The Other Table, 3/10

[sekritomg]

Title: The Other Table (3/10)
Author: sekrit_omg
Pairing: Stan/Kyle; various
Rating: R
Summary: It's human nature to want to know everything about others, and nothing about ourselves.
Author's note: Still this.

Kyle was not sure how he would review his weekend if someone asked him to. Of course, no one had asked him, except for his father, who asked him where the hell he thought he was going at 9:45 on a Saturday morning. Kyle really wished he had been able to say ‘nowhere’ because after getting back from Butters’ at 4 a.m., he felt like maybe waking up first thing to go talk to Frank Granger, PhD, was probably a bad idea.

Still, when he stumbled into the coffee place to meet Frank Granger, he began to feel a little better. Frank Granger was waiting for him with coffee, exactly how Kyle liked it. It occurred to Kyle that he drank his coffee black, and maybe Frank Granger didn’t know this; maybe Frank Granger was just cheap and expected Kyle to add whatever he wanted to his coffee. But in light of the conversation they had following Kyle’s acceptance of his vaguely mediocre cup of coffee, Kyle was predisposed to think about Frank Granger in a positive light.

The first thing he told Frank Granger was that his friend Craig was constantly buying him coffee. The professor — Kyle just assumed he was a professor, because he worked at a university — wanted to know more about Craig. Kyle wasn’t really sure where to start. “Um, well, he wears a hat.” Frank didn’t look like this information was too groundbreaking for him. “It’s an okay hat. He’s had it since he was a kid. You’d think that thing would be disintegrated, but I guess it was a good buy.”

“And this Craig character is your friend?”

“He’s probably my closest friend after Stan. I mean, if it’s not Kenny.” Kyle got quiet. “I don’t like to rank them. My friends, I mean.”

“What is Craig like?”

Kyle didn’t really know how to describe Craig. Craig wasn’t very open with his feelings. But then, what high school boy was? Possibly Butters. Possibly. But not really. “Uh. Craig’s nice.” Kyle shrugged in ambivalence. “Is that good?”

Frank Granger sighed and rubbed his hands together “Is Craig gay?” he asked pointedly. Kyle said that he was. “And what about the others you mentioned?”

“Who else did I mention?” Frank tapped something, and Kyle realized that he recognized the sound of pen hitting paper. It was then that he glanced to his right and saw that the older man was holding a tape recorder steady. In fact, he was placing it on the table. “Has that been on the whole time?”

“Of course. How else would I keep a record of what you were saying?”

“Uh.”

“You mentioned a Stan and a Kenny today, just now, and yesterday you mentioned…” Frank flipped through some notes. “Christophe and Butters and Eric.”

“Well, what about them?”

“They’re your friends?”

“Well, Cartman’s not my friend.”

“Are all of them gay?”

“What?” Kyle asked. “No, no. Stan is totally, totally straight. In fact, he plays football.”

“I wasn’t aware that your little school had a football team.”

“It’s a regional team,” Kyle clarified. “Only a handful of guys from the school play, up in North Park. That fat-ass is a linebacker, which is probably obvious considering he’s built like the fucking Hindenburg and is just as deathly gaseous. Stan, on the other hand, is a quarterback.” Kyle grinned at this. “And the team captain.”

“And Stan is straight, you say?”

“Sadly.”

“You really respect this Stan guy.”

“He’s my best friend.”

“Is he?”

“What?” Kyle asked, turning his had quickly. “Yeah, we’ve been best friends for fucking ever, dude.” Frank Granger kind of smirked at this and scribbled something else down on his notepad. Kyle looked at the tape player nervously before dismissing it entirely. This dude was a professor. Or a something, anything. He was at Duke. It all felt fairly legit, but Kyle couldn’t help being bothered by Frank’s little smile. “What?” he asked again.

“Nothing.”

“Don’t give me that nothing crap. I invented that shit.”

“Actually, young man, it’s been around for quite some time.”

“Ah, god, you’re just like my mom.”

“Your mom? What’s she like?” And Kyle launched into a several minute diatribe about his mom: He loved her, and he loved talking to her, but he hated the way she tried to control him. She was accepting, kind of. She let him do what he wanted, an this included shunning kashrut altogether, and Kyle was slightly impressed that Frank did not flinch on the word ‘kashrut,’ almost as if he knew what it meant. Kyle was so used to having to explain these things to ignorant nobodies (“that fatass again,” he growled, kind of tensing a fist) that he began to feel a momentary but intense liking for Frank Granger. Because Frank was just sitting there, listening to him talk, on and on about his mother and her neuroses, and just how damn domineering she could be. Not that Kyle disliked his mother. She was okay. But ranting to Frank about her was just so easy.

“And that’s how come she started a war, dude,” he concluded.

“By the way, Kyle,” Frank said knowingly, pushing those idiotic glasses up on his nose. “Football teams generally only have a single quarterback at any given time.”

“What did I say?”

“That Stan is a quarterback.”

“There might be understudies,” Kyle rationalized, somewhat joking.

“Uh huh,” Frank mumbled, jotting something down on his pad of paper.

Kyle kind of shifted his eyes around the coffee shop, not interested in anyone hearing what he had to say next. “Can I, uh … can I tell you something?” he asked sheepishly, twisting a napkin in his hands.

“You can tell me anything.”

“Can it be kept in confidence?”

“All of this is in confidence.” Frank eyed his tape recorder, but Kyle didn’t notice this.

“Well, okay. I, um … I like him.”

“Like who?”

“Stan,” Kyle hissed. “My best friend.”

“Oh.” Frank Granger didn’t appear to be too concerned with this information. “Good for you.”

“Good for me? Dude, it sucks!”

“Why does it suck?”

“I’m in love with my best friend!”

“Maybe you should tell him how you feel.”

“What?” Kyle choked this out; the entire time he had been straining to keep this information between him and Frank. “No, dude, he’d freak! You can’t tell your friend something like that, you just can’t!”

“Well.” Frank kind of fiddled with his pen awkwardly. “Kyle, you’re a good kid, and, um … well, he seems like a nice guy. Maybe he won’t mind.”

“Of course he’ll mind, dude, it’s sick! I feel like a pervert, dreaming about my friend, wanting him to, er … do things to me. When I’m with him I can’t help staring at him, it’s like a disease. And the worst thing is, there’s no one I can tell about it. I mean, if anyone found out, well, I’d just … my life would be over.”

This caught Frank’s attention. “I don’t think you should feel bad about it,” he said warmly. “You’re a 16-year-old boy, you like other boys, this boy is close to you. It’s not so out-of-the-ordinary. Maybe he feels the same way.”

“No way, dude. He’s totally, totally straight.”

“Uh huh.”

“He is!”

“Okay, well, why don’t you date someone else?” Kyle’s eyes widened at this suggestion.

“Someone else?” It was as if the thought had never occurred to him. “I mean … I could, I guess. In theory.”

“You should. Maybe it’ll take your mind off this Stan guy.”

“Maybe.”

“Okay.” Frank Granger sighed, and it was at this point that Kyle noticed he was fingering the ‘stop’ button on the tape recorder. “So, your mom’s kind of a bitch,” he said casually, struggling to get Kyle back on topic.

“She’s not a bitch.”

Frank rolled his eyes, doubting this assessment in light of what he’d learned. “Yeah, all right. Tell me about your dad.” Kyle didn’t see what the point in talking all about his parents was, but he didn’t see the harm in it, either. He felt kind of collected, having gotten that stuff about Stan off his chest, so he followed Frank Granger’s instructions and began to talk about his father.

~

During study hall on Monday, Stan was looking over his notes for Spanish. “This school sucks,” he muttered to himself. “Good god, this school sucks balls.”

“I can show you sucking balls,” said a throaty voice next to him, and he looked up from the page to see Kenny bent over the table.

“Dude! Where were you all weekend?”

“Dead,” Kenny said nonchalantly, scratching his head.

“So, um, you did it?”

“Ho, yeah.” Kenny took a seat proper and began to pull some study materials out of his backpack. “Right in my mouth, too. Stupendous mess.”

“Jesus!” Stan felt a little queasy.

“It’s cool, I’m here. What’d I miss?”

“Ugh, nothing, I’ve been writing a paper all weekend, but it’s done now.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

There was a moment of silence as Kenny flipped through the pages of his bio textbook.

“Listen,” Kenny said slowly. “Can I tell you something?”

“Well, yeah, dude. Spill.”

“It’s about my death.”

“Don’t you mean ‘deaths,’ plural?”

“I don’t know.” Kenny shrugged. “That’s what I’m trying to talk about.” There was a pen sitting on the table, and as he spoke Kenny opened it and began to doodle on himself. It was a felt-tip, and the ink ran through the creases in his hand subtly and quickly. “I’ve been worried for a while,” he said dreamily, tracing over an X where his forefinger joined his thumb.

“I’ve been worried about you. It’s not normal to kill yourself repeatedly.”

“It’s not normal to die repeatedly, either, and that’s my problem. A few weeks ago, after the incident with the forklift, I started thinking, will I ever die? And it occurred to me that I had one shot. I figured, maybe if I killed myself, maybe the point is that I have to be ready to die. Maybe, I thought maybe, it’s a mindset.”

“So you put your head in the oven.”

“Uh huh.”

“And you thought maybe you wouldn’t come back.”

“Uh huh.”

“Kenny,” Stan said slowly, licking his lips. “You’re such a fucking retard, dude!” He shook his friend by the shoulders. “Never! Ever! Kill! Your! Self!”

“Jesus, dude.”

“I’d miss you!”

“Fine, you’d miss me, but how do you think I feel? Sometimes, when I go, I think, oh, this is nice, there’s no bickering parents here. No rapist brothers and shit. And then I wake up in that fucking hovel, and my mouth tastes like come and boozy vomit, and I think, this is my life?”

“You’ve been thinking too much,” Stan said cautiously. He was a little frightened by this line of reasoning. “I mean, wasn’t it scary? Killing yourself?”

“Well, it was the first time, with the oven. My mother frankly wasn’t pleased. Apparently the gas bill couldn’t handle it. But after that, you know, with the gun and shit. That was kind of thrilling. But now there’s no risk involved. All I really want is to feel some emotions.”

“I’ll say you’re feeling emotions!” Stan cried. “This is some pretty fucked up emo shit right here! It’s freaking me out.”

“Just thanks for listening,” Kenny said sadly, now tracing the breasts on the female reproductive anatomy diagram in his textbook.

“Listening to what?” Kenny and Stan looked up to see Kyle slamming his books down on the library table.

“Nothing,” Kenny sighed. “Just the depressive ramblings of a madman.”

“I don’t see Cartman around,” Kyle said entirely seriously, taking a seat. “And I don’t know any other mad men.”

“You wouldn’t understand. Even Stan doesn’t get it and he’s the biggest emo pussy I’ve ever met in my life.”

“Look who’s talking!” Stan hissed, closing the cover of his Spanish notebook.

“Okay, well, I have a problem,” Kyle said frankly.

“Me me me,” Kenny blathered, now drawing penises around the text in his book.

“Shut up, dude!” Kyle turned to Stan, and said, in all seriousness: “Do you think I have a girl-ass?”

“Uh.”

“Duh,” Kenny said directly, slamming shut his science book.

“What!” Kyle’s eyes nearly bulged out of his skull. “No I don’t!”

“Why are you asking me, anyway?” Stan asked blandly.

“I don’t know a lot of people who spend their time assessing chicks’ asses.” Kenny raised his hand. “Not counting insane pansexual manwhores,” Kyle added quickly.

“Ask your boyfriends, they’ll tell you what’s what,” Stan suggested.

“Ugh, I already did. They’re bitches. Just tell me.”

“Kyle,” Kenny said. “You have the largest, most amazing, sumptuously ample behind I have seen in my entire life. It is full of distinct possibilities. It is a sight to behold. You are truly a worthy inheritor to your mother’s great legacy. Shall I continue?”

Kyle just looked horrified at this, his mouth hanging open stupidly.

“Harsh, dude,” Stan muttered, slightly grinning. “Although true. True and harsh.”

“I cannot believe this. I … I just … wow.”

“18-18-42,” Kenny mocked.

“What prompted this revelation?”

“That fucking fat-ass—” Kyle began.

“How ironic!” Kenny cheered. “I love this, dude. Continue.”

“Ugh, he just said I — it doesn’t matter. Fuck me.”

“Who wouldn’t?” Kenny asked. “That thing looks like it would provide serenely wonderful enjoyment.”

“Please stop,” Kyle begged. “This is really putting a damper on my awesome weekend.”

“Oh, I shot myself in the mouth this weekend.”

“Sick, dude!”

“Well, I did. What did you do?”

“In the mouth?”

“Why was it awesome?” Stan asked, attempting to steer the conversation away from Kenny’s musings on life and death, and his conduits for experiencing both.

“Well,” Kyle began. “I met this guy.”

“Oh lord.”

“Oh, please,” Kenny enthused, waggling his eyebrows. “Do tell.”

“Um, no. It is not like that at all. That’s not what I … it’s not … it’s not that.”

“Well, what is it?” Stan asked. So Kyle cleared his throat and explained about Frank Granger. His friends stared at him for all 10 minutes of exposition, enrapt. “I didn’t hear anything about a Frank … guy,” Stan said at the end.

“And what do you think? Some man from Duke wants to talk to me.”

“It sounds weird and suspicious,” Kenny offered.

“No it doesn’t!”

“It makes perfect sense to me.” All three boys looked up to see Eric Cartman seating himself in the chair next to Kyle.

“What makes perfect sense to you?” Kyle asked, not really sure he wanted to know what Cartman was able to hear of their conversation.

“Some researcher wanting to know what causes gayness, for one thing. That said researcher would begin his research by talking to our little friend Kyle here.”

“Shut up! I’m five-eight! That’s totally something!”

“How long were you listening to us, dude?” Stan asked.

“Long enough to hear everything I needed to hear.” Cartman hunched over and pulled a couple of notebooks out of his backpack. “Are we studying for the Am lit exam? That paper was killer, am I right?”

“What are you planning, fat ass?” Kyle asked.

“Planning? Why, whatever can you mean? I simply want to discuss The Grapes of Wrath with my bestest friends.”

“They’re poor, someone sucks someone’s tit. That’s basically the whole book.”

“How enlightening, Kenny. It sounds a lot like your life.”

“Shut up! But actually, yeah, it does,” Kenny said thoughtfully.

“Oh, my god, Cartman, just tell me what you’re on about.” Kyle’s voice was almost pleading.

“Ugh, Kyle, I had no idea Jews were so paranoid. Or maybe this is your fag side coming out, like it matters. Seriously though, Kyle, I just heard what you were saying, and it sounded interesting.”

“You’re not interested in anything, unless it’s yourself.”

“How unfair, Kyle. How sad and unfair. I have an interest in the betterment of human society just like the rest of you.”

“That is such a lie!” Kyle shrieked.

“Study hall, dude,” Stan reminded him, putting an index finger to his lips. Kyle found this adorable, obviously, but he didn’t have much time to enjoy it because Cartman began speaking again.

“I can’t believe you think I wouldn’t be interested in finding out more about a research project with the ultimate goal of eliminating faggotry from the world.”

“What!”

“I don’t think that’s the point,” Stan said meekly, desperately hoping this conversation would end itself before it began.

“No, it’s totally true. Why else do you retards think some guy would even want to know the cause of gayness? To eradicate gayness. Duh. Frankly, I find your lack of intuition on this matter disturbing, Kyle. Stan, you’re a little slow, and you don’t care about gay people anyway. But your boyfriend here, he generally figures this stuff out much quicker. But I guess it’s true what they say: The more cocks you suck, the more brain cells you lose.”

“They don’t say that!” Kenny cried.

“I haven’t sucked that many cocks!”

“How many is it?” Stan asked under his breath. Kyle didn’t hear this.

“Well, Kyle, I sincerely hope you and your friend Granger are successful in this project. I truly hope that one day you can go back to just being a Jew. I think being a homo too isn’t doing you any favors.”

“Ach! Dude!” Kyle shrieked again, picking up his things and running out of the library as fast as he could.

When Kyle was gone, Cartman turned to his notes, and Kenny and Stan looked at each other, the former annoyed and the latter confused. “I think you should get out of here,” Stan said to Cartman.

“What’s that?” Cartman asked. “Study hall is over in 45 minutes, Stan. I suggest you use this time wisely.” He smirked, and stuck his nose back in his literature notebook. Stan looked at Kenny pleadingly.

“I told you it sounded suspicious,” Kenny said, rolling his eyes. “But oh, no, no one listens to little Kenny, he just lives in a barn and listens to Metallica, he never has any insights about anything.”

“Dude,” Stan said in response, pinching the bridge of his nose.

~

Kyle ran down the hall, panting. He was in horrible shape. Well, not horrible shape, but he didn’t do a lot of running. Not like he saw the guys at football practice run when he went up there to watch. God, even Cartman could probably outrun him. It was pathetic. Kyle slammed himself into the door to the faculty lounge, where he knew the object of his rage would be sitting, going over permanent records or something.

Frank Granger looked up when the door flew open. “Kyle!” he said warmly. “You’re kind of early.”

“Is it true?”

“Um.”

“Just tell me, is it true?”

“Slow down there, kid. You look kind of out-of-breath. I mean, is what true?”

“You want to get rid of homosexuality!” Kyle said accusingly, falling into a chair across from Frank Granger, pointing his finger tenuously.

“Where did you hear that?”

“It doesn’t matter! You said you wanted me to help you help people, but I thought you just meant you wanted people to understand, not entirely remove this thing from society!”

“Look, Kyle, you’re clearly upset. Let me assure you, I in no way intend to completely eradicate homosexuality from this or any society. But yeah, if we determine the cause, people will be able to selectively negate that factor during gestation or whenever, raising their kids or whatnot.”

“Whatnot?” Kyle moaned, visibly upset.

“Now, come on,” Frank said sternly. “You’re a smart kid, surely this occurred to you.”

“It occurred to me just now.”

“Uh huh.”

“You have to stop this! Oh my god, if the right wing knows what causes gayness, they’ll put us all in death camps!”

“I think you’re getting a little insane here.”

“You don’t know my life! You don’t know this town! This country is insane, do you really think people will just take this as an interesting factoid and move on?”

“Well, some people will.”

“No! They’ll try to breed it out!”

“Well, yeah, some people will…”

“No one should!” Kyle licked at something in the corner of his mouth, and he realized he was crying. Or perhaps not crying, but tears were clearly flowing freely now — free enough to run all the way down in face so that he could taste them. He was incredibly put off by the idea that he would be emoting so wildly in front of Frank fucking Granger, but at this point he couldn’t stop himself.

“Kyle,” Frank said smoothly, trying to reach out to the boy. “We’re going to help people to understand—”

Kyle pulled away. “No one understands this shit! Frank, dude — you’ve got to stop this project.”

For the second time since he met the man, Kyle saw that scary look in Frank Granger’s eyes. That unstoppable, determined fire. It was the way Cartman looked, sort of, when he was onto something. It was the look his mother got when she was talking about a subject that inspired her to madness. It wasn’t a look Kyle liked. He hated it.

“I’m afraid I can’t stop this project, Kyle. You see, Duke has given me a grant, and if I stopped now, I’d lose that funding. Besides, I don’t really want to stop. This is groundbreaking information. Do you know what sort of honor goes to the man who figures out what determines sexuality?”

“It’s sick. You’re going to hurt people!”

“That may be. But sometimes people have to be hurt in the name of academia.”

“But you’re going to hurt me,” Kyle choked. He was actually crying, and he hated himself for crying in front of this douchebag.

“Well, sure, that kind of sucks. But what’s the pain of one little boy, or even a bunch of queers, next to the triumph of science and reason?”

Kyle didn’t even know what to say. He felt himself kind of sobbing on any words he attempted to spit out, and when he stood up to physically assault Frank Granger, he realized that he was in the teacher’s lounge, and although there weren’t any teachers around, there were a couple of security cameras. Besides, in this quivering state, he just didn’t feel like throwing his weight around. He wasn’t quite as angry as he was miserable.

He gathered up his backpack. “Fuck yourself in your fucking self-righteous ass, you goat-fucking book-shitter.” Kyle didn’t even pause to consider how ridiculous and inane this insult sounded. As he shuffled out of the room, he briefly considered turning around to scream something dramatic like “I quit!” But he figured that he didn’t need to say anything. It was fairly obvious that their relationship was over.

~

After gym class — the second-to-last period of the day — Kyle found himself retreating from the locker room in a miserable haze. There were a few people milling around the hallway, but gym usually let out before the other classes to give students time to change. So Kyle raced out to his locker, hoping he could get in and out of there before the main hallway began to fill up with students.

He turned the dial on his combination lock carefully, sweaty gym clothes tucked under one arm. It had been several weeks since his green South Park High School T-shirt had been washed, and he thought it was beginning to smell sort of rancid.

After stashing his clothing in his backpack, Kyle felt someone touch his shoulder. “Yeah, yeah,” he sighed. “Hold on.”

“I don’t have a lot of time here, Kyle.” Cartman’s voice had never rung clearer in Kyle’s ears; Kyle nearly jumped when he turned to see his arch-nemesis (as arch as a nemesis could get in 11^th grade, anyhow) standing behind him, arms crossed.

“Jesus!” Kyle cried out. “Don’t sneak up on me, you son of a bitch. What the hell do you want?”

“What did Granger say when you talked to him?” Cartman asked.

“Um.” Kyle paused for a moment. “How do you know I was talking to Frank Granger?”

“Oh, puh-lease,” Cartman drawled. “You are so predictable. Like it wasn’t obvious that you would run and whine to your pimp about your feelings.”

“Ugh!” Kyle snapped his lock closed and slammed his locker shut. “Just why the hell can’t you leave me alone, Cartman? I hate you, you hate me, why isn’t that good enough for you?”

“Because,” Cartman said sinisterly, eyes narrowing. “Because, Kyle, I hate you. I hate you, and every moment of your pain is the most intense pleasure for me. Every little thing that goes wrong in your life is 10 things going right in mine. I just want to look into your pretty green eyes and see your fragile little heart breaking.”

“Huh. Well, you’re going to need to come up with something a lot more convincing than that ‘dirty Jew-fag’ shit. Frankly, I’ve heard it before.”

Cartman laughed unconvincingly, and sighed. “No, all of that ‘Jew-fag’ stuff is merely a trifle. Oh, it annoys you. But I’m convinced by now that you actually enjoy being a Jew, and a fag, and I’m getting the impression that my reminding you of it doesn’t hurt you at all.”

“That’s right.”

“Isn’t it great,” he mused aloud, changing the subject, “that there might someday be a cure for homosexuality? I mean, there might be hope for you yet, Kyle. You might be able to marry a fat bitch like your mother and have a whole family of little Jews to raise. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

“Homosexuality doesn’t need to be cured,” Kyle growled. “I like who I am, and I can have a family with anyone I want to. Now get the fuck out of my way.”

Cartman didn’t budge, and Kyle felt him breathing down on him. He was too tall, too strong, too solid to be moved without the kind of force that Kyle regrettably just didn’t possess. “You can tell yourself that all you want, my friend, but we both know there’s only one person you want to have a family with, and he couldn’t possibly want you, now or ever.”

“You leave him out of this,” Kyle breathed, pushing up the sleeves of his shirt. “You can fuck with me all you want, but leave him out of this.”

“It’s not like you get a choice here. I’ll rag on you for whatever I want. And talking about him hurts you. He’s all you ever wanted, isn’t he? You just think he’s perfect. You don’t care that he’s a mediocre football player, or that his hair is retarded. It’s like a metaphor for his life, all flaccid and completely personality-less, growing down to his ears because he lacks the ambition to pick up a scissors and do something about it.”

“I like his hair.”

“Damn straight you would. Because it’s a lot like you: If he cared enough to bother realizing that it’s a detriment, he’d cut it all off.” Again, Kyle tried to slip away, and this time he was actually successful. He was only a few paces down the hall, however, when he heard Cartman again.

“Hey Kyle!” he called out. “Your ass looks even huger from farther away.”

Kyle stopped dead in his tracks and, with a shriek, charged back at Cartman, punching him right in the nose. Reeling, Cartman took a few steps backward. He looked at Kyle, whose fists hung slackly at his sides, mouth hanging open like a mounted fish. Then he recovered, and laughed.

“Oh, no.” He was holding his nose, far more surprised than actually hurt, because he wasn’t hurt at all. Clearly he was amused. “You seriously did not just hit me again. I’m telling you, buddy, you’re going to get into serious trouble one day if you don’t—”

But Cartman didn’t finish his sentence, because he had to dodge Kyle’s foot, which was headed right toward his groin. Cartman caught the foot — it really was similar to intercepting a football — and yanked Kyle’s leg out from under him. “Excuse me, sir, but you do not kick Eric Theodore Cartman in the nuts!”

Kyle hit the laminate floor, shocked. He looked up and saw a small crowd beginning to gather. “That’s it!” he cried, slamming his palms on the ground. “I refuse to take this shit from you any longer!” Kyle charged at Cartman, and flung himself into the larger boy.

“Oh, this is it, dude. You are fucking going down.”

“I’ll go down when I goddamn feel like it!” Kyle drew back to sock Cartman in the face again, but before he could swing a punch, he caught a fist to his mouth. Kyle stared in shock for a minute before he tried to punch again, but felt himself slammed back into the lockers behind him, with Cartman’s weight pressing into his substantially smaller frame.

The group watching this fight heard a series of slaps and skin-on-skin contact as Kyle finally made a couple of successful attacks. Cartman dodged another knee-jerk to his crotch and side-swiped Kyle, who found himself hitting the lockers again. Cartman lunged at him and his face smacked against the cool metal surface. Kyle slipped and fell to the ground.

“This constitutes a hate crime,” Kyle panted, struggling to get up.

“Except that you hit me first, you filthy fucking Jew! This is self-defense.”

Kyle somehow managed to get back onto his feet, and he felt a little woozy. Seemingly the entire school was watching this now, and he could feel their eyes on him, assessing his performance. Bolstering his confidence, he rushed toward Cartman, fist cocked, ready to send his opponent flying.

Ironically, Cartman pulled a punch on Kyle before he could make contact. Kyle felt a fist slamming into his nose, and he stumbled backward into some male onlooker’s arms.

“And don’t you ever fucking hit me again!” Cartman roared, pointing at Kyle menacingly. “You’re a dead man, Kyle! I will teach your horrid fucking Jew brain not to mess with me, do you understand?”

Kyle smirked to himself as he gave Cartman the finger. He felt a little dizzy. He closed his eyes.

“No,” he mumbled. He opened his eyes and looked up to see whose arms he’d landed in, but at a certain point all the kids he didn’t know in school became indistinguishable. Gathering all of his strength, Kyle pushed himself up again, despite the fact that someone was doing a damn good job of restraining him. “You leave my friends out of your sick games!”

With that, Kyle tried to take another hit on Cartman, but again, his reflexes were somehow lacking, and he felt the other boy grab his arm and twist the appendage around his back. Kyle screamed in agony and tried his best to slip out of the hold, but it was no use. He stumbled backward as Cartman released him and, although he knew what was coming next, failed to block himself from the final blow, which got him directly in the gut. Still from shock and barely able to breathe, he fell to the ground, hitting his head on the lockers for the last time.

“That’ll learn you to respect my authority,” Cartman drawled.

“Jesus, you fat fuck!” a girl’s voice cried. Kyle thought it might be Wendy, because he wasn’t sure who the hell else would care if he got beaten up; he didn’t exactly have any female friends.

“Ay, ho,” Cartman said defensively. “He hit me first!”

“Yeah, and you probably crippled him!” Definitely Wendy.

“I’m okay,” Kyle tried to wheeze, but the breathless feeling was too intense, and all he could do was lie there, clutching his middle, eyes shut tightly. Maybe he could keep them closed until everyone dispersed.

“Are you all right?” a voice asked, and Kyle just kind of nodded. “You don’t look all right.” It sounded like Token.

“That was awesome, Eric!” some guy shouted from vaguely far away.

“Thank you,” Cartman responded politely. “It was nothing. I have class.”

“You rule, dude!” someone else called out.

“Please, please,” Cartman was saying, but his voice faded out as he walked away.

Kyle heard and felt the shuffling of feet through the area; no one stopped to help him up or check on him again until: “Holy shit, dude!” Stan’s voice, annoyed as ever.

“Look at you.” That one was Kenny, definitely. Though they felt heavy, and nearly welded together, Kyle managed to get his eyes open.

“What the fuck!”

“Thank god he didn’t get you in the crotch.”

“Oh, shit, Kenny, that’s practical.”

“It’s an important part of a guy’s body!”

“Not nearly as important as someone’s head.”

Kyle felt a pair of arms reach around him, and he knew that Stan was hoisting him up. Now that he wasn’t curled up on himself, his stomach felt a little better, although his limbs were stinging and aching. “Hi guys,” he moaned. “Fancy running into you here.” A few people were still passing through, and every so often a pair of eyes would glance at him.

“You look like utter shit.”

“Thanks, Kenny.”

“Well, it’s true.”

“Seriously though,” Stan said, standing up. “I hope nothing’s broken. Can you move everything?” Kyle stretched his legs and arms, and although it was painful, he could do it. He nodded. “Do you think you can get up?”

Kyle attempted to get himself upright, but he was having trouble using his arms to push off of the ground. “Here,” said a voice, and he felt Kenny grab his arms and yank him up.

“Not so rough!”

“He can take it.” Kenny patted him on the back. “You’ll be fine, won’t you, pal?” Kyle shrugged. “Well, that was awesome. The way you flung yourself into Cartman? Hilarious. I mean, I wish I had a camcorder on my phone. That shit would be awesome on YouTube.”

“A camcorder?” Kyle asked hazily. “It would?”

“Oh, lord,” Stan sighed. “I’m sure someone else caught it, those football dudes in the back were way into it.”

“Chris was way into it, he adores hot guy-on-guy brutality.”

“No one cares what that fucker thinks.” Stan dismissed this with a wave of his hands.

“Uh,” was all Kyle said in response to this discussion.

“Come on, dude,” Stan sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “We’d better get you to the nurse.”

~

Stan and Kyle walked to the nurse’s office slowly, with Stan basically supporting his limping friend. Stan didn’t recall Kyle sustaining any leg injuries, but he seemed, if nothing else, to be authentically in shock. They sat quietly on the chairs outside of the exam room, neither looking at or speaking to one another. Until, of course, Stan broke the silence: “You’ve got to hand it to Cartman.”

“Yeah, you really do — no, what?” Kyle jerked about as suddenly as Stan had ever seen anything jerk in his life.

“Be careful, you’ll hurt yourself,” he grumbled.

“I’m already hurt, and what are we handing to Cartman? In case you didn’t notice, dude, that fucker just nearly crushed my skull, I can barely move.”

“You’re just being dramatic.”

“Fuck you, dude!”

“You really want to fuck the guy who just brought you to the nurse’s office?” Stan was looking directly ahead when he said this, entirely deadpan. But the weight of the irony was not lost on Kyle, who swallowed hard and said nothing to this as he continued to slump in his chair, miserable.

“Shut up while I say this, dude,” Stan said suddenly and slowly after a few minutes. “You have to give him credit for being exceedingly good at what he does.”

“Eat, fart, and beat people up? Yeah, he rocks all that shit. Good for him.”

“No, I mean he is awesome at pissing you off.”

“Well, no shit, Stanley. Thanks for joining us here on planet What Happened This Afternoon, I’ll be your host, bleeding out of my mouth.” Kyle’s mouth was bleeding sort of heavily from a split lip, but it was more the bruising around his eyes that was the problem.

“Oh, no way, dude,” Stan sighed again. “Look, you just — ugh, don’t get pissed at me while I tell you this, but seriously, for a smart guy, you are such a fucking moron.”

“Okay.” Kyle rolled his eyes. “Care to explain that?”

“Well, yeah, I do. The next time that fat shit tries to goad you into a fight, why don’t you just walk away?”

“You heard the shit he was saying about me! How much am I supposed to take?”

“Kyle, look at you!”

“What about me?”

“Well, you’ve been beaten pretty damn thoroughly, and furthermore, what gave you the idea that you could take on Cartman? He’s twice your size, dude! He’s a linebacker!”

“I could take him when I was 10,” Kyle said weakly in his own defense.

“That was six years ago! Now he beats the shit out of people as a recreational hobby! And I don’t have to tell you he’s good at it!”

“I know.”

“He provokes you to get that response. You are such a dip, dude, you just walk right into it!”

“Don’t you think I know! Ow.” Kyle paused, rubbing his arm. “Maybe I don’t care.”

“Well, then, tell me, Kyle, please, what the hell is it that you care about?”

Kyle began to answer this question with a hesitant “I,” but he was interrupted when a blue-and-black blur popped into the room, visibly sweating, looking like he’d run from somewhere.

“I heard you were hurt,” Craig panted, falling into the chair on the side of Kyle that wasn’t currently dominated by Stan.

“I’m okay,” Kyle sighed.

“Unless you count brain damage!” Stan countered.

“Are you alright?” Craig asked, taking Kyle’s hand. “I swear to god, if you’re not, I will teach that fat fuck some manners personally. I swear to god.”

“I … I think I will be good.”

“Your lip is bleeding pretty badly.”

“Is it?”

“It’s kind of nasty, dude, although I personally think it just serves to make you cuter.”

“Thanks,” Kyle purred. He immediately felt awkward about purring around Stan, and both he and Craig glanced at the other boy, who was, indeed, kind of gaping at them disbelievingly.

“What?” Craig spat bitterly. “Can’t take it, straighty?”

“What are you talking about,” was all Stan said, voice low.

“Don’t you have football practice?” Craig asked, making a lewd jerking gesture for no particular reason.

“Yeah,” Stan confirmed. “Yeah, I fucking do. See you around, Craig.” To Kyle, he added: “I’ll call you … sometime.”

“Call me tonight and see how I’m feeling,” Kyle suggested, batting his eyelashes. He felt Craig kind of squeeze his hand.

“You’ll be fine,” Craig insisted, extending the long-I sound in ‘fine.’ “Just fucking awesome.” Stan regretted that he could hear this even as he exited the room.

~

“I know that filthy Jew strung you along,” Cartman was saying, eyes blazing in earnest, hands clasped together on the table. “But I’m not like that. He’s entirely unstable. Frankly, I doubted his commitment to the project from the beginning.”

“How am I supposed to know this isn’t some ridiculous ploy?” the man asked, using a napkin imprinted with the word ‘Harbucks’ to wipe the lid of his coffee. “I don’t have that much money. I can’t live in a hotel here forever. If this thing doesn’t pan out I’m fucked, so I don’t have a lot of time. So if you’re just stringing me along, too, kid—”

“You’re living in a hotel? You poor man! Come stay with us! My mother and I love having guests.”

“Your mother?”

“Yes, we’re very hospitable at the Cartman house.”

“Your name is Cartman?”

“Yes, that’s right. Eric Cartman.” Cartman leaned back and produced a card from his jeans pocket. All it said was “Eric Theodore Cartman” followed by a phone number.

“Huh.” Granger studied the card, pocketing it. “Broflovski said you were gay.”

“He did?” Frank Granger nodded. “Well, I am,” Cartman said brightly. “And I’m totally committed to this research. I am willing to do anything to help you, with no strings attached whatsoever.”

“There must be a string. No one is this enthusiastic to hang out with academics.”

“No string! I’m just so interested in working with you is all. That’s all I’ll get in return. Helping to further this important project. People need to know, dammit. The agony of uncertainty! It is just so damned unfair.”

Frank pushed up his hideous glasses and pressed the tips of his fingers together. “Huh.” His eyes were downcast, avoiding Cartman’s. “Your offer to help sounds intriguing.” He said this slowly, still looking at the table, or his lap. Cartman was unsure which it was. “You don’t really seem … gay to me.”

“Oh, yes. I can see how you’d think that, considering that I’m so ruggedly masculine and all. But I assure you, Mr. Granger, I am a total fag.”

“Well, you don’t seem all that faggy to me,” Frank Granger sighed. “But then, who am I to judge? Tell you what: If you can believably convince me you’re gay, I’ll use you. Deal?”

“Of course, of course!” Cartman enthused, reaching out to shake Frank’s hand. Frank didn’t take it. Cartman sheepishly withdrew. “You won’t regret this, Mr. Granger. Not one bit.”

“I’d better not, boy.” Granger stood and removed his messenger bag from the chair it was slung over. “Tomorrow, here, same time. Bring me some proof that you’re gay, and I’ll let you in.”

“Proof that I’m … gay.”

“Well, yeah. I don’t know, a testimonial, hair product. Whatever you guys do. Tomorrow. Same time.” Frank extended a hand. “It was nice meeting you, Eric,” he said congenially, his grasp tight. “I look forward to working together.”

“You won’t regret this, Mr. Granger.” Cartman tapped his fingers on the table as Frank left the shop. He took a sip of the coffee the man had left sitting on the table. “Oh, blow me,” he moaned. “How the hell am I supposed to prove I’m gay?”

A woman at the next table shrugged, and Cartman gave her the finger. “Burn in hell, you old bitch,” he said casually, getting up to leave. He left Frank’s coffee cup where it was.

Comments

[orphansock.livejournal.com]

SO GOOD OMG.

I was thinking about this fic today, actually. I'm so glad that you've updated. :)

[sekrit-omg.livejournal.com]

DANKE.

[rikuxsora.livejournal.com]

[sekrit-omg.livejournal.com]

You like it? I'm so glad! Never fear, updates are definitely on their way as soon as I can stop myself from repeatedly revising and just post.

Thanks for commenting!

[zombiexlemming.livejournal.com]

Man, this is shaping up to be my favorite fic of all time. It's so freaking in character even in this absurd situation... I mean, you're skilled man. I'm very, very impressed, and I can't wait to read more!

[sekrit-omg.livejournal.com]

Thanks! I have been getting a lot of positive notes about the characterization. I think what that means is, I watch way too much South Park. I'm very flattered, though, and very happy you're enjoying this.

Are you going to be posting anything to follow up your soup story?

[thesillymoose.livejournal.com]

Kenny is totally Jack Harkness minus the elegance. I fucking love it.

[sekrit-omg.livejournal.com]

Thank you.