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Kyle was sure he hadn't left him alone for that long.
After finally returning his last call, the case worker would only entertain his grilling for information for so long. The majority of their interactions had been walled by scripted responses, and once he'd brute forced his way past those, had unfortunately come up with nothing useful like the last three times he'd tried phoning them. Was being an incompetent moron all it took to qualify as a health insurance person? Kyle was starting to think so.
The sun was low now and offices were going to shutter soon. God knows where Butters went—somewhere along the way he'd gotten lost in their labyrinthine excursion into the American healthcare system.
But Cartman was thankfully still here. His body slumped to one side like a hospital blue-colored bean bag in his chair, cheek smushed on his open left palm to stop himself from falling over. Kyle could hear the soft whistling wheeze in each heavy breath as he dozed.
“Cartman, wake up,” he said as he reached for the other boy’s shoulder. When he shook it, he felt Cartman's breath stutter in interruption. “Cartman?”
“Gghh…few more minutes, mehm…” he grumbled.
“It's not mom, it's Kyle,” Kyle replied, frowning lightly.
“Few more minutes, Jew boy…”
“We have to go. They’re closing this place soon.”
Kyle gave him another shake. Cartman's mouth strung together a prolonged vocalization of incoherent, soft mumbles and faded into snoozy quiet once more. Kyle sighed.
Fair enough, as he'd been dragged around all day, getting tests and examinations done, prodded and scrutinized while Kyle had to keep re-explaining that, no, his friend was not interested in diet programs or bariatric surgery, no, they couldn't afford Ozempic, and yes, he had been prescribed Lizzo by his PCP already.
The mental reevaluation of just how much they'd done today had several hours’ worth of exhaustion cascading over Kyle at once. For how much waiting around involved it felt like a journey, not the cool, adventurous kind like in movies and books but grueling all the same. The first thing he'd do when he got back was get ready for bed—if he didn't faceplant straight into his mattress and pass out instantly.
But that required that they actually get home first. He looked down at where Cartman's chubby right arm folded over his lap. Seeing that hand unoccupied, Kyle took it in his own.
“Hhn…?”
Stubby sausage fingers twitched. There, another sign of life. Once he was holding up the dimpled hand, his thumb pressed into the soft skin beneath his knuckles and gave an insistent tug.
“Cartman.” Only then did Cartman’s lashes flutter open. He squinted at Kyle, who stood out sorely against bright white walls and uninspired office decor. “C’mon, we gotta head home.”
The crease of his chin deepened as a wide yawn stretched out his lips, then his mouth smacked dryly.
“You'll… take me home?”
“Yeah. Let's call it a day, alright?”
His eyes fell to where Kyle had picked up his hand, staring as if comprehending a tiny fraction more with every acclimating blink. He looked almost docile like that, rubbing at his eye with a dusting of pink over his cheeks, like a drowsy kitten he was looking after and not his fat asshole friend. Which might have weirded Kyle out had Cartman not spent the entire day in a state of meek, largely wordless acceptance of everything going on around him.
“Ugh, ‘kay…”
Cartman's fingers flexed before tightening over Kyle's for leverage, and together, they heaved him up. There was no particular reason they had to keep holding hands afterward, and yet Kyle only felt compelled to release it once they were boarding the bus back to the neighborhood.
It would not be the last time Kyle would pull him along him to where he needed to be.