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sekritomgContinued from here.
To Kyle, the turnabout dance was quantifiable in measurements of who said what about his hair. Craig pronounced it “breathtaking,” but Craig always felt his work was on the brighter side of spectacular — he also rated his rimming skills at 17 out of 10, and had once made himself a “best pick-up truck parallel parker” award certificate, which he actually bothered to have framed. It hung in his bathroom.
Heidi Turner, in passing, mumbled something about not knowing his hair could do ‘that.’ When Kyle asked what exactly ‘that’ was, Heidi just shrugged. A few people just kind of looked at him funny, like they didn’t know who he was or what he was doing there with Craig. But the remark that made Kyle blush with abandon was when Stan came up to him near the door and said, “New look?”
“It’s not permanent,” Kyle had replied, fanning himself a little.
“Neat.” And if it felt like Stan was about to lean in and kiss him, or just whisper something dumb about his hair, Kyle would never be able to verify it, because it was at this moment that Bebe ran in and grabbed Stan’s arm, yanking him toward the dance floor. Kyle watched him stagger off with his date, the smell of rum wafting around where his wet breath lingered. Kyle held his bottle of water and sighed — he knew Stan would never kiss him.
Perhaps this dance was even lamer than projected because he was totally, horribly sober. Craig had made him promise not to drink — sworn up and down that he had a very good reason why Kyle needed to be mostly sober at the end of the night, “but not too sober,” and Kyle had a pretty good idea of what Craig was getting at. He also knew himself pretty well, and he was quite painfully aware that if he began drinking, the likelihood of being able to halt was fairly low. And so here he was in the gym, lingering by the entrance with his bottle of water, watching Stan and Bebe flounce off to make asses of themselves on the dance floor.
It was not a particularly memorable event. A couple of sophomores vomited, and were thusly sent home. Stan and Bebe ground their pelvises into each other, clinging to one another as if to a life preserver. Bebe in particular flounced her butt in time to the music, joyously shaking with her arms in the air while Stan looked awkwardly detached from the scene. Obviously, he’d helped himself to some of his father’s rations on the way out the door. Kyle could only hope that Bebe hadn’t been involved, but he knew it was too much to expect. He was painfully aware of what was coming.
A distinct sense of gloom lingered throughout the dance. It didn’t matter that Craig was his usual self, alternately gentlemanly and crass, running off to talk to random people the entire night only to return with another bottle of water and a story about ‘accidentally’ snapping a freshman girl’s bra. “But that’s what you get for not going strapless,” he reasoned. Kyle just shrugged. He didn’t realize or care that bras may or may not have straps; the possibility of touching one of these bra straps was likewise uninteresting to him. As was this entire dance. The cheesy flashing lights, the boring soundtrack … all any of it did was provide a backdrop to his misery as he sat on the bleachers watching Stan. Then Craig would run back up to him with some more water, and God, how Kyle hated Craig’s ability to make this situation any fun at all. He didn’t know why he wanted to go to this. At first he’d figured that it was what real couples did, and weren’t he and Craig a real couple? But the longer he sat with his head in his hands, staring at his best friend’s date with the hot ire of a thousand energy-wasting 150-watt lightbulbs, the more he began to feel that he and Craig were just as able to be a real couple without ever going to another school function again. Fine, done. He’d made a mistake, but now he’d made a decision.
It seemingly dragged on forever, but of course, that was mere hyperbole — it was over by midnight. And so before he knew it, Kyle found himself trudging through town along the side of the road, Craig’s arm around his shoulders, the material of each other’s coats making small noises as they rubbed together in the frigid darkness. Craig was kind of talking at great length about someone’s outfit, and Kyle allowed himself to drift back to the dance, where sad little Butters sat by himself at the ticket table twiddling his thumbs and sighing. “Cartman not a dance fan?” Kyle had asked him, looking for people to speak with to stave off his boredom.
“Huh? Oh. I guess not.” Butters tapped the cash box. It made a satisfyingly metallic sound. “I’m meeting up with him after.”
“He’s making himself awfully scarce these days.”
“Aw, don’t I know it.” He smiled sadly. “He’s always talking to that Frank Granger fella, or hanging out with Wendy. People just want his attention so bad, and if it’s not them, it’s the football team.”
Kyle raised an eyebrow. “Wendy, huh? Butters, don’t you ever—”
Butters cut him off. “Don’t you say it. I know you think I’m just a naïve little thing, and, well, I’m not. And I don’t want to fight with you or anything.”
“But don’t you—”
“No.” His fingers tensed on the cashbox,
“All right, fine. Good dance, Butters.”
“I know you don’t mean that.”
Kyle had been turned around, planning on finding someone else to bug while Craig played social butterfly with Thomas and a bunch of sophomore girls, but this comment of Butters’ just caught him, as if it were a hook on his black shirt, and he turned, frowning.
“Well, fuck it, Butters. Who the fuck says what they mean all the damn time?”
“Gee, I don’t know. Some people.”
“Some retarded people.”
Now, in the murky cold, with the purple sky lit by tiny white stars, Kyle let Craig drag him along the dirt shoulder of the street. He was babbling about nothing, as he was wont to do. But Kyle wasn’t listening. He thought about Butters, and his stupid — well, gay — little dance. What had any of it accomplished for any of them? What had it accomplished for Butters? Nothing, that was what. Nothing that boy did would ever get him what he wanted. All he would ever be was strung along, made to grope for the love of a boy who was too preoccupied with his own agenda to even notice beyond amusement. And that was fine, Kyle guessed. In his heart he pitied the blond boy, but he knew, rationally, that anyone that simplistic and naïve was just begging for what he deserved.
~
“Kyle, Craig,” Wendy said curiously. She leaned against the door, hand on her jaunty hip, thigh exposed through a slit in her skirt. “I, uh, wasn’t expecting you guys.”
“No? How weird. You look totally hot, Wends.” Craig flashed his toothy smile. “Dig the top.”
“Yeah?” she asked, fingering the lacy material. “I got last week, it was on sale.”
“No way.”
“Yes way. I was like, they won’t have this in my size, but they did. I don’t know, things don’t usually fit over my…” She pointed to her chest and mouthed the word ‘cleavage.’
Tapping his foot impatiently, Kyle sighed. It was cold out, and he had no interest in discussing women’s clothing, or really any clothing, pretty much ever. So he interjected: “I’m really sorry, Wendy. I know it’s supposed to be small, but Stan asked me to come, and I couldn’t not bring Craig, and—”
“It’s fine,” she said, cutting him off with a belabored sigh. “Basically half the school is here anyway.” And she stepped backward with the door to reveal a full house of revelers, many of whom Kyle did not recall seeing at the dance, or even in school before at all. But he saw
“Oh, no.” Craig stepped over the threshold and pulled Kyle along with him. “I think we’ll join you in there.” He removed his coat and helped Kyle remove his. Wendy, who was pursing her lips while observing this scene, slumped when Craig handed her their garments. “Put those somewhere,” he said.
“But I—”
“Thanks, Wendy!” Craig was already stalking off, Kyle’s hand in his, dragging the redhead toward the kitchen. “You’re the best!”
As he was led through the Testaburger living room, Kyle looked for any of his closer friends, but seeing none of them he just let himself be dragged along until Craig stopped near the kitchen.
“I have to go talk to Token,” he said.
“Oh, godammit,” Kyle moaned. “About what?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“What?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“What!”
“Calm down. I asked him to get me something.”
“Oh, Jesus Christ. Now Token is selling drugs?”
Craig rolled his eyes as a skinny senior girl with dingy bleached dreadlocks slithered between the two of them into the kitchen without giving even a word of acknowledgment, let alone apology.
“Fucking hell,” Kyle sighed.
“Just trust me.” Craig leaned in and gave Kyle a quick peck on the nose. “Why don’t you go mingle?”
“I’ve been mingling all night! I don’t like mingling.”
“Go find someone to talk to. Why don’t you talk to Thomas? He’s really nice.”
“He’s impossible to have a conversation with!”
“I know,” Craig agreed. “Don’t you find that a little adorable?”
“Oooh.” Kyle crossed his arms. “So that means you find him adorable.”
Craig smirked, and cupped Kyle’s cheeks in his hand. “Is my little boy jealous?”
“Don’t be a dick, Craig.”
Craning his neck to get a better look into the kitchen, Craig spotted Token and gave a quick nod in his direction. “There’s Token,” he said. “I’m going to talk to him. Just try to relax or something, okay?” Craig gave Kyle another brief kiss, this time on the temple, and he walked away with his hands in his pockets as Kyle heard him call out Token’s name.
“Relax,” Kyle said to himself. “Who does he think he is telling me—”
He turned away from the kitchen, only to smack into what he might easily have mistaken for a wall.
“Oh, hi, Kyle.”
“We’re not doing this, shithead.” Kyle tried to side-step Cartman, but the larger boy just side-stepped along with him. “Get out of my way.”
“I like your hair,” Cartman continued, pretending not to hear Kyle’s order. “You do that for Craig? Or for Stan?”
“I’m not in the mood for this, Cartman.”
“Oh, right. Well, I’ll tell Frank you said hi.”
“Yeah, please also tell him I said he can rot in hell.”
“That’s not very nice,” he replied, but Kyle maneuvered his way around the large boy, making quite sure not to brush up against him at all, or, failing that, as slightly as possible, on his way. He heard the fading refrain of Cartman’s amused chuckle, but he didn’t stop to return any insults. He fled.
He wasn’t sure where to go. He nearly walked straight into Clyde and his younger lady friend basically chewing one another’s tongues off, and for a moment Kyle was worried he might have to speak with
Kyle thought about
And they really hadn’t spoken since.
Kyle wandered around the house. He tried to get upstairs, but some seniors he didn’t know were using them for their own purposes, and stepping over people was just awkward. He silently cursed Craig, whom he was beginning to resent for throwing him to the wolves like this. Some partygoers attempted to make eye contact, or began to say something. Kyle wanted to speak to no one, save maybe two people. Instead of being here, he could be at Craig’s, doing whatever it was Craig wanted to go do, not that he didn’t have a fairly direct knowledge of what this thing was. Usually he enjoyed parties, and he wondered why this one was so god-forsakenly horrible. Then he realized that this was probably the first party he’d been to since age 12 at which he’d actually been sober for more than a brief period following his arrival.
Not really wanting to keep wandering around, and fearing someone with more than a cursory interest in speaking to him popping out from behind a piece of furniture, he fell onto the couch with a couple of typical stoners who were giggling about string cheese. Man, stoners were boring. He curled up and averted his gaze from them and the rest of the room, which left him staring at his own knees.
~
Stan hated beer pong for a good reason: He was awesome at it. He never missed, and as a result, whoever was across the table from him would begin to falter more and more frequently, until Stan and whoever he was playing with was left with a nearly full set of cups for the other team to drink up. He was too good a pitcher for this game to ever get him drunk, and his buzz from the dance was quickly fading.
And yet here he was, in Wendy’s basement, facing off against the unlikely duo of Tweek and Butters. It was pathetic.
“Oh Jesus!” Tweek pulled on his hair and grimaced. “I missed again!”
“Aw, it’s okay,” Butters reassured him. “You did your best.”
“Uh huh.” Stan rolled his eyes. He turned to his partner, Mark, and sighed. “Your turn,” he mumbled.
“All right.” Mark carefully picked up a ball from the table, and shut one eye, focusing in on one of Butters and Tweek’s cups.
“Ah, shit! He’s going to make it! Oh my god, ah!”
“It’ll be all right,” Butters soothed, calmly patting Tweek on the back. “Maybe he won’t—” A ping-pong ball plopped into one of their remaining cups. “Oh, I guess he did.”
“Ah!” Tweek accepted the red plastic cup Butters was offering him, and as his hands trembled on the way to his mouth, little splashes of beer were lost. Stan pinched the bridge of his nose, mourning the loss of alcohol he could have been drinking, in theory, if not for this fucking game.
“Woo!” Bebe shrieked. She was sitting a chair, drinking a wine cooler. “Go Stan!”
“It was my shot.”
“Whatever, Mark,” Stan said. “Let’s just get this over with.”
“Well, don’t you think it’s rather unfair of you to be taking credit for my shot?”
Stan gritted his teeth. “I’m not. It’s Bebe—”
Stan and Mark saw a little white orb whiz passed their heads. “Aw, hamburgers,” Butters moaned in the distance. “Missed again.”
“This game is so much pressure!”
Mark leaned in. “I think we need a strategy,” he whispered.
“What? No, that’s retarded.” He looked away to eye Butters and Tweek — the former was quite obviously picking his underwear out of his ass; the latter was hugging himself tightly, whipping his head from side to side.
Stan turned to speak to Bebe. “This is retarded,” he said.
“But you’re doing so well.”
“I forfeit,” Stan announced.
“But we’re going to win!” Mark protested, arms akimbo.
“The point of the game is not to win.”
“What’s the point of doing anything and not making a valiant effort to be the best?”
“Shit, Mark, dude, I don’t know.” Stan paused. “Getting loaded?” Both Stan and Mark turned to see Team Tweekers clumsily handling the alcohol.
“These cups are all sticky,” Butters sighed, wiping a hand on his plastic pants. “Blech.” Then he kept drinking.
“Ohhhhh no,” Tweek moaned in response. “How the fuck am I supposed to drink all of this? What if I drink so much I have to go to the bathroom and then I try to get into the bathroom and someone’s in the bathroom and then I can’t hold it so I try to go in a plant and then someone sees me and I get shy so I try to go back to the bathroom but someone is still in there and oh my god, it’s getting real dire so I go upstairs and then I can’t hold it anymore I just can’t so I pee on myself, and everyone sees me and they laugh at me, and of course I’ve ruined Wendy’s carpet, dear god, she’ll get pissed at me and I’ll be sued for underage drinking and vandalism and then—holy shit! Her parents take me down to the station and they give me a drug test!” Somewhere in the middle of this crazed rant Tweek had grabbed Butter’s by the collar of his shirt and was now shaking him. Butters, for his part, was calmly drinking beer. “Butters, what if they give me a drug test! It’s just so freaking, like — seriously, I can’t go to jail! Do you know what they do to guys like me in there? They’ll rape me! Oh shit!”
“There there,” Butters said calmly after swallowing a mouthful. He patted Tweek on the head but scowled when he touched the little skitzo. “Your hair is all clumpy,” he remarked.
“Ahhhhh! Oh lord!”
“Okay,” Stan said again, shaking his head. “I’ve had about enough of this.” He grabbed Bebe by the wrist and yanked her out of the chair.
~
“Here,” Craig said warmly, sticking a red plastic cup in Kyle’s line of vision. “Drink this.”
“Uh.” Kyle sniffed it. “What is this?” He peered down into the cup, where a frothy liquid in an unusual neon-pink color was sloshing around. Kyle was immediately turned off by the color — but to be fair, he figured that some of it might have had something to do with the vessel the drink was contained in, and the questionable mood lighting of the Testaburger living room.
“Buck’s fizz,” Craig said simply. “I bought the Moet off Token. It’s classy. You’ll like it.”
Kyle swirled the glass, and put it to his lips. He glanced at Craig, who was giving him an annoyed look. Not wanting to seem like he was too hesitant, Kyle took a sip, and wiped his mouth.
“It’s just a fucking mimosa,” he said, wondering if Wendy’s family didn’t own any champagne flutes.
“Correction: It has grenadine in it.”
“And that makes it something else?” Craig nodded. “I thought you didn’t want me drinking.”
“They say alcohol is a social lubricant.”
“I know.”
“Well, that’s not the only thing it lubricates.” While Craig was speaking, Kyle continued to drink his champagne and juice. But then he nearly spit a mouthful of it back into his cup.
“No way this shit is going to lube up my ass, Craig.”
“Well, not literally, no. Just trust me. Drink up.”
“Then why—”
“Well, it wouldn’t do me any good if you were too drunk to get it up, would it? Or worse yet, totally blacked out. Or violently ill.”
“Yeah,” Kyle agreed. “No. I mean, what kind of guy would barf on someone he wanted to have sex with?”
It was at this moment that a mass of entangled limbs landed on the couch right next to Craig, who merely rolled his eyes and inched away from a mop of curly blonde hair and a red shirt that was cut low in the back.
“Stan?” Kyle asked, reaching over both Craig and Bebe to poke the black-haired boy kissing her aggressively.
“Huh?” When Stan plied his lips away from Bebe’s, a loud suction sound made Craig grimace — and Kyle didn’t look so pleased about it either. “Oh, hey.” Stan wiped his lips with the back of his wrist and took a breath.
“Shouldn’t you guys be doing that in private?” Kyle asked.
“Yeah,” Craig agreed lamely, as he had actually begun many a night of passion on someone’s couch, or in the middle of a party.
“Oh, Craig,” Bebe sighed, adjusting herself and scowling. “Get over yourself. I was basically scarred for life when I saw you going at it on Red’s couch with Mark in ninth grade.”
“Looks like you recovered to me,” Craig replied.
“Ugh, that is so like you, not acknowledging my emotional pain.”
“Says the girl using Stan Marsh as her own personal
“Ah, hey,” Stan said coolly. “I’m here on my own volition.”
“Me too,” Kyle added quickly, feeling his heart beat a bit faster.
“We were here first,” Craig said.
“You don’t own the couch, Craig.”
“I do too, Bebe.”
“Oh, don’t you give me the finger!”
“I’m not the one basically getting fingered.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet you do the fingering. Doesn’t he?” Bebe directed this at Kyle.
“You don’t have to answer that, baby. Let me take care of this.”
“Don’t you talk down to him!” Stan erupted, standing up. A few people in the room looked over at him, but most were too involved in drinking or displaying their own affection publicly to notice.
“Stan!” Bebe snapped. “You are my date, and I expect you to defend my honor!”
“Ugh, Bebe,” Stan groaned. Then he turned to Craig. “What the fuck, dude?”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You started a fight with my date.” He paused. His pursed lips trembled as he tried to avoid adding the next part, but he couldn’t stop himself. “And you can’t order Kyle around like a piece of meat!”
Now Craig stood up, and a few more people turned their attention to the scene. “You can say whatever you want, guy, but the fact is he is my piece of meat. Not to mention you’re mixing your metaphors!”
“I’ll metaphor you!” Stan threatened.
“Scary!” Craig cried, getting up. “Is that some kind of breeder football thing?”
“Why are people always calling me that?”
“I don’t know.” Craig rolled his eyes again. “Let’s think.” He put his hand to his chin in mock-thoughtfulness. “Can you help me, Bebe? I’m trying to figure this out.”
“Craig,” Kyle said softly. He pulled on the sleeve of Craig’s shirt.
“I said I’d take care of it,” Craig responded.
“Why do you let him talk to you like that?” Stan asked. Kyle let go of Craig’s shirt and looked up at Stan, who was frowning in consternation.
“I’ll talk to him however I want because he knows I treat him like a fucking human being, which is better than I can say for you.”
“He’s my best friend! I’d never do anything—”
“Exactly.”
“I don’t even know what you’re talking about!”
“I am so sick of this!” Bebe shouted, and the entire room, give or take, looked over at the couch.
“Bebe!” someone cried, and soon Wendy was hopping over some boy who was lying on the floor, and a lamp that had been knocked over. “What’s wrong?”
“Fucking Craig is what’s wrong!” Bebe pointed to Craig. “He’s fucking fighting with Stan over this idiot.” She pointed to Kyle, who furiously blushed and put a hand to his chest, not knowing how to defend himself. “And all Stan and I were trying to do was make out, and Craig is being a fucking cock-block, like if he’s not getting any no one else can.”
“I’m getting plenty,” Craig said calmly. Stan’s eyebrows shot up with immediacy, and he looked down to Kyle, who gazed back up at him, mouth open, hoping beyond hope he could think of something to say. He knew Stan so well, knew that the other boy’s eyes were trying to read his, looking to know the truth, if any, in Craig’s statement. It was as if Stan could read classified documents in his gaze, deciphering the jargon of his emotions with decoder glasses.
He no longer wanted to be here, and he didn’t know what to do. Why did Bebe have to be such a melodramatic whore?
“Oh, please,” she was saying, prodding Craig with her aggressively female tone.
“All right, okay,” Wendy said tentatively. She put a hand on Bebe’s shoulder. “You and Stan can use my room.”
“That’s sweet of you,” Bebe said. “But it doesn’t change the fact that Craig is a little douche and he ruined the mood.”
“It’s not really ruined for me,” Stan blustered, trying to retake control here from the women.
“It’s fine,” Kyle added, because he was finding it impossible to let Stan say anything without following with his own comment, regardless of how inane or innocuous.
“We’re all having a really nice time here,” Wendy tried to rationalize. “We don’t need to ruin it with this fighting.”
“Then make Bebe get the fuck off my couch!” Craig snapped his fingers in Bebe’s face to go along with this suggestion.
“You get off the couch, Craig! It’s my couch since it’s in my best friend’s house!”
Wendy coughed. “Technically it’s my couch.”
“I don’t know why you’re friends with this bitch, Wends,” Craig sneered.
“Craig,” Kyle pleaded, the only participant in this argument still seated.
“You keep the least savory company,” Craig continued.
“And just what is that supposed to mean? Don’t insult me in my house, Craig!”
“Yeah, don’t insult her in her house!” Bebe smirked.
“Can we please just leave here?” Stan asked.
“Craig,” Kyle continued to wheedle.
This time, instead of ignoring the red head, Craig whipped around and looked down at Kyle. “What?” he snapped, and then almost instantly as he realized what he was doing. He immediately shook his head and said, “Sorry, I—”
And whatever he was sorry for, he didn’t get to finish, because with no more than a furtive glance at Stan and Bebe, Kyle leapt up and crushed his lips into Craig’s, clutching the ties on his hat like they were the handles of a pool ladder.
Craig’s eyes slowly opened and, from behind Kyle’s blinding hair, he gave Stan and Bebe a satisfied grin, allowing Kyle to lick his curved lips while he silently gloated. They fell back down onto the couch together, and Craig managed to lift Kyle onto his lap so that he was straddled. Unable to move without throwing the redhead off of him, Craig shut his eyes again and allowed himself to smooth his hands over Kyle’s behind, leisurely groping his property.
“Ugh!” Bebe squealed. “Come on, Stan.”
“Where are we going?” Stan asked as Bebe dragged him away by his sleeve.
“Who cares? Away from here!” Her voice trailed off.
“Yes, yes!” someone cheered, clapping, approaching the couch. “Good god, that was entertaining.”
Even with Craig’s hands over his ears, Kyle knew that voice anywhere.
“Seriously Eric,” Wendy shrilled. Even when Craig and Bebe were fighting, she hadn’t sounded this angry. “Just what the fuck are you doing?”
“Me? What am I doing? Why, I’m just trying to enjoy the bitch fight between Craig and that bottle-blonde ho.” Kyle opened his eyes and glanced up to see Cartman cupping Wendy’s sharp chin with his thick fingers. “And might I add, bitch,” Cartman slurred. “It was quite amusing.”
“Get off me, Eric,” Wendy warned.
“Aw, come on!”
“I told you,” she said threateningly. “If you bring that pathetic little wretch anywhere near my house—”
“Ay! You know he’s insignificant!”
“I’m what?” Butters’ voice rang like a little bell, and it was disconcerting, because Kyle hadn’t realized he was at the party, let alone in the room.
“—there would be severe consequences.”
At this statement, Kyle pushed away from Craig, and they both stared up at the disturbing tableau of Wendy, Cartman, and Butters, spit-slick lips still hanging open.
“I’m a reasonable girl, Eric.” Wendy breathed his name with a kind of thick importance, like just chanting the syllables made the mucus in her lungs congeal a little faster. “I asked you not to come here with him.”
“He’s nothing!”
“Hey!” Butters cried. “I am not nothing! My mother says I—”
“Oh, shut up, Butters,” Cartman sighed.
“Okay,” Butters agreed sadly.
“Look, he listens to everything I say,” Cartman announced. “I said, ‘Ay! Butters! Don’t get between me and Wendy!’ And he listened.”
“But you don’t listen to me!” Wendy hissed. “I said not to bring that thing into my house!”
“Now, I am getting mighty sick of—”
“Shut up, Butters!” Wendy and Cartman roared simultaneously.
“See, it’s fine.”
“It is not fine!” Wendy choked. “Don’t you see what you’re doing to me?”
“I told you—”
“And I told you, if you’re going to fake-date that pathetic little faggot, don’t you ever bring him near me, or my house, or my friends! You told me all you were going to do was use him to piss off Kyle. Now look what it’s turned into! He’s following you around everywhere! People think you’re dating him!”
“No one’s dumb enough to think that!”
Butters sighed dramatically, and shrugged off, struggling to fit his hands in the pockets of his skin-tight, pink vinyl pants.
Wendy and Cartman continued hollering at one another
“What the fuck dude?” Kyle whispered to Craig.
“Shhh.” Craig put a hand on Kyle’s knee. “We gotta listen to this shit. Lie low.” Kyle hopped off of Craig’s lap and hunkered down on his shoulder.
“When I fell in love with you it was because your plots had meaning!” Wendy was crying. “Now look at you! Pretending to be gay with Butters! Why can’t you pretend to be gay with me?”
“Because you’re a chick, bitch! It wouldn’t work!”
“Work what?” Wendy shot back. “Where is the end of this scheme?”
“I don’t know!”
“Exactly!”
“Why do all my schemes have to have a point?” Cartman asked. “Why can’t I just do something because I enjoy it?”
“But your enjoyment is coming at my expense!”
“But that’s what you like about me!” Cartman protested. “You like that I put me before you all the time. That’s what you said!”
“But now you’re fake-putting Butters before you!”
“Only to get to Kyle!”
“Oh, fuck Kyle!”
“I’m going to,” Craig whispered. Kyle put a hand over his mouth. He couldn’t believe no one was paying attention to them on the couch. The entire room was gaping at Cartman and Wendy and the unbelievably surreal fight they were engaged in.
“I need someone who inspires me,” Wendy moaned. “Why can’t you blind some puppies or something? Why does it always have to be Kyle?”
“Because puppies don’t cry when you slap them. About the only similarity between Kyle and a puppy is the uncontrollable urge to stick its nose between Stan Marsh’s legs.”
“Oh, he doesn’t even care! He’s too busy with Craig on the couch over there.” Wendy stopped and turned. Craig and Kyle both sat up sheepishly.
“Hey Wends,” Craig said cheerfully. “How’s that relationship with Cartman going?”
“Godammit Craig!” Wendy burst. “Just go.”
Craig shrugged and pulled a still-shocked Kyle off of the couch. He toddled off to go get their coats, leaving Kyle by the door on his own, with about 40 or so pairs of eyes staring at him
“Uh,” was all Kyle managed.
“Thanks for the hospitality!” Craig cried as he bounced back into view. The door slammed shut behind them as they left.
Outside the house, Kyle heard someone call his name. He looked into the distance to see Kenny standing there, flanked by a shadowy figure who was apparently lighting Kenny’s cigarette. Kyle scrunched his face oddly, and Craig whispered the identity of Kenny’s suitor into his boyfriend’s ear.
“Huh,” Kyle replied, neither surprised nor impressed.
“Where are you guys going?” Kenny asked, exhaling some smoke.
“Probably to commit sodomy,” Christophe said, bored. “Where else is there to go?”
“Exactly Chris,” Craig said amiably. “My thoughts exactly.”
“We’ve just been there,” Kenny said with a grin.
“Oh, fucking shit,” the Frenchman slurred. “God resents braggarts, mon amour.” It was at this point that Kyle noticed that Christophe was holding both a cigarette and bottle of wine in a paper bag in the same hand. Switching his grasp to take a drag, Christophe proffered the wine to Craig, who took the bottle and happily gulped some down, finishing with a dramatic wipe of his palm against his grinning lips. Craig angled the bottle at Kyle, who scowled down at it, then back up at Craig. Kenny and Christophe gave each other a meaningful look, while the both continued to smoke.
Noticing Kyle’s discomfort at this odd moment, Kenny snatched the bottle back from Craig. “How’s the party?” the blonde boy asked.
“Pretty bad,” Kyle said. “But how the hell would I know, being this sadly sober?”
“Oh, bitch,” Craig said dismissively. “It’s hilarious. If you hurry you’ll catch the tail end of Cartman and Wendy slugging it out.”
“Really? They’re speaking again?” Kenny asked. “Poor Butters.”
“I don’t feel sorry for him,” Christophe announced. “I can tell you about suffering.”
“See, that’s what I think,” Kyle announced, finding it curious that he and the Mole apparently agreed on something.
“Well, this is great,” Craig said impatiently, laying a muffled slap to Kyle’s behind. “But we have places to be.”
“People to mount?” Kenny asked, rubbing his hands together, cigarette dangling from his chapped lips.
“Yeah, probably,” Craig garbled, no longer really interested in talking anymore.
“Let me know what happens,” Kenny said, giving Kyle a lewd, albeit sarcastic, wink .
“I don’t think so,” Kyle said simply.
“Chris,” Craig said warmly, giving the shaggy-haired boy a brotherly nod.
“Craig,” Christophe replied. He and Kenny proceeded into the Testaburger home, and Craig and Kyle continued on their way, the vibration of bass in the ground stilling as they moved closer toward their final destination.
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no subject
Date: 2008-07-06 04:39 (UTC)