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“Fifty bucks that no one will invite you to dance.” Eric snickered. Kyle rolled his eyes when Kenny joined in; after all, it was easy money, the latter justified.
Kyle is, on paper at least, attractive: both nerdy and jocky, smart, tall, athletic, and even somewhat handsome. His reputation in Park County High, however, from his terrible temper to his frequentations, down to him being from the infamous city of South Park, precedes him. That is not even mentioning how the few relationships he did manage to land in high school all ended more or less in a disaster; it is pretty much known by now that to deal with Kyle Broflovski, in one way or another, means to also deal with Eric Cartman.
Well, Eric doesn’t give a shit. After all, Kyle, too, is a professional saboteur, and has made sure that none of Eric’s own relationships ever worked out. Fucking bastard.
“Bullshit.” Kyle shrugged, an angry vein pulsating on his forehead, “I bet fifty bucks that I’ll get invited more times than you.”
“Hah!” Eric huffed. “Like that matters! Fifty extra bucks that you wouldn’t even accept to dance if invited, you uptight bitch!” He cackled while waggling his finger in Kyle’s direction.
Stan sighed. “Also betting on that one,” he said almost reluctantly.
“Stan, what the fuck?” Kyle squeaked, and Eric cackled at how stupid that sounded.
“C’mon dude, you know you just don’t dance, and you’re always, well… kind of an annoying bitch at parties—” Stan continued, lacking assertiveness but also sounding kind of done.
“Whatever!” Kyle raised his hands, groaning. “I bet all of you that I will get invited, and I will fucking dance.”
Eric quirked an eyebrow. “Well then, I guess that at least, if we lose the bet, we’ll get a good laugh out of that.”
Eric wipes his palms on his slacks for what must be the thirtieth time in the past minute. He tries to keep himself distracted by watching the dance floor, where Kenny is merrily making an ass of himself along with Butters (who keeps obnoxiously waving at Eric), not too far from Stan who tries really hard to follow Wendyl's moves, while Clyde is repeatedly stepping on Bebe’s feet.
Then, there are all the other students, all the other people, chatting and laughing and drinking and dancing, and this big, empty space in the middle, dramatically revealed by a spotlight, waiting, calling even, for Eric to get there and put on a show like he does best.
Instead, he’s sitting on a chair by the punch table, sweating profusely, likely ruining his absolutely stunning rental suit (made of a rich, dark red fabric, over a red satin shirt, topped with an elegant dark red necktie—prom’s theme happening to be ‘monochromatic’). He fetches a handkerchief from his breast pocket to dapple it on his forehead, and can feel how his cheeks are radiating with heat. When his heart is about to burst out of his chest from anxiety, he shoves the piece of fabric back where it came from and grabs his glass of punch, only to gulp it down way too fast, nearly spilling it on his jacket, coughing after swallowing wrong.
Come the fuck on! He swears internally, because Eric Cartman usually isn’t such a fucking dork.
“You okay there, Cartman?”
Eric freezes, coughs a few more times while banging on his chest before he can get a hold of himself. He straightens up, then throws a disdainful look at the fucking ginger dickhead judging him from the side.
“I’m fine, asshole,” he blurts out, loud enough that Kyle can hear him above the music, but without much bite. Kyle scoffs, then looks away and takes a sip from his own glass.
Eric barely relaxes, unable to tear his gaze away from him.
Kyle looks pretty amazing. Faithful to the theme (they all rented their suits at the same place and even raised funds to get one for Kenny, too), he’s in a deep, dark green suit over an emerald satin shirt and a nearly black tie, pretty much mirroring Eric’s getup. The way it enhances his broad shoulders and thin waist makes Eric feel lightheaded. The way the sleeves hug his strong arms leaves Eric’s mouth dry. The way his slacks make his legs look even longer while stopping just above his slender ankles when he’s sitting, revealing their elegant slope as they flare out into feet set in shiny black dress shoes, makes Eric’s cheeks heat up dangerously.
Kyle hasn’t shaved completely but did neatly trim his beard—it can’t be called precocious anymore since he’s eighteen, but puberty granted Kyle with dense body and facial hair quite early on and, while an easy fuel for mockery at first, it is now an embarrassing source of awe and jealousy. It suits him awfully well. Even his wild mane has been sort of tamed, likely thanks to Sheila’s efforts, as its usual bird's nest of curls now have a nice, lush spring to them, beautifully framing his face.
Eric wishes the anxiety would kill him already.
Kyle looks around, undoubtedly waiting for someone to come and invite him so he can win his fucking bet. Bet that Eric is dangerously close to losing. He lets out a heavy sigh, trying to recenter, ground himself. He needs to get a fucking grip.
The situation is simple: it’s prom. The end of high school is around the corner. Kyle is headed for University of Colorado with Stan in tow, Kenny’s been accepted to some STEM program as a scholarship student God-knows-where—Eric keeps forgetting; cares without caring; it’s Kenny; they’ll stay in touch. As for Eric himself, he doesn’t know yet; he’ll figure something out.
He doesn’t think his future will be at University of Colorado, though. So, technically, there’s a chance that he and Kyle will never see each other again, or at least not before a long time. He doesn’t trust Kyle to give frequent updates; that guy sucks at messaging.
So, technically, there’s hardly anything to lose—besides money. And Eric has never liked to play chicken with what he wants. What Eric wants, Eric usually gets.
Granted, he doesn’t like losing bets, either. He didn’t plan for this, when he made the bet—it was just for fun, because humiliating or mocking Kyle is always an efficient way to let off steam. But then Kyle betted he’d dance, and Eric’s imagination couldn’t help but run wild—has run in helpless circles ever since.
“D’you think that in the end, neither of us will get invited?” Kyle asks.
They had been chatting, earlier, with their friends—hadn’t been sitting there like two losers for the entire night. Only, when Wendyl invited Stan to dance, and Kenny dragged Butters along so they would join, Kyle of course decided to stay back, and Eric was already too nervous to come along. The music has started slowing down, making room for more couples, and the slow dances are sure to follow soon enough.
“You, sure. Me? People have been checking me out relentlessly,” Eric replies with an exaggerated tone of self-confidence.
“They’re just eyeing you warily, moron. They wonder what fucking stunt you’re about to pull.”
Eric nearly jumps out of his seat and theatrically brings a hand to his chest. “Stunt?! The fuck are you talking about?”
“Well, you’re not making a show of yourself, and you’re looking awfully suspicious and fidgety, and Butters keeps gesturing at you.” Kyle shrugs, a light sneer on his face.
“Sure, but you’re not out there making a scene or trying to stop me, so clearly nothing’s going on.” Eric grunts in return.
Kyle doesn’t respond immediately, so Eric can’t resist throwing a glance in his direction. He’s looking at his glass wistfully.
“What’s up with you, then?” Eric asks.
Kyle gently shakes his glass to make the liquid slosh inside. “Not gonna lie, the fact that you’re not even bothering to make fun of me because no one’s fucking inviting me makes it feel even more pathetic.”
The colored lights bathe the scene in blue, with a yellowish glow outlining Kyle’s silhouette. It looks cinematographic, a scene directly pulled from an oddly artistic teen movie.
“What’s pathetic is that I don’t see you inviting anyone, either,” Eric scoffs, almost contemptuous.
“There’s no one I want to invite!” Kyle whines, and Eric feels an immediate pang in his chest.
“Then why the fuck are you complaining, you green fucking monkey?!” Eric spits, more vicious than he’d like. Kyle almost jumps, slightly taken aback.
“Well, there’s the bet, too!”
Eric doesn’t look at him, too busy wiping his palms yet again, and trying to get a hold of himself. “Right,” he mutters, mostly for himself.
“…So what about you?” He hears Kyle ask after a beat. “Why are you staying here? If you’re not plotting anything, what’s up with you?”
Why the heck is that fucker even asking, Eric wonders. He turns, about to say something, and is met with a gaze more concerned than he’d have expected. His heart almost misses a beat, and he fumbles with an answer. “I-I’m watching you, keeping track. For the bet.”
Kyle rolls his eyes and sighs before rubbing his forehead dejectedly. “Bullshit. You can do that while having your fun.”
“One hundred dollars at stake, Kahl.”
“Clearly you’ll get your fucking hundred dollars, so why bother!”
Eric swallows thickly. He would stand up, but he can’t, not yet. He leans back and runs a hand in his gelled, slicked back hair—which he knows make him look particularly handsome.
“Well, for now I’d rather wallow in that knowledge, sitting comfortably while enjoying the show. Can you believe Clyde is that bad at dancing?”
He hears Kyle chuckle after a second. “Hardly. Props to him for doing it nonetheless.”
Eric leans a bit closer to him, to fake-whisper with a concerned expression, “I don’t think he knows.”
Kyle’s grin widens. “Judging by Bebe’s face, it’s time he gets a clue.”
Eric nods, all serious. “And that, you see,” he points at Tweek and Craig dancing right next to them, “is why these douchebags are fake friends. Craig lets it happen. Never once has told Clyde he was an absolute disaster. And look at him now.”
“I see him having a lot of fun, actually.”
“Pfft, envious of blissful ignorance, are we?”
Eric looks up at Kyle and is met with a skeptical, albeit gentle gaze, half-smirking. The music is getting increasingly romantic in the background, and Eric feels like his heart is reaching system overload.
“Definitely.” Kyle then says. “Not gonna lie… this past year has made me envy that dumbass like never before.”
“You don’t mean that, Kahl. Have some self-respect.”
“Nah, I don’t, you’re… right. I just wish I could turn my brain off, sometimes.” Kyle’s gaze drifts into the distance, then once again meets Eric’s, who purposefully didn’t answer, waiting for Kyle to look at his exaggerated incredulous expression.
“Cut the crap, Jersey, you love being an overthinking, pedantic nerd.” Eric clicks his tongue, meanwhile Kyle rolls his eyes and huffs in annoyance.
“Oh, come on, you’re the one who keeps bringing up your anxiety, you of all people should understand,” Kyle groans.
“I’ll never be anxious enough that I’d envy Clyde, for Christ’s sake,” Eric says, grateful for the colored lights hiding the blush creeping back on his face.
“Ugh, whatever.” Kyle says, sounding annoyed.
“…What got you so anxious, then?” Eric tries, fidgeting with his tie. When he doesn’t get an immediate answer, he looks up to see Kyle gazing in the distance again.
“The future, I guess. The finals. Some personal stuff. It’s just… I don’t know, a lot.”
Eric doesn’t miss the way Kyle’s jaw and hands flex, and feels infuriatingly tender for him.
“Yeah,” he tries. “And you’ve got even more school time coming. And exams. And more shitty people. Lots to be worried about, huh.”
Kyle chuckles and shrugs. “I guess, yeah. What about you? Still not going to college? That sounds… even scarier.”
“Bah, I’m sure I’ll manage. And if things don’t work out, I can still go later.”
“Right… I guess you got the wits for it,” Kyle says, but Eric only half-registers it because finally, the slow dances are starting. Eric tenses up when he sees the crowd moving around, thinning out until mostly couples remain, then filling out with more couples joining in. He doesn’t see Kenny or Butters coming back, having dissappeared God knows where, so luckily it’s still only the two of them.
Then, it dawns on him that Kyle said he was witty, and his heart throbs in his chest, and he is painfully aware that it’s time he gets up and fucking man up and fucking take what he wants because he is Eric fucking Cartman and that’s what he does, period.
He gets up, and doesn’t move, stuck in place.
“Cartman?”
For a whole two minutes, Eric watches the couples dancing, hand in hand, close to each other, slowly rocking to the sickeningly sweet music. He’s frozen; imagines himself, dancing in that empty space still calling for him—for them. He clenches and unclenches his damp fists, aggressively biting his already abused bottom lip. He can do this. He can.
As if on cue, the music changes to a cheesy Elvis song, one of his favorites.
Just fucking go!
Eric has broken out in cold sweat and his fingers are clammy and tingling by the time his feet robotically turn his body to walk up to Kyle, before whom he remains standing silently for a few seconds, about to choke.
“Cartman, are you okay? The fuck’s wrong with—”
Eric’s embarrassingly wet hand shoots up towards Kyle, inviting.
“K-K-Kahl,” He stutters, and curses inwardly for it. “W-would you… would you dance. With me?”
And fifty dollars down the gutter already. Eric scrunches his eyes shut, terrified, gutted, too scared to risk facing mockery, disdain, disgust. A few beats pass, excruciating, before he hears Kyle’s voice: “…What?”
He sounds genuinely dumbfounded. No anger, no contempt, no snicker.
“I’m inviting you to dance,” Eric says, his eyes still closed.
“… But…”
Eric can almost hear the cogs turning in Kyle’s head.
“But you made the bet… what—”
“Kahl, please just—” Eric’s eyes shoot open, and he wants to plead but doesn’t know how. Just say yes or no—
He’s met with an expression of pure confusion—and fluster, on Kyle’s face. “You… you’re messing with me.”
“I just lost fifty bucks, Kahl. This is the worst way I could be messing with you. So come on, now either you lose some or you win it all—just make your pick.” The words spill with more bravado than he’d have expected.
Eric gazes intently into Kyle’s wide eyes, as if he could follow his messy thoughts as they swirl through his alarmed mind. Cartman must have something planned. He could never genuinely want to invite me to dance. We can barely stand each other, most of the time—no, we can, we can, but what we do is yell and fight and argue, not dance. And why is he looking at me like that—why does he look so genuine? Does he mean it? If I say yes, everyone’s gonna see us, look at us. It’s not like we’re gonna be in school for much longer though, so maybe it doesn’t really matter. Do I even want to? What if he ends up making fun of me? I bet that I would dance, though, so I’m gonna lose fifty bucks if I say no, and lose my last chance at ever dancing at prom. But come on, it’s fucking Cartman. If this is a prank, he’ll never let me live it down. No one will. I’ll look like a moron dancing, and a fooled moron with that.
Then, something flickers in Kyle’s eyes.
Ah, fuck it, I’m madly in love with him anyway, so might as well.
Eric chuckles wryly when imagining that last thought.
“If you’re actually messing with me, I’m gonna bash your fucking teeth in.”
Eric nearly chokes. He looks down to behold Kyle’s flustered, oddly vulnerable expression, devoid of the anger Eric suspected he’d find.
“…I wish I was messing with you,” he manages to say.
Kyle nods hesitantly, then motions to grab Eric’s hand. Before he can reach it, though, Eric hurriedly wipes his palm on his pants again, only to extend it back to him.
“Sorry,” he mutters. Kyle lightly chuckles before putting his own sweaty hand in Eric’s.
Eric shivers at the contact and forgets to breathe for a few seconds. He’s still not breathing when Kyle gets up, unfolding without any grace before him until he stands right up and has to look down for their eyes to meet. The light hits Kyle’s face just right, and he’s sweaty, red, wearing an expression that’s quite hard to read, and he’s quite miraculously speechless. Eric, too, is kind of speechless.
Because they can’t decently just stay there, hand in hand, rigid as streetlamps, looking at each other in utter disbelief, Eric forces himself to keep riding the wave of courage and starts stepping backwards, dragging Kyle along. As they walk, the world is getting blurrier and blurrier around them, the music too, and it slowly, very slowly dawns on Eric that Kyle just agreed to a dance, and that they are about to dance together—if nothing goes wrong, that is. His eyes prickle just a little.
He notices Kyle’s eyes flicking left and right, before he blinks and focuses back on Eric. People are looking at them, most likely. Infamy aside, Kyle stands out visually—hell, Eric stands out visually. Of course people are going to gawk. And then they’ll register, oh, shit, that’s Cartman and Broflovski, those two insane guys from South Park! Remember when they did this? Oh, and that! Wait, are they like—oh, wow, they totally are! Eric is also pretty sure that there are gonna be tons of pictures and movies circulating on social media—but Eric will never spit on media coverage, so that’s a plus.
They reach Eric’s designated spot on the dance floor. There is an awkward pause before Eric motions to position them properly, putting one hand on Kyle’s waist while Kyle, quickly looking around to figure out what he’s supposed to do, puts a hand on Eric’s shoulder.
“Shouldn’t you be putting your hands on my shoulders, and mine on your waist? The others—” Kyle starts asking, but Eric interrupts him, “It’s fine like this, we’ll change if it doesn’t work."
"Okay, now, you just move your feet a little,” Eric continues, looking down as he starts moving. Kyle tries to imitate him, and while there isn’t much rhythm or smoothness to it, at least he’s not going too fast or stepping on Eric’s shoes. “Yeah, like that, kinda.”
And so they are dancing. Once Eric is over the initial tenseness of it, and once he’s sure that Kyle isn’t about to trip over his own feet, he looks up, nervous to find out what face Kyle is making: he’s still focused on their feet, brows drawn together, lips tightened.
I can’t help falling in love with you, the song says, and Eric feels immense fondness, seeing how absurdly concentrated Kyle is for such a simple slow dance step.
After a while, Kyle seems to notice Eric’s gaze on him, and their eyes meet. Eric isn’t sure what face he’s making right now, but Kyle looks surprised to see it—averts his gaze again, endearing shyness painted all over him. Every now and then, his eyes flicker back to Eric’s, who is physically incapable of looking away, and his blush deepens every time.
Aside from a grand, theatrical show of lasers with a choir of Broadway singers suddenly showing up, hardly anything could make this moment more perfect; so much so that Eric is even afraid to say anything. He’s afraid to hear things he wouldn’t like, things that would break this precious, magical moment.
When the tune and rhythm melt into the next song, Eric manages to tear his gaze away from Kyle (who is still frequently looking at his feet to make sure he’s not fumbling too much—which he kind of is) and checks out the other couples surrounding them. He catches Stan’s bewildered gaze but makes a point to ignore it, and further away, Kenny and Butters are looking at them like obnoxiously proud parents, eyes watery and hands pressed to their mouths—also ignored. Most of the couples are now leaning into each other in a tight embrace, gently rocking to the soft music with hardly any movement of their feet.
Eric wants to do that so, so badly. Kyle and him turn their heads back to each other at the same time, as they were just looking at the same thing. Kyle is the first to nod slightly, and, while he’s fighting to not simply faint right there, Eric nods back, then leans into Kyle, circling his waist with both arms. His heart is about to burst out of his chest when he feels Kyle’s arms gently wrapping around him, keeping him close. Eric puts his head on Kyle’s shoulder and can feel his heartbeat. He closes his eyes, focusing on Kyle’s warmth, his body, solidity—the gentle brush of his hair whenever it grazes against his neck when Kyle lowers his head a little. Kyle is broad and firm, and Eric feels so embarrassingly safe he wishes he could just melt into him and never leave.
“Why… why did you invite me to dance?” Kyle asks softly, the dense motherfucker that he is.
“Why d’you ask? Can’t you just enjoy that you not only won your bet but also landed the hottest dude in this school?” Eric mutters before nuzzling further into Kyle’s chest, feeling the soft rumble of Kyle’s chuckle against his face.
“That’s the thing, you… deliberately lost the bet. Were you trying to one-up me? Get me to bet something so I couldn’t say no?”
“Are you suggesting I bought you, asshole? If so, that’s a fucking expensive dance.”
“I… You could have, but no.”
“Then why the fuck do you think I invited you, big brains.” That one’s not a real question—and Eric sure as hell hopes Kyle won’t try to answer that out loud. Luckily, Kyle seems to get the clue, and instead of replying, he starts gently rubbing a pattern on Eric’s back. Eric is so embarrassed and happy he could die.
“What about you?” he then blurts out, when he’d rather have remained silent and enjoyed the moment. “Did you accept just because of the bet?” he asks, and regrets it immediately, feeling the anxiety flare up.
“No.”
Eric relaxes just a little, but another form of anxiety takes over when Kyle doesn’t continue.
“Then why?” he asks, swallowing nervously. The intense hammering in Kyle’s chest does nothing to help him calm down.
“You get to avoid being direct and I don’t?” Kyle scoffs.
“Loser’s privilege. Now spill it.”
“You got me to fucking dance, how much clearer could I be?” Kyle seethes, but holds him even closer.
“You made a hundred bucks out of it, so fucking spill!” Eric is losing patience. How can that fucker be so annoying, that is beyond him.
“I like you!” Kyle whisper-shouts close to Eric’s ear, and right there, Eric feels like he may throw up his entire heart on Kyle’s beautiful suit.
The world stops turning. At once, Eric is terrified he’s going to wake up in his bed. Kyle said it. Kyle fucking said it and it should be impossible, should be a dream, and yet Eric doesn’t wake up, he still feels Kyle in his arms, his heartbeat, his warmth, all of it. His eyes are seriously prickling.
“And you looked… really genuine, when you asked, so… I figured you…”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Eric holds Kyle impossibly closer, hoping that the message is clear enough. He could, maybe, say it. Maybe it’d make him happy to say it. The music is romantic, Kyle smells good, he feels comfortable, down to the fabric of his suit—God, Eric has always liked hugging him, and now he could just do it forever… couldn’t he? Could this dance mean anything more? Be the beginning of something else, if Kyle would let it?
Eric relishes Kyle’s embrace, tries to muster yet another bit of courage, just a bit more.
“Kahl,” he says, muffled by Kyle’s chest, unsure that Kyle can even hear him; but he does.
“What?” His voice is gentle, and Eric is suddenly desperate for Kyle to become his boyfriend.
“You piss me off,” he says, and can practically hear Kyle rolling his eyes. “But I think I love you,” he murmurs, and he’s not sure his heart is going to survive this one. He didn’t mean to use that word. Kyle said “like.” Of course Eric had to go the extra mile.
Kyle stops, his fingers tensing against Eric’s back. Eric is about to pass out when he feels Kyle’s hands worm back up to his shoulders, straightening up to face him. Eric is terrified to look up, but he does. The lighting makes it difficult to make out Kyle’s features, but he seems flushed and torn between at least five different emotions that Eric is too scared and embarrassed to pick apart. Kyle’s lips part as if he’s about to say something but doesn’t know what. The pause feels like forever, and Eric can’t stand it right now, and—
“I need air,” he blurts out, and he rushes towards the door. He catches Butters making a beeline in his direction but immediately stops him with an authoritative finger. “Not now, Butters! And tell Kenny he better stay back, too!” he yells, throwing a threatening look in Kenny’s direction.
Butters retracts. "O-okay, Eric!”, leaving him to go outside on his own.
The cool outside air, by contrast, makes Eric realize how close he was to actually bursting in there. He paces a little, wobbling around until he can find a place to sit, on the steps leading up to some maintenance door to the side.
He breathes, having to face the reality that he did actually say that, something he never planned on saying, something he wasn’t even sure he felt… up until now, that is—he knew there was something, but… love? If Cupid Me was around, he’d make a scene for sure, either throwing some jealousy tantrum, or blaming Eric for leaving and not giving Kyle the grand declaration he deserves, instead of this insecure, muffled garbage. Everything, from the feelings to the delivery, was embarrassing and lame—and Eric hated being lame.
When he hears the doors open and close, followed by the rhythm of familiar footsteps, Eric cringes.
“Thank God you didn’t run away,” he hears Kyle say, walking up to him. His voice is a bit shaky.
Eric rolls his eyes, not that Kyle can see it, as his face is shoved in his arms, crossed above his bent knees. “I know I’m dramatic, but not to that extent,” he groans.
“Totally to that extent, man.”
“Whatever. Congrats on your two hundred fucking dollars. Deserved, you also got confessed to,” he says spitefully, as if he didn’t want to throw himself in Kyle’s arms.
“…Cartman, can you look at me?”
Eric really doesn’t want to. For a moment, he focuses on the light sound of rustling leaves, on Kyle’s even, slightly ragged breathing; on the faint cracks of gravel underneath Kyle’s soles as he shifts his weight.
Eric is scared. Technically, there’s a chance he and Kyle never see each other again, or at least not before a long time, had been the reasoning behind all this. Well, he doesn’t want that. As Kyle’s hushed “I like you!” rings deafeningly in his ears, as his own heart wants him to scream, “Me too!” again and again, Eric is terrified that they may, in fact, not see each other again, not before a long time. This was the best plan ever, but also the worst plan ever, because now what? He’s supposed to look up, gaze upon Kyle’s gorgeous face as he tells him that, “It was nice, but I’m leaving, so—”
“Cartman?” Kyle breathes again, and Eric winces before looking up.
Predictably, Kyle is even cuter out here, the actual color of his hair, skin and suit visible in the neutral street lamp light. His cheeks are red, hair just a bit tousled, tie just a bit crooked, and Eric wishes he would stop relentlessly scrutinizing Kyle like that.
“What?” he asks, pouting.
Kyle looks unsure of what to say, rubs his nape and looks left and right, biting his lip.
“I’m leaving for college soon,” he finally says, and Eric wants to roll his eyes so hard. “But it’s not gonna be far,” Kyle continues, and Eric’s heart skips several beats at once. Kyle starts pacing in front of Eric. “And, I mean, I’m not sure what your plans are yet; maybe you are considering moving away, but…
“But you know, there are ways to work this out. Again, Denver’s not far, pretty much next door, and—hm, maybe we can test the waters this summer, see how it goes, try some arrangement when the school year starts…”
Why the fuck does Kyle sound like he’s talking about some business deal—that’s beyond him, but Eric is nonetheless seriously overheating. By the time Kyle is done with his rambling, he’s standing in front of Eric, fiddling with the buttons of his vest and looking like a huge nerd.
Eric can’t even look at him straight when he asks, “Are… are you suggesting we… date?”
When Kyle takes forever to reply, Eric looks up. “Well… yeah… you know, sometimes… sometimes I feel like we’ve been dating for a while already.”
Eric is dying to spring up and ruffle his hair. Instead, he snickers, a tad hysterically. “What?! If that’s how you date, I’m worried about the upcoming summer, Kahl.”
“Oh, fuck off, you know what I mean!” Kyle groans, crossing his arms.
“No, I don’t!” Now Eric is outright cackling from how embarrassed Kyle looks.
Kyle sighs, massaging his temples before he comes over and sits next to Eric.
“So will you date me, or not?” he mutters, nudging a rock with his foot.
Eric feels giddy like a school girl right now, wants to hug him again, keep him close, yell that he’s the most handsome and hottest and dorkiest and that Eric’s never wanted anyone else like him, but then he remembers it’s fucking Kyle, and Eric will never sink that low. Instead, he shoves his tomato red, throbbing face in his hands and shyly replies: “I guess I’d like that.”
With one hand still covering his face, he drops the other to find Kyle’s and timidly interlaces their fingers on the cold stone steps.
“You better treat me to some amazing dates with those two hundred dollars you just made on my back.”
Kyle chuckles and squeezes Eric’s hand. “I’m a modern guy, so I suggest we do half and half.”
“Fuck off!” Eric nudges him with his shoulder, and their gazes meet again, and Kyle looks so fucking good when he’s smiling and Eric should really, really lean forward so they can kiss. Kyle likely caught Eric’s eyes flicking to his lips; he also steals a glance at Eric’s and slightly leans forward. Eric, swooning and overwhelmed, first squeezes Kyle’s hand, then his own eyes shut, then he opens them again to see Kyle’s face barely an inch from his, feeling his breath against his lips. Almost squealing from the sight alone, Eric stutters forward and crashes his lips on Kyle’s—their softness, constrasting delightfully with the scratch of his beard, suddenly make it all feel so real, so good, so unbelieavable, that Eric can feel his eyes prickle again.
He brings a trembling hand to Kyle’s hot cheek. Despite both having experience kissing, this kiss is awkward and clumsy. Kyle vaguely angles his head one way, but Eric also does—the same way, so he has to tilt his head the other way but Kyle was also about to do that—one of them chuckles, and they get it right. Eric is mindlessly caressing Kyle’s cheek, feels Kyle’s hands reach for his nape as they keep gently kissing each other’s lips.
After a while, they pull away, resting their foreheads against each other. Eric’s brain has long overloaded, his thoughts all jumbled and devoid of any structure. He feels inspired to say more inane things, like compliments to Kyle’s everything, but he can’t keep betraying himself like this. In an instinct to even things out, he whispers: “When you said there was no one you wanted to invite… did you… at any point, consider dancing with me?”
He already regrets asking, hearing Kyle take a deep breath.
“Not exactly. I mean—I never thought… I never thought it’d be an option.”
Their gaze meet—slightly cross-eyed from how close they are. Eric hopes Kyle’s not just gonna stop there. Luckily, he continues:
“Like, you know. It’s you and me. Never in my wildest dreams would I have thought that you’d want that.”
“Never?”
“Never.”
“Never ever?”
“Cartman, c’mon. It came out of nowhere.”
Kyle’s words are oddly reassuring; Eric had worried that his longing stares had grown way too obvious, even for Kyle.
“Kahl, d’you know how many people have clocked me? It didn’t come out of nowhere at all.”
“Well, did you have a hunch about my feelings, then?” Kyle frowns, stupidly defiant.
“After hearing Stan and Kenny tell you for years that you’re too obsessed with me, I did start getting my hopes up.” Eric smirks, and Kyle blushes. “Sorry, Kahl,” he says softly, rubbing Kyle’s cheekbone with his thumb, “you’re the dense one, here.”
Kyle closes his eyes and Eric studies his long, red eyelashes, awfully tempted, again, to loudly state his physical attraction to him. He may not survive the embarrassment, but they’re technically dating now, so he is entitled to do that without seeming too out of character.
“I want to say something, but promise you won’t freak out,” he mumbles, his lips grazing against Kyle’s nose.
“…Okay?”
“You… you look so fucking good tonight I wanna gouge my eyes out,” Eric says, unable to look at Kyle directly, feeling his own face heat up dangerously. It almost sounded reproachful, so Eric doesn’t feel too destabilized. When he finally looks up to see what face Kyle is making, he’s pleased to be met with lovely red cheeks and widened eyes.
Kyle slightly backs away, mouth agape. “T—Thank you?” He fumbles. “You—you look really hot, too,” he then adds, blushing further, and Eric is dying to take his lips again.
“Heh,” he snickers, when Kyle’s words sink in. “You think I'm hot…” Eric's hand crawls on Kyle’s knee and Kyle jolts, suddenly conscious of what he just said. He clicks his tongue and bares his teeth, one of Eric’s favorite expressions.
“You've liked me for a long time, haven’t you?” he whispers, close to Kyle’s lips. Is he fishing a little? Maybe, but Kyle actually liking him is something he needs to milk.
Kyle doesn’t reply for a while, looking down, biting his lip. Eric has long hated how unfair it was that Kyle ended up becoming so attractive and endearing and hot, but now it’s totally turned into a win for him—so he enjoys the view, and waits for Kyle to come up with something.
Finally, Kyle’s lips part, he inhales, about to say something, and—
A loud whistle echoes around them.
Eric’s jaw clenches, his body tenses up. He doesn’t even have to look to know. Time to kill Kenny.
“Woohoo!” The aforementioned dickhole is cheering from over by the entrance, Butters and Stan in tow. Kyle jumps, his hand tightening around Eric's.
The door is barely closing behind the intruders that Eric springs up, flames of rage and frustration burning from within. “Kinny…” he seethes, ready to march forward and subject the fucker to his final judgement, but Kyle gets up in fury and starts whining instead:
“What the fuck, dudes?”
“Sorry, we were actually worried—I swear!” Kenny raises his hands in defense while Butters pathetically hides behind him. Stan is just standing there, looking concerned, dumbfounded, and slightly unhappy to be there.
“Worried about what?!” Kyle asks.
“I don’t know, that Cartman would pull some dramatic bullshit and that you two would start fighting instead of smooching.” Kenny winks.
“Me?! If someone was at risk of freaking out, it’s him!”
“Whatever.” Kyle rolls his eyes and clicks his tongue at Eric, then, lightening up with a cocky expression on his face, he gestures at Stan and Kenny. “You two owe me fifty dollars each, it’s all that matters.” The half-grin on his face is slightly infuriating.
At that, Kenny snickered, shoving his hands in this pockets. “Stan, Butters, you two pay up.”
Noticing Kyle and Eric’s skeptical expressions, Kenny adds: “I bet twenty five dollars with both of them that you guys would end up together tonight, heh!”
Stan and Butters walk up to them, cash in hand, and Butters finally breaks: after handing Kyle the money, he grabs Eric’s shoulders and pulls him in a too-tight embrace. Eric tenses up as he hears Butters nearly sobbing in his ear:
“I'm sorry I didn’t believe in ya, Eric! But congrats, I'm proud of ya!”
“Fuck off, Butters—” Eric grunts, feeling his cheeks heat up again. Out the corner of his eye, he notices Stan patting Kyle on the shoulder and muttering something along the lines of: “Congrats, man.”
It’s slowly dawning on Eric—and likely Kyle, given the eyes he's making at him—that all three of their friends knew all along. At least, that night has yet again confirmed that embarrassment couldn’t kill him.
In the end, both Kyle and Eric managed to laugh it all off, in spite of the initial awkwardness. Kenny and Butters couldn’t refrain from gushing way too much about the new couple and Stan justified that, though he pretty much knew about Kyle’s feelings and had a hunch about Eric's, he still thought that the latter was too much of a dick to actually make it happen. Oh, the delight of proving the hippie wrong.
They all went back inside after some time and had fun dancing all together. Some of their classmates, mostly those who had known them for a long time, came up to gush about what they had just saw. Too many, in Eric’s opinion, but the attention was also pleasant, and he ended up making a show of himself, much to Kyle’s evident dismay.
Still, they kept dancing the night away, going all out and making the stupidest, most awkward moves—especially Kyle, to whom it came quite naturally.
Eric, who wasn’t too excited about prom initially, ended up having one of the best nights of his life—and he topped it off by openly making fun of Clyde’s dancing, and, even later that night, after some extra glasses of punch, kiss Kyle in front of everyone. It’s likely that Stan had to puke a little.
Kyle did take Eric’s hundred dollars for the bet, but agreed to save it for their summer dates' fund.
Sharon came to drive everyone back home later that night; Eric and Kyle were dropped off first (Stan had insisted on driving them all himself initially, but none of the parents trusted them to stay entirely sober.) While Stan kept relatively quiet, Kenny couldn’t help but tease them relentlessly, especially as they got off the car, and they were both convinced that Sharon would get the whole story as soon as the doors closed behind them.
Eric and Kyle are standing in the middle of the road, waving at the car disappearing in the distance. The high of the night, the smell of which is still clinging to their clothes, starts slowly dissipating into the quiet of their neighborhood. The buzz of excitment morphs into a kind of anxiety, and Eric’s too scared to look at Kyle, even though he was still sweet and red in the cheeks back in the car. What if, all of a sudden, he came back to his senses?
“So what if we go out tomorrow? You and me?” Kyle asks, cutting his train of thoughts.
Eric’s already strained heart jumps. He turns to meet Kyle’s soft, expectant gaze.
“So… a date?” Eric asks.
“Yeah.”
Eric looks down, genuine, prickly happiness bubbling in the pit of his stomach, warming up his chest. He reaches out to grab Kyle’s hand and interlaces their fingers.
“That’d be really awesome,” he says quietly. “…Thanks, for tonight,” he adds.
He feels Kyle squeeze his hand and looks up at him.
“You too, Cartman. I got my prom dance, thanks to you,” he snickers. Eric smiles back.
“Isn’t it weird, how… it doesn’t feel nearly as weird as it should?” Kyle asks, looking at their hands.
“I mean, you said it yourself, in your head we’ve been dating for months already.” Eric shrugs and gives him his best teasing grin. “Kahl, Kahl, my very dear gay ginger jersey Jew boyfriend,” he blurts out with a big smile, before realizing what he just said.
Kyle snorts next to him, not really picking up on it. “Yeah, right. I guess that between kissing and yelling in each other’s faces, there isn’t that big of a difference, huh.”
Eric is too busy blushing and feeling flustered by Kyle not seeming disturbed by being called his boyfriend to reply.
Then, Kyle bends towards him and chastely kisses his lips. Eric tenses up, before leaning into it, but Kyle pulls away before it can progress into more.
“Alright, well. See you tomorrow, then.” Kyle says with a gentle smile on his face, and Eric feels the sudden urge to smack him—just for making him feel this way.
He also wants to ask, ‘Stay over tonight,’ but the mere thought of Kyle spending the night next to him in his bed is enough to send him back into brain overload.
“Yeah, yeah. See you tomorrow, asshole,” he mumbles, since at once the sweetness is just too much for him to bear. Kyle makes a face.
“What?! What have I done?!”
“You're being all sweet and gay, gives me the ick!” Eric wants more of it , so much more, but isn’t sure he can handle Kyle being like this too often, lest his heart would give out.
Kyle rolls his eyes and groans—then has the nerve to pinch the bridge of his nose like that Marsh fucker always does.
“Oh, fuck off, Cartman, seriously? I'm not gonna be a dick to you all the time if we're gonna start dating, so you better get used to it!”
“And I very well intend to not start going all mushy on you just because we're dating, so I hope you’re ready, Kyle!”
Eric notices Kyle's fists tightening, until he sighs loudly and groans,
“Pft, whatever, dickhead.”
Kyle turns around and walks away, and Eric is almost tempted to say sorry, unsure whether or not Kyle is really offended, but instead of doing so, he also heads towards his own home. He stops at his doorstep, turns to see Kyle pulling his keys out of his pocket right before his front door.
“Kahl?” Eric calls. Kyle stops, barely turning his head.
“…Good night, sleep well,” he says. It should be too low for Kyle to catch it, yet he responds:
“You too, loser.”
Eric smiles to himself, then goes inside.
Whether Kyle was really offended or not likely doesn’t change that he will show up tomorrow.
Eric may not be certain about many things about the future; what he will do, where he will go after graduation. One thing he can hold onto, though, is that he can trust Kyle to stick around.
He always has, after all.