If this line repeats, just ignore it. I don't know why it does that.

This one-shot will only make sense if you saw Cherokee Hair Tampons.

Oh, and Cartman/Kyle for the win.

Review, please. If you review, you get a magical doorknob.

Go away, Cartman thought as he felt his mother nudge his shoulder, like she did almost every morning. He was as tired as hell- the last thing he felt like doing was going to school. He was sick anyway, right? He couldn't go to school with his organs failing, becoming weaker than Butters…

When the nudging didn't stop and his mother was now calling him by his forst name, Cartman reluctantly blinked opened his eyes, and tried to recognize the room he was in. Oh, right. Hospital. He probably fell asleep in the ambulance or something. All he remembered was his mom calling 911, an ambulance parking in the driveway, his friends watching nearby, being carried in, and his intestines about to explode- well, it felt like that anyway.

"Eric, how are you feeling?' his mom interrupted his thoughts.

"Better, I guess." Hell-a better. "Ma, what did they do?"

"What do you mean, Hun?"In pure vexation, "WHAT DO YOU THINK?! DID I HAVE SURGERY OR NOT?!"

Liane cringed at her fifteen-year-old-son's yelling. "Yes, sweetie."

"WHEN?!"

"Just a few hours ago, Hun."

"What did they do?"

"You got a transplant."

When he didn't demand any other answers, she sighed and cooed, "Get some sleep, Eric," before exiting the hospital room, probably heading towards the elevator. What a long visit. He could have died, and she stayed there for four minutes at most- though she was probably at his side while he was unconscious. She better have.

Then he realized something -no aching, no school, and extra sleep. Kickass. He smirked and closed his eyes, but after hearing a scream, he realized not all his visitors were very fond of him.

"GET UP, FATASS!"

The overweight brunette jumped and stared at the doorway, where the sound had come from, but the raven-haired boy was right beside him. Damn, he was swift.

"Right here, dumbass!"

He turned and faced Stan Marsh, who looked ready to murder. His hair was unkempt, like he woke up not long ago and didn't bother to do anything about it, and his azure eyes full of more hatred than Cartman had ever felt before, which was saying something.

"Stan, I didn't realize that both you and Kyle have sand in your-"

An ungloved fist made contact with Cartman's face, and he instantly wailed.

"EY! I HAD SURGERY-"

"So did your friend," Stan growled. "At least your ass is fine."

"I had a transplant, not an anal-"

"Exactly, dumbass. Now when you get a transplant, you need a donor, and the donor has to have something in common with you."

"Yeah, blood types. I'm not a retard…"and then he just froze. Only one person in South Park had the same blood type as him. . He was sure his heart stopped for a second, his brain completely numb. . He must've said his donor's name aloud, because then Stan sneered:

"Yes, Kyle."

He was crying, but it looked more likely that he dipped his head in a waterfall. "He was in that bed-"he pointed to the other side of the room, behind the curtain. "They're having the funeral tomorrow. "

"Ya know, he willingly did it. He didn't tell us, 'cause he knew we'd try to stop him. You didn't want to donate your kidney- the same one he gave back- in the first place. You treated him like shit for years. It's your fault you have diabetes- he inherited it, but you developed it after eating like a fatass. He just saved your life even though he hated you as much as you hate him."

Cartman was just sitting on his bed, facing the curtain, not looking at his somewhat-friend. For about five minutes there was silence, Stan thinking about ways to kill Cartman later, while at the same time waiting for him to say something. When Cartman didn't, he narrowed his eyes and turned to leave, never more disgusted in his life. Right before he reached the door, Cartman finally spoke.

"Who said I hated him?"