heh. i haven't written jackshit in forever...
normally i would put a header here, but you know...
kyle’s seventeen when he decides to sit down and try to count the number of times he’s watched kenny die. there’s a little notebook open in front of him, with clean white pages and a pristine black cover (because what kind of sick fuck would pick any color but black if they’re going to keep a fucking death notebook) and on the first page, in tiny, black-ink writing he’s drawn a table, spanning the whole page. it’s all criss-crossing lines that create a bunch of little boxes, big enough to fit a single phrase in each one, and in the first one he writes aliens/cow/police car and immediately gets sick to his stomach. capping the pen, kyle throws it across the room, listening to the pinging noise it makes when it smacks against his dresser and falls to the carpet.
"goddammit," he snaps, dejectedly, to a room that answers with silence only broken by the swishing of the notebook as it flies to join the pen.
----
wednesday sucks balls, just like tuesday and monday, and kyle's standing with his hands resting in the lint alcoves of his pockets when kenny dies. it's no longer startling -- even if it happens less and less often now -- but he still hates that flecks of blood coat his face. hates it even more when his tongues curls out on reflex, drawing away with the bitter taste of salt and a slick feeling.
"leave it to a poor sack of shit to be stupid enough to get sucked into a freakin' combine," cartman says, with no amount of care in his voice.
kyle says, "shut up, fatass," in a voice tired enough to shrink cartman's argument down to a muttered "you shut your fucking jew mouth first."
----
it always takes kenny a week to come back, looking as good as new, and kyle barely bats an eyelash when kenny comes crawling through his window at 9:31 on wednesday night.
"you missed a biology test," he deadpans, leaning back in the squeaking leather and wood of his desk chair.
kenny flips back the faded orange of his parka, fingers ruffling through an unruly mass of blonde hair that showers across his forehead. he's grinning when he looks at kyle and for a second kyle imagines his hair is still stained red and ensnared with brain matter. "fuck biology," he says, jovially, as he falls back among the pillows of kyle's bed.
he'll spend most of the night there, like he's prone to doing when he 'comes back to life.' they're not dating, they're not boyfriends; but when south parks turns from night to day and kyle's mom snores so loud it can be heard through the six walls separating their bedrooms, they become something.
----
"dude, that was fucking sick," stan says and kyle would agree, if he wasn't so damn tired. kenny's in front of them, flattened and stretched out, a leaking trail of organs and blood and some clear sort of liquid that looks like corn syrup. steam rollers were, apparently, capable of a lot of damage.
"i hate wednesdays," kyle says.
"hey, hey, you guys," cartman says, laughing, "doesn't he kinda look like taffy?"
"don't you ever think about anything but food, you fat sack of shit?" kyle snaps, his now permanent exhaustion replaced by a springing fire that leaps up when he thinks about the fact that, just one week ago, the hand currently reduced to smashed skin and bone and muscle on sun-baked blacktop, was snared in the red curls of his hair.
"ay! don't call me fat, you fuck--"
"i'm going home," kyle says, words slicing downt he middle of cartman's rant, and he leaves a cold whisk of air in his wake as he stalks past kenny's mangled form.
he can hear cartman's harsh "what's his jewboy problem?" but he can't make out stan's muffled answer when a car drives by, blaring some '80s devo bullshit, but he can hear the sick squelch as it doesn't care to stop or swerve around kenny.
when he gets home he finds the death notebook and the death pen buried under a pile of clothes and starts counting again.
---
seven days later and it's near midnight -- nearing thursday -- and there's still no sign of kenny. kyle pretends he isn't nervous; he pretends he isn't wondering if maybe that wasn't the last time; pretends he didn't push everything around on his plate at dinner and puke up what he actually managed to eat.
it's 56 seconds to midnight when an orange covered sleeve sticks in through his open window and kenny hauls himself up a second later, hitting the ground with a quiet oomphing noise.
"hey," he says through a lopsided grin, parka hood half-off, exposing a blonde hair covered eye and all those pretty white teeth.
"you're late," kyle says, aiming for emotionless but falling somewhere between relieved and pissed off and kenny springs like an uncoiling wire up onto his bed, falling beside him and bringing that weird smell with them. it's not... bad, it's just different, like a strange mixing of pine and lemon and what kyle swears is that weird sour apple bubble gum stuff stan used to chew all the time; but he never asks. where kenny went when he died, he didn't like to talk about, kyle learned that when cartman asked him in front of everyone and kenny simply landed a nice punch to cartman's lower lip that made it exploded in a shower of blood and left a loose tooth.
kyle knows better than to ask but he can't quite hide the smile at the sweet, sweet memory of eric cartman, aged fifteen, crying and running with his hand holding to his lip, blood slipping between his fingers, and it's what he's thinking about when kenny says, "what the hell, broflovski, you keep a diary?"
"hey, no, cut it out!" he yelps but it's too late because kenny's flipping it open, eyes skimming the rows and tables and kyle's own little personal dewey decimal system of kenny's deaths.
kyle waits. maybe for some explosion of anger, or even worse for kenny to get up and leave in some silent rage. instead, he laughs, flips through page after page of kyle's memories, and he shakes his head when he closes it gently and puts it aside on kyle's beside table, nestling it close to his lamp. kyle's still trying to play connect the dots with kenny's reaction when that place-you-go-when-you-die smell swallows him whole and kenny's pressing him back against the mattress, and kyle's grabbing his shoulders in a knuckle-white grip. even through the heavy material of kenny's parka, he can tell his skin's ice cold. it always is, when he first gets back.
"you're a sick fuck," kenny says, words tainted with the laugh he's barely swallowing, and even the blonde hair that brushes against kyle's forehead feels cold and when kenny's lips smash against his, kyle's eyes flutter shut and, in the brief seconds before he shuts his mind down completely, he hopes wednesday won't bring around another death for him to record.
so this death can live. kenny mccormick/kyle broflovski. pg-13 for, you know, gore descriptions. yes, this is south park slash. i haven't written anything in months and this is the first thing i crank out. i really don't expect anyone to read it, but, you know. i wrote it so why not post it? title from "vanished" by crystal castles. by the way, no one is eight in this story. they's all be growned up. zoom zoom zoom!
kyle’s seventeen when he decides to sit down and try to count the number of times he’s watched kenny die. there’s a little notebook open in front of him, with clean white pages and a pristine black cover (because what kind of sick fuck would pick any color but black if they’re going to keep a fucking death notebook) and on the first page, in tiny, black-ink writing he’s drawn a table, spanning the whole page. it’s all criss-crossing lines that create a bunch of little boxes, big enough to fit a single phrase in each one, and in the first one he writes aliens/cow/police car and immediately gets sick to his stomach. capping the pen, kyle throws it across the room, listening to the pinging noise it makes when it smacks against his dresser and falls to the carpet.
"goddammit," he snaps, dejectedly, to a room that answers with silence only broken by the swishing of the notebook as it flies to join the pen.
----
wednesday sucks balls, just like tuesday and monday, and kyle's standing with his hands resting in the lint alcoves of his pockets when kenny dies. it's no longer startling -- even if it happens less and less often now -- but he still hates that flecks of blood coat his face. hates it even more when his tongues curls out on reflex, drawing away with the bitter taste of salt and a slick feeling.
"leave it to a poor sack of shit to be stupid enough to get sucked into a freakin' combine," cartman says, with no amount of care in his voice.
kyle says, "shut up, fatass," in a voice tired enough to shrink cartman's argument down to a muttered "you shut your fucking jew mouth first."
----
it always takes kenny a week to come back, looking as good as new, and kyle barely bats an eyelash when kenny comes crawling through his window at 9:31 on wednesday night.
"you missed a biology test," he deadpans, leaning back in the squeaking leather and wood of his desk chair.
kenny flips back the faded orange of his parka, fingers ruffling through an unruly mass of blonde hair that showers across his forehead. he's grinning when he looks at kyle and for a second kyle imagines his hair is still stained red and ensnared with brain matter. "fuck biology," he says, jovially, as he falls back among the pillows of kyle's bed.
he'll spend most of the night there, like he's prone to doing when he 'comes back to life.' they're not dating, they're not boyfriends; but when south parks turns from night to day and kyle's mom snores so loud it can be heard through the six walls separating their bedrooms, they become something.
----
"dude, that was fucking sick," stan says and kyle would agree, if he wasn't so damn tired. kenny's in front of them, flattened and stretched out, a leaking trail of organs and blood and some clear sort of liquid that looks like corn syrup. steam rollers were, apparently, capable of a lot of damage.
"i hate wednesdays," kyle says.
"hey, hey, you guys," cartman says, laughing, "doesn't he kinda look like taffy?"
"don't you ever think about anything but food, you fat sack of shit?" kyle snaps, his now permanent exhaustion replaced by a springing fire that leaps up when he thinks about the fact that, just one week ago, the hand currently reduced to smashed skin and bone and muscle on sun-baked blacktop, was snared in the red curls of his hair.
"ay! don't call me fat, you fuck--"
"i'm going home," kyle says, words slicing downt he middle of cartman's rant, and he leaves a cold whisk of air in his wake as he stalks past kenny's mangled form.
he can hear cartman's harsh "what's his jewboy problem?" but he can't make out stan's muffled answer when a car drives by, blaring some '80s devo bullshit, but he can hear the sick squelch as it doesn't care to stop or swerve around kenny.
when he gets home he finds the death notebook and the death pen buried under a pile of clothes and starts counting again.
---
seven days later and it's near midnight -- nearing thursday -- and there's still no sign of kenny. kyle pretends he isn't nervous; he pretends he isn't wondering if maybe that wasn't the last time; pretends he didn't push everything around on his plate at dinner and puke up what he actually managed to eat.
it's 56 seconds to midnight when an orange covered sleeve sticks in through his open window and kenny hauls himself up a second later, hitting the ground with a quiet oomphing noise.
"hey," he says through a lopsided grin, parka hood half-off, exposing a blonde hair covered eye and all those pretty white teeth.
"you're late," kyle says, aiming for emotionless but falling somewhere between relieved and pissed off and kenny springs like an uncoiling wire up onto his bed, falling beside him and bringing that weird smell with them. it's not... bad, it's just different, like a strange mixing of pine and lemon and what kyle swears is that weird sour apple bubble gum stuff stan used to chew all the time; but he never asks. where kenny went when he died, he didn't like to talk about, kyle learned that when cartman asked him in front of everyone and kenny simply landed a nice punch to cartman's lower lip that made it exploded in a shower of blood and left a loose tooth.
kyle knows better than to ask but he can't quite hide the smile at the sweet, sweet memory of eric cartman, aged fifteen, crying and running with his hand holding to his lip, blood slipping between his fingers, and it's what he's thinking about when kenny says, "what the hell, broflovski, you keep a diary?"
"hey, no, cut it out!" he yelps but it's too late because kenny's flipping it open, eyes skimming the rows and tables and kyle's own little personal dewey decimal system of kenny's deaths.
kyle waits. maybe for some explosion of anger, or even worse for kenny to get up and leave in some silent rage. instead, he laughs, flips through page after page of kyle's memories, and he shakes his head when he closes it gently and puts it aside on kyle's beside table, nestling it close to his lamp. kyle's still trying to play connect the dots with kenny's reaction when that place-you-go-when-you-die smell swallows him whole and kenny's pressing him back against the mattress, and kyle's grabbing his shoulders in a knuckle-white grip. even through the heavy material of kenny's parka, he can tell his skin's ice cold. it always is, when he first gets back.
"you're a sick fuck," kenny says, words tainted with the laugh he's barely swallowing, and even the blonde hair that brushes against kyle's forehead feels cold and when kenny's lips smash against his, kyle's eyes flutter shut and, in the brief seconds before he shuts his mind down completely, he hopes wednesday won't bring around another death for him to record.
so this death can live. kenny mccormick/kyle broflovski. pg-13 for, you know, gore descriptions. yes, this is south park slash. i haven't written anything in months and this is the first thing i crank out. i really don't expect anyone to read it, but, you know. i wrote it so why not post it? title from "vanished" by crystal castles. by the way, no one is eight in this story. they's all be growned up. zoom zoom zoom!