoke to his little brother Ike jumping up and down on his bed. As this was a strict violation of their Sibling Covenant (Rule #32: Though shalt not wake Kyle up with loud noises, bright lights, or manhandling, unless there is an emergency that Kyle needs to attend to personally, e.g.: "Dad tried to redecorate the basement again."), Kyle assumed that Ike's seven o'clock intrusion on a Saturday morning was due to the following possible reasons: the house was burning down; their father decided once again to try and install 70s memorabilia in the basement while mother was out shopping for groceries; or Ike was done living life and would like Kyle to personally end him with a baseball bat.
After five minutes and Ike still persisted, jumping all over Kyle's mattress like a frenzied fawn, Kyle whipped off his blankets with a bear-like war cry. Seizing Ike mid-leap, Kyle dragged his brother down by the ankle and snarled, "If the world isn't going to shit outside my window as we speak, you'd better start running."
Ike merely shrugged his shoulders and stated bluntly, "Well, if you'd look outside, you'd see something even better."
Pushing Ike aside, Kyle made his way to his bedroom window in agitated strides. All his irritation evaporated when he saw bright glimmering sunlight curving sharply against the hood of something silver, shiny, and sleek sitting in their driveway.
Kyle and Ike nearly killed themselves running down the stairs, racing outside to see the spectacle. It was a miraculous feat when neither of them suffered mild concussions in their haste to pull on their shoes before sprinting out the front door like savages (Kyle, unfortunately, took a boot to the eye while he was bending down to tie his laces).
As Kyle took in the heavenly image of sleek silver that stood like a mirage in the morning light, he spotted a card pinned to the windshield by one of the wipers, a sign that confirmed all his wishful thinking. Striding slowly to the car, as if one wrong move would trigger the engine to rev up on its own, Kyle plucked the cheery Hallmark card from where it rested, and opened it with shaky hands. It said:
Congratulations, Kyle! You've earned it. - Mom and Dad
Ike bore witness to the disturbing image of Kyle trying to hold back a teary whimper. In his mind, Ike swore vehemently that such a sound should never come from a six-foot tall male athlete who had the county girls throwing their panties at his very feet.
After thanking his mom and dad profusely (running into the kitchen where his mom was making breakfast, Kyle grabbed Sheila by the waist and spun her around in joyous circles—Sheila was much displeased, but gave Kyle a loving kiss on the cheek nonetheless. As Gerald came in to witness the scene, Kyle enveloped him in a hug, his bright smile proclaiming his thanks), Kyle decided to take his baby for a spin.
First stop: Stan's house.
While the drive to destination numero uno was a short one (really, Stan lived seven houses down the street), Kyle felt powerful and invincible in his leather upholstered seat, gear shift in hand, foot on the pedal, seat belt strapped in like a law-abiding motherfucker.
After pulling up in front of the Marsh residence, Kyle pressed speed dial one on his phone, watching Stan's window as he waited for his best friend to pick up.
When Stan answered on the fourth ring, he sounded sleepy and annoyed. "For the love of God—if your dad tried to redecorate again—"
Kyle counted three seconds before he saw Stan pull back his curtain. Stan's facial expression made it very clear that he wanted to leap out his very window. But he took the much slower, much safer route by bolting out of his front door, booking it across his lawn in PJs and fluffy slippers.
In a movement that was both reverent and hasty, Stan wrenched open the door to the passenger seat and quite literally flew into the car.
Out of breath, he said in a manic grin, "Shotgun has my NAME on it."
Second stop: Kenny's house.
This was a tricky one. Kyle's baby was brand new and taking it for a spin within the ghetto on its maiden voyage was just rude. So after debating strategically with Stan for about three minutes, Kyle decided to send Kenny a text to meet at the park within ten minutes. Then he drove around the block to Eric's house.
Pulling up in front of the driveway, Kyle and Stan made excited noises frighteningly similar to giggles as they got out of the car. They silently made their way to the front steps of the house. Kyle pulled a spare key from above the frame of the front door and quietly pushed it into the lock. Making their way inside, Stan and Kyle snuck up the stairs and stealthily made their way into Eric's room.
With predatory grins, they loomed over the sleeping form that lay in bed, unsuspecting of the chaos about to ensue.
Kyle quietly opened Eric's closet and sorted through a number of items. When he finally found what he needed, he gestured for Stan to hold Eric's blanket in both hands.
"On the count of three," Kyle whispered, voice positively radiant with glee.
Stan ripped off the blankets.
Kyle pulled the trigger, raining hellfire with paint balls.
Stan and Kyle bolted down the stairs and out the door, howling with laughter. Eric sped after them in an orange polka-dot rage. His planned assault against Stan and Kyle was cut short the moment he witnessed the silver beauty that greeted him in his driveway.
Kyle grinned from ear to ear. "Yeah."
Stan nodded solemnly. "Hells yeah."
Eric took off on a run.
Stan tackled Eric to the ground and the two of them wrestled in a mad frenzy. Kyle managed to pull them apart, scoffing, "Ladies, please, calm your orgasms. Stan has shotgun on all the days that end in Y. Cartman, you're gonna get shotgun every time you buy me a burger from Arby's."
"Aw, what the fuck—"
"And you're not getting in my baby with orange paint all over you. Go get changed."
Eric glowered at Kyle. "I wouldn't HAVE to if you weren't being a cunt."
After five minutes, Eric was in the backseat, and all three were speeding down the neighborhood streets of South Park. They arrived at the local park and spotted Kenny seated on a bench. Kyle pulled up by the sidewalk and rolled down his window.
"Kenny, get your ass over here!"
All three of them watched as Kyle's yell got Kenny's attention. Kenny's face was the very picture of disbelief. He very nearly tripped over his own feet in his haste to get to the car. Standing outside for a moment to revere the silver beauty, Kenny grinned at Kyle. "Well, I'll be damned. Broflovski's a man now. You do know what we have to do right?"
Kyle grinned back. "You know it. Get in."
With all the windows rolled down, wind whipped into the car as the boys whooped and yelled, cheering for Kyle as he did 85 in a 30.
They came to a screeching halt in front of a familiar house. Kyle honked repeatedly, and all watched as Craig opened his window. Disheveled and looking like he literally fell out of bed, Craig groggily flipped them off with both hands.
"CRAIG, YOU MOTHERFUCKER," Eric yelled, sticking his head out the window, holding up a middle finger salute of his own. "HOW DOES YOUR SHITTY VESPA LOOK NOW?"
A muffled groan came from Craig. "Seriously, you woke me up for—"
"THAT'S RIGHT. BURNWITH JEALOUS RAGE."
Fist bumps ensued. Kyle merrily drove down the street (this time within legal limits) and they all enjoyed breakfast at the local McDonald's whilst in their sleepwear.
The fairy tale was not made to last.
The following Monday, Stan, Kenny, and Eric looked forward to sleeping in. Waiting at the bus stop was no longer a dreaded routine that awaited them every morning, not when it was unspoken bro-code that Kyle drive them to school now that he had his car. Getting to Park County High took all of ten minutes. The bus ride, however, took an hour and a half, on account of their bus stop being one of the first ones on the map, not to mention there were a million other stops all over the county in between theirs and school.
So an hour later than usual, all rose from bed, refreshed and in high spirits. By 8:45, Kyle already had Stan and Kenny in the car, and was on his way to Eric's house. Upon picking up the last passenger, all were assembled and for a while, they all enjoyed a peaceful drive along one of the county's main roads.
Then Kyle decided to turn on the radio.
In that moment, instinctive fear swept through the car's passengers.
"Oh, my God!" Kyle proclaimed. "I love this song!"
There are many ways to proclaim imminent death. Kyle's aforementioned statement would be in the top ten most psychologically damaging.
Twenty seconds into Kyle's legendary slaughtering of "Super Bass," Stan felt his phone vibrating in his pocket.
Please be a phone call. Please be a phone call. Then I have an excuse to turn off that fucking—
It was a text from Eric:
"For the love of Jesus, Mary, Joseph. Make him STOP."
Stan snorted. He texted back:
"You do it."
"And wake up early to catch the bus for the rest of my life? That's a big fucking HELL NO."
"Well, I can't tell him, retard. I got shotgun."
"You guys this is so fucking weak."
Stan and Eric glanced at Kenny after receiving the group text.
They all shared suicidal scowls within the car's various reflective surfaces when "Grenade" came up on the radio.
For three days they suffered through this ordeal. It was after a particularly murderous Broflovski rendition of "Just The Way You Are" when Eric decided that enough was enough.
Confronting Stan at his locker one afternoon, Eric gave him a venomous scowl.
"You have good taste in music," Eric stated. "Since none of us have the balls to tell Kyle to shut his fucking ginger pipe, here's the plan: you make a mix CD—and I don't CARE if it'll make you look like a flaming queer, so don't give me that look. You're going to make Kyle a mix CD with songs that are downright impossible to tear into little bloody pieces, and that should keep him entertained for a week or two. Until then—"
"Cartman," Stan said, breathless. "That is BRILLIANT."
The following evening, Stan stayed up until two in the morning compiling impossible-to-butcher tracks on a CD he secretly named "Deliver Us From Kyle". He presented it to Kyle the following morning, watching Eric and Kenny's apprehensive expressions in the rear view mirror.
"What's this for, Stan?" Kyle asked, examining the CD while they were waiting at a red light.
Trying not to break down in unmanly tears, Stan cleared his throat. "Consider it a christening gift for your car. Since you're so into music."
Eric snorted from the backseat. Kenny elbowed him in the ribs.
Kyle's grin was radiant. "Awesome! Thanks, dude. You've always had good taste in music, so this should be good."
Kyle popped the disk into his player.
All of them waited with baited breath as hushed silence came over the speakers.
The sound of steady drumbeats and clapping got Kyle's head bobbing.
Buddy, you're a boy. Make a big noise. Playin' in the street, gonna be a big man some day. You got mud on yo' face, you big disgrace, kickin' your can all over the place.
Singin', we will, we will rock you.
Kyle whooped and turned up the volume. Eric glanced to his right and witnessed Kenny choking with the effort to hold back tears of immense relief.
Stan received a text from Eric:
"God save Queen."
The ride to school, although filled with Kyle's jamming, was a drastic improvement from the bloody murder their ears were dangerously getting accustomed to. The rest of the CD consisted of obscure indie tracks (Kyle couldn't butcher a song he didn't know the lyrics to), dubstep (singing along to synthesized bass lines and electronic melodies was just next to impossible), and a musical confectionery of classics ("Sweet Caroline, BA PA PAA, good times never seemed so good!").
The days that followed Stan's epic save were magical. Everyone got to enjoy the luxury of being driven to school every morning, as well as not having to endure any more of Kyle's war-scale crimes against music.
But as Nelly Furtado will tell you, all good things come to an end.
Three days later, Kyle played track number 12 on one of their customary morning drives to school.
The stereo blared hushed silence, then an echoing whoop. An upbeat series of notes plucked from an electric guitar.
Do you think that I can get some, chickie-chickie? Maybe gets a little fingah sticky-sticky? You my electrical lip balm flava! I gotta do ya till the next song saves ya!
Stan and Kyle shared identical grins as they sang along.
Kyle tapped on the steering wheel. "And can I get a little zip-zip lookie-lookie?"
"Can I get a little uh-uh nookie-nookie?" Stan crooned.
They sang together: "Hey watcha say, it doesn't matter anyway! You won't do another 'cause you're getting with ME."
Kenny joined in at the chorus.
"She got the power of the hootchie. I got the fever for the flava of the cootchie! And did I mention, HEY, pay attention!"
Kyle glanced at Eric in the rear view mirror. Smirking, he winked.
"GONNA TAKE THAT BOOTIE TO THE NUDIE DIMENSION."
Eric began to choke on his own spit.
Kenny took great pleasure in whacking Eric on the back with blows that were just a little too enthusiastic. Eric whipped his gaze around the car and took note that no one else had noticed Kyle's gesture. Stan and Kenny were still singing along. Eric returned his gaze to the rear view mirror. His eyes instantly met green.
Kyle smirked at him again. "And let me spin you like a record."
"Wicky-wicky!" Kenny chimed.
Kyle wagged his eyebrows. "Let me get you butt naked!"
Eric felt his face catch fire.
Eric could have sworn under oath that Kyle then made a kissing gesture with an irritating, enticing pucker of his lips.
"Here we go, yo, here's the scenario," Kyle continued with unwavering eye contact. "Gonna strip you down like a car in the barrio!"
Eric could see his own face in the mirror turning cherry red. As if by the merry will of a universe that wanted him bent over and screwed, Stan and Kenny remained oblivious to Kyle's very blatant, very disturbing erotic bedroom eyes. Eric stared back at him in the mirror, quite literally at a loss for words. He could barely muster up the will to mouth, "Have you completely lost your bloody Jewish marbles?" Really, Kyle was making it difficult to think when he did that thing with his mouth—
Eric squirmed in his seat.
Look away, he told himself. Eric all but screamed it in his head. It turned out sounding more like a feeble whimper: "Please look away from his fucking Jew eyes before you cream your pants, for the love of Jesus-Mary-Joseph just do it."
The song lasted for about three more minutes and in that time Eric was unable to take his eyes off Kyle as the stupid Jew sang along to all manner of sexual innuendo. Those unbelievably green eyes kept meeting his gaze, and in the four minutes that the song was playing—four minutes that brought excruciating discomfort to his nether regions—Eric read just about 32 different kinds of seductive promises every time Kyle decided to wink, bite his lip, and wag an eyebrow.
The song ended eventually, thank God, and the stereo began playing a dubstep remix. Eric noted with blessed relief that even if the song made any mention of getting "triple X groovy," the sound was synthesized to oblivion, so you couldn't tell what the hell was going on with those lyrics anyway. That guaranteed, for at least five minutes, that Eric was safe from Kyle's random burst of sexy insanity.
But as soon as the song changed, Kyle promptly broke their heated eye contact and remained fully attentive to the road in front of him for the rest of the drive.
Eric kept his eyes on the mirror out of paranoia, on the off chance that Kyle would look back—whether or not Eric wanted Kyle to nibble his shapely lips and poke out that pink tongue to lick the corner of his mouth was clearly not up to Eric's clouded judgment by that point.
The rest of the ride passed by without further incident. Eric remained rigid in his seat nonetheless, watching Kyle's every move—which was strictly limited to nodding his head to music and steering the wheel. Eric violently attempted to nuke the feeling of disappointment in his chest, only to discover that it was like a cockroach; it persisted no matter how much he screamed at his brain, "NO, he's not going to start undressing you with his smug fucking green eyes so stop fucking replaying that cocky thing he did with his mouth—oh GOD."
When they pulled into the school parking lot, Kyle had yet to acknowledge that he'd given Eric an eyeful of foreplay just about five minutes ago. In fact, for the entire day, Kyle acted eerily normal. Eric, however, felt his skin prickling every time Kyle so much as made a movement within ten feet of him.
It was during English class when Kyle nudged Eric's elbow from where he was seated to Eric's left.
"Dude, mind unzipping my pants for me? It's getting hot in here."
Eric blinked at Kyle, jaw hanging open, all the blood in his body rushing to unwanted places.
Kyle scowled at him. "Dude, I said could I have my damn pen back?"
Eric swallowed. "What did you say?"
"I asked for my pen back. Now hand over your pants."
"Dude!" Kyle hissed. "Just give me my fucking pen—"
"Is there a problem, boys?" Ms. Ollis called from her desk. She wore an expression of lenient concern, glancing between the two of them. "Eric?"
Eric felt himself making a garbled sound vaguely resembling a choke.
Kyle coughed, giving their English teacher a confused shrug. "I was just asking for my pen back."
"Well, then … I guess you'll have to give Kyle his pen back, Eric."
Kyle gave Eric a pointed glance. "Yeah, Eric."
Kyle wasn't trying to be a lewd bastard, Eric noted, coming down from the heady high of his hallucinations. That didn't explain why was he feeling an uncomfortably warm sensation swimming around in his belly, causing his stomach to do awkward somersaults and all sorts of physics-defying gymnastics.
Eric clenched his teeth. Grabbing Kyle's pen from his desk, Eric all but threw the thing at his head, silently hoping that it would spear Kyle through the eye if he gave it just enough force at the right trajectory.
Unfortunately, Kyle had catlike reflexes and caught the pen before Eric had the chance to blink.
It was promptly after that when Eric decided that he must have ingested something lethal that morning. He was starting to hallucinate and it could only end with his certain demise. Unless of course, him and a merry band of quirky heroes trekked halfway across the world in order to seek a cure for the deadly poison, and just as Eric was breathing his last few gasps of cold air, a helicopter would land where they were in the middle of the Himalayas, miraculously delivering the antidote—
And he was thinking of Kyle's lips again.
Eric's sleep that following night was fitful. Just as he was about to get a wink of rest, his alarm clock began blaring obnoxiously. Miserable, he dragged himself out of bed and within fifteen minutes was out his front door and in Kyle's car. His fatigue and severely cramped lower back were almost successful in distracting him from the vivid images of his restless dreams; Eric was just about ready to doze off as they cruised out of South Park.
Then Kyle turned on that godforsaken stereo.
Eric was jolted out of his drowsy stupor as the interior of the car shook with guitar riffs, hard drumbeats, and echoing voices that professed righteous rock.
Love is like a bomb. Baby, c'mon get it on. Livin' like a lover with a radar phone. Lookin' like a tramp, like a video vamp.
Eric met Kyle's eyes in the rearview mirror with a sense of dread that felt dangerously close to excitement.
Kyle crooned, "Demolition woman, can I be your man?"
His singing was an eerie fit with the hoarse vocals. Miraculously, in this rhythm, Kyle didn't sound too off-key. In fact … he sounded rather—
Eric swallowed hard, feeling a familiar warm sensation swimming around in his stomach. His eyes were fixated of their own volition on Kyle's lips, watching as they parted, curved, and pursed around deliciously promising words. Eric could barely keep his wits about him as Stan and Kenny joined in at the chorus; he only saw Kyle's eyes glancing at him, heat behind irises so earthy and green, the hot imagery laying underneath that gaze—Eric felt warm underneath his eyes.
"Pour some sugar on me, OH, in the name of love. Pour some sugar on me—c'mon, fire me up! Pour your sugar on me. OH, I can't get enough!"
For every "Oh" that was sung, Eric could practically hear Kyle moaning. In his peripheral vision, he frantically noted that neither Stan nor Kenny seemed to care that Kyle sounded like he was having a dirty hump session—God, Eric felt like he was on the receiving end of a hand job.
How could Kyle even do that just but looking at him?
The bigger question, Eric thought dimly while trying to get his breathing under control, was why Kyle was doing this to him in the first place. There had to be a good reason. Eric tried to think if he'd done something particularly heinous to Kyle within the past month that would warrant this kind of retribution. The worst thing he could come up with—it was hard enough to think with Kyle undressing him with those sex vibes, but the fuck-worthiness of the music certainly wasn't helping. Eric thought hard, clenching his teeth as he once again made dangerous eye contact with Kyle in that godforsaken mirror.
Eric concentrated, willing Kyle to stop doing that with his mouth. The worst thing he'd done within the past month was attempting to change Kyle's computer screensaver from a nice, G-rated Broflovski family picture to an X-rated image of three muscular men pounding each other in every bodily orifice you could fit it in.
That was a failed attempt at sabotage, however, since Ike saw fit to rat out Eric just as Kyle returned from his trip to the bathroom. It was also a significant fact that the prank was a collaborative effort between Eric and Kenny. If indeed Kyle was being a cocktease because of that incident, then it was only fair if Kenny got a good share of the punishment.
No, it wasn't that, Eric thought, suppressing a relieved groan as the song ended and the CD skipped to a mellow, acoustic track. He glanced at the rear view mirror. Predictably, any trace of seductive intent was wiped miraculously clean from Kyle's face. Kyle was all neutral driver, hands on the wheel, eyes on the road.
How does he do that, Eric snarled in his mind, noting that he himself still felt hot and heavy from a few covert glances.
The rest of the day progressed like the one before, with Kyle not appearing to be aware in any way, shape, or form that just that morning—not to mention the morning before—he'd practically dragged Eric all the way to third base with his sex eyes.
They had English class again that afternoon; in the middle of a thirty-minute writing session, Kyle stood up to go to the bathroom. Eric waited anxiously, watching the wall clock as if the thing would spontaneously burst into flame. After three minutes, he got up and sprinted to the nearest boys' bathroom.
Stopping just outside the door, Eric experienced a moment of doubt. If Kyle was in there, the possibilities were endless. Eric would storm in, demand an explanation for the unfulfilled sexual frustration, then Kyle would grab him, pin him up against a dirty bathroom stall, and he'd roll his hips right there, those beautiful fuck-worthy lips pressing warm kisses into his neck, those long fingers tracing hot touches all the way down to—
Or Kyle would be standing right in front him, giving Eric a look that was very, very far from aroused.
"Uh. Hey, dude," Kyle greeted.
Eric realized that he was right in front of the bathroom door, and the only way for Kyle to get out was for him to barrel through Eric. It was the perfect opportunity to corner him, force out an answer—
"Cool. Anyway, I'll just be going back to class now."
Belatedly, Eric became aware of the fact that he was staring up at Kyle with an open mouth.
"Not so fast," Eric breathed, placing a hand against the door frame just as Kyle tried to make a smooth exit.
Kyle stepped back, bewildered. "Dude, we have to get back to class—"
"Just who the fuck do you think you're kidding, Kyle?"
"Can you two take this somewhere else?"
Both whipped their heads in the general direction of the intruder. Craig stood off to the side, evidently needing to make use of the facilities. He raised a dark brow, crossing his arms when Kyle and Eric continued to stare at him in dumb silence.
"Right," Kyle muttered, pushing past Eric to let Craig through.
Eric wished with all his might that fire and brimstone would rain down upon Craig Tucker as he peed in a urinal.
His window of opportunity shrinking by exponential degrees, Eric frantically assessed the situation as he watched Kyle marching down the hallway without so much as another word.
As if his legs became a sentient entity operating separate from the rest of his body, Eric launched himself at Kyle, managing to catch him off guard long enough to pull him into a closet conveniently located to his direct right (one that Eric could have sworn wasn't there before—maybe he was losing his mind after all).
"Cartman—what the hell—"
"I don't know what you're playing at, Kyle," Eric snapped, glaring up at the unamused expression on Kyle's face.
The two of them stood toe to toe, a stance that emphasized their height difference. Kyle stood at six feet tall, while Eric was a good five feet, six inches. Eric cursed the fact that he had to crane his neck up just to get a good look at Kyle's face in the dimly lit closet.
Fumbling around for some sort of switch, Kyle leaned forward into Eric as he pawed at the wall. Eric found his face pressed directly into Kyle's solid chest. He felt the downy fabric of Kyle's cotton shirt, smooth skin and sinewy muscle resting underneath the thin garment, a heady waft of familiar cologne, soap, after shave, and clean skin assaulting his senses. Eric breathed in Kyle's unique scent; he smelled like he just stepped out of the shower.
Before Eric could question his own traitorous sniffing, Kyle found the light switch. The cramped space was illuminated in unflattering fluorescent. Eric noted, with a brief glance at Kyle, that his clear skin seemed almost brighter and softer under the washed out sheen of the fluorescent bulb.
"What the hell is all this about?" Kyle asked, moving back. They were still toe to toe.
Eric scoffed. "Same goes to you, Jew." He blushed. "You know what I'm talking about."
Kyle frowned down at him. Arms crossed, he said adamantly, "Do I?"
"YES. Yes, you DO."
Kyle whipped his hand over Eric's mouth.
"Shh! It's bad enough that we're not in class. Being caught in here would be even worse."
Eric glared, feeling the need to grab a bottle of bleach from one of the closet shelves and dump it all over Kyle. He took Kyle's hand and pulled it off his mouth. "Don't change the subject. You know what's going on, Jew. What the fuck, man? Have you gone out of your mind?" Eric's words came out in frantic hissing whispers. Kyle's proximity, his height, his clean scent—Eric started to panic.
"Woah, Cartman, calm down."
Eric felt a warm, reassuring squeeze around his palm. Realizing belatedly that he was still holding Kyle's hand, Eric slapped it away from him.
"Calm down?" Eric hissed. "That's one steaming pile of horse shit, Broflovski. But it certainly doesn't explain why you've been fucking with me for two days now."
Kyle stilled. Eric saw the sure spark of recognition in Kyle's eyes.
Just when Eric was sure Kyle would break down and confess to his dirty scheme, the expression on Kyle's face shifted to a look of perfect composure.
"My cologne," Kyle said, his voice completely neutral. "It's Spicebomb, by Viktor & Rolf. If you like it so much, you can buy it at Macy's."
Before Eric could say another word in response, Kyle pushed past him and beat a hasty retreat back to English class.
Standing in place more confused than before, Eric belatedly felt a horrified blush creeping up on his face.
The car ride home that afternoon was awkward. On Eric's end. Kyle, on the other hand, remained engaged in conversation with Stan the entire way home, and seemed to have forgotten about the incident between them earlier on that afternoon. He made no indication that he was aware of Eric's existence, only breaking his wall of cool politeness when it was time to drop Eric off.
The next day, Eric knew very little about what to expect.
But there were no unsettling looks of seduction that morning and just like the afternoon before, Kyle carried on without acknowledging Eric.
Eric didn't know whether to feel relieved or even more unnerved, but he let the matter slide. Throughout the morning, he puzzled over the encounter he had with Kyle the previous day, his mind mulling over the endless list of reasons as to why Kyle was currently trying to ruin his life.
It was midway into a morbid fantasy of Kyle standing underneath his bedroom window with a boombox playing Elton John's "Your Song" when Eric's thoughts were interrupted by Kenny.
Kenny approached Eric at his locker before lunch and broke his increasingly horrifying train of thought with: "Hey, did Kyle tell you?"
The immediate mention of Kyle earned Kenny a feral snarl from Eric.
Eric shut his locker, turning to face Kenny with a deep set frown. "Did the Jew tell me what?"
Kenny ventured into his next words with the caution of a man creeping up on a disgruntled crocodile in the mud. "He can't drive us home today. He's staying behind to do some work in the fitness room, so we have to take the bus."
"Great," Eric grunted, falling into stride beside Kenny as they made their way to the school cafeteria.
Despite the fact that he would now have to endure half an hour on a cramped, poorly ventilated bus, Eric counted this development as a small blessing. He didn't think he could endure a car ride with Kyle without leaping onto him with frantic cries of "Tell me WHY, Kyle. Tell me WHY you're trying to kill me."
But as luck would have it, during his last class of the day, Eric received unfortunate news by way of a very frantic Clyde Donovan.
"Cartman, did you study for the test?"
Whipping around from his seat in math class, Eric faced Clyde, eyes narrowed in horror. "WHAT."
Clyde stared back at him with forlorn brown eyes. "We're having a test. Like, now. The last exam before finals. Did you study?"
Eric had a number of reactions to the abrupt reminder, the first being an explosion within his brain very similar to a nuclear meltdown. Abort, abort. All systems down. I repeat: all systems down. This is not a drill. We are all fucking screwed.
Eric cursed all and sundry as their teacher stood in front of the room, a threatening stack of papers in his hand bearing a menacing aura that bid Eric run, run for the hills, jump out the window, never look back.
After he was handed his question booklet and answer sheet, in some remote corner of his soul, Eric broke down weeping in flailing, hysterical cries that echoed pleas of mercy into the gates of heaven. To anyone who cared to observe him in that moment, he simply looked like a young boy seated in a classroom, clutching his pencil and calculator with a manic gleam of suicidal intent in his eye.
It took a recovery time frame of about three minutes until Eric decided to cut his losses, dive in, and salvage whatever could be saved of his final math grade. Otherwise he wouldn't make it into the university with Kyle—
Eric gripped his pencil hard as he scribbled calculations with panicked fervor. Kyle had tutored him in math several times over the course of almost a decade and God almighty only knew just how much of it actually stuck with Eric.
Eric clenched his jaw. Somehow, some way, this was Kyle's fault. He would find a way to blame his imminent failure of math on Kyle and lo and behold, that would be a legitimate excuse not to speak to him for at least a week. It was just a matter of conveniently casting the blame in such a way that no one would question the validity of "Kyle is trying to ruin my life, tearing it down brick by brick, first my math mark, and then my sanity. Who knows why, but let's just assume that it's because Kyle is a bastard."
The bell rang.
Eric felt a physical pang of cold dread in his stomach as his classmates rose from their desks, placing their finished tests in a neat pile at the front of the room.
"Ten more minutes for those of you who have yet to finish," their teacher spoke from where he was seated at his desk. "No more than that."
Eric could hear the faint asthmatic wheezing of Clyde's panicked breath from behind him.
Like his brain was on autopilot, Eric finished his test within the allotted amount of time. Like a criminal condemned to hang, he stood from his desk in solemn silence and endured the walk of damnation to the front of the room. Without meeting his teacher's surely condescending glance, Eric dropped off his question booklet and answer sheet (filled with the grave uncertainty of the eenie-meenie-miney-moe tactic) and walked out the door.
The bus had already left. The school was largely void of people, the hallways silent for the most part.
Eric stood at his locker, bag and jacket in hand, debating internally about how he would get home.
An idea clicked.
"Fuck no," he hissed, glancing up and down the length of the hallway.
He exhausted what remained of his brain power to calculate how much time it would take to catch the next bus to South Park.
Almost an hour.
After standing stock still for almost five minutes, struggling with the internal dilemma of having no further options, Eric swore underneath his breath and made his way to the school's fitness room.
Peering through the open door, Eric could see Kyle doing bench presses. He felt his throat constrict at the sight of Kyle's exposed chest, the plains of his fair skin contoured with toned muscles. In a flash, his very unsympathetic brain hurled images at him from the past few days and in a matter of seconds, Eric's head was filled with heady recollections of eye contact in Kyle's rear view mirror.
"Why all the effort, Jew?" Eric found himself scoffing as he walked into the room. "It's not like you're going to get laid in college with that face of yours, so compensating with a jacked up body is just a little too obvious." He had no hope of knowing whether or not his voice betrayed his internal moan upon seeing the contraction of Kyle's abdominal muscles.
Kyle glanced up from where he lay. "What—Cartman?" He paused in the middle of his reps, replacing the barbell on its rack above him. Sitting up, Kyle gave Eric a bewildered look. "Dude, what are you doing here?"
Eric sat down on an exercise ball near Kyle's bench. "Had to do a test so I didn't catch the bus. Give me a ride home."
Kyle rolled his eyes. "Ask nicely."
"Fuck you, Kyle."
Scowling, Kyle lay back down on the bench. "Fine, you can walk. You'd do well with the exercise anyway."
Eric ground his teeth together as he observed Kyle resume his weight lifting. "FINE. Can I pleaseget a ride home, you stingy Jew?"
Kyle snorted. "Oh, yeah. That's definitely a step up from 'fuck you, Kyle'."
"Well, what do you want me to do?" Eric huffed. "Get down on my knees and suck your cock?"
He immediately froze after spitting out the hasty words. Kyle paused in his weight lifting, put the barbell on its rack, and sat up on the bench, giving Eric a blank look with narrowed eyes.
Eric's face turned red.
"Because I'm NOT going to suck your cock," he added immediately. "Get over yourself, Kyle. There's no way I'd blow your small Jew penis, so you can wipe off—"
"I resent that," Kyle snapped. "Just because you've shoved your own foot up your jackass mouth doesn't mean you get to drag the size of my dick into this."
"All Jews have microscopic cocks," Eric spat, his face on fire. "Everyone knows that."
"Do you really want to keep dragging this out?" Kyle glared.
"You have a small dick," Eric persisted, matching Kyle's heated glare with one of his own. "Case closed."
Kyle stood from where he was seated. He towered over Eric, arms crossed, lips set in a displeased frown. "Do you wanna check."
Eric looked up at Kyle and in a mad frenzy of panicked thoughts, he pictured the next few moments unfolding—him and Kyle alone in the fitness room, Kyle's back up against a wall, his head thrown back in a delirious moan as Eric knelt down in between his legs, his rock hard cock (which Eric knew to be significantlybigger than what he just now proclaimed it to be) slipping in and out of the tight, wet pucker of Eric's lips.
Cheeks lit aflame with a horrified blush, Eric let out a long string of offended huffing and spluttering. "Wha—what? I already told you, I am not sucking you off, Kyle, you can FORGET it—Jesus Christ, FUCK YOU."
Eric stood from where he sat on the exercise ball, standing toe to toe against Kyle. He glared up at cool, confident green eyes.
"Something's up with you, Jew," he hissed, frustration coursing through his veins as he felt the warmth of Kyle's body in their proximity. "You've been fucking with me recently. You'd better tell me why, or I swear to the flaming balls of Jesus Christ, I will throw down right here."
Kyle arched a brow, his tone skeptical. "You? Throw down? Against me? Yeah, I'd love to see you try."
Eric gave Kyle an almighty shove—which proved to be a fatal mistake. His hands made contact with Kyle's bare chest, his skin warm and solid. Stepping back, Eric felt a frustrated groan slipping from his throat.
Eric's push barely moved Kyle an inch.
Continuing in a condescending tone, Kyle spoke, "Yeah, you definitely threw down, alright. Now would you calm the hell down?"
"NO." Eric glared, taking a step forward and jabbing a finger against Kyle's chest. Looking up at his friend, Eric snarled, "Tell me what your angle is, Kyle. If this is about that one time I tried to change your screensaver, then don't you think this is a little uncalled for?"
Something in Kyle's expression snapped.
"Are you fucking SERIOUS, Cartman?" Kyle exploded, throwing his hands up into the air. "Are you seriously asking me this? Really?"
Eric scowled. "I don't know what the hell you're so pissed off about, Kyle, but—MMPH." Eric flinched as fabric came sailing at his face. Kyle had chucked his shirt and now Eric was drowning in one-hundred percent cotton. And the smell of Kyle's Viktor & Rolf Spicebomb cologne.
The scent combined with the sudden tune of Grand Funk Railroad's "Loco-Motion" triggered a foggy memory at the back of Eric's mind.
Holding the shirt against his face to avoid eye contact with Kyle, Eric listened to the song playing from what he assumed to be Kyle's iPhone. The memory of a dim bedroom was illuminated in his mind and he stiffened at the sudden recollection.
It was at Bebe's house party a few weeks ago.
Eric could only slightly recall stumbling drunk into a bedroom and finding Kyle sprawled drunk on the queen-sized bed. He could feel his cheeks burning upon recalling the fact that he crawled onto the mattress with Kyle, half settling on top of him on his chest in what could have been a rather intimate embrace. The speakers in the house were blaring funk rock.
"Do you remember now?" Kyle muttered, his voice quiet and disgruntled. He cut the music and they were both left in contemplative silence.
Eric clutched Kyle's shirt against his face.
"You smell really good. You know ... for a Jew."
"Thanks, dude. It's called Spicebomb. My cologne."
"Spice ... huh—Kyle?"
"If Butters ever tells you that I have a—have a man-crush on you, don't believe a fucking word. Because I totally didn't tell him that five minutes ago."
"I mean ... you're fucking talented as duck. Fuck. I meant fuck, not duck. And you're smart as hell and you fucking rock Hollister denim so hard. And you piss me off so much sometimes, but ... fuck. Fuck, can I just hug you right now? You're really warm, it feels nice."
"You're already hugging me, Cartman ..."
"I have a crush on you."
"That's nice, Cartman ..."
"Ever since that time, you know—you know that time. It's been a long time. Don't tell anyone though. It's a—it's a secret. So shhh."
"Agh, dude, don't—okay, no. Don't put your finger up my nose."
"Shhh, it's a secret. Don't tell anyone."
"I won't. Now shut up."
"Can I keep hugging you?"
"... Yeah. Fine. Whatever."
Eric slowly removed Kyle's shirt from where it conveniently shielded his expression, one that must have been of absolute horror.
He met Kyle's gaze with dread, only to find the taller boy smirking.
"So it's true," Eric heard Kyle muttering. "You weren't just dicking around back then."
Eric stiffened. "So this entire time, you were just—"
Kyle shrugged, stepping forward to take his shirt from Eric. "I thought you were fucking with my head, so I didn't think there would be anything wrong about messing with you. But I guess you were telling the truth."
Snapping out of his shocked reverie, Eric grabbed Kyle's wrist, pulling him forward, glaring heatedly. "What the fuck, Kyle," Eric hissed, feeling the blood draining from his face. "That was—I was drunk. I didn't know what the hell I was saying, and you were drunk too—"
"Not that drunk—"
"—so who's to say you remembered what really happened?" Eric breathed his words out in a frenzied rush.
Kyle pulled away from Eric's grip, crossing his arms over his chest, his stance smug. "You told me you had a crush on me."
"And if you really were lying, you wouldn't have been so hot and bothered these past few days."
"That party was weeks ago!" Eric snapped, frantic. "Why bring it up NOW."
Kyle rolled his eyes, sighing. "I was waiting for you to make a move. When you didn't, I thought I should take initiative. Then you told Stan to make me that mix CD, and I ... kinda thought that ... Well, I thought that was your 'move'."
Eric blinked. "Told Stan ... what?"
Sighing again, Kyle pulled on his shirt, explaining, "Don't act so surprised, dude. Stan spilled."
Kyle stepped forward, placing a warm palm against Eric's shoulder. "He said that the CD was your idea. And I'm not stupid, Cartman. After what happened at the party, it just clicked. I mean, some of those tracks are really cheesy and romantic—you didn't think I would notice?"
Eric continued to stare, his mouth hanging open. Kyle took his lack of response as a sign to continue. He stepped closer to Eric, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze.
"Listen, dude," Kyle spoke, "I don't really know how serious you are about this whole thing, but trust me when I say that it doesn't really bother me that you swing that way—"
Eric choked on a garbled protest.
"—I mean, I guess I always knew—it kinda explains all those times when you'd dress up like a girl and get me to play along with your stupid games—"
Eric felt his soul dying by slow inches.
"—but my point is ... we're friends. We've been friends our entire lives." Kyle paused, gauging Eric's expression with a calm glance. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Kyle must have assumed that "frigidly still" and "transparent terror" in that combination equated to "Yes, Kyle, I understand where you're going with this," and continued talking. "I was planning for this to be more conventional—well, conventional given that it's the two of us. If you weren't gonna give, I was just gonna go ahead and drive us down to the French restaurant in town and let things happen from there. If it were up to me, I wouldn't be asking you this in the fitness room, of all places. I mean, the year's ending and it would be nice to make the best of every moment—"
Eric felt like the world had fallen off its axis and the entirety of the globe was spiralling down the toilet of the universe.
"—and since ... since it's me, I wanna make your first experience something to remember. I wanna make it special."
That, apparently, was the end of Kyle's heartfelt speech. He said no more after that. Kyle simply stood quietly, his hand on Eric's shoulder, waiting patiently for a response. Eric, on the other hand, was carefully trying to piece together the remnants of his brain after the catastrophic supernova that ensued over the entity that was Kyle Broflovski.
After two minutes of silence, Kyle decided to take the wheel.
Stepping away from Eric, he grabbed their things and made his way to the door of the fitness room.
"So I'll be driving you home? If your offer to suck my cock still stands, I'll be reclaiming that favor some other time."
Eric, face aflame, gaped as Kyle walked out.
"That was ..." Eric spluttered, rushing after Kyle. "That was because your singing SUCKS BALLS. Kyle ... ? Kyle! Goddamnit, Stan, I will kill you with a shovel."
That evening, seated across from Kyle at South Park's lone French restaurant, Eric squirmed as he asked, "Does this mean—"
Kyle waved a hand, cutting Eric off. "Don't even say it. It's weird enough that this is happening in the first place. Let's not label this."
Eric nodded grimly, staring down at his crepe. "So ... I'm assuming this is a mutual thing."
Pausing as he was about to spoon some dessert into his mouth, Kyle gave Eric a deadpan look. "No. I've been making sex eyes at my childhood friend for the past three days now because I'm a Kinsey one. Seriously, dude."
"Are you guys done with that?"
Kyle and Eric glanced up at Craig Tucker, part-time waiter extraordinaire.
Cheeks on fire, Kyle slipped Craig a twenty. "Not a word, Craig. Not a single word."
His face the picture of neutrality, Craig muttered "Wouldn't dream of it."
Songs sung by the boys in the car:
"Fever For The Flava" - Hot Action Cop
"Pour Your Sugar On Me" - Def Leppard
"Sweet Caroline" - Neil Diamond
"The Loco-Motion" - cover by Grand Funk Railroad
A/N: I love Craig's cameos in this one :) Well, hopefully you guys enjoyed this, even though the writing got a little cracky, haha. Tell me your thoughts, and stay tuned for more writing in the future! :) "The Quiet Plains" is coming soon. Hurray for Kyman :)