Chapter Text
New Moon
By the time Kenny climbed the giant oak to sneak into Cartman’s window, the neighborhood was already asleep. The sky was dark and empty and Kenny briefly recalled a chapter from a science class years ago – A new moon, an empty moon. He suddenly felt uneasy and shook his head as he reached the last branch, pulling out his phone to shine a light into Cartman’s room. And, like usual, the asshole had his window locked and the blinds down. He shot a quick text and balanced precariously as a gust of wind pushed back his hood. Shivering, he pulled it back up and pulled the strings tighter.
“Fuck, it’s freezing out here, answer your fuckin’ phone.” Kenny wasn’t in the mood to freeze to death on a school night. After a few moments, he saw the dim light of Cartman’s room come on. The blinds raised and Cartman groggily unlocked and slid open his window. Kenny launched his body into the room, nearly knocking Cartman over in the process.
“God damn it Kenny, it’s almost two in the morning. Why’re you waking me up so late?” Kenny shrugged and made himself comfortable under Cartman’s blankets.
“I ran outta other shit to do.” A lie, he had been kicking rocks around the park after making sure Karen got her homework done and ate dinner.
“Bullshit, you don’t do anything other than wander around town smoking and freaking people out. I’m surprised no one’s shot you yet… well, I guess technically someone has.” Kenny snorts and turns away from Cartman. That wasn’t fair. He hadn’t been shot in, well, at least a couple of months. Lifting the covers, he pats the mattress. Cartman closes the window, leaving it unlocked this time, and flicks off the light.
“You’d better not wake me up when you leave, fuckin’ prick.” Kenny snuggles close to the wall and hums in affirmation.
Staring up at the popcorn ceiling, Kenny appreciates the rough blankets and faint smell of cheesy poofs. Sure, it was kinda gross, but it was familiar. It was the closest thing he had to a home right now. Closing his eyes, he knows he’s not going to fall asleep tonight, but at least he has someone to lay next to.
Cartman wakes up to his mother knocking on his door and Kenny missing. Without the curtains closed, the sun shone harshly across the cool, empty space in the bed. The dick didn’t even have the decency to say bye, figures. At least he shut the window behind him. Cartman licked his lips as he inhaled the stale air. He missed the breeze. He sends over a quick text, asking if Kenny got out ok. He also calls him a shit-ass friend for leaving without saying anything. Kenny, in turn, responds, pointing out how Cartman told him not to wake him up, and that has nothing to do with his being a shit-ass friend. Cartman smirks at his phone and rolls his eyes. At least he got a response
Cartman didn’t even bother looking for Kenny on the walk from his bedroom to the fridge. He acted like he didn’t care. Like waking up in an empty bed with cold sheets and no goodbye was normal.
Totally normal. Totally fine. He chewed through half a microwaved breakfast sandwich in silence while his mom rattled around talking about whatever dumb shit she was watching on TV. He left before she could ask if Kenny had stayed the night again. She was weirdly into that. Said Kenny was “a sweet boy.” Cartman hated that more than anything.
By the time he got to school, the old van was making that grinding noise again. Kenny said is was something about the brakes or the axle or maybe the fact that it was three hundred years old and mostly held together by duct tape and spite. He rolled into the student lot looking like a burnout soccer dad and parked like an asshole, as tradition demanded. Kyle and Stan were already out front. Stan was hunched deep in his hoodie and Kyle was squinting at him like he couldn’t decide if he was worried or annoyed.
“What,” Cartman called as he stomped over, “you two fighting about which miswest emo band you’re going to cry to next?”
“Fuck off,” Kyle said, right on cue. Stan gave Cartman a flat look and didn’t bother speaking. Something about his face was weird though. His mouth was red, like he'd been chewing his lips or—Cartman’s eyes narrowed.
“What’s up with your face?”
“Nothing,” Stan said.
“You look like you made out with a tomato.”
Kyle cleared his throat. Loudly. Cartman stared. Stan glared. Kyle looked everywhere but at either of them. Cartman opened his mouth to say something vile and maybe a bit homophobic, then— “Where’s Kenny?” he asked, too casual, already scanning the lot. “He skip again?
“Didn’t see him,” Stan muttered. Kyle raised an eyebrow. “Since when do you care?”
“I don’t.” Cartman shrugged, then leaned against the van like a douchebag. “Just curious how many days he’s gonna coast on that tragic dirtbag routine before someone calls CPS again.”
Kyle made a face. “Jesus Christ, he’s probably late. Don’t be a dick.” Stan didn’t say anything. Just pulled out his phone and started scrolling. Cartman didn’t say anything either, but his eyes kept darting toward the street. Where the hell was he?
First period was English, which Cartman had with neither Kyle nor Stan—mostly just a bunch of people he barely tolerated and one girl who chewed her pen like it was a Payday.
He sat in the back and didn’t take his hoodie off. The teacher droned on about themes and unreliable narrators and how pain can be a symbol of transformation or some shit. Cartman stared blankly at the notes he wasn’t writing, chewing on the inside of his cheek and tapping his foot as if that might summon Kenny out of thin air. Half the class had their phones out under the desk. Cartman resisted the urge to text again. He’d already done that again on the drive over and Kenny hadn’t answered. Not that he was worried. Kenny probably just ditched. Or got arrested for loitering outside the 7-Eleven again. Or maybe he was just fucking with Cartman - which would be a very Kenny thing to do.
Still.
Cartman checked the door every time it opened. By the fourth time, it was just pathetic.
Second period came. He shared it with Kyle, which wasn’t ideal, but it gave him something to be pissed about, and that helped. A little.
“You’re twitchy,” Kyle said as they filed into class. “Are you doing meth now, or is this just another flavor of your personality disorder?”
“Fuck you, I’m fine.” Kyle raised both eyebrows but let it go. Cartman barely registered the lecture. Something about the Cold War. Something about paranoia. He stared out the window and drummed his fingers on the desk, mind cycling through worst-case scenarios like it was a hobby. Car crash. Drug bust. Cops. Ambulance. Kenny passed out in an alley somewhere, freezing, bleeding, dead again, and— No. No, he wouldn’t. Kenny always bounced back. That was his whole thing. He was indestructible. A cockroach in a parka. Cartman ground his teeth and tore a corner off his notebook, rolling it into a tiny ball. He hated this. He hated caring.
And most of all, he hated how quiet it felt without Kenny around.
Cartman didn’t expect to see Kenny walk into the building at the start of third period.
He definitely wasn’t even looking – wasn’t dragging his feet down the hall with a vending machine burrito in hand with murder in his eyes. Then there Kenny was, casually stepping through the main entrance like he hadn’t just ghosted him all morning. He looked like hell. Hoodie wrinkled, hair even more of a disaster than usual, and a smear of something suspicious near his jawline. He had that smug little smile on, like he already knew Cartman was going to lose it. Cartman stopped in the middle of the hallway, burrito halfway to his mouth.
“You absolute piece of shit,” he said, loud enough to make two freshmen flinch. Kenny just grinned wider.
“Miss me?” he said, as if he didn’t already know the answer. Cartman stomped up to him, jabbing a finger into his chest.
“You disappear all morning, ignore my text, make me think you’re dead in a ditch somewhere, and you wanna joke about it?”
“You told me not to wake you up,” Kenny said, leaning against a locker like he didn’t have a care in the world. “Didn’t think you’d start writing my obituary over it.” Cartman narrowed his eyes.
“You’re a dick.”
“Yeah.” Kenny scratched behind his ear and added, “So are you. That’s why we’re friends.” They stared at each other for a second. Not moving. Not speaking. Cartman’s jaw twitched. He turned on his heel.
“Fuck you. I’m not saving you a seat in chem.” Kenny trailed after him anyway.
Cartman took a seat by the window, aggressively ignoring the one beside him. He had half a mind to move to the back, but that’d be too obvious. Plus, if Kenny wanted to make a thing of it, he could damn well walk right into the trap. Kenny plopped down next to him like it was the most natural thing in the world. No apology. No explanation.
They didn’t talk the whole class. Not with words, anyway. Kenny flicked balled-up paper at Cartman’s head until he got smacked with a pencil. Cartman pretended he wasn’t staring at Kenny’s hands when he wasn’t looking. By the end of the period, Cartman’s notes were blank, but his chest didn’t feel so fucking tight.
When lunch rolled around, Cartman had officially decided not to bring it up. If Kenny wanted to play it cool, Cartman could do the same. He didn’t care. Really. He could pretend like he hadn’t been mentally pacing all morning, or imagining police sirens outside Kenny’s house, or refreshing his texts like a lunatic. Totally fine. Totally chill. Ice cold, even. He dropped his tray at their usual table with a dramatic thud and slumped into his seat, grabbing a fistful of fries like they’d personally wronged him. Kenny slid in across from him, stealing one immediately.
“Get your disease-ridden hands out of my food,” Cartman snapped, no heat behind it.
“You love me,” Kenny said, mouth full.
“In your dreams.”
“Every night.
Stan arrived halfway through their squabble, tray balanced on one hand, and gave them a once-over like he was checking for bruises.
“Everything cool here?” Kenny gave him a two-finger salute.
“Peachy.”
Cartman just grunted. Kyle joined a second later, eyeing the two of them as if he was trying to do math.
“You were weird in chem,” he said to Cartman.
“You’re weird all the time,” Cartman shot back. Kyle ignored him and turned to Kenny.
“Where were you this morning?” Kenny stretched and yawned.
“Just out.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Not a question, either.” Kyle rolled his eyes.
“Whatever. You both suck.”
“Glad we’re all caught up,” Cartman muttered. The rest of lunch passed in a kind of half-normal haze—Kenny joking with Stan, Cartman pretending not to care when Kenny laughed too hard, Kyle trying to get them to focus on some group project they all knew Cartman wasn’t doing.
It meant nothing.
It meant everything.
But underneath all of it was that thing. Unspoken. Undealt with. Unavoidable. And Cartman hated how aware he was of it. Of him. He kicked Kenny under the table at one point. Kenny kicked him back.
Kenny didn’t even try to pretend he was going to class after that. By sixth period, the weight of the day and the half-sleep from last night had caught up to him. He wandered out to the bleachers behind the gym, half-zipped hoodie pulled tight around his head, and plopped down on the third row from the top. His legs stretched out, boots thudding against metal. Cold air nipped at his fingers. It was quiet out here. Just wind, distant shouts from the track team, and the low hum of the school’s shitty power grid. He liked this spot. It was where people didn’t ask him why he looked tired, or where he’d been, or why his knuckles were scraped. The bleachers didn’t care.
So when they creaked behind him, his body tensed—out of habit. Then came the voice.
“Oh, so this is where you’ve been hiding. Real original.” Kenny didn’t turn.
“I’m literally sitting in plain sight, dipshit.”
“You skipped psych.”
“You skipped psych.”
“I was—shut up.” Cartman dropped beside him with a grunt, arms folded across his chest like he hadn’t just climbed all the way out here for no reason. His hoodie was up too, but Kenny could still see the tension in his jaw. They sat in silence for a while. Not awkward. Not exactly. Cartman picked at the peeling paint on the bench. Kenny stared straight ahead at the empty field.
“You looked like shit this morning,” Cartman finally muttered. Kenny snorted.
“Thanks for the compliment, babe.” Cartman went red.
“That’s not—I didn’t mean—you know what, whatever. Just don’t sneak into my house again and then vanish, alright?” Kenny shrugged, still facing forward.
“Didn’t realize you cared.”
“I don’t,” Cartman said instantly. “It’s just creepy, okay? Like horror movie shit. Waking up and you’re just gone. I thought maybe I dreamed it.” Kenny’s voice was quieter this time.
“Didn’t sleep.” Cartman glanced over.
“Why not?” Kenny shrugged again, this time more like a defense than a real answer.
“Didn’t feel like it.” Silence. Then, quietly:
“I checked my phone every twenty minutes, asshole.”
Kenny looked at him then. Not grinning. Not smug.
“I know,” he said. “That’s why I didn’t answer.” Cartman blinked.
“What the hell does that mean?”
Kenny just leaned back on his elbows, eyes to the sky like he was done talking. Like if he kept looking up long enough, he wouldn’t have to say anything real. Cartman stayed where he was, stewing in the weird, itchy feeling just under his skin. The one that made him want to punch Kenny in the arm and also sit a little closer. He did neither.
Kenny was halfway to the bike racks when Cartman caught up with him, breath puffing in little clouds, backpack swinging off one shoulder like he hadn’t just jogged after him.
“Hey—hey. You doing anything right now?” Kenny gave him a look.
“Like what, robbing a gas station? Breaking into the rec center pool again?” Cartman huffed.
“No, dumbass. I mean, like, do you have anywhere to be.” Kenny squinted.
“...Not especially.”
“Good,” Cartman said, a little too fast. “Then you’re coming to hockey.” Kenny blinked.
“Hockey.”
“Practice. I’ve got it today. You can watch.” Kenny crossed his arms.
“Since when do you want an audience? You usually start throwing pucks at people if they even look in the general direction of the ice.” Cartman turned red.
“I don’t give a shit if you watch or not. I’m just saying, if you’re gonna wander around like a depressed raccoon, you might as well do it somewhere heated.”
Kenny let out a sharp laugh—more surprise than amusement. His breath fogged in the air between them.
“Wow,” he said, lips quirking into a crooked grin, “you really know how to make a guy feel wanted.”
“You’re not wanted, dumbass. Just tolerated.”
But Cartman wasn’t meeting his eyes when he said it. He kicked at the asphalt with the toe of his boot, chin tucked low, arms crossed like a kid trying not to admit he needed a hug. And Kenny—Kenny saw right through it. The same way he always did. This wasn’t about hockey. It wasn’t about heat. It was about him—about Cartman needing to see him standing there, solid and breathing and not a ghost again. Needing a warm body in the empty bleachers just to prove he hadn’t fucked off into oblivion.
And Kenny felt something twist low in his gut.
Because he could’ve said no. Should’ve, really. It was easier to keep his distance, to keep things undefined. To float. That’s how he stayed safe. That’s how he kept people from getting too close—close enough to notice the cracks. But Cartman was already walking toward the gym, shoulders tense like he was bracing for rejection. And Kenny just… stood there. Stood there watching him walk away, slow and stubborn and waiting without waiting. Like maybe if Kenny didn’t follow, Cartman wouldn’t say a damn thing about it—just carry the absence with him all the way to the rink. Kenny sighed and shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. The truth was, he wanted to go. Not for hockey. Not even really for Cartman. Just… to feel seen. Even if it was by someone who covered it up with cruelty and fake indifference.
“Fine,” he called, starting after him. “But I’m not cheering for you.” Cartman glanced back over his shoulder, smirk already forming.
“Like I need that. I’m the fucking star.”
Kenny rolled his eyes but kept walking, the wind tugging at the hem of his hoodie. Maybe he’d regret it later. Maybe this would be one of those little moments he looked back on and wondered why he let it matter. Why he let Cartman matter
But right now? Right now, it felt easier to follow someone who gave a shit—however badly they hid it—than to be alone in the quiet again.