I wrote this for someone who left the fandom.

The way it went in South Park was, if you went looking for answers you would probably end up in way over your head, and … well, it was complicated. It was complicated, and Kyle was tired, and he didn't know why he didn't have any eyes, but it didn't seem to make any less sense than Kenny dying and coming back all the time, or that his younger brother's jaw came unhinged when he talked. So whatever, man. Whatever, and he resigned himself to it being like this. True, Stan shrieked like a little girl the first time Kyle woke up without any eyes, but Kyle tried not to make fun of the poor guy — if he could have seen his own reflection, he might have shrieked, too.

"Your eyes!" Stan cried, running his fingers over the empty sockets that used to hold Kyle's eyes. "Your beautiful green eyes!"

"I think they were brown," Kyle corrected.

"Oh, my, no, they were green."

"I think I know the color of my own eyes, Stan."

"Are you suggesting I don't know my boyfriend's eye color?"

"Like it matters!" Kyle pushed Stan off of him. "How am I supposed to see now?"

The answer was apparently, 'You aren't.' Not wanting to be seen without eyes, Kyle stayed in bed. Stan left the radio on for him, and Kyle listened to NPR. He tried to call in sick for work, but the first few times he reached for the phone, he picked up the alarm clock. When he found the phone, he realized he didn't know what number he was dialing, and had no way of finding it in his directory. So he seethed, and tried to cry during "This American Life," but as he also no longer had tear ducts, this only resulted in a dry, aching feeling, and shortness of breath.

Kyle didn't know if it was daylight or twilight when Stan returned, but he returned with a pair of sunglasses. "No one will know," he said, sliding the gigantic frames onto Kyle's face. "Everyone will just think you are very glamorous."

"Everyone will think I'm a gay shithead," Kyle corrected.

"You are a gay shithead," Stan agreed. "But you're my gay shithead, eyes or no eyes."

XXX

Kenny heard Kyle was feeling down, and came to see him. "New look?" he asked, unaware of the irony.

"This is not a look," Kyle insisted. "Did you know that UVA rays can destroy your retinas even at night?" he lied, making up things as he strung words together. "Now that the ozone layer is so depleted, the sun's harmful glare can hurt your corneas even indoors. I'm just being precautious, like I've always done. Because, you see, that's me, the same old Kyle Broflovski who hasn't changed at all."

"Can I eat some of the same old Kyle Broflovski's kosher bologna?" Kenny asked.

"Sure, but bring me a slice."

Kyle and Kenny ate kosher bologna sitting on Kyle and Stan's bed. With trepidation, Kenny braced himself for Kyle to smack him for eating messily, and dropping pieces into the sheets. Kyle seemed not to notice.

"What brings you by?" Kyle asked.

"Stan says you're going through menopause."

"He said that?"

"No, that's my freelance interpretation."

"Kenny." Kyle sighed. He did not roll his eyes. "That's not what that word means."

"I'm taking vocabulary to unprecedented new levels. I'll have you know I got a 17 on the ACT once. I ain't stupid." Not stupid, maybe, but Kyle didn't have the heart to inform Kenny that 17 was not such a great score. "So what's wrong? You didn't quit your job, did you? Because don't get me wrong, I've been looking for an unemployment buddy to while away the hours with. It's just…" Kenny shoved a thoughtful piece of bologna into his mouth. "…don't you have anything better to do?"

"No, I don't." Kyle took off his sunglasses, and let Kenny stare are him with intrigue and horror.

"Oh my god," Kenny breathed. "That's like something out of a nightmare."

"I wouldn't know. I can't see it. But yeah, this whole thing has vaguely resembled a nightmare. At least I've figured out how to get into the bathroom without tripping over the toilet and dying."

"Dying might be better. Put your sunglasses back on."

Kyle did so. "Stan screamed when he saw."

"Like a woman?"

"Like a baby."

"Oh, that Stan, always with the drama."

Kyle's mouth tensed, and he fell back onto the pillows. He hoped that Kenny would not notice that he'd been wearing the same outfit for four days. "But what do you think about the sunglasses? Does it make things better? Does it make me look … normal?"

"I think it makes you look like you're trying to pass for female in 1962," Kenny answered. "And you're not doing a very good job. But that's just me. You know who knows all about crossdressing?"

Kyle thought for a moment. "There are so many options."

"I'll give Butters a call for you, buddy. He owes me a favor."

"And why would that be?"

"I got his cat out a tree for him." Kenny paused. "And I fucked him."

"And he owes you a favor?" Kyle gaped.

"Hey, it's not me. The ladies are just clamoring for Kenny McCormick out there. I don't gotta be giving it out for frees to anyone who wants a little."

Kyle sighed; some days he could barely believe Kenny's selective mangling of the English language. Kyle also could not believe that Kenny's services were in demand by anyone who did not want a tricky case of gonorrhea. "Fine, call him," Kyle said.

"Okay, will do." Kenny grinned. "Do you realize that if you wanted, Stan could fuck your eye sockets? He's always complaining to me about how you guys never do anything fun. Maybe you should let him!"

Kyle was thankful he could not cry, and dismayed at how his eye sockets were stinging.

XXX

Butters lived up the road, in a studio flat on the top floor of someone's house. Thinking about Butters' apartment, it seemed unlikely that he and Kenny had fucked there, because the bed was actually a fold-out couch, and it was sticking halfway into the galley kitchen. On the other hand, Kenny's apartment was much worse — he shared it with his older brother, neither of them knew how to replace a light bulb, and the yellow-tinged windows were all barred even though it was on the fourth floor. Kyle hoped and prayed that he could get a job that did not require the use of eyes, but he did not want one of those blind-people pity/outreach jobs. It was only a few days into his eyeless odyssey, and he knew he would never cut it as a pharmaceutical rep again. Currently he was letting day after day of his paid vacation cushion him until unemployment. The thought of having to give up his moderate-to-do lifestyle and slum it like his high school friends depressed him.

Stan led Kyle up the street, hand protectively at the small of his back, mumbling obstacles and instructions into his ears: "Bike, go left. Dog, step over. Greenpeace rep, give her the finger."

Kyle didn't know where to direct his finger, so he kept his hand clenched.

XXX

"Oh, that Kenny." Butters slumped his shoulders, hands on his knees. He looked defeated, like his day couldn't get any worse, and that was before this missing-eye drama. "I ain't an ophthalmologist, I'm studying to be a podiatrist, and they're different. And it's only my second year!" Butters sniffed. "And he could call me every once in a while."

"Um." Stan looked at Kyle, and Kyle turned away. Stan was not insulted; he knew Kyle didn't know where he was. "But can you help us?"

"I'll help you if you tell Kenny he's gotta return my phone calls. I might be a medical student and they do work us hard, but I do got time to wonder why I can't meet a guy who won't disappear after I let him be intimate with me. Not to mention I'm a medical student, and I know a case of gonorrhea when I see it, or in this instance, feel it."

"Okay," Stan agreed. "But you know he doesn't listen to anyone other for Cartman."

"That don't surprise me. Eric never calls back either."

"Shit, Butters." Kyle pushed his sunglasses back up the bridge of his nose. "I'll trade you antibiotic samples for eye advice and we can just bypass Kenny entirely. Does this mean in some extended way Cartman's got gonorrhea?"

"Oh, but I want you to talk to him. Someone's gotta chew that boy out."

"I think I can make him feel guilty," Stan offered. "It's all in the eyes — sorry, Ky — and a bit in the mouth. The right glance can make even the most hardened among us ache for me."

"I don't think it's going to work," Kyle grumbled.

"Why not?" Stan asked. "It works on you."

"It does not!"

Stan lifted his brows and softened the arch of his mouth, lips going slack. "But I try so hard," he moaned.

"I can't see, douche bag. Try again."

"Luckily for us Kenny can see," Butters thrilled. "Oh, you're gonna make him feel so bad about it!" He bashed his knuckles together, tittering with his bottom lip caught between his teeth.

"Irregardless," Stan said. "Please just tell us what's wrong with Kyle's eyes."

"Okay." The fledgling medic slid off his stool and rolled up his sleeves. "You gotta remove your glasses."

Kyle did so.

"Golly!" Butters gasped. "When you said you had something wrong with your eyes, I thought you meant you were having trouble seeing."

"I am having trouble seeing."

"But having a problem with you eyes is different from having no eyes at all! I ain't never seen anything like this, fellas. Ever."

"Well, what would you know?" Kyle snapped. He snatched his sunglasses off of his lap, and struggled to place them back on the bridge of his nose. "You're a second-year, Butters, and you don't know crap."

"Well, I did try to tell you. I do feet, not eyes."

"Studying feet is worthless!" Kyle cried. He threw his hands up in the air. "Who needs feet? I don't. I need eyes!"

"Aw, I'm sorry," Butters cooed. He reached out to pat Kyle on the knee; Kyle slapped his hand away. "Gosh, you must be in an awful grouchy mood."

"He is in a grouchy mood," Stan confirmed. "But I would be, too."

"I'm right here! Don't you talk about me like I'm not. I'm blind, not deaf!"

"You know what I think?" Butters asked. "I think you fellas should go talk to a real ophthalmologist. Luckily, I know one. You know what you could get? Two glass eyes. At least you'd look normal."

"I don't want glass eyes!" Kyle clutched his chest, panting. "I want my eyes!"

"Well, having a protracted freak-out ain't gonna help," Butters chided.

Stan sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Kyle's health insurance doesn't cover optometry or whatever, dude, and it's going to run out on Friday, anyway, when he's no longer employed."

"Doesn't your insurance cover him?"

Stan shook his head grimly. "No, it never has."

"That just burns me up. It's so—"

"Maybe we shouldn't have a discussion about politics right now." Stan pointed down at Kyle with his elbow. "We need help, man. "

"I want to see a real doctor," Kyle declared. "Someone who's actually graduated from medical school. Someone who actually knows about eyes."

"I take offense!"

"You're not a real doctor, Butters. I want a real doctor."

"Well, that's a good inclination, but how're you gonna pay for a real doctor?"

"Maybe we could get some real insurance?" Stan proposed.

"Yeah, that could work. In the mean time, maybe you could learn Braille or something?"

Kyle whined and put his head in his hands. "I cannot believe this is happening to me."

"Now we have to figure out how to pay for some insurance. Is this a preexisting condition?" Stan asked.

"Luckily, you know someone who writes policies," Butters asked. He shuffled over to this kitchen, hobbled around the couch he used for a bed, and groped the pull on a drawer that stuck when it was halfway open. "Here." Somehow, Butters retrieved a small rectangle of cardstock from his narrowly accessible drawer. Grinning, he presented it to Stan.

"What?" Kyle asked. "What is he getting for me?"

"That's Eric's business card," Butters announced. Stan eyed it suspiciously.

"Oh, just take it. It ain't diseased. He's usually in his office between the hours of 9 and 5, but he won't be in now, 'cause he takes a three-hour lunch break."

"Thanks, Butters." Stan pocketed the card.

Kyle stood up and pushed his glasses up his nose again. "I have never more devotedly wished I were dead," he declared.

On his way out of Butters' building, Kyle slipped on a plastic bag that had been abandoned in the vestibule. Stan, clutching his hand, landed on top of him in a heap at the foot of the staircase. With mirth and embarrassment, cheeks reddening, he laughed a shallow, nervous laugh. Kyle moaned and curled up into a ball, shielding his mouth while waiting for Stan to get off of him.

XXX

Before visiting Cartman, Stan confiscated Kyle's meager pile of drug samples. It momentarily occurred to him that perhaps this was redundant, as Kyle would have no way of discerning what was what, and a course of 20 doxycycline in one mouthful was more likely to clear up Kyle's lingering adult acne than kill him. That, or give him a yeast infection. Later, after dinner and a sweaty glass of lukewarm lager, Stan came to the conclusion that there was nothing standing between Kyle and ingesting everything in the rolling carry-on suitcase he often used to pedal pharmaceuticals. So Stan decided to stand there, and put the suitcase on the top wire shelf of the closet, where Kyle could not reach even before he lost his eyes.

"Maybe he'll help us," Stan said the night before their appointment. He did not believe his own rhetoric.

"Yes, maybe he'll help us," Kyle agreed, "provided he's figured out some obscure way to use it for leverage against me, or some other convoluted premise too exhausting to outline here."

Stan inched closer to Kyle in the dark of their cramped bedroom. He was sure something smelled faintly of bologna, but couldn't pinpoint it. "Do you know, I think when we were younger, I was the cynical one, and you always had one last chance left in you."

"No, you were the gay one who played stupid songs on the guitar and puked on women and in hospitals. I'm still willing to give anyone another chance; that's why I'm still friends with Kenny. But not Cartman. Cartman can suck my cock."

"Okay. Well, be careful. I hear he has gonorrhea." Stan pecked Kyle on the cheek and removed his sunglasses, folding them carefully and leaving them on the nightstand. He had to reach over Kyle's chest to do this.

XXX

For the sheer satisfaction of it, Cartman kept Stan and Kyle waiting outside of his office for 45 minutes. Even the receptionist seemed to have a delighted look of glee on her face when she pointed to the leather loveseat across the room and told them Cartman was running behind.

"But I have an appointment!" Kyle protested. "Look at me, lady! Do I look like a guy who has time to sit around reading six-month-old issues of Time Magazine while I wait for Cartman to get it together to tell me he won't insure me?"

"I assure you," she replied, adjusting her nametag. Her name was Bridgette. "All of our magazines are up-to-date."

"It's irrelevant because I can't read anything anyway!"

"Come on." Stan sighed, leading Kyle to the couch with a gentle hand to the small of his back. "I'll read to you."

As it happened, Cartman's office only stocked copies of the National Review, which Stan tried to read to Kyle in a sarcastic voice, letting the ludicrous tacks of the magazine speak for itself: "Liberal fascism: Do the 'grassroots' activists of the left want to make abortion mandatory?" He snorted. "Good god. Cartman is a fucking cliché of himself sometimes, man. Who believes this shit?" Stan glanced up to see Bridgette the receptionist giving him the evil eye. He coughed, awkwardly, and tossed the magazine onto the coffee table. "I mean, 'grassroots,' in quote marks. It's like, man, maybe you don't agree with them — with us, I guess — but come on, it's not like you can fake a grassroots movement."

"Oh, sure you can," Kyle said. "Just like you can fake being politically conscious and then not vote."

"That was only that one time. My concern is real! I care!"

"Indeed. Perhaps you care too much."

"What is that supposed to mean, Kyle?" Stan asked.

Kyle crossed his arms. "Oh, nothing."

"Sometimes you say these things and they don't even make sense."

"You're not being very nice to me!" Kyle cried. "Be nice to me, okay? I need just one person to be fucking nice to me!"

"I'm fucking nice to you. If I were you, I'd be nicer to me, because I'm the guy you need to help walk you across the street without being hit by a car. And since when can blind people not give blowjobs, again?"

"You cannot fuck my eye sockets," was Kyle's curt reply.

Stan rolled his eyes. Kyle duly missed it. "Um, I didn't ask to."

"But you've been thinking about it! You want to!"

Stan averted his gaze from Kyle, only to catch Bridgette the receptionist scowling at them and forming a makeshift cross with her index fingers.

"What, working for one podiatrist-banging homo is decent, but two guys talk about eye-socket-fucking in your waiting room, and that's not cool?" Stan called across the room.

Dropping her fingers, Bridgette declared, "I am but a conduit for the lord, to whom thou shalt answer in the end."

"Oh." Kyle sniffed. "Dandy."

XXX

Cartman was all business, happy to play along. As he blathered about co-pays, Kyle clung to Stan's arm, wondering if it was merely the assumption of Jew gold that led the fat fucker to consider him a valuable client.

That was the thing about Cartman: He was 90 percent talk, 10 percent action, and everyone had him pegged as a doer, and sometimes an evildoer. But he spent his life behind a desk, making charts and graphics and pamphlets. He always had. Even as a schoolboy his medium had been the chalkboard.

"But I can solve your problem, and just for a small fee—" Cartman paused, letting his tongue savor the diphthong. "—of 360 dollars…" He smiled broadly, his corpulent lips curving involuntarily. "…per month."

"What?" Kyle stood up and slapped his hands on the near, flat surface of Cartman's desk. "I don't have 360 dollars, you fat piece of crap! I have to quit my job because I can't travel for work, and I can't work until I get my eyes back, and I can't get my eyes back until I see a doctor to tell me where to find them, and I can't see a doctor until I get health insurance, and I can't get health insurance because I have no money because I can't work because I have no eyes!"

"Welcome to the United States healthcare system," Cartman croaked.

"It's not fair. I've never harmed anyone in my life, and now I'm going to be crippled forever! It's not fair! Why do bad things happen to good people?"

"As for why bad things happen to good people," Cartman began, snapping the cap off of his pen, "that is one of the greatest mysteries of our time. But I can tell you why bad things happen to Jews, Kyle, and it's because through your veins flows not blood, but an oozing black tar-like substance that burns the skin of us normal people on contact." He coughed, and scribbled something on a form neatly ordered with Roman numerals and justified edges. "So obviously any medical working professional coming into contact with your fluids would need to be doubly covered—" Cartman made a small check mark in a box on his form "—not to mention you're a fag and you have AIDS—" he added another check mark "—and you're incredibly unpleasant to socialize with. New estimate for full-coverage health insurance: 575 dollars per month."

"I don't have AIDS," Kyle refuted. "And for your information, we know about Butters."

"What's there to know about him?" Cartman asked. "He's a boring little woman saddled with student loans? That's not news. Try again."

"No, Cartman. We know you slept with him," Stan said.

The giddy spark died from Cartman's eyes. "Let's keep this business, gentlemen. You know, professional."

"How many times?" Kyle asked.

"Did you know he was also fucking Kenny?" Stan asked.

"Did you ever fuck Kenny?"

"Did you guys ever all fuck together?"

"I have an idea," Kyle announced. "Let's all get together and have brunch."

"Shut up, you stupid Jew!" Cartman snapped. Then he took a deep breath, and adjusted his collar. "There's no need to get testy. After the words clitoris, tolerance, don't, and low-carbon-emission fuels, the worst word on the planet is brunch."

"Oh, but I know the best place for bagels and lox," Kyle insisted. "It's just been so long since we all got together and had girl talk."

"That sounds really nice," Stan added for emphasis, his tone dripping in an unusually feminine lilt. He arched his brows and slacked his lips. "Why don't you want to have brunch with us? I was going to make a quiche — chocolate and bacon, just for you. That is so hurtful, Eric."

"Ah," Cartman hissed. "Goddamn you guys."

XXX

Kyle's eye sockets were not empty, Stan found that night. They were still coated with the sheer, thin slime that formerly covered his eyes. "A self-lubricated orifice," Stan purred, stroking Kyle's hair and nudging against his thigh. "It's like a revelation. It reminds me of being with a girl, the lack of prep time. Of course, I enjoy prep time, in case you're wondering."

"Oh, good, well forget calling them eyes, then. Let's go with face vaginas from now on."

Stan dropped his hand from Kyle's ear. "Well, that's one way to kill the mood."

"Sorry." Kyle grabbed for his sunglasses, first managing to pick up a discarded condom. He tossed it on the floor. "That was disgusting. But I don't feel bad. You can look at me, during. You can see what you're kissing. I'm taking it on trust that you're still hot."

"I am," Stan assured him. "But I have this feeling that even if I weren't, you'd still be here."

"Well, yeah, because where am I going to go, Detroit?" Kyle sighed. He adjusted his soft dick inside of his boxers. "Can you hand me a Kleenex?"

Stan did. "At least you wouldn't be able to see how dismal it is."

"Do you ever have that sinking feeling that your entire life is over?" Kyle blew his nose.

"A couple of times," Stan admitted. "Each time I thought the world was ending. When Wendy dumped me in fourth grade."

"But not during high school?"

"No, but I did when I graduated high school. I cried and cried and cried when my dog died."

"He was really old," Kyle recalled. "I think it was for the best. He was really sick, he couldn't walk, he barely ate."

Stan grabbed Kyle's right hand, resting on his chest, and squeezed. "He was such a stupidly happy dog, he still lifted his head whenever I came home from college. My parents were like, 'He's still conscious of everything going on around him, you don't have to do this,' but I think it's unfair to let an animal suffer. Lying on the laundry room floor unable to move wasn't the life Sparky really wanted or anything."

"Are you saying I'm like your dead dog, that if I can't see I should just lay down and die?" Stan and Kyle did not have a laundry room.

"Absolutely not," Stan said. "I am saying that you are not like my dead dog. I loved my dead dog, but he was still just a dog. You're my life. Even when you had eyes, helping you find your way around was what gave me purpose."

"I feel that's only because you hate being a real estate agent."

"I do hate it. Where do you think I learned that guilty look? People are so emotional about houses. And here we are, renting. We could buy a house, Kyle. Or at least an apartment. Or a nice ranch, with one floor, and a laundry room. This is a good time to buy, if you can get a loan, you know. I have access to foreclosures. We could live the dream, man. The delightful middle-class suburban dream. An investment. You like investing. Jews love investing. I can see it in your, um." Stan paused, sat up, let go of Kyle's hand. "Listen, so you don't think I'm full of bullshit—"

"Stanley, I know you're full of bullshit."

"I just want you to know that whatever you think is the case, it's not your eyes that convey the emotions, but the muscles around your eyes. You can't see me, but I can read you. I can read that you're unhappy."

"I do hate to be the downer in your drink, but of course I am unhappy, and it doesn't take a rocket scientist to get that. I don't think buying a house is going to make me happy, either. Let's just hope a licensed practitioner of ophthalmology can help us."

XXX

He couldn't.

Butters had given Stan a referral to one of his instructors, a semi-retired ophthalmologist whose office, in a shed out behind his house on a neglected little street outside of the town limits of Middle Park proper, was decked-out in eye charts with block letters, the top rows of which even Stan could not read from across the room. "Those are some very small letters," he announced sheepishly.

"What are small letters?" Kyle asked.

"On the vision chart," Stan explained. "On the wall directly across from you there are a number of yellowed 1970s-issue vision charts."

"And who made you an appraiser of vision charts?"

Stan walked across the room to check out the copyright at the bottom of one poster. "This one, 1973," he announced, grinning.

"I don't believe you," Kyle scoffed. "I want to see for myself."

"Good luck with that," Stan said. "Why don't you just trust me?"

"That's what you said before you stuck your dick in my eye socket!"

"It was okay." Stan shrugged, and sat back down on the exam table, grasping Kyle's nearest thigh, his left. "I don't think you enjoyed it much."

"I don't want to talk about this," Kyle grumbled. He turned away from Stan, and they sat in silence until Butters' ophthalmologist friend showed up.

With plastic gloves, he stuck his fingers in Kyle's eye sockets. "And you always had eyes before?" he asked. "This is very odd."

"Oh, good, that's news," Kyle groaned. "Please get your fingers out of there! You're really hurting me."

"Sorry, son." The doctor sighed, snapping rubber against his skin as he peeled his gloves off. "When did this happen?"

"Couple of weeks ago, I think, but of course I can't tell you for sure because I can't see a calendar."

"The evening of March 27," Stan tried to explain, "I came home from a showing and Kyle had just returned from a trip out of town."

"I was a pharm rep," Kyle explained. "And I traveled a lot. You know the drill. For Glaxo-Smith-Klein. I came home; I was very tired. I dropped off watching TV, and Stan woke me up. I couldn't see, you know, blah blah blah … and Stan screeched like a banshee."

"Oh, I did not screech, and certainly not like a fucking banshee."

"Like some sorta woman, anyway."

"Shut up, Kyle. Like you're one to talk about banshee-screeching. You pretty much woke up the whole neighborhood the first time I—"

"So," the ophthalmologist interrupted. "How did you get a job peddling products for Glaxo? No offense, but you don't look old enough to be a pharmaceutical rep. You look about 17."

"Oh." Kyle cleared his throat. The ophthalmologist very kindly did not point out that he was talking to a wall. "None taken. I only look 17 to you? How flattering. My father settled a liability suit for them out-of-court, so he knew a couple of people in the sales department. I minored in bio, too, so I sort of had an in. Two ways."

"And you boys are friends of Leo's?"

"Yeah." Stan nodded. "From way back."

"College?"

"No," Stan answered. "Kindergarten through high school."

"That's a long time," the physician remarked. "He's a good kid. He passed my anatomy class with flying colors."

Kyle snorted. "Well, that explains his recent popularity."

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing." Stan shook his head. "Private joke."

"Tell you what." The ophthalmologist sighed, and removed his wire-frame glasses. He was not short, but Stan was preternaturally tall, and seated on the exam table next to Kyle, he towered over this doctor by at least two inches. Figuring speaking directly to Kyle was a lost cause, he talked up to Stan, who looked down patiently, hands in his lap. "I don't know what to tell you boys. It's a shame, a real shame, for a smart young man to lose something so precious. But there's no pathology to follow here, and I do hate to say it, but I can't find any trace of eyes ever having been in your face. Perhaps they'll grow back, but with the stunted state of stem cell research, there's nothing I can do to force it. Your insurance, though, I think, will cover two nice glass eyes for you. What color were they?"

Overlapping, Kyle said brown and Stan said green.

"Heterochromatic?" the doctor asked.

"No, godammit!" Kyle cried out. "My eyes were brown!"

"But would you like a nice set of green eyes?"

Kyle shook his head. "I want my eyes back," he said in a fragile voice. "You don't understand. I can't leave the house by myself. I can't read, I can't write, I can't cook—"

"Kyle." Stan sighed. "You could never cook."

"—I can't piss without spraying the bowl, I can't drive, I can't shower by myself because what if I fall? I can't play a song on my computer. I can't look at the internet. I can't do anything anymore. I need to see." Kyle reached into Stan's lap and grabbed one of his tan, strong hands with deep, blue veins. "I can't depend on Stan to do everything for me, and then when we make love he can't even look into my eyes. Can't you help me?"

He sighed, deeply, and tried to make his voice gentle, but the doctor still answered, "I can make you a gorgeous pair of brown eyes, or green eyes. Considering your insurance, you could probably get both. You will look like a movie star." And here his voice became very soft, and low: "But try as I might, I can't make you see out of them."

"Thank you," Stan said. He wanted to give the doctor his hand, to be polite, but Kyle was leaning against him, making it difficult. "I think that's probably the way we'll go."

"Thanks," Kyle rasped in a snotty, viscous tone. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, and his lashes trembled with each heave of his chest. His lids clenched around nothing, merely sticking to themselves and somewhat to the salmon flesh of Kyle's muscles. He gritted his teeth as his face stung and his nose ran and Stan put both arms around him, kissing his paper-thin lids clasped to nothing.

"You just let me know." The doctor looked into Stan's eyes; they were the rich blue of a fresh bruise before it fades to autumnal yellow.

"We will." Stan looked down at the doctor, smiling. "Please bill our insurance. We will write you a check for the remainder, our co-pay of 30 dollars."

The doctor nodded, solemn and concerned. "Is he going to be alright?" he whispered, looking up at Stan.

"I can hear you," Kyle hissed. "I'm blind, not deaf."

"Thank you," Stan repeated. "I think we just need to sit here for a moment."

"Of course."

The ophthalmologist shuffled out, and Stan and Kyle were left alone in the shack with an exam table and eye charts behind his house.

XXX

"Are you still wearing those faggy sunglasses?" Cartman asked when he walked into brunch. Unusually prompt, he found Kyle sitting by himself at the dining room table drinking coffee, and bent over to antagonize his newest client.

Although Kyle could not see Cartman's breath fogging his sunglasses, he could feel it touching his lips and entering his nose, contaminating him. Cartman always smelled yeasty, like the 18 years he spent waiting at his mother's feet while she baked in their yellow-tiled kitchen had set into his hair and sweat glands.

Shocked, Kyle tumbled off of his chair. "How did you get in here?" he squealed, trying to get his heart to stop pounding; he scooted on his behind away from where he thought Cartman was standing.

"Uh, your door was unlocked, Jew. I know, frankly I was shocked you don't keep that thing quadruple dead-bolted or anything, but I figure it's easier that way for hobos to wander in and rape you."

"Normal people ring the door bell!"

"Eh, I don't have time for such theatrics." Cartman sat down. "Bring me a goddamn bagel."

"In this house we wait for everyone to eat."

"Well, tell your weepy houseboy to get his ass to the table," Cartman said. "Tell him to bring me a cup of coffee with Bailey's and a scoop of vanilla ice cream in it, too."

"If you drink coffee like that you'll have a fucking coronary, Cartman."

"I don't give a crap." Cartman looked down to Kyle. "Okay, I know rolling around on the floor is a natural environment for you, but are you ever going to get up off your ass and get Stan and serve me some breakfast?"

"It's not breakfast, it's brunch." To this Cartman shuddered. "And I'm not just talking about Stan! We have to wait for Kenny and Butters. It's only polite. Or don't you see five settings at the table?"

"Well, I can; you can't. Jew, I'm gonna level with you." Bending down on one knee, Cartman sighed. Now he could talk to Kyle at face level. "I don't care about those assholes. You want to feed me? Fine. Go get me a goddamn bagel already, Kyle, I'm seriously. Get me a fucking bagel."

"No."

"Come on, Jew. I'm hungry." Cartman began to tug at Kyle's shirt.

"Fuck you, no!" With half-hearted effort, Kyle tried to bat away his tormentor, to no avail. "Get off me, Cartman!"

"I hate you so much."

"Get the fuck off me!"

"Get me a fucking bagel!"

"Stan!" Kyle shrieked. "Please bring Cartman a fucking bagel!"

At the kitchen doorway, Stan appeared, a half apron grazing his knees. With arms crossed, he leaned against the doorframe, scowling. "In this house we wait to eat until everyone is seated," he said coolly. "As it is I'm up to my elbows in pickled herring."

"See, that's what I said." Kyle inched ever closer to the kitchen doorway.

"Pickled herring?" Cartman stuck his tongue out. "Gross, Jew. That's not food."

"It's called 'appetizing,' Cartman, and if you knew shit about food you'd know that."

"It doesn't sound appetizing to me."

"Appetizing is a kind of food, you dolt," Kyle sneered. "Not the adjective."

"Whatever, Kyle." Cartman hoisted his bulk off of the ground, not without help from the dining room table. "Like it matters."

"Do you want a drink, dude?" Stan asked. He turned from Cartman to Kyle. "I mean, either of you?"

"Yeah, I want a fucking milkshake," Cartman growled. "With a shot of vodka on the side."

"I'm okay for now." Kyle patted the carpet around him. "But could you help me get up off the floor?"

Stan hoisted him by his armpits, and led him back to the chair he'd fallen off of when Cartman arrived. "Anything else I can do?" Stan ruffled Kyle's hair; Kyle needed a trim, and his soft, twisty mop of coppery hair was beginning to become unruly, with errant curls popping off of his head and out from behind his ears. Stan set one or two strands back into place. "No arguing," Stan cautioned. "I mean it, Cartman. Behave like an adult or you're out of our house for good."

"Treat me like a fucking king or you're out of your medical coverage for good," Cartman countered.

"That is a good point," Kyle mused.

"Ha! Like I believe him that he'd give up good money just because I'm not going to make him a damn milkshake." (In a rare moment of guilt, Cartman had conceded to offer a half-off discount. But he wouldn't comp them. Something about 'breaking [his] balls.')

"You'd be surprised."

Kyle sighed. "Don't test him, Stan. I need those eyes."

Stan knocked his boot against the doorframe. "One milkshake, coming up." He disappeared back into the kitchen, apron strings trailing.

"Oh, they can fix your goddamn eyes for you?" Cartman asked. "The world is a fucking disgusting place. Why would you want to look at it?"

"As it happens, they can't." Kyle slipped his sunglasses from his nose, and folded hem neatly. He placed them in the center of his brunch plate: "As I am now, always shall I remain."

"Oh, Kyle. Just when I am sure you can't get any less pleasant to look at!"

"They're making me glass eyes. Two pairs, green and brown."

"What is this world coming to?" Cartman checked his watch. "Hey, faggot!" he yelled to the kitchen doorway. "Where's my fucking milkshake?"

"Have a little patience, Cartman!" Stan called back. His words were muffled (but audible) by the whizzing sound of the blender. "I'm working on like six things here!"

Cartman made a displeased face, his full cheeks taut.

The doorbell rang.

"Please answer that," Kyle begged his nemesis.

"Hell no, Jew." Cartman cracked his knuckles. "I'm your guest." He raised his voice: "And where is my milkshake?"

On his rush to the door, Stan placed a highball glass with white froth in front of Cartman's girth, which was resting pressed up against the edge of the table.

"And the vodka?" he asked, eyeing the glass with suspicion.

Stan whipped around to answer. "It's in the shake!" He shot Cartman a pleading look. The doorbell chimed a second time. "Just try it." Stan slouched from the room, defeated, only to return with Butters, whose aqua-colored scrubs were wrinkled and in whose arms was a large arrangement of stargazer lilies. The flowers were violent pink toward the middle and their petals were tinged with white at the edges; several turgid buds, green and greenish-white, were yet to blossom.

"Hey, Eric!" Butters cheered, setting his vase on the table. "Long time no see."

"Shut up, Butters. I've seen enough of you to last me a lifetime." He sniffed. "Unlike Kyle, who can't see at all."

"Hi, Butters." Kyle raised his head, searching out the sound of Butters' voice.

"Hey, Kyle!" After rushing to his side, Butters pressed his cheek to Kyle's and wrapped clasped his hands around Kyle's shoulders. "How are you feeling?"

Butters' lips smacked audibly against pale skin as Kyle pushed him away. "Fine," Kyle said. "Life sucks."

"That's bad to hear." Butters shifted the bouquet, avoiding place settings, so it was in Kyle's face. "I bought you some flowers!"

"Thanks, Butters." Kyle's voice was limp. "I'll think about how much I might have enjoyed looking at them."

"Butters, you dumb ass." Cartman smacked his own forehead. "How many times do I have to tell you? If you're going to taunt someone, you have to bring them something they like that they can't enjoy, not gay-ass flowers."

"I thought Kyle would like flowers."

"Hmmm." Cartman pressed a finger to his lips. "It's true, he is pretty gay."

"Oh, like you're not?"

"They're smelly flowers." Butters plucked a stargazer lily from its vase. "I thought you might like smelling them. They got a nice scent."

Breaking the stem off the lily, Butters tucked it into Kyle's hair, balanced behind his ear. Kyle clawed at the weight, unable to brush it away.

"A pretty flower for a pretty boy," Butters cooed, clasping his hands. "And you smell like lilies, too!"

"I'm blind, Butters," Kyle growled. He managed to knock the flower from his hair, and it fell to the floor. "Not a fucking cat."

"Oh, but you look like a sparkling princess. Keep the flower, Kyle. Maybe the other ballerinas will be jealous of you." Cartman took a first, long-delayed sip of his vodka milkshake. He smacked his lips, foam lingering. "Hey, this is pretty good."

Stan brought a tray of bagels out from the kitchen, and set it on the table. "Nobody eat anything," he instructed. "Let's wait for Kenny." He glanced down at the floor. "What is a lily doing on the floor?" he asked.

"I'm eating already. Fuck you bitches." Cartman grabbed for an egg bagel, a glossy, earthy yellow with cracks where the crust had split in baking.

"I wish you'd wait for Kenny," Kyle sighed. "Politeness is such a virtue."

Cartman shrugged, chewing his bagel. The rest of them waited 40 minutes.

XXX

When Kenny arrived he crept up behind Butters, and smacked him on the ass so hard Butters hissed in pain and hopped up into the air.

"Hey Slutters! Long time no see."

"Holy smokes!" Butters cried when he landed a split second later. "Kenny, I asked you not to call me that!"

"Aw, you like it."

"No, I don't."

"Where the fuck were you?" Stan asked. He was slumped over his plate, head in his hands, eyes heavy with the boredom of hunger.

Kenny took a seat, wedged in between Butters and Cartman, the latter's plate already littered with smears of cream cheese and scraps of bagel remains. "I met a sailor on shore leave at church. Did some bending at the knees, made out with his peen, you know the drill. In the confessional. That was hot. What's for breakfast?"

"It's brunch," Stan corrected. Cartman shuddered at the term.

"There is no way in hell you actually go to church," Kyle said.

Kenny nodded. "Of course I do, every single Sunday."

"I think that's very honorable."

"Thanks, Butters."

Butters reached over and slapped Kenny across the face.

"Ow! What was that for?"

"For not being honorable," Butters said, voice dry and officinal.

"What's the problem?" Kenny asked. "You said we were cool!"

"I am cool!" Butters huffed. "You're the one who's been avoiding me!"

"To be fair," Stan pointed out, finally grabbing at a garlic bagel, "Cartman's been ignoring you, too."

"Since we're all being fair, I want to be perfectly clear that I at no time ever told you I would call you back, Butters." Cartman paused to eat a mouthful of cream cheese, spooning it directly from the container into his mouth. "Ew, gross! Is this chive? I hate you guys." He tossed his spoon back on the table, where it landed in front of Kenny, who promptly put it into his own mouth.

"This is inhuman," Cartman moaned. "There is no place for evil green vegetation in pure, unadulterated cream cheese."

"Well, what did you think those little green specks were?" Kyle asked, looking pointedly at his own plate — or rather, hanging his head. "Can't you just smell that it's got chives in it?"

"Can't say that I can, Jew."

"I can't smell it either," Stan said.

Kenny popped the spoon from his mouth, clean and gleaming in the afternoon light of the dining room windows. "Me neither," he said. "But I feel like if you lose one sense, your others get sharper. But, hell, I ain't a doctor." He glared at Butters, licking cream cheese off his yellow teeth.

"It's plausible." Butters shrugged. "But I'm no ENT guy, either."

"Well, super, I look forward to a lifetime of simple pleasures, then, like smelling Stan's seed drying slowly on the bedroom carpet, and the very inception of mildew."

"You paint me as a very unclean person, Kyle."

"I've been living with you for long enough to know, Stan. There is no escaping your beloved's disgusting habits. You just find new ways to detect them and new ways to weather them."

Kenny laughed, slapping the table in his joy and amusement. "You all make me wanna get married!" he cried. "Hey, can I get a beer or something?"

"Try a vodka milkshake," Cartman suggested.

"Okay, that's enough." Butters stood up. "Kenny, if you don't want to acknowledge me in public — or in private — or acknowledge what we had, or at least pretend we have a shot at still being friends, well, that's your business. It'll make me really sad, but I can't force you. But when I leave you 16 panicked messages, begging you to call me, the least you can do is spare me three minutes of your unemployed life to pick up the phone and get back to me! Because godammit, Kenny — you gave me gonorrhea!"

"Ohhhhh. So that's what that is." Kenny shifted in his seat. The sounds of Kyle's and Cartman's laughter was not hindering him in the least. "Yeah, that's been sort of bothering me."

"And it at no point occurred to you it might be contagious?" Stan asked.

Kenny shrugged. "More important shit to worry about."

"Like what?" Butters' entire face was flushed. "You don't do anything!"

"Wait, wait." Kyle was still giggling, finger pads against his lips as he tried to stop. "Kenny, you've been spreading gonorrhea around Colorado because you're too busy to talk to Butters on the phone for six minutes?"

"Every minute on the phone with Butters is like seven torturous lifetimes." Cartman grabbed for another bagel, and while his hand was hovering over the pile, he also stole a second.

"And I've lived enough torturous lifetimes for anyone," Kenny added.

"That's not fair!" Butters began banging on the table with his spoon. "I am a good person and I'm sorry if I come off as torturous, but I didn't do anything wrong!"

"Butters, dude." Stan put a hand on Butters' trembling shoulder. "Think very carefully about who you're talking to, here."

"If you ask me it's his own fault for initiating the conversation," Kyle said.

Kenny yawned. "This is so not the drama-soaked festival of delights I was hoping it'd be. Are you going to get me a beer, Stan, or are you going to make your blind boyfriend do it?"

"You can go get your own fucking beer if you want it so bad!" Kyle shouted.

"You guys know what would make this conversation like 50 times more ironic?" Cartman asked. "If one of you guys put on a George Michael CD. That'd be, like, super hilarious, and stuff."

"How would that be hilarious?" Stan asked. "What about that would be ironic?"

Cartman shrugged. "You know, he's like, George Michael, he makes everything ironic. It's called the George Michael Irony Index Factor, if you put on a George Michael album while your weepy friend is complaining about how you gave him gonorrhea and won't return his calls, that just makes everything about 30 times more entertaining."

"You just don't know what 'ironic' means," Kyle said.

"Nuh-uh, I do too know what it means."

"I don't know what it means," Kenny said. "What does it mean?"

"Cartman?" Stan pointed at him. "Tell Kenny what 'ironic' means."

"I don't want Eric to tell me, he always overcomplicates shit with flowcharts. Just you tell me."

"I don't want to."

"It's because you don't know what it means. If you knew what it was you'd just say it."

"Shut up, Cartman. At least I'm not throwing words I don't know around and trying to get people to play George Michael records. Which Kyle and I don't even own."

"I think Alanis Morisette would be more appropriate," Kyle said. "And so help me, fat ass, if you start singing, I will kick you in the face."

"Oh yeah?" Cartman asked. "How're you gonna see it without any eyes?"

" 'Ironic' is when one's expectations are incongruous with the results," Butters huffed. "I mean, come on, fellas. You're four of the smartest people I know — and I'm in medical school, remember — and none of you can define 'irony'? And don't give me the what-for with excuses, Eric. I'm calling your bluff. But I guess I've just been calling a lot of bluffs lately. But I guess we're all blind to something." Butters stood up; his crinkled scrubs were wedged into his crotch in a rather unflattering way; he untucked them, cheeks pinking, and said, "If you'll all excuse me, I gotta use to the little boys' room."

Even before the bathroom door had shut, Cartman exclaimed, "What a little dipshit!"

"So what's the difference between irony and sarcasm?" Kenny asked.

Kyle answered: "Sarcasm is specifically nasty, and I think irony is unintentional."

"Why should we listen to you, Jew? You didn't know what irony was half a minute ago."

"Just because I couldn't define it doesn't mean I didn't know what it was." Kyle spoke his words into his own lap.

"So is it ironic that you were basically a traveling drug salesman, and yet we had to grovel to Cartman to get coverage for medical expenses?" Stan pondered.

Kenny waved his hands in front of Kyle's face — a move which duly went unnoticed. "Wait, wait. There was groveling, and I missed it?"

"Dude, it wasn't a performance," Stan explained. "My insurance doesn't cover Kyle. Do you know what a good pair of glass eyes costs?"

"And what if I'd needed surgery?"

"And Kyle doesn't have any severance because he quit."

"What was I supposed to do? I can't see!"

"There are always options, Kyle."

"Options shmoptions! No one wants to buy pharmaceuticals from a blind guy!"

"It's called discrimination law!"

"It's called you shut the fuck up, Stan!"

"I would like to submit 'options shmoptions' as the gayest thing I've heard at" — Cartman paused to visibly shudder — "brunch today. Ugh, sick. That word just makes me feel so dirty."

"It's the gayest thing I've heard all day," Kenny announced. "And I gave a sailor a blowjob at a Catholic church this morning."

"Well, there's no need to brag," Stan said.

"Oh, sure, just joke about going down on random servicemen." Kyle was smearing cream cheese across a tear of garlic bialy intensely, occasionally spreading some across the tips of his fingers. "I won't mind."

"Kyle, you know I wouldn't."

"This is weak." Cartman sighed and stood up; bagel crumbs fluttered from his red polo T-shirt. If Kyle had seen, he would have shrilled about it; Stan was glad that he hadn't. "I need to take a crap."

"Cartman!" Kyle snapped. A piece of smoked salmon pinched into a curl of bialy fell from his fingers. "I'm eating!"

"Whatever," Cartman sniffed. "If you call mouthing on this Jew food eating."

"Well, Butters is probably in the guest bathroom. You can use ours."

"Ew! Godammit, Stan, I do not want him using our bathroom. Just make him wait!"

"Ey!"

"Just hold it for five minutes, Cartman," Stan suggested.

"It's not my fault Butters is taking his sweet time snooping through your medicine cabinet. He's probably sitting on the bathroom floor reading all those knitting magazines and back issues of the Advocate you guys keep."

"Oh my god, who's knitting?" Kenny asked, suddenly very interested. "I've been meaning to learn."

"We don't subscribe to the Advocate."

"On, for the love of Christ." Kyle smacked his forehead. "Cartman, if you're going to go, just go."

"Thank you."

And Cartman stomped away.

"Butters really is taking forever in there," Kenny said, reaching into the dish of herring. "Maybe he got the door jammed or something. That or he fell asleep in your bathtub. You know he works, like, 18-hour shifts."

"He could have just laid down in our bed or something if he was that tired," Stan said.

"Enough!" Kyle pounded the table. "Why do you keep offering our bedroom to everyone?"

"I'm sure Eric's making just an enormous mess in there," Kenny teased.

"I didn't even hear him go up the stairs."

"Well, neither did I," Stan said.

"But I feel like it's the sort of thing I would hear."

Kenny nodded. "Right, with your super-blindness senses overcompensating." Then he laughed a cruel little laugh, sucking cream cheese and savory herring brine off of his right-hand fore and middle fingers. "Don't you wish you knew what happened?"

Kyle sighed. "There isn't any point in asking."

"Maybe some old voodoo queen down in the bayou bought your eyes off the black market."

"Oh, that's feasible."

Kenny rolled his eyes. "It's South Park."

Kyle nodded. Yes, that was an explanation. All the explanation he needed.

"Did you ever think about moving someplace else?" Stan asked.

Kenny shrugged. "I know the terrain. Who needs to relearn an entire ecosystem?"

"No oxygen, no atmosphere, no guardrails on the overpasses." Kyle sighed. "Everything smells like pinecones and, faintly, of KFC."

"God bless." Kenny raised Cartman's empty milkshake glass.

Stan shook his head. "But the views are spectacular."

"Yeah, from Denver, where you can look up at the mountains and wonder who the fuck wants to live up here. Or from up in the mountains, where you can look down in the valley and wonder who'd want to live down there. I used to look around this town and all I could see were faded flannel shirts and the opportunity to go somewhere else. Now I feel kind of…." Kyle heaved his shoulders. "I don't know, grounded. At least I don't have to go anywhere anymore. … Ugh, who am I kidding? That was my favorite part."

"Your favorite part of living here was leaving it?" Kenny asked.

"Isn't that everyone's favorite part?" Stan countered.

"I think I slept with our fourth-grade teacher last week," Kenny replied. "But it was dark in the back of that movie theater, so who could tell?"

Kyle wrinkled his nose. "You make me sick, Kenny."

"No, seriously, I'm gonna go check on Butters." Kenny stood up, popped part of a bagel in his mouth, and talked through a mouthful: "Cartman I expect taking hours in the bathroom. It's like his fucking briar patch in there." He swallowed. "Butters maybe slipped and hit his head on the counter and now he's bleeding out of his ears. Wouldn't that be psycho?"

"You care about him just a little, don't you?" Stan asked.

Kyle gagged. "Oh, please. You read romance in the stupidest places, Stan, like fabric softener commercials."

"Fine, Kyle." Kenny crossed his arms. "Yeah, I'm freaking soulless, and your heart is as big and bloody and soft and vulnerable as a 13-year-old girl's twat when she has her first period."

"That's disgusting."

"Kyle, let it go."

"Come on, we made him brunch. And he was 40 minutes late!"

"Thanks for brunch, Stan. I really appreciate that you did the whole thing yourself with no help from anyone."

"I can't see!"

"Shit, you don't have to tell me! You were fucking blind when you had eyes! Everyone knows you had laser corrective surgery."

"That wasn't me! That was Cartman!"

"Kenny." Stan sighed, putting his chin in his hand, elbow on the table. "Just go check on Butters already, if you're going. He's probably just … being quiet."

"Butters is so not ever quiet," Kenny said. "If you were wondering."

Kyle said, "I don't know what's going on here. If you're going, Kenny, please just go."

"Glad to."

When he was gone, Stan grabbed Kyle's hand under the table and shrugged. "Don't take those guys so seriously," he said. "I don't mind making brunch. I like brunch. I'm just sad my frittata didn't work out."

"It's not your fault." Kyle patted Stan's hand in reassurance. "I don't think eggs and chocolate go well."

"I tried."

"I know."

"That vodka milkshake was delicious. Do you want one? I feel like I want one."

"Yeah." Kyle nodded. "That'd be nice. I'd like that."

"Sure." Stan stood and stretched, arms over his head, his T-shirt pulling up to reveal his navel, circled with seductive wisps of black hair which dissipated up his torso. Only when Stan glanced back down to see that Kyle wasn't watching him preen did he realize that it was all pointless. His face felt hot, and he tugged his shirt back down by the hem. "Okay," he said. "Life goes on."

"Huh?"

"Nothing."

Over the sound of ice cream and vodka being sliced together in a blender, a loud thud, a shriek, and a shout of "I'll kill you!" made Kyle jump in his seat, and Stan poke his head out of the kitchen.

"What the fuck?" he asked.

"I don't know," Kyle replied.

XXX

Stan gave both Kenny and Cartman a bundle of ice cubes wrapped in gauzy paper towels, sealed in plastic sandwich bags. Then he kicked them both out of the house.

"Some friend you are," Kenny remarked, spitting blood onto the lawn. "Kick out a guy when he's had two teeth knocked out."

"It's too bad you don't have insurance," Cartman sneered at him. His formerly carefully combed hair was mussed, sticking up from his part in awkward fistfuls.

"Fuck you!" Kenny clenched a fist, ready to throw a punch. "Don't you fuck with my bitches!"

"You have so many bitches, Kenny, you gotta leave some for the rest of us!"

"Same back to you with food and oxygen, fatass! I'll kill you!"

Stan shut the door on their screaming match.

In the living room, Butters was sitting on the couch across from Kyle, staring at him expectantly, legs crossed, big watery eyes open wide as he gnawed his bottom lip. "I'm awful sorry," he was saying. "I didn't mean—"

Kyle waved his hands. "Oh, yeah, sure. You didn't mean to get a blow job, that kind of thing just happens all the time, I can see how it would just sort of spontaneously—"

"I mean I didn't mean to start a brawl. I really apologize. Honest."

"Whatever, Butters."

"I didn't mean to make things bad for you," Butters said. "I know you got a lot of stress, not being able to work and not — not knowing what happened with your eyes. But it'll be okay soon, won't it?"

"I don't know. Maybe?" Kyle shrugged.

Returning from the washroom where he'd been washing blood off his hands, Stan collapsed in a club chair adjacent to the sofa. "Well, that's done."

"I'm really sorry, Stan," Butters repeated for Stan's benefit. "Honest. I know it's rude to hook up in someone's bathroom! This isn't like me. I didn't mean to make a fight start. Honest. But Eric just comes at you with those big brown eyes and he pouts so prettily it's like—"

"No." Kyle slapped his hands over his ears. "No more. One more word, Butters, one more word of that in my house and—"

"Oh." Butters blushed, humiliated, which Kyle would have to discern from his breathy little apologies. "Okay. Sorry."

Sitting up a bit straighter, Stan clasped his hands. "I have a question, though. Like, really. Why get yourself into this situation? With possibly the two most deplorable people ever, I mean."

"Oh, Kenny's not deplorable," Butters argued. "He's just confused. He needs like someone to tell him how it's okay to be. I don't think his mother ever taught him any manners. I just keep thinking, maybe I can help. Maybe I can be that someone."

"Oh, good," Kyle drawled, "a wannabe podiatrist with a savior complex."

"And Cartman?" Stan prodded.

"Oh. Eh, Eric's just pretty."

"He's morbidly obese!" Kyle exclaimed. "A morbidly obese gay conservative insurance salesman!" He stuck his tongue out, unsure whether Butters was getting his feelings on the matter.

"Oh, he ain't conservative. He just keeps those magazines to pander to clients. 'Cause it's rich people who's Republicans, usually, and rich people buy insurance."

"And the receptionist?" Stan asked.

"I think he's sleeping with her on the side, if you want to know," Butters theorized. "Not sure about that one. Just my two cents. The idea I get. I'm not a jealous type; I just don't like it when people break their promises. Like one time I caught him and Kenny behind the post office when I went to mail my census. It didn't bother me except that Kenny said he loved me, you know, but then he didn't call me—"

"This is the most abundantly fucked-up situation I have ever encountered!" Kyle unsteadily got to his feet. He extended a judgmental finger — at Butters, he presumed — but he was actually just pointing at the window behind Butters' head of dirty hair. "You disgust me! All three of you!"

After Kyle had stumbled upstairs (barking, "Oh, don't help me! I'll just fumble upstairs on my own! Maybe fall and break my neck but it's fine because we have insurance!" when he reached the top without help), Stan moved next to Butters on the couch.

"So," Stan said after clearing his throat awkwardly. "I think it's kind of ironic that someone with no eyes thinks ménage a trois is abundantly fucked up."

Butters nodded along with this sentiment. "Well, life's not easy. But I think we do what we do because it's worth it, right? Like one day I'm-a teach Kenny some manners. Then he'll love me. … Then he'll see. … Thanks for inviting me to brunch, by the way. I love brunch!"

XXX

"I brought you something."

Kyle didn't bother to sit up at the sound of Stan's voice, but he did get up when Stan snapped the radio off.

"I was listening to that," he bitched.

"You can't just lie here listening to Ryan Seacrest all day."

"I don't have anything else to do!"

"Well, here. Like I said, I brought you something." Stan placed a thick binder on Kyle's lap. "Open it," he said.

"No."

"Aw, Kyle, come on." Stan sat down on the bed. He sighed, opening the binder on Kyle's behalf. "It's a dictionary," he said carefully. "Let's look up the meaning of 'ironic.' "

"Are you nuts?" Kyle spat. "Or just cruel? I'm—"

"Blind, I know."

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Kyle slapped at Stan's shoulders to get him off of the bed.

Stan wouldn't budge. "Nothing's wrong with me. Just, come on. Pick up the book I got you."

"What's the point? I'm never going to read again."

"Don't talk like that." Stan grabbed one of Kyle's hands, curled up into a slack fist, fingers trembling. In a chivalrous pantomime, Stan brought this hand to his lips, and kissed each finger.

"Why are you doing this to me?" Kyle unfurled his fingers at the touch of Stan's lips, and let his palm be brought down into the open book; pricks of paper brushed against the pads of fingers and the joint where his thumb met his wrist. "What is this?" Kyle asked.

"A book." Kyle's head was bent down, and Stan tipped it up with a finger, smiling, even if Kyle couldn't discern it. "We're going to learn how to read. Look at me, Kyle. I mean, listen to my voice. Even if you can't see me, direct yourself to wherever I am. Don't look away."

"There's no point. I'm not looking at anything! You could be anywhere in this room."

"Don't talk like that. I'm sitting right here."

"But how do I know?" Kyle felt his eyes begin to sting. "It's not that I ever felt my life was so great but at least I used to be able to look around at who I was and what I had. Now what have I got? I'm closed off from the entire world."

"I'm not going to let you be closed off from the entire world."

Arms wrapped around Kyle's torso, biding his elbows to his sides. The room was cold and Stan's hands clasped on his back were warm, but clammy.

"You're not the entire world, Stan."

Stan sighed; Kyle could swear he felt his chest heaving. "Perhaps not."

The room felt small, which was constricting, but it was safe, too.

But I figured I'd post it because, well, what good does fan fiction do the world if no one reads it?

(I know, that was pretty deep. I understand if it needs a moment to sink in.)