Chapter Text
Kyle seriously doubted himself when it came to self-control, especially if it related to the residential fat ass.
As another Monday begins in South Park Elementary, Kyle Broflovski walks through the school entrance, his mind racing about Cartman's latest scheme. The sun shines brightly, but Kyle feels a storm brewing inside him. It was the mundane routine for the residents of South Park to watch Kyle and Cartman argue over something retarded, but this time it was different.
Bumping through the crowds of other kids in the schoolyard, his fist red and face redder, and Kyle was ready to strike Cartman.
“CARTMANNNN.”
The stupid fatso dared to be scared, not when he knew this was bound to happen.
“WHY DO I HAVE HIV?? “ he raged through his gritted teeth, eyeing around furiously to the shocked faces of his classmates. His eyes landed on Clyde, who was standing nearby, Cartman.
“Ohhh..” the boy gasped, before taking a few steps away from Eric and back with the awaiting crowd of children forming a circle around them. It was only two of them now.
“Oh Kayl,” the stupid bastard had finally gotten over the sock and just looked smug of himself, “OH-you have HIV?-”
He hit the first punch, and the one after, another hit across his equally fat face. He can see the bruises get redder, bluer, and way more purple before he feels someone grab him by the collar of his jacket.
“BOYS, STOP FIGHTING, M’KAY?”
Mr. Mackey’s office smelled like stale coffee and regret. Kyle sat rigid in one of the plastic chairs, his arms crossed so tightly he could feel his pulse thrumming in his elbows. A fresh bruise bloomed on his cheek, a dark purple against his pale skin, a reminder of their earlier scuffle. Cartman slouched beside him, legs spread like he owned the place, picking at a scab on his knuckle.
The fluorescent light buzzed overhead, flickering just enough to make Kyle’s headache worse.
“Now, boys,” Mr. Mackey began, perching on the edge of his desk with a clipboard clutched to his chest. “Fighting’s never the answer, m’kay? Violence is… it’s bad, m’kay? Especially over...” He squinted at his notes. “...blood-related misunderstandings?”
“MISUNDERSTANDINGS?!” Kyle snapped, jerking forward. Cartman flinched, his smug mask slipping for half a second before he plastered on a wounded-puppy look.
“Mr. Mackeyyy,” Cartman whined, batting his lashes, “Kyle’s being super antisemitic again! I told him I was sensitive about my HIV, and he just—”
“YOU LIAR!” Kyle’s chair screeched as he shot up, finger jabbing at Cartman’s face. “You snuck into my room and gave me HIV! You think that’s a joke? AIDs is not funny- nor dying is not funny!”
“Are you HIV positi-”
“Boys, boys!” Mr. Mackey waved his clipboard like a white flag. “Sit down, m’kay? Let’s… let’s process this.”
Kyle slumped back, grinding his molars. Cartman smirked, leaning just close enough for Kyle to smell his Axe body spray and Cheesy Poofs breath.
“Relax, Kahl. If you did have HIV,” he purred, “we could’ve been, like… support buddies. Hold hands at assemblies. Share juice boxes—”
“I’ll share my fist with your trachea,” Kyle hissed.
“ENOUGH. GET OUT OF MY OFFICE.”
Eric and Kyle found themselves outside Mr Mackey’s office.
“Don’t worry Kayl, we can fight this disease together-”
“Don’t.touch.me.”
Kyle stormed down the hallway, but he could still feel Cartman running after him.
“Come on, Kyle,” Cartman called after him, for once pronouncing his name properly, but his voice dripping with mock concern. “You can’t just ignore me. We’re in this together now, remember?”
“Shut the hell up, tubby!” Kyle shot back, spinning around to face him. “You think this is funny? Do you think it’s a joke to sneak into my room and give me HIV? You’re a fucking asshole- per usual!”
“HEY! I-”
The school bell interrupted their usual banter, and Kyle was the first to sigh before rushing to class. Cartman stayed behind in the hallway, eyes still locked to the back of Kyle’s head. He watched the smaller boy’s fizzy red curls peeking from that stupid green hat he always wore. It annoyed him endlessly whenever he saw the stupid jewfro peeking out, and he could feel his face flushing red. It was probably in anger or some form of disgust, since its obviously the natural reaction to someone as bitchy as Kyle.
Kyle hurried to class and took his place next to Stan. He could still feel the adrenaline from the argument earlier pumping through his veins, and could practically bet on his face being as red as his hair. Kyle by now was used to Cartman’s bullshit, and it was not surprising to the entire town Cartman would pull a stunt like that—it would be much more surprising if he didn’t.
“Holy shit dude, you look like you had to fight man-bear-pig.”
“More like a fatass,” Kyle muttered, plopping down in his seat.
Stan took a glance back to the seat on his other side over to Kenny, who muffled an incoherent sentence through his parka.
“Kenny- don’t say that shit- so fucking gay!” Stan snickered. Kyle rolled his eyes, he didn’t need to know whatever gayass joke Kenny just made up.
Stan turned over to Kyle, “what did he do this time?” He asked.
“He fucking snuck into my room last night,” Kyle spat. “AND gave me his fucking HIV, Im so sick of-”
“Wait, what?” Stan interrupted, eyes wide. “He did what?” Kenny, who was doodling dicks on the end of the table, returned his attention to the new information, his blue eyes widening.
“Mmpf! Mppf mppf mppf!”
“You’re right Kenny, this IS gay as shit.” Stan snickered.
As the teacher walked in, the chatter in the classroom died down, but Kyle’s mind was still racing. He could feel Cartman’s smug face lurking in the back of his thoughts, that infuriating grin that made Kyle want to punch him in the gut.
“Alright, class,” Mr. Garrison began, his voice droning on about the day’s lesson. Kyle tried to focus, but his thoughts kept drifting back to Cartman. His stupid cocky swagger and equally irritating manipulation made him the most stomachache-inducing piece of shit on this entire planet. Kyle sighed in frustration before refocusing on Mr. Garrison’s rant.
A flicker of movement—sharp, unexpected—cut through the back of his head. Kyle looked over his shoulder and found a crumpled paper plane on the floor, but not before he glanced over to Cartman’s desk.
The fat bastard was feigning rapt attention on Mr. Garrison, but the slight twitch in his jowl and the barely concealed shine in his eyes gave him away. Kyle’s fists clenched.
He picked it up, smoothing out the creases. Inside, scrawled in Cartman’s characteristic chicken scratch, were two words: “HIV Buddies.” Underneath, a crudely drawn cartoon depicted a stick figure resembling Kyle, complete with an oversized green hat and a comically exaggerated rash.
He crumpled the plane in his fist, the paper ripping under the pressure. He wanted to storm over to Cartman, to shove the crumpled mess down his throat, to… to do something, anything, to wipe that smug look off his face. But something held him back. He knew Cartman thrived on his reactions. He fed on Kyle’s anger like a goddamn tick. Giving him the satisfaction of a dramatic outburst was exactly what Cartman wanted.
So, Kyle did the opposite.
He uncrumpled the paper, smoothed it out again, and folded it neatly. He then took out his own pen and, in precise, deliberate letters, wrote one word underneath Cartman’s childish message: “No.”
He refolded the plane, walked over to Cartman’s desk, and dropped it silently. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t even look at Cartman. He simply returned to his seat, his back ramrod straight, and focused on Mr. Garrison’s increasingly bizarre lecture about the migratory habits of Canadian geese.
He could feel Cartman’s eyes boring into the back of his head. He could practically hear the gears grinding in his tiny, twisted brain. The silence stretched, thick and heavy. Kyle could almost taste the tension in the air.
Finally, he saw Cartman’s irritated face in the corner of his eyes. The most unkyle thing ever was that reaction- and both of them knew that.
The rest of the class passed in a blur. Kyle actually managed to pay attention to Mr. Garrison’s lecture, more out of spite than genuine interest. He could feel Cartman’s gaze on him occasionally, but he refused to acknowledge it.
Eric had expected the usual explosion. He’d anticipated the red-faced fury, the sputtering accusations, the inevitable physical altercation. That was their dance, a familiar rhythm of hate. But this… this silent treatment threw him off balance. It was like a punch to the gut that didn't leave a bruise, a violation of their unspoken rules.
He watched Kyle leave the classroom, his red curls bouncing with each step. He wanted to call after him, to provoke him, to get some kind of reaction. But the words caught in his throat. He was strangely hesitant.
He picked up the paper airplane, smoothing it out. He reread Kyle’s message, his brow furrowed. “No.” It was so simple, so direct, and yet… it felt loaded with meaning. It wasn’t just a rejection of his childish prank. It was a rejection of him.
A strange feeling stirred within him, a feeling he couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t amusement. It was… something else. Something akin to… disappointment? No, that couldn’t be it. He, Eric Cartman, didn’t get disappointed.
Especially over someone as unworthy of his time as the stupid jewfro ginger boy. The fucking jew had the audacity to just walk away.
The next day, Cartman arrived at school with a different kind of paper airplane. This one was meticulously folded, a perfect replica of a World War II fighter jet. He waited until Kyle was at his desk, then launched it. It soared through the air, landing with a gentle thud right in front of Kyle.
Kyle picked it up, his expression unreadable. He examined the plane, turning it over in his hands. Cartman watched him, his heart pounding in his chest. He was waiting for the inevitable eye roll, the sarcastic comment, the dismissal.
He was waiting for the inevitable eye roll, the sarcastic comment, the dismissal. He'd poured more effort into this plane than he'd put into any school project, a strange flutter of anticipation bubbling in his chest. He’d even hesitated before writing the message, carefully considering the words, wanting… wanting something from Kyle.
Finally, Kyle looked up. His eyes, usually bright and full of sharp wit, were dark and tense. Cartman felt an queasy feeling in his stomach, and this time it wasn’t the cheesy poofs and KFC meal he had for breakfast.
Kyle’s jaw tightened. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again. He took a deep breath, his knuckles white as he gripped the paper airplane. Then, in one swift motion, he crumpled the plane in his fist.
Cartman’s confusion morphed into a prickle of unease. He hadn’t expected this. He’d expected… well, he wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but it certainly wasn’t this simmering rage.
Before Cartman could react, Kyle lunged across the aisle. His fist connected with Cartman’s jaw with a sickening thud.
Sudents gasped, chairs scraped against the floor, and some even chanted, “Fight,fight,fight!”
Kyle, his face flushed red-hot, stood over Cartman, his chest heaving. He had known kyle since they could practically speak, but this was the first time he had ever been so furious, a chained animal lashing out. He landed another punch, and Cartman tasted blood.
The silence in Mr. Mackey’s office was thick and heavy, punctuated only by the ragged breaths of the two boys and the buzzing of the fluorescent lights. Kyle had his arms crossed, and his eyes like daggers boring into the back of his skull. He was smart enough to avoid meeting the other boy’s sharp green eyes.
Mr. Mackey surveyed the damage. Cartman’s lip was split, a thin trickle of blood staining his chin. Kyle sported a blossoming bruise on his cheekbone, mirroring the one Cartman had given him weeks prior. The crumpled paper airplane sat on Mr. Mackey’s desk like a murder weapon, its message still a mystery to the unfortunate counselor. He sighed. This was beyond the usual schoolyard scuffle. This was… personal.
“Boys,” he began, his voice weary, "this... this has gone too far, m’kay? Fighting, violence… it’s never the answer.” He looked from Kyle’s simmering anger to Cartman’s sullen defiance. "This... this requires intervention, m’kay?”
“Intervention?” Cartman scoffed, picking at the scab on his knuckle. “You gonna give us a lecture about sharing and caring?”
“It’s more than that, Cartman,” Mr. Mackey said, his gaze hardening. “This… this is a pattern. A destructive pattern. And it needs to stop. That’s why I’ve decided… you two are going to participate in a rehabilitation program.”
Kyle’s head snapped up. “Rehabilitation program? For what?”
“For anger management, m’kay? For conflict resolution. For… well, for learning to coexist without trying to kill each other, m’kay?”
Cartman snorted. “You’re kidding, right? Me? Rehab? That’s hilarious.”
“I’m completely serious, Cartman. This isn’t a joke. This program is designed to help you boys understand the root of your aggression and develop healthier coping mechanisms.”
Kyle crossed his arms, his expression skeptical. “And what does this ‘program’ entail?”
“It involves group sessions, individual counseling, and…,” Mr. Mackey hesitated, “a peer support component.”
Cartman’s eyes widened. “Peer support? You mean… like… with him?” He jerked his head towards Kyle.
“Yes, Cartman. You two will be working together. Supporting each other. Learning to…,” Mr. Mackey searched for the right words, “…to build a positive relationship.”
A strangled laugh escaped Kyle’s lips. “A positive relationship? With Cartman?”
“It’s not optional, Kyle,” Mr. Mackey said firmly. “This is a mandatory program. And I expect full cooperation from both of you, m’kay?”
The thought of being forced to spend even more time with Cartman, of having to rely on him, of having to support him, made Kyle’s stomach churn. He could already imagine the endless taunts, the relentless provocations, the sheer torture of it all.
Cartman, on the other hand, was strangely quiet. He wasn’t gloating. He wasn’t making fun of Kyle. He was… thoughtful. An almost unsettling expression for the usually boisterous boy. He glanced at Kyle, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.
“When does this… ‘program’ start?” Kyle asked, his voice tight.
“By tomorrow,” Mr. Mackey replied. “And I suggest you both come prepared to… to work on yourselves, m’kay?”
As they left Mr. Mackey’s office, the tension between them was palpable. Kyle glared at Cartman, his fists clenched. “This is your fault,” he hissed. “You and your stupid paper airplanes.”
Cartman shrugged, a smirk playing on his lips. “Hey, Kahl,” he said, his voice low and full of mockery, “maybe this rehab thing won’t be so bad after all. Think of it as… quality time. Just you and me. Together.” He winked, and Kyle felt a shiver run down his spine.
He now had HIV and management class with Eric fucking Cartman. Mazal tov my ass.