Archive of Our Own ^beta

Flowers

Eric feels like he’s about to lose his mind, and it’s all because of that stupid High Elf King.

If he were a bit humbler, however, he might admit that part of it is also his fault for letting his curiosity get the better of him. But since humility is not even remotely one of his traits, the blame for his current crisis, in his modest opinion, falls entirely and exclusively on the elf. On him, and the stupid flowers that almost always—if not always—adorn the tangled mess he calls hair.

And it’s not even the flowers themselves, not entirely, but the fact that he hadn’t noticed before, or rather, the fact that he’d ignored it so easily for so long.

Though, well, he shouldn’t bear all the blame for that particular detail, considering that, at first, he simply thought and accepted as perfectly valid that it was some strange elven custom. It’s a logical assumption, right? After all, humans had never bothered to learn much about their enemies beyond the basics needed to defeat them in battle during the war. Afterward, their knowledge of the elven race expanded just enough to avoid accidentally offending the ambassadors of the then reigning King, thus preventing a new war after years of working toward peace.

The point is, for a long time, Eric prided himself on being different from his predecessors, only to realize that he had stumbled on the same stone. Knowing now that he had so easily deceived himself makes him feel incredibly stupid.

The title of Grand Wizard wasn’t given to him for his good looks alone, although if you ask him, that would have been reason enough. But no, he was forced to work hard to earn it, and even harder to keep it. His people should be grateful, seriously, it’s exhausting being this amazing sometimes. To achieve it, he promised himself that he wouldn’t make the same mistakes as the previous monarch, or the one before him, and for that, he had no choice but to dedicate much of his time—when he wasn’t busy ruling his people—to studying and learning everything he could about the elves. His logic was that, of course, if he wanted to remain superior, he needed to know his potential enemies better than anyone else.

His flawless logic ran into a tiny problem: the stupid High Elf King Kyle Broflovski, the youngest elf king in their long history to ascend the throne, and a damn enigma who, just when Eric thought he was about to figure him out, would do something that shattered all his theories. From the moment they met, Eric found him unbearably uptight, with an air of know-it-all that grated his nerves like nothing else. However, begrudgingly, he had to admit that, just as insufferable as Kyle is, he is equally fascinating.

That last bit is a recent development—or at least Eric is convinced it’s recent. Much to his horror, though, in recent years he’s found himself feeling a mix of envy and admiration for the monarch, as well as an increasing need to keep him in sight at all times. Naturally, when he noticed these... emotions toward the elf, his first thought was that it was obviously because he couldn’t afford to lower his guard around him, lest Kyle try to play dirty and exploit the benefits the elves gained from the peace treaty between their nations. As these emotions grew, his next line of reasoning was that clearly the High Elf was trying to mind-control him; that argument almost started another war between their kingdoms after Eric accused him of manipulation. Now, after much thought, Eric has to admit it’s far more complicated than that—though he refuses to give it a name.

Anyway, the point is, the reason he’s currently in a state of fury mixed with panic is entirely the elf’s fault, and those stupid flowers. And Kenny’s fault too, though to a lesser extent.

It’s the High Elf’s fault because, somehow, he managed to deceive Eric into accepting his word as absolute truth. Ridiculous! He can’t believe that after obsessiv… ensuring he meticulously studied the King as much as possible, he somehow overlooked that this was an anomaly and not a common practice. What was his past self even thinking? About how to destroy the elf, obviously, and not at all about how vibrant the green of his eyes is—certainly not.

Gods, he feels so stupid for not realizing it sooner. He’s met other elves at the countless diplomatic parties he’s attended in the neighboring kingdom, and Kyle is the only one who always had his hair decorated with flowers. “It’s because it’s a special occasion,” the king had explained once, when Eric mocked him about it. “They’re gifts from my brother, Prince Ike,” was the generic response whenever Eric stared at them for too long during their meetings.

“‘Not all of us are despised, and my people actually enjoy spending time with me.’ Yeah, right. Those don’t grow naturally in their stupid forest,” Eric mutters through clenched teeth, barely resisting the urge to throw the book he’s holding.

Hardly any of them grew naturally in the elven forest, so the excuse that they were arrangements made by his people for him was an outright lie. Could they have been created with magic? Sure, but they always looked too vibrant to be the product of magic. Too alive, as if they breathed in time with the High Elf’s movements.

“And if they’re for a special occasion, why have they been different every time?” he questions aloud, dropping the book to grab another, hoping to find a different answer.

It’s Kenny’s fault because she’s the one who made the comment that plunged him headfirst into the madness that has consumed his existence these past few weeks.

“Uh, I swear that flower wasn’t there a second ago,” she said a few weeks ago, leaning against his shoulder as they both watched Ranger Marshwalker help his king onto his mount.

Thinking about that day makes Eric pause his frantic reading and try to focus on the scene as a whole, rather than the fact that during the entire exchange, he’d been too distracted by the way the sunlight behind Kyle seemed to make him glow. It took him a few seconds to understand what she meant, at which point the princess, mocking his obvious distraction, pointed out one of the many flowers in the fiery red tangle that, indeed, hadn’t been there during their meeting. There, among rounded pink petals and elongated purple blossoms, wrapped around the center of his crown, was a small bud whose tightly closed petals formed a cup of vibrant red, much darker and brighter than the curls around it. With the sun at his back, Eric thought it looked like a tiny flame, and when Kyle raised his head to bid farewell, if Eric had blinked, he would have missed the moment when two more identical red flowers sprouted from the tips of a couple of curls, joining the first.

Kenny’s amazed whistle confirmed that it wasn’t his imagination, but before he could question it, the king and his second-in-command were already leaving.

That incident made Eric pause and reevaluate the interactions he’d had with the elf in the past, realizing that, just like that time, he’d previously noticed flowers that hadn’t been there when the elf first arrived at his palace. He brushed it off then, but now he can’t stop thinking about it, forcing himself to investigate the matter.

And it’s partially his fault too, isn’t it? He thinks, closing the book and turning his attention to some old scrolls. For letting curiosity get the better of him, for allowing desperation to drag him into scouring every corner of the royal library in search of answers—something to explain it with more than just, “It’s elven magic, end of story.”

It’s his fault for worrying. How could he not, when the first answer he found during his search—the one that wasn’t summarized as “just magic”—was that there’s a possibility this might be a disease that could kill the High Elf?

“Damn it!” This time, he doesn’t hold back and hurls the scroll against the wall, not caring if it gets damaged. What good is preserving that knowledge when the only elf he cares about is...

He runs a hand down his face, fighting off the wave of nausea that rises at the mere thought of what could happen to Kyle if he doesn’t find a solution. And seriously, how useless are the elves? How has no one done anything about this? Do they care so little about their king? Even Stan Marshwalker, who spends most of his time glued to Kyle’s side, doesn’t seem the least bit worried, and Eric doubts the man is a good enough actor to hide it if he were. Or has Kyle fed him the same lie he told Eric? To avoid worrying him? After all, Marshwalker is human. Raised by elves, yes, but human, nonetheless.

“I can’t believe I have to do everything myself,” he mutters, standing up to retrieve the scroll. He might not care about its fate, but he won’t hear the end of it if it’s got damaged. Stupid librarians and their stupid preservation rules.

What is he supposed to do now? He can’t just show up in the elven forest and demand an explanation, insisting Kyle work with him to find a cure. Well, technically, he could, but it’s… complicated. How is he supposed to explain that he’s spent weeks researching ways to help him without revealing his concern? Without slipping up and admitting something more?

He looks at the scroll in his hands, gripping it tightly as fear creeps inside him, settling in the pit of his stomach and sinking. No, he can’t just stand by while a bunch of useless people play dumb and look the other way. He places the scroll on the desk and retrieves his cloak, leaving the library with determination.

To hell with the potential consequences of his impulsive act—if no one else will do anything, it’s up to him to make sure his stupid elf lives one more day to drive him mad.

Stupid wizard.

Stupid wizard, stupid and a thousand times stupid, he thinks, muttering curses under his breath, all of them directed at the current object of his anger. Then again, when isn’t the Grand Wizard King Eric Cartman the object of his rage? The answer is always, of course, but this time it’s for a different reason. Well, it’s the same reason as almost every other time, but it feels different because his anger stems from frustration—more at himself than at the human—and not just annoyance or a desire to simply be angry.

Kyle lets out a triumphant noise when, finally, he manages to untangle the last tulip from his curls. His triumph doesn’t last long because as soon as he thinks “stupid wizard” again, more flowers bloom. With a choked scream, he hurls the comb he was using across the room, where it strikes one of the many vases in his quarters, shattering it from the force of the throw. Water spills everywhere, and the flowers it had held scatter, their petals falling apart since the water was what had kept them alive.

He curses again, this time including himself for his outburst, now more mortified than frustrated. Rising from his seat, he rushes to where the vase had been, hoping to salvage some of the flowers. But they had been there for so long that by the time he kneels beside the broken shards, the petals are already dry. He should modify the spell on the water, he thinks, crouching next to what’s left of his little treasure, regretting not enchanting the flowers themselves. Maybe that way, they’d survive his fits of temper when he inevitably ends up throwing things around.

"Maybe you shouldn’t keep them at all,” murmurs a voice in his mind, sounding a lot like Stan’s. But he can’t help it. He treasures them, okay? They’re a pain to remove from his hair without hurting himself or damaging them, and they’re an even bigger headache simply because they exist, but he’s grown fond of them. As long as the cause of their existence doesn’t find out about them, what harm could they do?

"Half-measures aren’t solutions, bube,” he recalls his mother saying when he asked her for help with the spell. Even now, he’s not entirely sure if she was talking about the magic they were working on or the flowers themselves. Knowing her, she probably meant the flowers, since constantly “pruning” them isn’t a definitive solution to his problem. On the other hand, he doesn’t think following her advice would resolve the issue once and for all, and being honest with himself, he’s too terrified of the outcome to even attempt it. Does this mean he’ll likely spend the rest of his life pulling flowers from his hair and turning his room into a garden? Probably, but he’s willing to accept that if it means keeping his heart intact.

Carefully, he gathers the petals, deciding to deal with the shards later. He looks wistfully at the faded blue of the flowers. Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath, feeling more of the same flowers bloom in his hair as a result. He doesn’t see them as a problem, but by the gods, the speed at which they grow back sometimes drives him mad.

The first time his hair filled with flowers, he hadn’t seen it coming.

It happened shortly before his second diplomatic meeting with the Grand Wizard, King of Kupa Keep. Just before entering the hall where the meeting would take place, his insides had bubbled with so much distaste and disdain that for a second, he thought his magic might spiral out of control. Instead, his hair suddenly filled with white and yellow flowers, tangling fiercely with his curls and crown. Unfortunately, he had no time to react, panic, or hide them, so he had no choice but to proceed with the meeting as if it were completely normal.

The flowers didn’t disappear afterward.

In fact, every time he had to interact with the other king, the situation seemed to worsen. Row after row of flowers—later identified as carnations and azaleas—sprouted out of nowhere in his hair, practically burying his curls under petals. He had to lock himself in his quarters for countless days trying to figure out how to get rid of them, as his magic was, unfortunately, not much help, forcing him to remove them by hand.

Soon, it wasn’t just when he faced the human king. Simply thinking about him would make more flowers bloom. No matter how much time he spent removing them—sometimes more harshly than necessary—they always found a place among his curls. By the time the situation became unbearable, the carnations had stopped growing, replaced by small bell-shaped flowers of a pale blue that tended to hang from his lower curls, dragging the azaleas along and increasing the weight to the point of pain. He had no choice but to consult his mother, too frustrated to come up with another solution on his own.

She had never laughed so hard in his face as she did that day, her laughter only worsening when she saw him practically buried in flowers. Even his father struggled to hide his amusement at the sight.

Kyle hadn’t found it funny in the slightest.

The explanation he received was even less amusing. Mortifying, in fact. Utterly embarrassing, to discover something about himself in such a manner, his parents’ laughter sinking him deeper into a pool of humiliation.

He locked himself away for a week, refusing to face them—or anyone else, for that matter. Just him and his flowers.

How did they expect him to react upon learning that he was so emotionally constipated his own magic had found a way to express what he refused to acknowledge?

Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. The mere idea that he could even like the Grand Wizard was ridiculous in every sense of the word.

And yet…

He sighs in resignation as a bouquet of myrtles blooms alongside the bluebells. His sigh turns frustrated as a few strands of hair fall across his forehead, obstructing his vision, weighed down by a red peony that has decided that’s the best place to grow.

"Half-measures aren’t solutions,” he thinks, retrieving the comb to remove them, glancing around for another vase to store the flowers.

Having the flowers in his room had been a spur-of-the-moment idea, one that came to him one night while removing bluebells. They were so beautiful, full of life, that he couldn’t bring himself to throw them away like he had the azaleas. That’s why he had consulted his mother about modifying a spell to preserve them. Sheila had helped, of course, but over time she hadn’t hesitated to voice her disapproval. According to her, putting into words what his magic was trying to say would solve the matter. According to Kyle, that was a risk he wasn’t willing to take—not yet, at least. Maybe he’d do it when the human’s lifespan reached its end, as a gift to help him leave peacefully.

As if he didn’t know that, first, Cartman’s magic would undoubtedly extend his lifespan, and second, that Kyle couldn’t see himself allowing the human to die before him.

The solution, then? Endure the literal manifestation of his emotions and hope it doesn’t kill him in the process, given that the more he lets himself feel for Cartman, the more flowers bloom in his hair.

“At this rate, I’ll turn into a garden,” he mutters, placing the latest bouquet into an available vase, mentally noting to fill it with water and enchant it later.

“Now to clean up this mess,” he says softly, looking at the remnants of the other vase, lamenting his outburst once again. He could call a servant, but it’s his mess, and it’s only fair he cleans it up himself.

Before he can start, he’s interrupted by the sound of a dull thud against the doors of his quarters, quickly followed by them flying open. Immediately, he goes on the defensive, ready to attack whoever dared to barge into his private chambers like this, but before he can do anything, he recognizes the figure sprawled on the floor, having fallen in when the doors gave way.

“Your Majesty!” Stan’s voice sounds alarmed and breathless, likely from running to try to stop the intruder.

“Cartman?” Kyle asks at the same time, staring in disbelief at the other king, who groans and complains dramatically as he struggles to his feet. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“My deepest apologies, Your Majesty,” one of the guards standing a few steps behind Stan bows deeply, clearly embarrassed. “Before we realized it, the Wizard King had already made it through the palace and—”

“Grand Wizard King to you, you incompetent piece of shit,” the man in question snaps, brusquely brushing off his coat. “What the hell, Khal? What are these doors made of? And what’s wrong with your palace’s security? Anyone could walk into the kingdom, and no one would notice.”

Kyle takes a deep breath, closing his eyes tightly, irritation and frustration coursing through his veins in equal measure. To hell with all the positive thoughts he’d been having about the man in front of him just seconds before. Without a doubt, he hates him with all his might.

The tulips, bluebells, and white anemones that choose that exact moment to sprout on his crown express the complete opposite. Traitors.

"Leave us alone," he orders, finally opening his eyes and looking firmly at Stan.

"But Kyle..." the Ranger looks at him with concern before glancing at the other king, distrust written all over his face, quickly returning his gaze to his ruler.

"Don’t worry, Stan." Kyle softens his expression into what he hopes conveys confidence and calm. The deepening worry in his friend’s eyes tells him he’s failed miserably, so he squares his shoulders in a posture that leaves no room for argument.

"Leave," he orders firmly. "It’s clear that whatever has brought the Wizard King to our realm must be an emergency." The last part is said with reproach directed at the mentioned man, who responds with an innocent smile and a shrug.

Stan hesitates for a second before sighing resignedly, bowing alongside the guard who imitates him immediately.

"As you wish, Your Majesty," they say in unison. Stan steps forward to grasp the door handles and close them. Before finishing, he clears his throat softly.

"I’ll be right outside if you need anything, Your Majesty."

Kyle offers him a soft, grateful smile. He’s certain, though, that whatever King Cartman wants, he can handle it alone. Besides, they’re on his territory, so he doubts the human would do anything that could harm them. Neither of them wants another war.

Stan nods slightly and finishes closing the door. The room falls into a deep silence, stretching unnecessarily, but Kyle has no intention of being the first to break it. If Cartman is in such a rush to speak to him, he can start the conversation.

"To be honest, I didn’t think I’d get this far," the brunette finally says after a long pause, shifting uncomfortably on his feet, looking around for something to distract himself with.

"What did you expect to happen?" Kyle asks, crossing his arms and watching the Grand Wizard’s every move.

"I expected your security to be more..." he makes a vague gesture with his hand, searching for the word, "...sophisticated." It’s clear that’s not the word he wants, but it seems to satisfy him as he finally meets Kyle’s gaze. "The forest’s defenses let me through without a fuss, and the palace has very few guards."

“Palace” isn’t what Kyle would call his home, considering it’s an ancient tree modified by magic to accommodate the long line of elven royalty. And the defenses he mentions are attuned to Kyle’s emotions, having adapted to his feelings over time and wouldn’t likely block the human’s entry. Not that he plans to say so, of course. Not now. Preferably never.

"What are you doing here, Cartman?" he asks, feeling exhausted. He can’t think of a logical reason why the brunette decided to show up at his home unannounced. And without an escort, from what he can see.

Alone, with only his magic as defense—could he be more stupid? The forest doesn’t solely belong to the elves.

"It comes to my attention, Khal, that you’re hiding something very important from me," Kyle immediately tenses at his words, incredulous. He couldn’t have figured it out, right? So far, the elf thought he was hiding it quite well, aside from the flowers of course. "And it’s time you brought me up to speed on the situation."

"Cartman, I don’t know what you’re..." he starts, dropping his arms and taking a step back, alarmed.

"And technically, it’s none of my business. Except it is." The human steps closer, pointing at him accusingly. "Were you planning on me learning about your death at your funeral?"

The panic beginning to brew inside him halts abruptly, and he stares at the brunette, stunned.

What?

"What?" he gasps, nearly breathless. Death? Whose death?

"Don’t play dumb, Khal; I know everything." Cartman raises his arms dramatically, the sleeves of his robe slipping down to his shoulders. "You can’t just leave without telling me who your replacement will be. What the hell am I supposed to do if the bitch Sheila returns to the throne?"

"Don’t call..." Kyle starts to protest, but the human strides toward him again, forcing him to step back due to his quick pace.

"Or your pushover of a father? Though, logically, Ike would take your place." Cartman pauses for a second, bringing a hand to his chin thoughtfully. "That wouldn’t be so bad, the little elf is tolerable, but that’s not the point!"

The brunette jabs his finger into Kyle’s chest, and the elf is too dumbfounded to shove him away. What the fuck is he talking about?

"I’ve gotten used to you, your stupid red hair, and your stupid crooked nose. You can’t expect me to adjust to negotiating with someone else!" Cartman continues his tirade, stepping back just enough to throw his arms into the air again. "Something has to be done!"

"Cartman..." Kyle runs a hand down his face, exasperated. "What nonsense are you talking about?"

"About your illness and impending death, Khal. Gods, I thought you were smarter than this. I know you’re capable of following the thread, keep up!" And as if barging into his chambers uninvited wasn’t insult enough, Cartman has the audacity to flick his forehead with his middle finger.

"Cartman," Kyle growls, rubbing his forehead. "First of all, I’m not sick or dying. Secondly, what the fuck?"

"You can’t fool me anymore, elf." Cartman crosses his arms, smirking smugly. "I’ve figured it all out. There are records of a disease that manifests with flowers, and you…" he uncrosses his arms to gesture around the room before pointing at Kyle’s hair "are literally covered in them. So, spill it. How much time do you have left?"

"For the Gods’ sake," Kyle mutters, incredulity giving way to amusement as he pieces things together. Not because he finds it funny that the wizard thought he was dying, but because despite his attempts to sound angry and indifferent, it’s clear he’s worried.

"I’m not dying, Cartman," he says patiently, as though speaking to a child, trying not to smile. Is this how his mother felt when explaining the magic behind the flowers to him? "At least, not anytime soon."

“What about the flowers, then? And don’t lie to me,” he warns.

“Cartman, I can assure you with absolute certainty that they’re nothing, and I’m not going to die,” he says, projecting as much seriousness as he can, ignoring the way his heart races at the thought that what’s driving Cartman in this moment is concern.

Concern for him. Gods, he thinks fondly, he’s so stupid.

Gods, how much I love him.

“Aha!” Cartman’s shout startles him, but he doesn’t need to ask what his fucking problem is when he notices him pointing at his hair. In fact, he can feel the stupid tulips sprouting in abundance. “ ‘It’s nothing,’ my ass! You’re going to die!”

“What’s going to kill me is your stupidity,” he retorts, bringing a hand to his lips to hide his smile.

“What are you laughing at?” Clearly, he wasn’t as discreet as he intended to be.

“It’s just... If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you’re worried about my well-being.” He can’t hold back his laughter anymore, running a hand through his hair, his fingers tangling in the stem of one of the tulips.

“And what if I am?” Cartman’s reply makes him freeze.

“What?” he asks softly, surprised.

“I said,” Cartman takes a step forward, and then another, making him step back until his back hits the wall. “And what if I care about your well-being?” He plants a hand on the wall beside his head, and somehow Kyle has ended up in an odd position—with his back slightly sliding down the wall, his legs bent as if starting a squat, leaving their faces at the same height.

The wizard usually carries himself with such confidence that Kyle sometimes forgets he’s taller than him. Right now, with his heart pounding in his throat and warmth swirling in his stomach, he feels much smaller than the human.

“Cartman…” he starts, feeling his mouth go dry.

“If you’re not dying, what do the flowers mean?” Cartman looks at him intensely, his expression more serious than Kyle has seen in years, and yet, deep in his gaze, the concern is so palpable that he can feel its weight. He also sees something else there, something he thinks he recognizes but fears naming in case it’s just a trick of the light… or his yearning.

“It’s magic,” he replies, forcing himself to take a breath.

“Bullshit, Kyle!” Cartman slams his fist against the wall in frustration but doesn’t move an inch.

“It is,” he says, rolling his eyes. “It’s literally magic. My magic.”

“Why?” Cartman frowns, trying to make sense of his words.

“It’s none of your business,” he responds defensively, shrugging. Suddenly, he remembers he’s taller than the wizard, so he straightens up to his full height and pushes him back slightly, forcing him to step away. “I’ve answered your questions. Now leave.”

“What the…?” The brunette stumbles slightly, looking at him dumbfounded. “That’s it? I thought you were dying, and your answer is ‘it’s none of your business’?”

“It really isn’t,” he points out, crossing his arms. “I’m not dying, you know they’re magical flowers. It’s time for you to leave before I consider your presence here an affront to our treaty.”

“You’re such a…!” Cartman squares his shoulders, trying to corner him against the wall again, but Kyle ducks to evade him, spinning to put his back to the door.

“And don’t show up in my chambers again! Who do you think you are?” he continues as if he hadn’t heard him, dodging him again before he can grab him.

“You haven’t answered all my questions! Okay, it’s magic. Why the hell does it happen? What does it mean? How can you be so sure…?” He lets out a frustrated scream and lunges at him, tackling him to the ground and immediately pinning him in his arms. “Stop moving, damn it!”

“Let me go! Don’t touch me!” he shouts back, writhing in his arms, trying to break free. He stops, stifling a cry when, in his frenzy, one of the tulips gets caught under his shoulder, and as he tries to rise, it pulls, sending a jolt of pain through his body as the flower tears away.

“Shit, are you okay?” To his surprise, Cartman releases him, lifting some of his weight to kneel with one leg on either side of his, practically sitting in his lap. Kyle doesn’t have time to think about how undignified the position is, still stunned by the pain. “Do they hurt? How do you expect me to believe you’re fine if they fucking hurt?”

“They usually don’t,” he tries to get up again, ignoring the pain, but Cartman presses his body down harder on his legs. With a low growl, he gives up, letting his back fall against the floor, huffing, staring at the ceiling of his room as if it might hold the answer he needs to get the human off him. “I don’t owe you any explanations, you fat fuck. They’re magical, they’re here, you should be satisfied with that. In fact, I didn’t even have to tell you anything, but I found it within myself to be benevolent enough to…” His rant, which is really just him mimicking Cartman’s tendency to use a lot of meaningless words in the hope of dropping the topic, stops when Cartman’s face enters his line of sight and the wizard cups his cheek with a gentleness that leaves him breathless.

He blinks, trying to make sense of the gesture. He’s certain only Princess Kenny has had the honor of seeing this side of Cartman. Honestly, he’s been envious of her for it, but being the recipient at this moment… Gods, what it’s doing to his heart.

“Kyle.” Again, that serious expression, which makes him nervous once more, especially paired with the warmth of Cartman’s hand against his cheek, spreads across the brunette’s face. “I’ve been worried for weeks… I thought you were…” He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and starts again. “How can you be sure you’re not going to die? How can I be sure you’re not going to die?”

Kyle feels his stomach churn, this time because seeing such vulnerability on Cartman’s face feels heavy. Since he’s known him, he’s been convinced the human’s features are made to convey arrogance, confidence, and malice. He never thought he’d see him… vulnerable… for him… because he cares.

“Maybe you should use your words for what your magic is trying to express. Half-solutions aren’t solutions, bube.” For some reason, he feels his mother’s words carried more knowledge than they let on.

“I like you.” The words tumble from his lips abruptly, and the weight on his chest doesn’t lift because that’s not what he truly wants to say.

“What?” The confusion on Cartman’s face is a welcome change, allowing him to breathe and organize his thoughts.

“They’re a magical manifestation of my… emotions,” he says through gritted teeth, looking away and resisting the urge to cover his face with his hands to hide his mortification. That Cartman is looking at him like a fish out of water isn’t helping his nerves. “Specifically, emotions I try to suppress. My magic decided the best way was…” He gestures towards the flowers scattered around his head and then to the flowers spread across his room, the vases holding them making them look innocent.

“Your… emotions,” Cartman whispers, glancing around.

“Yes,” he confirms, swallowing hard, still refusing to look at him.

“And those emotions are what… you like me?” His eyes land on him again. Kyle can feel his face flush under the scrutiny, more tulips forming around him.

“If we’re being… technical,” you can do this, you can do this. Breathe. The worst that can happen is… “It’s that I… I…” The words get stuck as a sob crawls up his throat.

Why the hell is he crying? As if he didn’t already know deep down that the worst that could happen, what he fears most, is undoubtedly what will happen. There’s no way in hell or on earth that Cartman feels the same.

“Do you think I’d have shown up in the middle of the night at your kingdom, risking another war, if I didn’t feel the same way?” Cartman’s words startle him, enough to stop the cascade of tears running down his cheeks.

“What?” he asks, finally looking at him.

He was prepared for many things, given the nature of his confession, but not to be met with Cartman’s face, flushed and drenched in tears. Much less for the stupid grin that slides across his lips or the silly chuckle he lets out, though he quickly tries to cover it up with a fake cough.

“You heard me right, stupid elf. Obviously, I wouldn’t have come here, risking everything, if I didn’t feel the same,” this time it’s Cartman who looks away, embarrassed.

Kyle stares at him in amazement, now the one who seems to be mimicking a fish out of water. When his words finally sink in and make sense in his mind, he can feel his heart practically explode, but he forces himself to take a breath.

“And exactly, what is that ‘same’ thing you feel?” he asks softly, trying to sound as innocent as possible, but he’s aware that his voice betrays his emotion as it cracks sharply at the end.

“You… sneaky elf,” Cartman seems to shake off the cloud of shyness that had enveloped him, pointing at him with an accusing finger. “You’re not going to trick me into saying it first.”

“I already said it!” Kyle protests, sitting up, and Cartman must be distracted enough not to keep holding him, as Kyle easily adjusts himself.

Now that the potential rejection is dust in the wind, he can admire the figure of the wizard sitting on his lap. Feeling bold, full of energy, he places his hands on his waist, gently squeezing.

“Nu-uh, you haven’t said it. You started, and then you got all… like this,” Cartman points at him, his eyes darting from his hands to his face in quick succession, and Kyle’s gesture must be doing something to him because the blush on his cheeks worsens.

They could go on forever in this silly argument, as they have so many times before, but Kyle is so full of emotion that he doesn’t care. He gives a final squeeze to Cartman’s waist before raising his hands to hold Cartman’s face between them.

“It means I love you,” he says firmly, making sure there’s no room for doubt in his words.

“Was that so hard?” Cartman smiles with amusement, raising his hands to hold his face too, sliding his thumbs over his cheeks to wipe away the remaining tears. “I love you too, in case you still had any doubts and your stupid moss brain needs…”

He leans in and presses his lips into a kiss, stopping him from talking. First, because he’d been dying to do it. Second, because it feels damn good to be able to do it. And third, because if Cartman finishes that sentence, he’s going to ruin the moment.

The brunette doesn’t miss the opportunity to respond to the kiss, sliding his hands around Kyle’s neck to deepen it, his fingers carefully intertwining with the stems of the flowers brushing his neck. Kyle sighs, letting his hands fall to wrap around his waist, his whole body vibrating, emotions no longer contained spilling out through every pore of his skin.

He doesn’t know if they were kissing for a minute or a millennium, but when air becomes a necessity, they reluctantly pull apart. They don’t want to separate too much, so they end up pressing their foreheads together. Unintentionally, Kyle finds himself smiling just as stupidly as Cartman, who seems entertained, exploring the stems and petals of the tulips in his curls.

Gods, he can’t believe his mom was right. He won’t hear the end of it for a long time.

“So…” Cartman seems satisfied with his exploration, pulling back a little to look him directly in the eyes. “Did you like me since that second meeting?”

“Oh no,” Kyle lets out a laugh, shifting slightly, expecting to be punched. “Those meant how much you irritated me and how much I despised you.”

“You… elf…” Cartman gasps offended, trying to punch him, but since Kyle’s pulled away, he loses part of his balance, falling against his chest.

“Did you really think for a second that you won me over after the disaster that was our first meeting?” Kyle asks, hugging him tightly, preventing him from pulling away.

“It’s plausible! I’m a delight of a person, Khal, I could’ve totally conquered your sneaky elven heart with my wonderful personality,” Cartman growls against his chest, hitting his sides.

“Sure, your wonderful personality that filled my hair with yellow carnations,” Kyle points out playfully, raising a hand to remove one of the tulips and weave its stem into one of Cartman’s curls.

The red looks really good on him, he thinks, satisfied.

“Ugh, don’t remind me. Yellow looks horrible on you,” Cartman manages to break free from his grip, but instead of getting up, he rests his chin on Kyle’s chest, looking up at him from below.

The angle is uncomfortable, and Kyle can only see his eyes without having to stretch his neck into an awkward position, but it works. For now.

“It’s your fault and your ‘wonderful personality,’” Kyle points out, smiling playfully at the annoyed look Cartman gives him.

Cartman watches him for a long while, and Kyle allows himself to be observed, enjoying the peaceful minutes that having him lost in his thoughts permits.

“This is fun and all,” Kyle says after a while, hitting Cartman’s side to force him to straighten up, “but my legs are going numb because of your fat ass.”

“I’m not fat! You know full well that my bones carry my magic,” Cartman protests, offended, hitting his shoulder hard.

“Whatever you say, fatass,” Kyle laughs, urging him to get up and then standing with his help, since his legs are indeed quite numb.

“Indignant, is this how you treat the love of your life?” Cartman looks at him offended.

Once he regains feeling in his legs, Kyle doesn’t give him time to keep complaining, holding his face and planting a quick kiss on his lips that silences him in an instant. He guesses he’s found a more effective way of shutting him up, and they both win.

“Now, Cartman, I think you should go back to your kingdom before Princess Kenny shows up thinking I’ve kidnap…” A loud explosion outside the palace and alarms blaring around them cut off his words.

A bit late, they think at the same time, looking at each other with some amusement and irritation. More irritation than amusement on Kyle’s part, considering it’s Cartman’s fault for the mess that now needs cleaning up. Not only because, from the sound of the explosion, many things have fallen victim to Princess Kenny’s wrath, but also to avoid the Sages starting a war over what, to anyone who doesn’t know what’s really going on, looks like a stealth attack.

Kyle lets out a sigh, already exhausted by what he knows will come tomorrow morning, smoothing out his tunic as he walks toward the exit, quickly followed by the Grand Wizard. They need to act fast before Kenny has a chance to cause even more destruction.

Weeks later, at the next meeting they were supposed to have, which Eric somehow manages to turn into their first official date, Kyle discovers that his mom’s theory that the flowers would stop once he used his words wasn’t as true as he thought.

At least now his room is not the only one turned into a small garden.