Chapter Text
The windscreen wipers flicked back and forth along the smooth windscreen, and Kyle followed its motions with his eyes, absently listening to the low hum of the car engine. Cold, cruel, snow billowed down from the sky as it had been doing for the majority of the month, and though it was too dark to see fully, the passing forest was wholly submerged in a thick layer of snow. A snow which blended every tree and every road into the same, cold shadow, ever present since the Valentine’s Day blizzard.
The time, ‘09:30 PM,’ was dimly displayed on the dashboard clock, underneath in smaller figures read, ‘02/28/07.’
Cartman tapped his finger on the steering wheel rhythmically to a generic song droning on the radio, he was staring off mindlessly into the road, focused on the nothing. He hadn’t opened his mouth for the past four hours he had been driving, and neither had Kyle.
Neither were planning on interrupting the thick silence to talk, but neither were actually going to listen to California Love.
Turning a corner, the radio went fuzzy and Cartman groaned, they were far away from main roads in the area and the hope of signal past this point seemed slim. Cartman tried anyways, demanding, “Change the station.”
Kyle slowly turned from his comfortable position on the passenger’s side to glare at him, “Focus on driving.”
Cartman furrowed his brow but didn’t look away from the road, “What?”
“Focus on driving,” Kyle repeated, emphasizing, “the storm’s bad.”
It did look like the storm was getting worse, and as much as it most likely would, Cartman still frowned, “Trust you to want to sit in silence for an eleven-hour-long drive.”
“If you hate it so much, then let me drive.”
Cartman stayed obstinate, “You couldn’t drive if you wanted to, Jew.”
“Stop the car and we can switch seats right now,” Kyle bit back.
Tapping his finger impatiently on the wheel, Cartman responded, “Well, which one of here knows where we’re going?”
To which Kyle laughed, mockingly, “I don’t think you know where you’re going.”
“I’m not taking directions from you,” Cartman spat.
“Maybe you should.”
The malice was building, and soon one would snap under the pressure, gritting his teeth, Cartman spoke, “I did the job, we’re in my car and I want to drive. Let me.”
Kyle felt something boil in his chest, “No, I did the job—“
“And you dragged me there to bail you out, right?” Cartman snapped, Kyle fidgeted with the ends of his cotton scarf, uncomfortable.
“Well, Cartman.” He spoke, his voice low, ”I didn’t bring you there to start a riot.”
“Sure. You just brought me to go on a murder spree. I’ll make sure to check next time—” the insult was clear in his tone.
Kyle interrupted, “Oh, you would’ve loved that—”
Cartman gripped the steering wheel, hard, “Do we have to talk about this right now?”
Kyle paused to think, but bitterness was the only emotion that came from it. “Since you’re such a good driver, I thought you’d be able to handle it,” he spoke slyly.
Cartman felt his sanity snap, and suddenly he found himself shouting, “Don’t pull that shit. We’re in the middle of a blizzard and you—”
Kyle grumbled, “Look at the road.”
Cartman didn’t move, “No! I seriously can’t believe you would do this—“
Kyle repeated once more, louder, “Look at the road!”
Cartman fully pressed his foot on the gas pedal, accelerating. The car roared, and the trees blew past them, rolling up the hill behind them. Kyle stayed ever insistent.
“Look at the fucking road!”
“Fuck you—!”
A loud clunking noise rattled out and soon a banging came, the car violently shook, colliding with something on the ground. Realizing his mistake, Cartman fumbled to brake, but the road was covered in a thick layer of ice and snow. The vehicle was now only swerving recklessly across the narrow country road, only accelerating down the hill, into the nothing.
A distant group of trees near the end of the road became illuminated by the car that was hurdling itself towards it, a vicious movement from one of the tires ricocheted through the whole vehicle. Thrusting dangerously around, they only had seconds left until the distance closed.
Kyle desperately lunged across the dashboard to grasp at the wheel, once he got grip, he pulled it left in one swift movement, Cartman closed his eyes in anticipation of a crash. As they were both painfully jerked to the right, the car swung left, it skidded further, slowing but then in time, halted. Leaving a great pillow of snow to blow up in the wind.
Barely a metre away from collision, the beaten up car had successfully stopped.
Soon, shallow, relieved gasps filled the dry air, desperate and scared. Cartman held his head in his hands and Kyle leaned back in his seat, high off of the adrenaline, he laughed.
Short-lived, the laughter quickly turned to rage as Kyle got his breath back, “Fuck—” his voice cracked with unease, “Fuck, Cartman! I trust you, one—one time! I can’t even—!”
Traumatized, Cartman brought his head up slowly from his gloved hands, and echoed the sentiment, “Fuck.”
They stayed in a stunned silence, trying to process what had just occurred, and Cartman felt tears prick his eyes in rage.
Then, Kyle split the silence, “What did you hit?”
“I—I wasn’t looking, Kyle, I—”
“Did you hit a person?!”
Cartman grappled for an excuse, “The wheel was busted!”
Dissatisfied, Kyle tutted, “You and your shitty fucking Dodge Neon.”
“It—It’s a sports car!” Cartman tried.
“Just because you forced Butters to paint a stupid, white stripe down the top, does not make it a sports car,” Kyle said, exasperated.
Feelings got pushed aside, as they always were, for bickering. Kyle slumped down in his seat, burying himself in warm layers of hoodies and coats, “Not only is it fucking ugly, it also nearly got us killed.”
Cartman laughed dryly, “It’s hot.”
“No, because like you, it’s complete, useless, bullshit,” Kyle muttered back.
”Damn right,” Cartman said, adjusting his several ugly chain necklaces looking the rearview mirror, “hot shit.”
Kyle made a scoffing noise and brought a finger to his lip in thought, “You’re hot shit in the same kind of way you’re a failed abortion.”
And so they continued, going in circles of insults. Distracting themselves from the near-death experience with cheap remarks, eventually it was impossible to hold off the way the car slanted to the side and the gas tank was running low. They’d need to save some energy for the rest of the trip, keeping the car on would wear it down fast.
A drip of water made it through a crack in the window, and Kyle wondered if they were truly stuck here.
Folding his arms, he spoke, “Check the tyre.”
Cartman deflected, “Pretty sure it was on your side, Jew. You do it,” he was sorely trying to avoid the downpour that was outside. Unfortunately for him, Kyle was well accustomed to dealing with his whines.
“You said it was your car, your job, your shit,” his tone went cold, “It’s your dead body too.”
Cartman shot him a hurt look and muttered an insult under his breath, but he still slugged himself out of the vehicle into the snow, “Fine! I’ll go out and check. We probably just hit a rock, Christ.”
Cold, harsh flakes batted against his face, and Cartman held up his arm defensively as a shield against the weather. The onslaught was a stark difference from the warm comfort of his old car, Cartman took a few, wary steps forward, checking the car for damage. There weren’t any obvious scratches or dents—any new ones at least.
Then he turned down to look at the tyre, and backed slightly up the hill, taking in the full extent of the damage. Cartman winced.
He plodded back down the hill, around to Kyle’s side of the Dodge, and opened the door, “Kahl. Get out of the car.”
Kyle glared at him, “No.”
“This car isn’t moving. I’m seriously,” Cartman gestured for him to come out. What was his problem?
Savouring his last moments of comfort, Kyle pulled his orange hood over his ushanka and adjusted his jacket, trying to brace himself for the storm.
Getting out of the scratched car, it was worse than he had could have ever expected. Cold air acted promptly like a sharp slap in the face on top of the crashed car, Cartman, and several other accidents that had already happened that day.
Following Cartman over, Kyle then saw the left tyre, which had a large misshapen metal piece lodged down the middle of the deflated rubber. He sighed in disappointment, and Cartman looked to him expectantly, Kyle was the type to have something to say about everything. With mostly the exception of today.
“How long do you think the storm will be?”
Cartman’s expression darkened, “Long enough for us to die here.” He didn’t like where this was going.
Kyle paused in thought, until he eventually came up with an idea, “I’ll call for help,” were the only words he said before he retreated to the vehicle, taking out his flip phone.
Cartman leered at him, as he sat back into his seat, “The service out here is shit, won’t work.”
Kyle ignored him and dialled several numbers on his phone, none of the calls went through. He tried holding his phone at different angles to get signal, but it only got wet in the blizzard.
Glad to be right over anything else, Cartman smiled, “You’re just wasting your battery, Kahl.”
Kyle lowered his phone, “Nice. So I’m guessing you have a better plan?”
“One of us had to get their shit together,” Cartman responded, to Kyle’s dismay, the jerk actually had a plan. Cartman began to walk away, only stopping to turn around and mockingly say, “Follow me.”
Kyle didn’t feel like being left behind to die alone, and although dying of hypothermia with Cartman didn’t sound any better, he followed, slamming the car door shut behind him.
Kyle could hardly see a meter in front of himself with how heavy the blizzard was. “So, where are we going?” he asked, his voice was tired.
“I know a place around here,” Cartman responded simply, his tone revealing little.
“… A place,” Kyle echoed.
Cartman knew a lot of places, most of them weren’t places sane people usually felt comfortable in, especially places in the middle-of-nowhere northern countryside they were in between San Francisco and Salt Lake.
“Yes, the local axe murderers club,” Cartman said, picking up on Kyle’s rightful upset, “Convenient when I’m lumped with people who’ve peaked in high school.”
Kyle rolled his eyes, “At least I can peak.”
This cued Cartman to make a smarmy remark, “True, sadly I only get better with time.”
Kyle exhaled sharply, a cloud of mist formed from his breath, “You went for being a basket case to a hippie.”
Cartman shot back, “You went from stealing kidneys to working at Sizzler.”
He sounded far too holier than thou for Kyle to tolerate, “You work at Sizzler. I’m in college.”
Not backing down, Cartman said, “We both work at Sizzler and, for the record, you're in the closet.”
Kyle spat back, “I’m not in the closet, you homo.” Kyle wasn’t homophobic, he just didn’t like being accused by Cartman of all people of being gay.
“I’ve seen the way you look at DiCaprio,” Cartman said smugly, like he knew him better than he knew himself.
Leonardo DiCaprio from the 2000s was perfectly good looking, and as a fully straight guy, Kyle thought he should be able to maintain his dignity for acknowledging that.
“Oh, you wish,” Kyle said, “Why don’t you shut up, Cartman? You’re the one who always tries to cockblock me every time I’m interested in a chick.”
Cartman looked annoyed, “‘Every time,’ what like, Nicole, sophomore year?”
“And Heidi.”
Cartman felt the need to clarify, “I dated Heidi for two years, and I also dated her first.”
“Still twice,” Kyle continued, rubbing in his victory, “I think I forgot to mention that you had a psychotic episode over Nicole. Tolkien stopped talking to me after that.”
Though he grimaced at the mention of the past drama, “Shut up faggot,” was the only response Cartman gave him.
Kyle felt like he was projecting a bit, “Whatever helps you sleep at night, hippie,” he said, patting Cartman’s back. He soon got weakly shoved away.
So there, he followed along, in tangent with Cartman, across the forest. He found his winter boots quickly became muddy in the thick snow, which was inches tall and hard to navigate in, and his hat didn’t do much to keep in the heat.
It felt like forever they had been trudging on, and Kyle couldn’t feel his legs anymore, and his arms felt numb. Cartman walked in front of him, but he didn’t look like he was holding up too well either, however, at this point they were too far in the white forest to turn back. Still, they kept walking, leaving deep footprints that would soon get covered over by the blizzard.
Then Cartman’s pace quickened, seeing something in the melted landscape, he took Kyle’s arm. Further down what seemed to be a path and Kyle saw it too. A small cabin, its frame barely visible under heaps of snow that lay on its roof, solace from the cold.
As they came closer, Kyle observed that the building was littered with posters, cans, abandoned piles of junk and a broken down car outside. Probably the source of the metal that had burst their tyre.
A small post outside the structure read, ‘Late Bar.’ As they neared, it became increasingly obvious they weren’t in business.
Kyle began to wonder if Cartman really was joking about the local axe murderers club—it didn’t look like the kind of place he’d be seen around. But then again, Kyle supposed between the beanie, mid-length hair, and burned out expression he always had on, maybe he really was turning into a hippy who hung around ornamental themed bars in Nevada.
Stepping up to the door, Cartman yanked at the frosted over metal handle, “Well, we’re fucked. It’s abandoned—”
Kyle shoved Cartman away from the door and swung his leg at the wooden panel, it flung open with a giant thud.
Cartman gratefully replied, “Murderous Jew,” and Kyle considered shutting him out and letting him die in the snow.
Kyle managed to control the urge, “Shut up. I’d rather rot in jail for murder than die outside with you.” Cartman didn’t respond, beaten down, he followed Kyle quietly through the doorway.
The smell of dust was heavy in the air, and it was about as warm as outside, the inside of the building was pitch black in the dark, but it was dry.
Kyle felt around the wall for a light switch, which he clicked on. As they flickered, Kyle’s eyes adjusted to the bright light of the room. The place was definitely abandoned, untouched countertops and the remains of 2006 Christmas decorations were only further proof.
Cartman stepped a dull-looking string of tinsel, taking in the surroundings, his first comment was, “Wow, they left alcohol.”
Kyle was curious, “Is that how you know this place?”
“No, but I could use a beer right now,” Cartman grumbled, “You want one?”
“I’m going to check those storage rooms, you can go get drunk away from me.”
Cartman waved him off, “Yeah, yeah. Go on and cry in your storage room.”
“Whatever, Cartman.” Kyle monotones, walking the opposite way towards a staff door.
He slipped into the dingy room and began to rummage through the clutter, finding only more Christmas decorations in the first box opened. Taking one off the bottom of the pile, Kyle got to work.
He desired noting more than to be back in the warm comfort of his bed right now, where he should be. But alas, things never were where they should be. That’s why he was there. That’s how, Kyle justified to himself, he was necessary.
Outside the storage room, a large boy sat, wearing a sweater and a beanie, his coat hung over a nearby chair. Cartman looked to see if the stereo on the counter still worked.
Upon figuring it out that it did, he turned his attention to the tall stacks of CD’s that lay dejected on the ground. At first look, most of them had recognizable titles, but there were a few ones Cartman couldn’t recognize.
Picking the last one off the top, Cartman used the arm of his dark sweater to wipe a light dust off of the cover. The song happened to also be named, ‘Late Bar.’ He rolled his eyes and slid the CD into the stereo.
Immediately, the pop beat filled the small room with a warm noise, and Cartman adjusted the volume until he was satisfied the music drowned out the sound of Kyle’s racket from across the cabin.
Going to inspect the alcohol cabinet, Cartman contemplated whether the weather was cold enough to not spoil the beer. He guessed not.
Scanning the shelves, not particularly bothered by the quality, he took a handful of bottles. His hands still felt numb from the cold, and he barely missed dropping them as he clumsily placed the glasses onto the counter.
Closing the cabinet, Cartman went over to the other side of the counter to sit on one of the bar stools. Cracking open a bottle of craft beer and taking a long drink, a needed warmth filled his chest. Pleased with his choice of beer, he sank into the comfortable, hard stool seat. The warm feeling that spun in his head took his mind off of the reality; but he could feel the cold emptiness in the seat next to him. Where Kyle could’ve sat.
But he didn’t. And he wouldn’t.
They didn’t really talk anymore, and Cartman had to assure himself that he didn’t want to. He took another swig from the bottle.
Necessary but inevitable.