Chapter Text
“All right, class, you can start working on your projects now. They’re not due until next Friday, so take your time and make them perfect,” Mr. Meyers announced, his words dragging out like he was already halfway to his nap. His smile barely qualified as an expression, more like the exhausted twitch of a man who had given up trying to inspire a room full of teenagers.
Mr. Meyers was the kind of teacher who hated finals with a passion. The guy was so burnt out from grading quizzes for the entire junior class that he looked like he hadn’t slept in days. He'd probably gone through five cups of coffee by 9 a.m., and his hair was starting to turn gray from the stress. Rather than deal with a pile of final exams, he just decided to throw everyone into a group project. Not because it was educational or made any sense, but because it was easier for him to half-ass his way through it. He barely even remembered assigning it. But hey, less work for him, right?
History was the one class where all four of them were stuck together. It wasn’t because they’d somehow gotten lucky, but because the school couldn’t afford enough teachers to split the classes into different levels. So, there they were, all crammed into basic history, the one subject where none of them could flex their academic muscles. Kyle hated it from the start. Honors history wasn’t even an option, and now he had to share the same room with Cartman, Stan, and Kenny, all of whom were perfectly fine with just barely scraping by. It wasn’t the dream team academically, that’s for sure. By some twist of fate, though, they all landed in the same group—and the universe laughed in Kyle’s face.
Kyle was already pissed about being stuck in regular history—like, how was it possible that his high school transcript was now being dragged down by a class of slackers who couldn’t even name three presidents? He could’ve been in honors, but no, the school system had to ruin his academic superiority by throwing him into a class full of people who probably didn’t know the difference between World War I and World War II. Only because the junior class was smaller. And now, on top of it all, they were stuck doing a group project. Kyle rolled his eyes so hard he thought they might stay stuck in the back of his head. Of course, he was the one who’d end up doing all the work. If you wanted something done right, you had to do it yourself—and with Cartman, Stan, and Kenny, Kyle wasn’t sure that was even possible.
Kenny didn’t care about school—never had, never would. He only showed up to hang out, find drama, and find new ways to get himself suspended. Stan was your typical football guy: average grades, solid passes, and a knack for blending into the background. And Cartman? Cartman was a walking headache. Kyle couldn’t even figure the guy out. Some days, Cartman wouldn’t bother showing up to class, probably off skipping to smoke. Other days, he’d waltz into Kyle’s advanced lit class and suddenly decide he was Socrates, spouting off insights about The Odyssey like he’d been born to teach it.
Worst of all, Cartman made it personal. On his good days—those rare, insufferable ones—he had this infuriating habit of trying to outshine Kyle. Sure, Cartman didn’t stand a chance in biology or calculus, but in english and history, he made it his mission to challenge every word out of Kyle’s mouth. And Kyle, of course, couldn’t resist pushing back. It was like their own stupid version of a war, fought with words and fueled by pure spite.
As the project approached them, Kyle found himself hoping—praying, even—that Cartman would just slack off and leave him to handle it. Anything to make the whole process easier—and with a lot less chance of things ending in actual violence.
“Dude... Kyle, do you have any ideas? At all?” Stan asked, his tone heavy with irritation as he tapped his pencil against the table. “Or are you too busy daydreaming about how much this sucks?”
Kyle blinked, shaking off his wandering thoughts. He glanced around the group. Stan’s tired expression practically screamed ‘I can’t believe I’m stuck with these idiots,’ while Kenny was laser-focused on his notebook, sketching something. Kyle leaned over just enough to see it—killer robots. Naturally, each one had a crude addition sketched in the most obnoxious place possible. Kenny caught Kyle looking and grinned.
“What?” Kenny said, shameless. “This is history. Robots fought in wars, right?”
Kyle groaned and turned to Cartman, who had leaned back in his chair, arms crossed like he was king of the table. His mismatched eyes caught Kyle’s, and for a second, Kyle froze. There was something about the intensity of the stare—the blue and brown like they didn’t belong to the same person. Cartman raised an eyebrow, his face smug, and Kyle’s stomach flipped for no reason he could put into words. He felt a heat creeping up his neck and yanked his eyes away, pretending to fiddle with the strap on his backpack.
“So, uh,” Kyle muttered, trying to fill the silence. “It needs to be about the buildup to World War II, right? Like... the Great Depression and dictators and stuff?”
Stan looked like he was about to jump in, but Cartman beat him to it. “Jesus Christ, Kahl,” Cartman said, his voice dripping with mockery. “I thought you actually paid attention in this class. That’s what we’ve been learning for two months, dickface.”
Kyle’s jaw tightened, the comment instantly setting him off. “I was just making sure!” he snapped, his voice a little louder than he intended.
“Ohhh,” Cartman drawled, lifting a hand and flapping it mockingly, his voice pitched high. “I was just making suuuuuureee.”
Kenny snorted so loudly he had to clutch his stomach, leaning over his chair to laugh. “God, that’s too good,” he wheezed, looking at Kyle. “Man, you walked right into that one.”
“Shut up, Kenny,” Kyle growled, glaring. But it was Cartman’s smug grin that really lit the fire in his chest. His mind raced with all the ways he’d like to wipe that look off Cartman’s face. Maybe with his fist. Maybe with—no. Definitely his fist.
Stan groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You two seriously can’t go five minutes without this,” he muttered.
Kyle ignored him, focusing instead on Cartman, who was now drumming his fingers on the desk like he was bored. “Got anything useful to add, Cartman?” Kyle spat.
Cartman shrugged, utterly unbothered. “I dunno. Maybe if you keep whining, the project will magically finish itself.”
Kyle felt his frustration boiling over, his fists clenching under the desk. Not even ten minutes into this project, and he already wanted to strangle Cartman. Or throw something. Or—no, just strangle him.
The clock on the wall caught his eye, and he sighed in relief. Mr. Meyers had spent so long droning on about the project that only a minute of class remained. Perfect.
“I’m done, I’ll do this thing over the weekend. By myself” Kyle muttered, shoving his notebook into his bag. The bell rang, and he was out of his seat before anyone could say another word. As he stormed out, he could hear Cartman’s snide voice behind him, laughing about something Kyle didn’t even care to catch.
It was fine. He’d figure it out on his own over the weekend. Cartman couldn’t ruin it that way, right?