Archive of Our Own

     Two weeks ago, Cartman dropped off the face of the earth.

     This wasn’t uncommon of course. He was known for many things: dressing up as Hitler and causing a herd of ignorant morons (somehow stupider than him) to trample down the main street of South Park rambling about how much they loved The Passion. He was known for feeding kids their parents, hating gingers, becoming one himself, raising a ginger army (a lot of armies, now that Kyle thinks about it), then, somehow, miraculously, always ending up in the clear. Cartman disappearing wasn’t exactly uncommon amongst the other wild, disgusting, and downright criminal things he did. Honestly, he was rather unpredictable in his predictability.

     But the day before he disappeared, he broke his own mold. 

----- 

     “Guys, I’m bisexual,” he said in between bites of his cafeteria fries.

     Kyle remembers the clattering of plastic cutlery and the squish of food almost falling out of his mouth.

     “Be fucking for real, Cartman,” Stan pressed, rolling his eyes, “it’s 2023, you can’t joke about this shit anymore.”

     “Mrmph mrph mrph mrph mrph,” or: “ This makes a lot of sense.”

     “Fuck you, Kenny,” Cartman slugs him in the arm before turning to Stan with his usual face of condescension on, “yes, Stan, I am being crystal queer, I am, indeed, bisexual.”

     “Do you even know what bisexual means, dumbass?” Kyle snaps, “because last time I checked, you were waltzing around telling everyone you were,” in air quotes, “a quarter bisexual.”

     Cartman gasps dramatically, “I didn’t know you were such a biphobe, jew.”

     “It just seems like one of your ploys for attention,” Kyle could feel his usual “I-hate-Cartman” heat rising in his stomach, raising itself to his reddened cheeks.

     Cartman scoffs, “I would never do such a thing. With pride month coming up, I wanted to inspire others in this hick ass town to come forward with their identities, I thought you would really appreciate it, Kyle.”

     “And why is that, lardass?” he huffs, unable to unbreak eye contact with the boy across from him.

     “Because you’re a massive fag, obviously,” he implements by putting a warm hand on his white-knuckled one still clutching his fork, he hushes: “it’s okay, Kyle, you can come out now.”

     “Oh, fuck you, Cartman!” Kyle yells. At this point, everyone is used to them bickering at lunch, the surrounding tables don’t even bat an eye, neither do Kenny or Stan. “If I was gay, it wouldn’t be any of your fucking business. In fact, if I was, I would never come out so no one could ever, ever,” he empathizes, “could possibly ever imagine us dating.”

     “Oh, please, you would be lucky to date a hot, sexy piece of ass like me.”

     The only thing your ass is is fucking fat, is about to roll off his tongue, but Kenny interrupts with the unzipping of his hoodie to ask loudly: “okay, who made you bisexual?”

     “No one “made me bisexual, white trash,” he pops another fry in his mouth, dodging Kyle’s intense glare after a quick, nearly untraceable side eye, “but , if anyone did make me bisexual: Ryan Reynolds.”

     “Seriously?” Stan chews, “not Gosling?”

      “He’s fine too, but did you see his tight little ass in Deadpool? Ugh, I would eat it like it was my last meal, breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”

     “Gross.”

     Kenny, unfazed, asks, “okay: fuck, marry, kill: me, Stan, and, Kyle.”

     Cartman stops chewing, “kill all of you guys, especially the jew. Maybe marry Kenny, if you ever save up enough money to treat me the way I deserve.”

     They all roll their eyes, but Kenny is the first to add: “I think that’s his way of saying he would fuck Kyle and kill you, Stan.”

     “Hey!” Cartman and Kyle squawk in unison.

     “Awh, what? Why do I have to die?” Stan pouts.

     “Oh, please, have you seen the way Cartman looks at him? Fuck or kill, I always say, and from my perspective, I’m leaning towards fuck.”

     Kyle will deny he’s blushing furiously. He watches Cartman swallow down the last of his food before he mutters, “screw you guys, I’m going home.”

     That was the last time any of them saw him.

----

     At first, Kyle thought that maybe he opted to hangout with Marjorine, who still got cornered into most of his ploys, possibly plotting to make the most offensive pride rally South Park has ever seen. Then again, that Cartman seems behind him now. 

      In the next couple days, Marjorine pulled him aside to ask the same question the rest of the gang were ignoring: where was Eric Theodore Cartman?

     “Why do you think I would know?” 

     “Oh! My bad, I just thought y’all two were like that,” she says shyly, bumping her knuckles together.

     “Like what?” He raised his brow.

     “Oh, you know,” she struggles to find the word, heat rising to her pink cheeks, “like-”

     She proceeds to raise her left hand, hanging her wrist limply but fingers tight together, “like that,” she whispered.

     “What.” he deadpans.

     “Oh, nevermind!” she spins on her heels and runs like a rabbit down the hall.

     It comes to him when he’s sliding his science textbook into his locker what exactly she meant. He flushes.

     Did everyone think he was gay?

     He pushes the thought away as he slams his locker shut. It didn’t matter, he decided, knowing South Park, its small population was dead set on whatever belief blew in with the wind. Maybe, if everyone thought like Marjorine did (or Kenny did), maybe he could earn a couple bucks from it like Tweek and Craig did way back when.

     But, no, that didn’t happen, and Cartman hadn’t come back. The guys stopped by his house that first weekend to see if he wanted to join him in a few rounds of basketball, but all they got was from Liane Cartman, telling them he went off to stay with family in Nebraska. 

    It didn’t sound the most probable, Kyle immediately thought that he sent himself to conversion camp, just so he could cause some sort of “gay uprising” and come back to throw a hotel-convention-room mixer to applaud his bravery, but even that sounded too stupid for Cartman.

     Word soon got around that Cartman was bisexual, his ears perked when anyone said his name- sniffing out the truth, all and none of it seemed like an answer.

     “I heard he went to join the circus, they’re always accepting freaks like him,” okay. Rude. But well-deserved.

     “I heard his mom found out he was gay and sent him away,” his initial thought, but considering how Liane was intersex, he doubted she would actually send him away unless his first theory was correct.

     “I heard he ran away with a big, black guy,” nope. Not even worth the thought, Kyle shivered at the forced imagination in his head of Cartman having sex with some hot Adonis in a hotel room amongst the Denver skyline.

     Stan and Kenny had no actual input on this, and Kyle didn’t want to bring it up because he just knew what they were going to say.

     “Why? Do you miss him?”

     Hell-fucking-no, Kyle Mathew Brofloski would never, ever miss that ignorant, bigoted fatass.

     But he had to admit, South Park had gotten a little grayer since he disappeared.

     There was no one to argue with, which sounded like a godsend to anyone surrounding their group, but it meant that their scheduled hangouts hung a little dry. There was less entertainment, no one to pick on or scold. At least Marjorine seemed a little happier.

     Cartman would come back sooner-or-later, he lived and breathed South Park, mostly because its citizens were dumb enough to follow his every whim despite knowing exactly who and what he was. He couldn’t admit it, but Cartman was an enigma:  a powerful flame roaring at the center of South Park, dangerous, but needed.

     These were the last thoughts tumbling in Kyle’s mind before he drifted asleep, the kind you have that come without your own censor. Too tired to fight against them, Kyle finally shut his eyes and fell into a deep sleep.

     That night in dreams he couldn’t remember, he could see Cartman’s eyes in the dark.

----

     When Kyle wakes up, he notices the static in the air: something was different. He ignores it, pushing past his groggy state, he makes his way to the bathroom to brush his teeth, rinse, put his contacts in, and fix his hair (unable to get away with wearing a hat without Marjorine scolding him). 

     He planned out his outfit the night before, finding it saved time, he pushes his clothes on and feels a snap of electricity snap against his skin. Once again, he ignores it, grabs his book bag and winter jacket, making his way downstairs and eventually out the door.

     They alternate on who drives them all to school, most of the time it was Stan since he lives so far away. Stan picks him up first before swinging by Tweak Bro’s for coffee and hot chocolate before picking up Kenny, who usually slugged his way out of the house with his hood hiding his bedhead, but this morning he looked presentable with Marjorine clung to his side.

     “They kick you out again?” Stan asks bluntly as the couple slip inside, Marjorine audibly cringes but nods.

     “Just a nice little vacay at the finest resort South Park can offer,” Kenny grins as he wraps an arm around Marjorine.

     The ghost of Cartman is whispering some elitist comment in his ear but he manages to push it back with an eyeroll, “here’s your thousand calorie caramel frappuccino, resort owner Kenneth.”

     “Thanks. Here, Marj, you can have the first sip.”

     The rest of the ride is silent. Kenny offers a round of puff-puff-pass before school starts, Stan obliges and surprisingly Marjorine takes a few hits. Kyle declines, almost convincing himself to partake, but something tells him to stay alert.

     First period was weird. Kyle could hear ghostly murmurs at surrounding tables, unable to makeout what they were saying besides “new girl,” and “Nebraska, New Mexico, Texas,” and “big, black guy.” Cartman got what he would never wish for: people weren’t talking about him anymore. He puts his head down and dives into his third period homework. As he forced himself to focus, all his brain could counter with was: “is Cartman really gone?”

     He stumbles into Marjorine again before second period, she puts a hand on his arm before he can shut his locker.

     With big blue eyes, she asks, “you have class with Mr. Garrison next right?”

     He nods, she hums, and scampers off. Weird.

     The static air joins him again as he briskly walks into the classroom and finds his seat, a ringing in his ears as he glances at the empty seat beside him: no one filling it since Cartman mysteriously disappeared.

     “Okay shut-up class, I got shit to say and we got shit to do,” Garrison snaps, (Kyle’s shocked he hasn’t retired yet, he’s still just as crotchety as he was back when they were in fourth grade), “before we start, class, we have a new classmate joining us. Everyone, welcome Carly.”

     The said Carly walks in and Kyle chokes, all the air snapped out of him and gone in the empty space around him.

     She wasn’t anything special. Long, straight brunette hair that shined beneath the fluorescent lights, rounded cheeks with a slight dust of pink, and big winged eyeliner. Her outfit was wildly unprofessional for a school environment and the weather outside: an oversized Thrasher hoodie, Cookie Monster pajama pants, and fuzzy slides that were dampened by the snow, showing white-painted toes that matched long white nails adorned with crystals, clutching a bag of Hot Cheetos.

     “‘Sup bitches,”' she starts, her voice shrill, “I’m Carly, uh she/her pronouns. I’m from New Mexico, and I do wuteva I want. Period.”

     “That’s great… Carly, you can take a seat next to Mr. Brofloski,” he turns back to the board, barely allowing Carly to take a seat before starting a rant on whatever the most recent celebrity gossip is. He always starts with telling them that there will be a quiz at the end of class, and Cartman is usually right next to him able to whisper him the answers- but now he has to force himself to listen to the drawn-out bullshit Garrison goes on about. It’s been a long two weeks, shocking himself with the bitter thought of disbelief he actually has had to participate in this class. 

      Carly carelessly drops her bag to the ground, a recognizable black jansport with a suede bottom, but one that could easily blend into a crowd. She slumps into her seat, loudly opening her bag of chips and crunching on them enough to create an echo effect.

     Kyle turns, attempting to focus- but the new girl besides him knocks into his arm with a crinkle, he whips his head around.

     “You want one?” she whispers.

     “I’m good. Thanks.” he answers shortly.

     “Your loss,” she chews loudly, voice still low.

     “I don’t know how anyone could eat those this early,” he mutters back.

     “Keeps me energized throughout the day,” she responds, “it’s  gonna be like popcorn for this class, Garrison seems… entertaining.”

     “That’s one way to put it.”

     “You’re Kyle, right? Marjorine mentioned you when she was showing me around.”

     “Yup, that’s me.”

     “Y’know, you’re awfully cute for a J-… ginger.”

     He stares at her with wide eyes, “... thanks, I guess.”

     It was the first time anyones called him cute since the fourth grade. He found that the list the girls made (which came out eventually as falsified) had them convinced that Kyle would bring down their social status. It wasn’t the worst thing, school was his first priority and dating could always come later, probably being easier without his mom over his shoulder. But, being complimented was almost welcomed. Despite the unwanted, obnoxious chewing, he found Carly pretty attractive as well.

     Button nose and doe-like eyes, a nice figure, rounded but welcoming. He didn’t want to think much of it. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Carly put her airpods in, hiding it under her mass of hair, and that was the last he heard from her.

----

     “You met her, right?” Marjorine asks, joining them at their table, snug against Kenny’s side.

     “Yup,” he responds wearily, opting to stare down his anatomy textbook, attempting to decipher the words that are swirling on the page.

     “She’s cute, isn’t she?” she pushes.

     “Sure,” he bobs his head lightly, “for a hot-cheeto girl.”

     “She’s single, just so you know.”

     He snaps his head up, “okay? Why should I care?”

     Kenny joins in, wrapping an arm around his girlfriend, “we just think you would look cute together.”

     “Who’s this about?” Stan slides into the seat beside him.

     “The new girl,” Kenny and Marjorine answer in unison.

     “Oh, she hot?” Stan asks immediately.

     “Gross, dude, you have a girlfriend!” Kyle slaps his textbook closed, slapping him on the arm.

     He shrugs, “doesn’t mean I can’t find other girls hot. Boobs are boobs.”

     “She’s decent-looking,” Kenny responds, “fat ass.”

     “Nice.”

     “Why does any of this matter?” Kyle groans.

     “I invited her to hangout with us,” Marjorine feeds Kenny a fry, “I was hoping we could hangout in your basement. We need a fifth member.”

     Another reminder that Cartman was gone. This was the first time any of them mentioned him since swinging by his house last saturday. No one seemed to care, which made enough sense, 9/10 times Cartman annoyed the shit out of everyone. Only fair. Still, he was blood in the water, shouldn’t they still care?

     “Fine,” he snips, “I’ll ask my mom.”

     “Great! I’ll grab the beer,” Kenny clutches Marjorine’s hand and brings it to his lips, “and the Barefoot for you, my dear.”

     She giggles, Kyle gags. Still, they were pretty cute.

     “I’m sure I can snag some weed off my dad,” Stan adds, “your parents gonna be home, Kyle?”

     He shrugs. His mom has been off at their synagogue, helping plan some event being hosted later in the month, and his dad has been working late hours with some client down in Denver, hoping this could be “his big break.”

     “I’ll text.”

     And text he does. She obliges, promising to ground him for weeks if she finds any particles of illegal substances in the house (hasn’t stopped his friends before). She ends with saying a cute, lovely jewish girl stopped by the temple last night with a batch of cupcakes, asking about a nice jewish boy as a suitor. Without his permission, she threw his hat in the ring. Great, just perfect.

     School slips between his fingers, classes pass like currents, there were thoughts that lost Kyle’s grasp. He swears he’s going crazy, jumping at every sound, and he can feel the warm Cheeto breath of Cartman down his neck.  He feels like shit, bigoted thoughts Cartman would classically say circling his mind. Was he just as bad as him? Why can’t he stop thinking about him? 

     By seventh period he decided that there was enough of Cartman talk. If he wanted to disappear, so be it. Cartman always begged to be talked about one way or another, demanding the limelight whether that be as Bad Irene or his classic self, or as the teacher for inner-city kids, or as the face of AIDs, or suicide prevention, a lead singer of a christian rock band. He didn’t miss him, nope. Thank the Catholic god Cartman swore he believed in that he was gone.

     With that, Kyle accepted the rest of Kenny’s joint on the ride home. He ignored the buzz on his shoulder and welcomed with open arms the brain fog that crept up his spine, leaning back in the passenger seat of Stan’s car as he blared some indie bullshit he pretended he liked. This was the life, a life without Cartman. 

     Stan parked on the street in front of Kyle’s house, the group following him inside without permission but whatever, it’s fine. He ignores them as he settles down at his desk, pulling out his Pre-calc homework and praying that his weed-buzz would somehow quiet his thoughts and make his homework easier to decipher. 

     Kenny took over his Nintendo switch, with Marjorine glued to his side working on her homework, occasionally poking at Kyle for assistance, with Stan reading whatever feminist literature Wendy shoved at him. They all melted into the background, the waves of dopamine tingles and a bundle of nervous energy giving him enough to focus on his homework.

     The doorbell rings at seven on-the-dot and it resonates throughout the house. Marjorine squeaks and sprints down the stairs, yelling that she’s coming. Kenny and Stan, who slipped into a heavy sleep a few hours back, woke up with a grunt, book sliding off of Stan’s face as he jolts awake.

     “Ready to meet your girlfriend?” Kenny bumps his shoulder.

     “Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

     Carly looks more presentable when they meet again, opting for jeans over pajama pants and sneakers over slippers, still in that enormous hoodie. Kyle’s buzz has definitely worn off by now, but Kenny quickly realizes this and pokes a joint between his lips and puts a Pabst Blue Ribbon in his hand.

     “For nerves,” he breathes in his ear.

     Isn’t that for white trash? Shut up, Cartman. Gone with the wind.

     Carly plops down on the worn-out sectional like she’s been here before, digging her nails into the rips in her jeans and looking around the basement, scanning over all family memorabilia.

     “So,” she whistles, “what’s there to do around here?”

     “Mostly this,” Stan sits across from her, offering her a drink, “not much to do in this hick-ass town besides from sitting in basements and smoking weed.”

     She accepts it graciously, “like That ‘70s show?”

     Stan sips, “like That ‘70s show.”

     “What did y’all do in New Mexico?” Marjorine asks, “anything fun we should try out?”

     “The same, mostly,” Carly states, “sometimes we’d go to the Highschool Musical high school and egg it.”

     “I thought that was in Utah?” Kyle raises a brow.

     Carly stutters and blushes, “right.. We’d go to the memorial and egg it, not much to do there.”

     “How could you ever do such a thing?” Marjorine gasps, “it’s a classic.”

     “Yeah, classically terrible,” Carly laughs, “at my school, everyone wanted to be Troy Bolton. They don’t make losers like that in Albuquerque, just a bunch of hippie potheads high on peyote.”

     “Huh, you sound exactly like our old friend, Cartman,” Kenny notes, “kind of look like him too.”

     Carly laughs, “well, he sounds super hot. Any cute guys around here outside of this Cartman and Kyle?”

     Kyle sputters but overall ignores the comment. Marjorine passes by it without a second thought. 

     “I mean… sure! There’s um… Clyde.”

     “Taken,” from Stan.

     “Oh! Craig and Tweek.”

     “Wrong team,” Kenny adds.

     “Um… Tolkien?”

     “Maybe,” Kenny ponders, eyes widening suddenly, “oh wait.. He’s in some weird limbo between Red and Nicole.”

     “Guess that just leaves Kyle, huh?” Carly smiles, eyeing him.

     He gulps and rolls his eyes, “yeah right.”

     The night strolls on after that, they play some Mario Kart and stumble upon the Brofloski’s old, treasured karaoke machine and hook it up to the dingy old machine. Kenny and Marjorine dance to Stan singing Come on Eileen and Carly sings I Swear, choppily and adding jokingly-promiscuous dance moves as she belts out the lyrics. There’s something oddly familiar about it.

     Eventually the hype dwindles and the only people up are Kenny and Marjorine, singing some classic duets for no one else but them. Kyle doesn’t notice Carly up until she’s right next to him, whispering in his ear.

     “Wouldn’t it be nice? To have a relationship like that?” she says, “something like the movies.”

     “Yeah, doesn’t happen everyday,” he doesn’t bother to mention the turmoil he was put through watching the two tip toe-ing around each other for nearly three years, how Kyle had to listen to the bitch and moaning from both Kenny and Marjorine (and Stan, because he wouldn’t shut up about how they wouldn’t shut up). 

     “S’nice, do you ever imagine something like that for yourself?” 

     “Maybe one day, not anytime soon.”

     She hums, “I don’t know ‘bout me. But I think I’d need something hot , not in that way, I mean sure, maybe. But something passionate . Screaming and kissing and fighting in the rain, something Taylor Swift would sing about. Have you ever had something about that”

     He’s certainly had the screaming and fighting, his mind flashes to the last time he and Cartman argued and all the times before that. The idea of kissing him sends a shiver up his spine, gross. The last time he kissed someone was a chaste game of spin the bottle in freshman year, he remembers dagger eyes from Kenny as he kissed Marjorine. Nope. 

     “No,” he swallows, “I don’t know if it’ll ever happen.”

     “I heard you and Cartman were quite a riot,” damn Marjorine.

     “Yeah… but it wasn’t like that,” he shakes his head vehemently, a quiet: “I’m not like that.”

     “Good, I don’t feel that bad flirting with you.”

     He laughs with the back of his throat, questioning whether or not he minds it too.

---- 

     That night underneath his sheets and comforter, he gets 82% on an “Am I Gay?” Quiz. He quickly turns his phone off and shoves it underneath his pillow, pushing all the thoughts out of his mind.

----

     He convinces himself that he was drunk the night before and the high percentage of the unsaid quiz was a fluke (he doesn’t take it again). Sluggishly, he throws an outfit on, not piecing one together the night before, and makes his way downstairs, being welcomed with fresh-pressed orange juice and a stack of waffles. Can never be good coming from Sheila Brofloski. 

     “Did you have fun last night, bubbe?” he nods sleepily.

     “That’s great,” she passes him the syrup, he can hear the deep intake of breath from behind him, “... so listen…”

     “What?” he groans.

     “Don’t use that voice with me, young man!” she snaps back, “I talked to that nice jewish girl’s parents over the phone, the one I mentioned the other day? They said she was free tonight and I told them you would be more than happy to take her out tonight, that is if you ever want to have your friends over ever again.”

     He swallows three quarter pieces of waffle to prevent the groan at the back of his throat from escaping his lips. He answers for himself, “sure, ma, whatever. I’ll make her the happiest girl alive.”

     “That’s great!” she responds cheerily, clapping her hands together, “be ready by five. You’re taking her to dinner and a movie. Dress nice.”

     “Uh huh, Ma.”

     Curse that quiz, he thought. Tonight, he was proving it wrong. Kyle Mathew Brofloski was not gay. He was going to give this nice jewish girl his mom raved about the time of her life. A date she’d never forget.

----

     Turns out Kyle doesn’t even have to pick out a nice outfit because his mom picks it out for him: a nice deep blue knit sweater with a white button up underneath, his nicest jeans, and his finest winter boots. His mom runs to her and his dad’s closet to pull out a slightly too big, solid black winter coat, wrapping it around his shoulders.

     “To give her later.”

     On his way home, he picked up roses. It was cheesy, sure, but a classic. He didn’t know what else girls liked for dates, chocolates? Seemed like too much.

     This was fine. Everything was fine. Not 82% fine, 100% fine. 

     He wraps the roses in newspaper, apparently girls like that DIY, rugged look and leaves them on his desk as he plays with the collar of his dress shirt.

     “Look at my baby, all grown up, going on his first date,” Sheila sighs dreamily, “you’re going to have so much fun, she seems like such a nice girl.”

     Kyle flushes, “thanks, ma.”

     “Your dad and I left you some money for dinner and we got you a reservation at that lovely little italian restaurant next to the theater. Don’t go too crazy, I know how you teenagers get.”

     “We won’t, ma.”

     He can see her reflection come up behind him in the mirror. Two welcoming arms wrap around his shoulder tightly, he can hear her sniffle in his ear, “you’re going to have so much fun, bubala. I swear, tonight is the first night of the rest of your life.”

     He knows what she means but isn’t everynight the first night of the rest of his life? He pats her arm and tugs away from her embrace, “thanks, mom.”

     He pushes down his nervousness and right when he feels it dissolve in his stomach, it comes back in acid reflux as he hears the doorbell ring.

     “Oh! That must be her! Hurry, hurry downstairs. You’re going to have so much fun,” she repeats like a mantra and he hopes it’s true.

     His dad is already at the door, rolled up newspaper in his hand, opening it as Kyle gets to the rear of the stairs, only for the winter air to rush in behind a familiar body.

     “... Carly?”

     “Oh, great! You two already know each other.”

     “You can say that,” Carly grins ear-to-ear.

     She looks better than the last three times they’ve seen each other. This morning, Carly was in baby pink Adidas sweaters and a juicy hoodie with the same old snow-dampened slippers, but now she looked great . Classic, first-date great. Short red dress with poofy sleeves and a nice frill, modest but low scoop neck showing the slightest of cleavage and her collarbones. A simple cat-eye, quiet blush, and a pink gloss. 

     “Wow, um, Carly,” he stammers, “you look great.”

     “Not too bad yourself, handsome,” she winks, noticing the roses clutched in his hand, “are those for me or your beautiful mother?”

     “Oh please, Carly, you’re too sweet,” she laughs, “but now that I’m thinking about it, bubbe didn’t get me much for my birthday.”

     “That’s not true! Ike and I got you a card and some earrings!” Kyle argues, his mom shushes him, slapping him arm.

     “I didn’t know you were jewish, Carly.”

     “Um, shalom, Kyle,” she salutes jokingly, “didn’t know I had to prove my Judaism to you. You should know now I was the head of my temple’s youth chapter.”

     “You’re such a wonderful girl,” his mom smiles, “oh, you two are going to have so much fun! Now, hurry, you’re reservation’s at 5:30- I hope you cleaned out your car, Kyle.”

     He ignores her, “okay, bye mom.”

      He takes Carly’s hand instinctively and drags her out the door, far, far away from his parents before his dad could say anything about “their blossoming love” and somehow comparing it to a baby fawn or a new mother’s breasts. Of course, like his mother chided him on, he opens the door for Carly and waits for her to get in before he gets in.

     “It’s like the universe is telling us to be together,” she giggles.

     He laughs nervously and turns up the radio, of course, Taylor Swift is playing as he pulls out the driveway and quickly gets out of the universe.

     “Are you nervous?” she asks.

     “What? No, I'm not nervous,” he clutches the steering wheel, “just… the roads are still icy.” 

     “You don’t have to be nervous around me, Kyle. I’m just the same ole girl who offered Mr. Garrison hot cheetos this morning.”

     He laughs, “oh god, he was so mad!”

     “Wuteva, he totally had sand up his… ass this morning, having one or two of them would’ve helped his bowel movements.”

     “I feel like those would make them worse, is there even any nutritional value in those?”

     “Don’t know, don’t care,” she looks out the window before turning back to him, “ask me a first date question.”

     “This is my first first date, don’t exactly know what exactly constitutes as a “first date question,” he loosens up his grip on the wheel to make air quotes.

     “Fine! I’ll go first: how would you rather die, in a car crash or being mauled by a lion?”

     “That’s a first date question?” he exclaimed, “that’s awful!”

     “They’re serious and intimate questions! Now answer, Tesla T-bone or lion food?”

     “I guess a car crash? I would at least have a chance of surviving-”

     “You're still dying, Kyle.”

     “Right, I’m still dying,” he corrects himself, “but it seems better than getting eaten alive by a lion!”

     “Mhm, nah,” she disagrees, “I would rather die by lion’s bite. I’ve always seen myself going out with a bang. Don’cha remember Harambe? This would be like that, times ten.”

     “Now ask me something,” she follows up with.

     “Okay, what’s your favorite color?”

     “Boring! I’m expecting better questions, Kyle, but I’ll answer: it’s green. Like your eyes.”

     Kyle tightens his grip on the wheel as he scans the main street for parking. Honestly, he doesn’t even remember driving there, encapsulated by Carly’s voice. 

     “Mine’s red, I don’t know, I’ve never really thought about it.”

     “Like my dress?”

     “Yeah, like your dress,” he finally parks, turning off the car.

     Not many words are shared between the car and walking to their table. Once again, Kyle pulls out the chair for her and waits for her to sit down before himself. 

     “Wow, Kyle, you really know how to treat a lady.”

     “Just trying to give you a nice first date,” he smiles, still wracking himself with a nervous energy.

     Carly can sense this and takes her hand across the table, warm and familiar, with long nails lightly scraping the underbelly of his wrists, “it’s just me, Kyle, you don’t have to be nervous.”

     He gulps, “okay.”

     “I’ll ask another question: if you were forced into cannibalism: which one of your friends would you eat first?”

     He scowls, “you’re not asking me anymore of these questions. You got me, I gotta up my questioning game.”

     “Finally, I thought I was gonna have to be entertainment tonight,” he ignores her.

     “Okay, fine: what would your last meal be?”

     “How is that any less morbid than my questions?”

     “I don’t know! It’s more mainstream?”

     “Well, if that’s all you can come up with,” she huffs, “probably KFC. I’m a big girl, I have to eat. Makes me harder to kidnap.”

     He hasn’t even heard a word of KFC since… whatever, doesn’t matter.

     “What’s yours?” she asks soon after.

     “Probably my mom’s roast, she only makes it on special occasions. I hope me dying would be special enough.”

     “That’s a lovely thought,” Kyle can’t tell whether or not she’s being sarcastic, “okay all this last meal talk is making me hungry,” she scans over the menu, “what are you gonna get?”

     He hasn’t thought much of it so he picks the first thing he sees on the menu, “uh, a margherita pizza?”

     She hums and eventually the waiter comes up with bread and takes their order. Kyle goes with his initial thought and she goes with the lobster fettuccine alfredo.  Kyle thinks his mom talked to the manager over the phone because the waiter soon comes out with water and a bottle of sparkling cider and pours it for them in champagne flutes.

     Carly asks him what he wants to do for a living and he feels like the answer for it is always different. This time he settles on guidance counselor , to which Carly smiles and laughs quietly.

     “You seem very altruistic, always looking out for people around you.”

     “You’ve only known me for a couple of days.”

     “Just an initial thought, I can read energies.”

     “Yeah right,” falls out of his lips with a sputtering sound, “all that is total bullshit.”

     “Nuh-uh, you’re a classic gemini, I can feel your gemini-ness all over you.”

     He quirks a brow, “that isn’t a real thing.”

     “It’s there for a reason, you’re a gemini just like I’m a leo. We go well together.”

     Their food arrives moments later, in between bites Carly tries to ask him more morbid, occasionally valid first date questions. Kyle gets the rest of his pizza to-go while Carly finishes the rest of hers. He gets the check and calculates a tip, Carly’s eyes not leaving him once. Soon, he pulls her out of her seat and their hands find each other as they walk down the street to the movie theater.

     Carly picks their seats out for someone in the empty theater, opting for seats directly in the middle. It’s an old movie, this place only plays the classics, and this time it’s The Breakfast Club. They split a thing of popcorn and Carly all but forces him to buy her a bag of hot cheetos.

     “Come on, just try one,” he shakes his head but there’s already one right in front of his mouth, “just one and I'll never bring it up again.”

     “You’re being a terrible date,” Kyle can manage before one is being forced into his mouth, he chews slowly and bitter. Overall, it’s not terrible but he has to take an immediate sip from his overpriced plastic water bottle.

     “Oh please, I’m the hottest piece of ass you’ve ever been with,” Carly connects their hands across the seats, movie ads wrapping up and the movie just beginning.

     There are scenes Kyle can hear distinct sniffling to, he squeezes her hand once or twice, cringing but overall ignoring the feeling of perspiration between their link hands. 

     “It’s just nice how they can all come together and be who they truly are,” Carly whispers, wiping her tears away.

     When the movie is done, a light snow is falling down outside. Carly audibly shivers so he offers her his dad’s coat. It’s a little snug on her and doesn’t match her outfit- but she almost looks like someone he could get to know underneath the main street’s lantern lights.

     “I had a lot of fun on our date, Kyle,” he never noticed how she’s the same height as him, a bit taller even in her block heels.

     She’s close and Kyle swallows her vanilla scent in, face flush in the cold, “me too.”

     She puts her hands on his shoulder, face adamant, “I’m going to kiss you now.”

     He can feel himself give a small nod and his eyes wide. She smiles and pulls him in. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands so in the brief moment that they’re kissing, he fights between keeping them where they are and putting them on her waist like in the movies. 

     He can feel the gloss on her lips stick to his and he comes to a realization. 

     He pulls away abruptly, “Carly…No offense to you, I loved hanging out with you but I think I’m gay.”

     Carly smiles, eyes glinting, a small throat chuckle forming into a full fledged cackle. Oh god, he really fucked up.

     “I’m so sorry, Carly. I’m so, so sorry,” he says quickly.

     She shakes her head, unable to say much amongst her laughter. This was terrifying, he broke this poor girl by coming out as gay after their first kiss. She’ll never be the same again. 

     “Finally, Kyle,” it comes out deep, her hands on her knees trying to hold back her laughter, “once again, I was right.”
What?

     Carly looks him in the eyes, smirking, her hand goes to her hair- pulling at the root to remove her… wig?

     “Cartman?”

     He stares in shock, whirlwind and out of breath. Did he just kiss… Cartman?!

     “I didn’t know if this would work, Kahl,” he starts to bite off his own long nails with ease, letting them melt into the snow, “but, once again, my hard work finally paid off.”

     He finally finds the words that were stuck in his stomach, he’s fuming out the ears. 

     “What the fuck, Cartman?” he yells, “what the fuck is wrong with you?”

     “I was just doing gods’ work!” he argues back shrill, “you weren’t gonna come out anytime soon so I had to force your hand. And I was right.”

     “So you just thought humiliating me would work?”

     “Well, it did.”

     “How could you think this was okay?” 

     “I was doing you a favor! Without me, you would stay in the closet! You should be thanking me!”

     “You’re disgusting, Cartman,” his voice filled with vitriol, “you’ve done a lot of gross stuff in the past but this really takes the cake.”

     Cartman stares wide, “so you’re telling me that isn’t better than this?”

     His life flashes before his eyes before he can consider what Cartman’s doing next. He grabs him by each side of his face and pulls him in, mouths smashing together. He should hate it, he hates it, he hates feeling Cartman’s breath mingle with his. He hates it.

     TERRIFYING. He feels his body seize, and his hands and feet tingling. There’s not much of his body anymore, all he can feel is the outline of his lips pressed right against Cartman’s. 

     But it’s electrifying. 

     Moments later he pulls away, his face tight. His hand winds up and slaps Cartman across the face, leaving a stain of his now tingling hand.

     “Fuck you, Cartman.”

     And he leaves him there. So much for a great first date.

----

     When he gets home, he refuses to acknowledge his mother despite her squabbling. He sludges upstairs, forcing his clothes off and his sleep clothes on. He wants to brush his teeth and take out his contacts, but all he can bring himself to do is stare up at the dark ceiling above him.

----

     A memory plays in his dream and it goes a lot like this.

     One of five disappearances in their freshman year, Cartman gets what’s coming to him and bounces between juvenile detention, psychiatric care, and both in-person and out-person daily group/alone therapy. None of them heard this from him, of course, but via the hush whispers of Liane Cartman when they came over for a sleepover somewhere in the beginning month’s of Cartman’s release.

     He didn’t talk about it. Anytime any of them mentioned it, they got sent a death glare and a threat to feed them their parents, but the threats didn’t have much behind them anymore. He just looked different, felt different, not new, per say, but refurbished.

     Kyle happened to stumble upon dozens of prescription pill bottles all for Cartman when looking for ibuprofen. He never brought it up, why would he? He can still serve him his parents, maybe, probably, who knows.

     “Hey, hey Kyle?” Cartman pokes a dozing-off Kyle in his sleep, shaking him until he wakes up.

     “What, fatass?” Kyle snaps quietly.

     “I just wanted to say,” Kyle’s ears perk up, he can hear a deep intake of breath behind him, “I’m sorry.”

     He breathes in and the air never makes it out. “You’re… you’re sorry?”

    “Yeah, I am.”

    “For what?” he presses.

    “For most of the things, probably everything,” he can hear Cartman cringe, it’s taking a lot out of him to even mutter the words. “I’m a dick to pretty much everyone, but I’ve always been the worst to you.”

     Kyle still isn’t looking at him, back flush to Eric Cartman’s bed at the corner of his sleeping mat. He’s at least trying to pretend to be asleep just so Stan doesn’t wake up and start groggily yelling at them to shut up.

     “I’m trying to be better,” Cartman continues, his voice struggling. “But I know who I am and now they have me hopped-on a bun’cha pills that force me to accept it. I guess I’ve always known that I am who I am- doesn’t make it any better.”

     “But… but I’m trying, I will try. Because you’re my friend, I think. And, I’m sorry for when I fuck up again.”

     “Even though you’re a stupid jew.”

     Kyle swallows. He can’t say anything because

     The Jewpacabra comes in and eats Kenny. 

----

     Kyle picks up Kenny on the way to Stan’s house the next morning and he doesn’t say a word. His hands clenched on the steering wheel and eyes daggering the road, Kenny knows to keep his mouth shut. Stan doesn’t, however.

     He swings into the back of the car and dives for the aux cord, immediately going into how they have to listen to this new Boygenuis album and all the ways Randy Marsh was a “little bitch” in the past twenty-four hours. Kyle doesn’t have it in him to slap his hand away or tell him to shut up but Kenny is kind enough to send Stan a weary-glance, which he doesn’t pay attention to because he’s doing all the things stated above. 

     He doesn’t talk the entire time and as much as Kyle wants to be a part of Stan’s world, he can’t bring himself to listen. Everything fades into the background, he thinks maybe Kenny knows this because he can hear muffled conversation.

     Last night Cartman kissed him. As himself, as Carly, he kissed Kyle. He gave Kyle his second-first kiss and gave him his first kiss. This was a kiss he was going to have to remember for the rest of his life, a kiss he’ll remember after kissing his first boyfriend for the first time, anytime he wants to love someone, he’ll remember this kiss. The kiss where snow fell around them and highlighted the roundness of their cheeks with red. The kiss where under the streetlights, Kyle could see that classic Cartman glint tinged-with-something-else in his eyes, what else is something Kyle doesn’t know.

     And cherry-flavored lip gloss. His fingers raise to his lips.

     “Kyle? Kyle? KYLE!”

     He course-corrects his car, having no idea he was veering off the road.

     “Jesus, I’m sorry- I’m sorry,” he snaps out of it.

     “Dude, what the fuck is wrong with you today?” Stan asks.

     “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

----

     Unlike usual, Kyle doesn’t talk in his classes today. He doesn’t raise his hand, he doesn’t ask Marjorine if she has any questions, and he certainly does not want to talk to any teachers about extra credit. He should, though, no dates so no stress outside of his future.

     The time finally comes when he has to sit next to Cartman, who has miraculously come back from the dead and happens to just rise from hell to his seat. Kyle sees him immediately and pretends like he doesn’t. Cartma doesn’t try to talk to him, he thinks he knows. Instead, he chooses to tell everyone a different story on where he was, Kyle doesn’t try to follow. 

     At lunch, everyone acts like he wasn’t gone. Once again, they were circled at a cafeteria table, Cartman enjoying his first pizza slice back-at-school.

     “Marjorine, I think you and I should form a GSA,” he says between bites.

     She looks up at him with doe eyes, Kyle keeps an eye on his food, “oh, well, jeez Cartman, I don’t know exactly what that means.”

     “Gay-Straight Alliance,” he chews, “or I guess we can make it our own: Fag-Breeder Alliance. Think about it, me and you as co-presidents, Stan and Kenny as our bitches, and Kyle as our bookkeeper.”

     Kyle doesn’t even bite back, he can tell Cartman is trying to gauge a reaction out of him. He doesn’t even make a noise, doesn’t look, he decided this morning that Cartman left with Carly. He’s not doing this anymore.

     Until.

     “Come on, Kyle, this is his first anti-semitic comment since he went on that worldwind Paris with Frankie Grande and you haven’t said a word!” Stan asks.

     He realizes then that of course, they didn’t know. 

     And somehow, that’s the thing that makes him snap. He’ll regret this later.

     “Stan, you stupid fucking moron, he hasn’t been gone!”

     “Woah, dude, not cool,” Kenny pushes between them.

     “No, no- where do you think he’s actually been?”

     “I mean, we know he’s lying- but he’s been gone and…” 

     Kyle pinches his brow, “okay, let’s start with this: where do you think Carly went?”

     Their eyes widen, Marjorine has been shockingly quiet. 

     “She’s probably sick!” Kenny bumps Marjorine’s shoulder, trying to get her to respond- but she stares down at the table, eyes wide.

     “Oh my god, Marjorine, you fucking knew,” Kyle realizes. 

     She looks up, startled. Blue eyes teary. “Oh jeez, Ky, I know I shouldn’t have done it. I'm so sorry, Ky- I knew it was a bad idea.”

     He can’t bring himself to look at Cartman, knowing that if he does that he’s going to lose it. Marjorine submits.

     “Cartman was Carly this whole time.”

     “Oh, dude, what the fuck.” “Oh, that’s why she looked so familiar! Dude- nice job on the disguise.” From Stan and Kenny respectively. 

     “Fuck you guys. Fuck you, Cartman. I’m going home.”

     Kyle snaps, screw them and he hopes they all have to walk home in the rain and sleet. He storms out of the cafeteria and he hopes the smoke from his ears follow him and cause everyone to choke. 

     Fuck attendance, guidance counselors be damned, and he would burn all his homework to a crisp: Kyle is done. He’s going home. This is the thing Cartman finally broke him over.

     The heavy rainfall ruins his curls and he lets it. He can’t get himself to move past the front of the school, tethered to it.

     “Kyle! Wait!”

     He spins his head around. It’s him.

     “What the fuck do you want?” he spits.

     “I’m sorry,” Cartman heaves, for the first time ever Kyle can hear guilt affect his voice. “I’m so sorry.”

     “You fucking humiliated me! What makes you think we can get past this? We’ll never be the same again,” he finishes with, “we’ll never be friends again.”

     He’s looking back at him with red eyes, “please… please let me explain myself. Let me explain myself and if I failed you: you won’t ever have to talk to me ever again.”

     He crosses his arms, feet tied to the ground, his eyes scanning the boy’s rounded face: “fine. Explain it to me.”

     “Kyle, I-” he heaves, trying to find the words. “I like you.”

     The air knocks out of his body, falling to the ground with the heavy rain.

     “W-what.”

     “I like you,” Cartman blinks furiously. “Don’t you get it? Fuck, marry, kill- it’s all you, Kyle!”

     “I want to marry you and I imagine us all the time together, the life we could live! I would fuck you for, well, obvious reasons, and I want to kill you because maybe it’d stop me from feeling this way! I’m kind of a murderer, but you’re the first person I’d kill out of love.”

     “Is that supposed to be nice?!” it thunders.

     “YES!” Cartman yells back.

     “Kyle, I’ve never felt this way and I’ll never feel this way again! I know I shit on you a lot and I promise to be better and I know we’ll be perfect together. We’re not the same, I know that, but we’re tied. We’re tied, Kyle, and I know for me that- that bond can never be broken. I just thought if I made you realize you were gay- you’d, you’d be gay for me.”

     “So you tried to con me into it?”  Kyle laughs, disbelieving. 

     Cartman shrugs, “it’s the one thing I know how to do.”

     There’s a lot of times Cartman has proven himself correct. Leprechauns. Shitting via mouth. Jennifer Lopez. Times where his ideas were the best, unethical but the best- the funnest times Kyle had ever had. Crack baby fights and ass burgers. Two weeks without him felt gray, but now it’s burning red. 

     Cartman was right: they’re tied.

     He walks too close to him and he can see Cartman flinch yet prepared to face the worst of him. Kyle softens, watching all the details of his face, Cartman doing the same. 

     “Fuck you, Cartman,” he pulls him in by the jaw and kisses him. 

     Rain is falling like it’s meant to kiss the ground beneath them and it feels scarily right: him and Cartman. He matches his fervor, cupping his jaw and pulling him in closer.

     Storms later they break for air. Cartman starts to chuckle against his cheek. 

     “What is it, fatass?” the insult stays.

     “Heh,” Cartman sings softly, not at all matching the chords: “screaming and fighting and kissing in the rain.”

     “Oh my god, seriously?

“1PM and I’m cursing your name.”

“So in love that I acted insane.”

“And that’s the way I loved you.”