Chapter Text
The Friday before Christmas break begins, Kenny is the last to show up at the bus stop. He wakes up a little late, and honestly, he considers not going to school at all. There's one more day before a week-long hiatus from education, and it's not like they would do anything besides watch crappy holiday movies in every class. He debates getting up and getting ready as he lies in bed for a while.
Then, his flip phone vibrates with an urgent text from Stanley Marsh, and his decision is made.
He scrambles the short walk to the familiar bus stop coated with fresh snow. He thanks Jesus fuckin' Christ that Stan was brainy enough to disregard Kyle's claims that he was okay, and as far as his text insisted, Kyle wouldn’t admit that he was sick.
"Dude, he's burning up, and I'm pretty sure he overdosed on Nyquil." Stan exclaims.
Cartman has his arm crossed off to the side, a devious grin plastered across his face. "He called me a fatbutt instead of a fatass."
"M'fine..." Kyle complained through a snot-filled voice. He groggily glared at Stan, which had little effect. He wobbled slightly, lacking the awareness that he began to lean on his best friend. "I tol' you, it's just an—A'CHOO!"
Stan looks at Kenny with wide eyes, holding the boy up. "See?"
Kenny sighs, looking over Kyle's flushed freckled cheeks and his fragile red eyes. "Ky, you need to go home, okay? Does your mom know you're sick?"
"I'm not sick— you're sick, Penny!"
"Definitely overdosed on Nyquil." Stan mumbles. He gently passed Kyle into Kenny's grasp before digging through his backpack. "I must have a tissue pack in here somewhere... listen, we gotta take him home."
"I'll take him, dude. You'll miss the bus and get in trouble with your mom for skipping class." Kenny replied, leaving little room for negotiation as Kyle began to mumble nonsense about the clouds speaking to him. "My parents won't give a shit. I was planning to take the day off anyway."
Stan finally found a pack of tissues inside his bag and handed them to Kyle, who refused and shoved them away with a shaking head; too distracted making faces at Cartman.
"Are you sure you can handle him?" he asks, attempting once again to lightly push the tissues into his friend's face. "You know how stubborn he is, especially when he's—Kyle, take the fucking tissues!"
"You take th' fucking tissues, Staniel!" Kyle retorted with a tone that would feel far more effective had it not been for the drowsiness in his voice.
Kenny sighs, still in his pajamas that were barely covered by the familiar parka he had thrown on before heading out the door. “Okay, let's get you home, Ky." He suggested softly.
Cartman scoffs at this, rolling his eyes. "Good luck facing the meltdown of his bitch-ass mom when she sees his condition."
"My bitch-ass mom isn't even home..." Kyle thinks aloud in not nearly as much of a quiet tone as he had meant to use.
“Then who is?” Stan questioned with alarm.
“Ma and dad traveled to New York for a friend’s wedding for a couple of days.” He shrugs, rubbing sleepily at his eyes with a yawn. “S’ just me and Ike.”
“Dude," Stan says.
Kyle looks at him with wide eyes. "Dude?"
"Dude... just—dude." Stan begins. Out of the corner of his eye, Kenny can see Cartman cross his arms and begin to tap his foot. Neither of the other two take notice, and Stanley continues. "You have to take better care of yourself. How long have you been sick? You told me you were just tired..."
"Okay... okay, mom. I'll jus' let you know like, everything, Staniel the mom." Kyle slowly responds with a frustrated tone that he would've attempted to hide to his best friend had it not been for the lightness in his head. "You aren't the boss of me and—ACHOO!" Kyle wipes at his wet eyes, and Kenny held back a look of surprise. The medication really took a toll on him. "Okay, Staniel? Mind... mind your beeswax!"
"It's not Staniel, buddy." Stan replied quietly, holding back a glare considering his friend's condition. "Just..." He sighed. "Kenny, will you please take him home? He's too sick to think clearly, and he clearly doesn't want me."
"I told you I'm not sick! I'm healthy all th' time!"
Cartman snorted loudly with exaggeration. "Oh, really? Then who's the Jew we've been seeing in the hospital twice a year and sitting in bed surrounded by tissues twice a month?"
Kyle hit him with a cold look. "I'm not sick."
"You're such a pussy." Cartman laughed.
Just before Kyle was able to lunge, Kenny grabbed one of his shoulders; his free hand wrapped in Kyle's. He was unsurprisingly light due to the weight loss that often vanished from his already small figure, and the blonde was easily able to pick him up and toss him over his shoulder, ignoring the boy's protests.
Kenny looked at Stan. "I'm taking him home. I'll text you later, man."
"Don't get infected with tainted Jewish germs," Cartman explained, ignoring the glares he received in response. "I'm just looking out for you, poor boy."
Stan sighed and waved. "Bye, Ken... feel better, Kyle. Will you text me?"
Kyle was unable to catch eye contact on the other side of Kenny's shoulder that was not facing the other two, but he spoke with a noisy and fever-ridden sniffle. "No. Fuck you, Staniel."
Nobody could really take the threat seriously, but Kenny could see the hurt behind Stan's eyes. Stan didn’t say anything, only tuning away to face an entertained Eric Cartman with tightened fists.
And that's how Kenny McCormick ended up practically carrying one of his closest friends through the doorway of that particular boy's empty house.
Kyle was half asleep by the time they reached home, strikingly allowing himself to be carried, or perhaps just too tired to object.
Kenny laid him down on the couch, taking his snow boots off for him and setting a blanket across his friend. Kyle began to mumble nonsense and opened his eyes sluggishly. "Kenny? Why does Stan treat me like I'm still a kid?" He asked with a stubborn grumble, his cheek still resting against the sofa pillow.
"Sometimes you act like one, Ky." Kenny chuckled, sitting down on the couch next to him. "Why did you get so mad at him?"
"I just don’t want to be treated any different than... than the way you treat me, Kenny. You're good t' me."
McCormick was speechless. He stared at Kyle with wide eyes; Kyle, who begins to fiddle with the edges of the blanket absentmindedly and reaches for a tissue from the box that Kenny had brought to the living room.
"Uh..." He finally spoke, anxiously looking for some sort of diversion. That was weird. Not weird like, weird-weird... but strange. "Ky, you should go to sleep, okay? I'll make you some soup and check your temperature. You sound really sick."
"But, Kenny... I've got t' tell you something." Kyle replied in a soft whisper.
Kenny leaned in with childlike wonder, before catching himself and freezing. Oh god... fuck... he's too out of it—he's gonna say something he'll regret! "No... no, Kyle. You need some sleep."
"Kenny..."
And fuck, he couldn’t like, say no to that voice.
He gulped. "Yeah?"
Kyle stared into Kenny's gleaming grey eyes. His breathing was heavy due to the fever, and Kyle realizes he needs to say what must be said.
"I jus' wanted to let you know..."
Kenny nodded along, attached to every word.
And then, Kyle Broflovski smirked, lying back down drowsily. "I'm not fucking sick."