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Kyle scoffs from his perch atop the well worn couch. Below him on the floor, both Stan and Kenny sprawl in a pair of uncomfortable looking heaps, fast asleep. Kenny looks akin to a dirty, crumpled up bear skin rug. It's an eyesore out of place with the rest of the modest but tasteful decor displayed throughout the home. Stan sits upright, and actually manages to look worse for wear than Kenny. He slumps against the frame of the couch. His head tilts to hang above his shoulder. An all too comfortable hand rests tucked into the top of his underwear.
Cartman splays on what he had announced to be his personal seat on the couch. He claimed it hours earlier upon all the boys’ initial arrival to his house. And as for Kyle, he’s remained swaddled in a fuzzy blanket, curled up on the opposite end of the couch since the start of their hang out session.
The room buzzes with the shrill, droning voices of Terrance and Phillip playing on the TV and the slow but constant rustling and crunching of Cartman working his way through his absurdly large bowl of popcorn. No one speaks. Kyle’s jaw feels tense and his legs feel a bit numb. The room is dark, save for the blue glow of the television. He stares ahead at the screen, but he’s not truly watching the program.
“Gotta pee,” Cartman announces and there’s a shift in weight from the other end of the couch.
The heavy set teen takes no precautions for his knocked-out friends on the floor as he makes towards the hallway. He even goes so far as to roughly nudge Kenny with his foot.
“Kenny sucks, huh Kyle?” Cartman chuckles when the skinny boy on the floor doesn’t respond. He glances over his shoulder to the only other conscious member of the group, seeking approval.
“Mmm,” Kyle grunts out a noncommittal sound, knowing it’s better to engage Cartman than it is to ignore him.
Cartman seems satisfied and shuffles down the hallway. Kyle exhales in relief, grateful that the interaction wasn’t more protracted than necessary. He’s uncomfortable, and while he tells himself he knows why, something feels amiss. He can’t quite place the feeling. After a brief shuffle in place to quell the ache in his stiff legs, Kyle steals a glance to the clock and cringes at the time. It’s 3:24am.
The reality is, Kyle doesn’t particularly want to be doing this. He doesn’t want to be sitting at Cartman’s house watching Terrance and Phillip at 3:24am. Sure, he wanted to rekindle some old flame from his youth. But not like this. He feels awkward and a little upset that the best he and his schoolyard friends could come up with was a movie marathon for their spring break activity. And yet, he admittedly couldn’t think of much better either, so now he’s here. Stan and Kenny have long since knocked out cold, but Kyle has always thought of himself as a bit of a completionist. So despite his physical and emotional discomfort, he gazes vacantly at the TV and absorbs the hackneyed wisecracks for the dozenth time.
Cartman doesn’t take long in the restroom. He returns much in the same way he left. He’s brash and careless about the boys on the floor, pausing only to give Kenny another harsh nudge with his toe. Kyle frowns but otherwise shows no signs of protest. The weight shifts again on the couch and Cartman settles back down. Kyle feels like he’s on a bobbing dinghy with all the commotion the other boy makes. Finally his shuffling ends and he adjusts one last time. Kyle rearranges himself once more, too, and heaves a deep sigh. The popcorn crunching resumes.
He’s honestly really comfortable now. Terrance and Phillip are shrill and annoying, but thanks to years of falling asleep late at night watching them on repeat, Kyle finds them almost a bit like a lullaby. His legs no longer tingle with numbness, having had just enough time to stretch in Cartman’s absence. The scratchy blanket is a bit itchy, but it’s also a bit soft. And it’s a bit warm, too. Kyle’s eyes grow heavy and comfortable. His neck starts to feel unable to support the heft of his head. His limbs are heavy like bricks cemented in place. Kyle falls prey to sleep, vulnerable and gentle, despite his valiant effort to stay guarded and spritely.
Soon enough though, a stiffness in his neck rouses him. His bleary eyes blink. He’s disoriented and it takes him a few moments before he realizes he’s not in the comfort of his own bed. There’s a heavy rise and fall beneath his cheek. Quickly, he determines it’s rhythmic breathing from someone who is not himself. Kyle has enough sense to freeze in his panic rather than jump up. Somehow, he’s fallen asleep on Cartman’s couch. And moreover, he’s managed to flop over on top of the fat boy himself.
His cortisol rises to worrisome levels for someone who has only just woken up. Kyle strains his eyeballs to steal an upward glance. It’s dark. There’s only the DVD credits rolling monotonously on the television screen to cast any light in the room. He can hear Stan softly snoring on the floor. Cartman hasn’t seemed to sense that Kyle has woken up. He’s fairly certain he sits alone in consciousness. He also intends to keep it that way, before anyone can find him in such an incriminating position.
Kyle wonders how he ended up like this. He was all the way on the other side of the couch earlier! Wasn’t he? Then again… It’s not a very big couch to begin with. And neither he nor Cartman are small people, though in very different ways. Kyle can feel the corners of his mouth straining into a frown. He needs to remove himself from Cartman’s soft belly, but he’s unsure how to go about it.
He watches the credits roll over and over. The same 30 seconds of footage play through until Kyle loses count of how many times he’s watched it. Then again, he was never truly keeping track in the first place. His mind wanders elsewhere. He is sorely reticent to admit it, but Cartman’s soft torso makes for a nice pillow. It’s far better than the worn-out armrest on the couch, anyway. It’s 5:14am, but he has no idea how long he’s been here. After an unknown amount of time passes, Kyle decides it’s about time to pry himself cautiously from the marshmallow body beneath him.
It’s a challenge to get the right leverage. He knows the easiest way would be to brace himself against Cartman, but that would run the risk of waking him. So he tries using only his core strength. Kyle clenches his abs and strains hard, attempting to force himself upright with no real leverage to speak of. He braces his legs. He wishes he’d joined some kind of athletic team to tone up. Kyle is stuck in place. Cartman doesn’t move.
Kyle knows he’s defeated. There’s only two options. He can either fall back asleep on the frustratingly comfortable tummy he’s landed himself on and get an equally embarrassing and rude wake-up call for it in the morning. Or he can test his luck and push into the squishy belly to free himself now. He stifles a groan and decides on the latter. He stills his hand so vehemently it wraps back around into trembling. It makes cautious contact with Cartman’s hoodie. Kyle holds his breath and bites his tongue, hoping against hope that the disturbance won’t wake the sleeping bear.
A moment goes by and nothing has happened. Kyle tries not to think about the fact that his face and hand are both pressed warmly into Cartman’s plush, pliable torso. Before he can think too much, he goes for it and pushes. It’s slow and awkward and uncomfortable, but Kyle manages to rise to a sitting position. He takes a survey of the room. Stan is still a crumpled heap on the floor. Kenny has curled into a little ball with a cushion from the couch. Kyle takes a little solace in noting that the side of the couch he was on is less than a foot away from where he is now. He just unfortunately flopped over in the wrong direction in his sleep.
Cartman hasn’t shifted much throughout all this. Kyle sighs with enormous relief that the fat boy must sleep like a rock. It’s hard to peel his eyes away, though. Kyle’s never seen him asleep before. He knows he’s alone so he feels emboldened to stare for a moment or so. It’s like looking at a different person. Kyle’s struck with a pang of something unfamiliar and warm. He’ll never admit it, but it’s tenderness. It’s a fleeting thing, really, born of a sleepy haze and the touch-starved fugue state of someone who’s only recently had a taste of human contact. But it’s real and it’s budding somewhere softly in his chest and he’s quickly relinquishing that fear of admittance.
Brown eyelashes rest delicately above full, round cheeks. Cartman’s lips are slightly parted, drawing in slow and even breaths. His arms hang limp on either side of his broad body. All the hatred and spite of his waking form are absent now. The foulness and the aggression have been wiped away. Kyle is entranced. He’s drawn to the possibility the nighttime holds. He’s curious and transfixed in a whole new way. He wants so terribly to hate Cartman. He wants to detest him and loathe him and make him suffer. But he looks so cherubic and defenseless in his unconsciousness that Kyle can’t bring himself to feel that way. He bites his lip in frustration.
It’s gotta be some kind of mind trick he’s playing on himself. Without a shadow of a doubt, there’s no real basis in the affection he’s feeling right now. He reasons that it’s the drowsiness or it’s a lapse in judgment because in general he’s feeling gratitude for being able to spend time with the group. And yet… he does feel some kind of fondness. There’s a draw there. It’s some kind of hypnotic pull. Kyle’s hand moves on its own, lost somewhere between weightlessness and zero gravity. He needs to quell his mind of uncertainty. So he allows himself to sit before his schoolyard nemesis and his hovering hand makes contact.
It’s different this time– it’s not some coincidence that he’s stumbled upon. It’s a verifiable choice now, and he’s choosing to lay his hand gently on Cartman’s hoodie. It’s strange but not at all unpleasant to touch his rising and falling belly as he sleeps. There’s no pretense of violence and there’s no malice. It’s one person simply touching another and accepting his humanity, his facets, his existence. And it’s nice. It’s soft and inviting and warm and it’s disconcerting and aggravating all the same.
A part of Kyle that isn’t small wants to lay his head back down and exist in this moment. He’s as horrified as he is intrigued. His heart races and leaps into his throat. He’s pretty sure it’s just from the thrill that he might be caught, but at the same time, there’s a part of him that’s scared there’s more to it than that. He wonders if he’ll be bold enough to find out. Cartman makes a little grunting sound and shifts. Kyle freezes in place. His blood runs cold and his muscles cramp from the abruptness of stilling himself. He has to get out of this situation he’s created.
It’s too late, though. Cartman’s eyes shoot open and stare directly into his. Kyle innately knows that this is the final moment of his life as he knows it. Cartman’s thick fingers curl around Kyle’s hand in a tight grip. Kyle feels his fingers grow clammy in fear. The moment draws itself out in horrifically slow motion.
“Oh,” Cartman slurs in a sleepy drawl. “I thought… I thought your hand was a big warm bowl of macaroni and cheese.”
Kyle stares at him so hard in veritable shock he’s sure his eyeballs will fall out of his head. The moment ends as fast as it began. Cartman’s eyelids flutter back shut and he’s out like a light. His steady, measured breathing resumes. He’s most assuredly asleep. There’s one troubling aspect of the situation, though. The harsh grip has relinquished, but Cartman’s hand remains undeniably wrapped around Kyle’s.
Now what.
He hems and he haws over his choices. He never should have let himself get drawn in. Even in his sleep, Cartman is the most aggravating person he knows. He inwardly grouses and debates what to do in yet another new Cartman-related debacle. He can still feel the plushness of Cartman’s belly and he still finds it compelling. He can feel the rough skin of Cartman’s fingertips on top of his knuckles. He can feel heat rising to the tips of his ears. Kyle tells himself he hates it all, yet he does very little to stop himself from enjoying it.
Eventually he slowly slips out of the grasp, but not before he turns his hand over delicately so that their palms touch. He gazes at the dimly-lit sight and drinks in the visage and the contrast of their hands. It’s brief but it strikes him in a way he never would have suspected. His thumb gives one fleeting, very nearly meaningful brush against Cartman’s smallest finger and he breaks the contact.
Once freed he scrambles over to the hard armrest on the other side of the couch. He’s pumped up on adrenaline and feeling particularly warm-blooded. It’s easier to still his shaking body than it is to slow down his racing mind or his pounding heart. So he calms his limbs and curls into himself, as small as he can manage. He forces his eyes shut and waits for sleep to take him.
“Kyle!” Cartman’s voice jolts him from his restless slumber.
“Whaa…?” Kyle lurches forward on the couch.
His vision is still glossy with sleep, but he quickly notes that it’s full daylight and Stan and Kenny are nowhere in sight. He pulls himself upright on the couch and rubs at his face.
“Now I’ve been patient, Kyle,” Cartman folds his arms and scolds him. “But I’m seriously right now. I’ve had enough of your freeloading. My mom has to vacuum and do laundry. Get the fudge out of my house!”
“Alright, already!” Kyle stumbles to his feet even though his legs haven’t fully woken up yet. “Jesus Christ, you fat fuck, I’m going!”
Kyle takes a survey of the room to ensure he hasn’t forgotten anything, then stuffs his unkempt curls beneath his hat and stamps towards the exit. He slides his feet into his boots without tying them and only has one arm in his jacket before he’s halfway out the door. All the while, Cartman aggressively tails him as if he’s a bouncer escorting an unruly patron out of a club.
“Oh, and Kyle?” Cartman flashes him a smarmy grin as he hangs onto the side of the door, preparing to slam it shut. “I know what you did.”
Kyle’s spine straightens and his blood runs cold. He chokes on the crisp air and splutters, then clenches his jaw and turns on his heel to fume at the fat little instigator.
“You don’t know shit,” he grits out.
And he mostly believes that. Cartman loves to rile him up. This means nothing. Cartman knows nothing. It’s an empty threat based in contempt and the desire to get one last jab in before his departure. He was asleep last night and Kyle knows that. He has to believe that so Cartman won’t get under his skin. Still, he trembles and it’s not entirely due the chilly weather.
“Oh, ho. But I do, Kyle. It’s okay to want to cuddle sometimes,” Cartman coats the venom in his voice with a sickly-sweet exterior. “I guess I’m not surprised that someone like you would be so sneaky about it, though.”
The chill running through Kyle’s body is swiftly replaced with an uncomfortable burning heat. He falters over what to say next. Unintelligible babbling falls past his lips and he’s powerless to stop it. His hands curl into fists and then release over and over, stuck in a loop. He’s unable to recover from this one. Not now, and possibly not ever.
“Well, it’s not like I can blame you,” Cartman continues, nonchalantly glancing over his own fingernails. “I must say, I can definitely understand why you found me so enticing.”
“Shut the fuck up, fat ass!” Kyle shrieks at him, voice at least an octave higher than normal.
“You’re so hot and cold! Jesus Christ,” Cartman chuckles derisively. “Next time just tell me ahead of time and I’ll get a bigger blanket. Well. Goodbye, Kyle.”
He closes the door in Kyle’s face. A slow, frosty breeze nips across his burning cheeks. He stands alone in front of Cartman’s front door. He’s halted, both physically and in thought. The weather matches him– the sun is too hot and the air is too cold, his face is too hot and his body is too cold. He’s brimming with a sort of emptiness that strangely feels like it could spill over.
Kyle works on instinct to fix his boots and jacket. He automatically begins walking home. He stares at his hands. Next time he'll figure out that feeling. He’ll etch it in the corners of his mind. Next time, he’ll understand why his heart ached and his stomach turned. But today, he’ll go home and think.