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The first time Cartman felt it, he was in the driver seat of his mom’s car, Kyle by his side. Recently, they had been experimenting with being drunk, and it was clear who was better at holding their alcohol here.
Kyle’s body dangled on the seat next to him, his head tilted back, his hand holding a half-finished can of beer. He was utterly relaxed and very red, to the point where he didn’t notice the can tipping a bit too far.
Cartman caught it just in time, his chubby wrist wrapping around and steadying Kyle’s loose grasp.
Naturally, Cartman plucked the can from Kyle bony fingers and brought the opening to his lips. The beer tasted like shit, but at least it was cooled. Kyle made some sound of protest, but it was drowned out by Cartman’s swallowing.
‘Stop drinking. You have school tomorrow, and your mom will kill you if-’
Cartman stopped himself from finish that sentence. First, the tone he used was overwhelming gentle, almost chiding. Second, why would Cartman care about Kyle’s getting his sloppy Jew ass handed to him by his bitch of a mom?
Kyle barely noticed Cartman’s little crisis. His eyes were glued onto the glittering sky in front of them, his mouth opening and closing as if finding momentum. Finally, he spoke, his voice coming out heavily slurred, ‘Don’t ‘are. She can-she can kill me for all I ‘are…’
‘Yeah? Are you sure, Kahl?’ Cartman cocked an eyebrow, his crisis momentarily forgotten. After all, it had been so long since he had seen Kyle vulnerable and stupid like this. Now that he did, he could- he could- he-
He didn’t know what to do about it, except to move the half-consumed six packs to the back, away from Kyle’s reach, and turn on the engine so they could go home.
He still had to urge to rip on Kyle, don’t get him wrong, but Cartman just felt it would be unfair to do that now, when Kyle was barely able to form a coherent sentence. It would be better to do it at school, in Kyle’s bedroom, or his bedroom, or in here but tomorrow before they get totally trashed. Or just Kyle getting totally trashed.
As he pulled out of their little sightseeing spot into a dirt road leading back to South Park, Cartman noticed he didn’t even feel slightly buzzed. He had been limiting his drinking to two sips for their first-time trying White Claw just so he could get Kyle home safe, it seemed.
Aren’t I awfully responsible for doing all this just for the Jew’s dignity? He asked himself as they entered the highway.
He would have laughed, if not for the alien pang of tenderness rising in his chest at the thought. Such emotion felt so foreign he wanted to stomp on it and crush it completely, but for a moment it didn’t seem so dangerous with Kyle’s asleep peacefully on the passenger seat.
Even as he pulled up as silently as possible in front of the Broflovski’s lawn and nudged Kyle awake, the walls he built around himself to keep from disappointment by other people didn’t spring up fully.
Even as he accidentally blurted out ‘Jew, you are absolutely shitfaced. Lean on me.’ and made Kyle lean on his shoulder anyway, he didn’t feel like letting go and pretending he was never nice to Kyle.
Fortunately, despite his drunkenness, Kyle managed to fish out his keys and opened the door in one go. Cartman quickly pushed him in, then found himself rooted to the spot. As he watched Kyle fumbled around for his own door handle, he realized he was waiting for something to shatter this fragile haze of tender worry.
When Kyle turned to him, Cartman braced himself for a retort about his low consumption tonight, predictably one involving Lianne’s alcoholic habits. Tits for tats, as he called it. Kyle and Cartman were not Kyle and Cartman without their incredibly personal insults and jabs.
Instead, Kyle slurred, ‘Thank ‘ew for the ride. Sky wa’ nice tonight. G‘niiight,’ before closing the door slowly and gently on Cartman’s stunned gaze.
For a while, Cartman stood there, his chest and stomach warm with fondness for his friend. He returned to his car with the warmth still there, intact and budding like a growing seedling.