chapter ;; Pick the Pieces Up

rating ;; T for swearing, sexual themes, South Park, Cartman's mouth, and all those other things.

summary ;; Eric and Kyle have hated each other since grade school. It makes perfect sense that they hook up in drunken ideology and choose to go through with it in secret. Is Eric ready for a relationship, or is he going to break Kyle's heart?

info ;; This is not my very first Kyman story, but it is certainly the first one I'm putting full effort into. I'd like reviews on anything I can improve or elaborate on. I will not update until there are at least three reviews. I'm cautious with this, as I know exactly where it is going and I would greatly appreciate if I had some feedback. A song inspired the baseline idea of the story, in a very roundabout way. Perhaps through later chapters I'll mention it, but for now it will remain classified information. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy it greatly!

WARNING : Cartman/Kyle romance. Character death.

Kyle's eyes are straight ahead, watching the road with rapt attention. Red curls fall around his face, almost cover his emerald eyes, stopping short of his firmly clenched jaw. Set in a scowl, the Jewish teenager doesn't look at his passenger. They've said everything they needed to say at the motel, and Kyle doesn't want to push things further. Hands on ten and two, just as he learned in drivers ed, he notes the deer standing still in the ditch, choosing to speed by the animal before it has the chance to decide it wants to run across the road. No doubt his companion of the evening has noticed his reckless driving. Kyle was the careful, helpful Jewish boy who drove like an eighty year old grandpa.

Tonight is the exception.

Tonight, he is upset, and for once, his companion knows it. The chubby teen stares out the passenger window, leans against it, wearing a thick winter jacket only Colorado would require. A bucket of KFC sits between them on the seat of the old pickup, but neither is any bit hungry. Faint over the sound of the truck's engine, a cover of Bad Company drones on, the lyrics lost in the chug of exhaust.

"Cartman, we really need to talk," Kyle says, the volume of his own voice surprising himself.

Cartman looks across the seat, noting the lack of attention from the Jewish teenager. Not once has he looked Cartman's way, despite aiming a conversation at him. Rolling his eyes, the passenger sighs and looks back out the window. He's gotten himself in deep this time, and no amount of talking or bullying can get himself out. No, this time his problems are all his own, not that he wants to deal with any of them. Some inner instinct tells him Kyle is distressed, but doesn't give him a way to remedy it. He's spent his whole life making Kyle's miserable. To be doing the opposite was nearly unthinkable.

Then what are their continued trips into Denver?

The chubby brunette snorts, shaking his head as the thoughts cross his mind once again. He tries desperately to convince himself the trips aren't what they are, that he still hates Kyle with everything he is, that he can never care about the Jewish rat behind the wheel. Kyle thought, after the sex, things would be different. Cartman made sure they were the same. With a final year in High School, he isn't keen on being called a faggot, getting his own medicine thrown back at him. There is a terrifying reputation to uphold with his name on it, and he knows being gay will completely null everything he's done since grade school. Feeding his own father to his half-brother at a chile-con-carnival, or commanding legions of die-hard Christians to kill the Jews, don't have the same kick when the evil-doer was really gay the whole time. People aren't afraid of gays, they kill them.

"Cartman," Kyle reminds sternly.

"What do you want to talk about?" Cartman asks. He turns to look at Kyle, who adverts his gaze back to the road quickly. "I told you, so get over it. I'm over it. Look, over it. Done. Do the same."

Kyle shifts his jaw, biting his lip. A nervous habit picked up in freshman year, when things were less complicated. When you didn't have sex with your arch-enemy at Token's drunken party. When your feelings didn't drop on your head like a weight, threatening to crush you if you didn't do anything. Simpler times, in the simplest terms. Yet he cant bring himself to drop it. He simply wont allow Cartman to get off one more time. His whole life, he's gotten by for free. Time to pay up for his mistakes.

"I'm not dropping it, fat ass," he says, slowing down for the stop sign ahead. At two in the morning, he doesn't think anyone will be out, but in South Park, one can never be sure. He knows Stark's Pond is down the road, and he knows that once they pass the small body of water, he cant talk to Cartman about what happened. Denver is their Vegas, and he cant break that rule. Luckily, he doesn't have to, not for this. "But that's not what we have to talk about, either."

Cartman perks up at this, arching a thick eyebrow in curiosity. "Oh yeah?" he asks. "What do we have to talk about?"

Kyle goes silent. The road turns lazily, and he follows it with more attention than necessary. Ahead, the lane narrows and thick white fog billows from the low land surrounding Stark's Pond. Kyle considers his options before letting off the gas slowly, pressing into the thick water vapor with the large truck. He's been driving for a year now, and he knows conditions in South Park. When there's fog, there's no telling what lays beneath.

"If you're going to stay silent, turn the radio up, Jew. I hate the quiet," Cartman groans, turning back to the window, fully expecting the music to turn up by Kyle's obedient hand.

Kyle reaches down to the stereo, a sigh escaping his lips. Taking his eyes off the road for a moment, he presses at the buttons, hitting the wrong one in the dark. After changing the station three times, he finally hits the volume, turning up a familiar song. Not one of his favorites, but one that makes him smile, anyway. He turns his eyes back to the road in time to spot the deer.

Standing pristine along the yellow dashes, the pale animal's antlers raise into the fog, his legs lost in swirling white. Its head turns, and it stops mid-step as the lights hit it, reflecting it's widened eyes. Kyle shouts, grabbing the wheel and slamming on the brakes. Cartman jerks forward in his seat, restrained by the seat belt as it snares his chest, biting into his shoulder. In a moment of panic, Kyle jerks the wheel, narrowly missing the deer on the passenger side as it bolts back into the ditch, flopping white tail disappearing in the darkness and fog.

The damage has been done, and Kyle can feel the wheels of the truck slipping in the slick dew, bringing him closer to the edge of the road. Slamming the wheels into the slide, Kyle lets off the gas and prays to regain control of the vehicle. It straightens out, then goes into another fishtail. After a heart-stopping battle with the wheel, the pair feel the driver's side wheels slip off the paved road, catching in the gravel. Kyle and Cartman brace against the interior of the truck as it groans, flipping over into the ditch. It tumbles once more before landing upside down, half submerged in Stark's Pond.

Cartman coughs, gurgles, struggles against the seat belt before hearing a thick snap and falling to the ceiling of the truck. His eyes flutter open, droop closed, and darkness overtakes him.

Lights pass by evenly, casting him in a glow and taking it away. Plastic cuts into his face, his arms feel heavy, a weight is pressing into his chest and gut. Everywhere, there's shaking. Every bone in his body feels like it will shake right out, fall on the ground, and shake right off the end of the world. The plastic digging into his face hurts, and he struggles to bring his hands up, to remove the offending object, but he can't feel them. He gasps for breath, tasting sweet oxygen as it fills his lungs, but this is no euphoria he feels. Every part of his body is numb, dead, and the lights keep passing, the world keeps shaking.

"...ten cc's of morphine."

"That's too much, he'll..."

Something presses onto his forehead, and he tries to fight it, but a pressure around his neck stops him from moving. Cracking open his eyes, he squints against the lights as they pass overhead. His eyes adjust slowly, bringing the world into murky focus, showing him the breathing mask attached to his face, the white thermal sheet over his body, the white-coated doctors rushing him on the gurney. His mind makes sense of this, and his body relaxes even if his mind is still trying to work out the pieces.

"He's awake!"

"Give him more."

The sweet scent of oxygen faded, giving way to a foul smell as it pumps through the hose. A part of his consciousness knows what it is. Sleeping gas. He knows there are things he needs to do. He needs to go back to the truck, he needs to call for help. His instinct is to fight the gas, and he tries his hardest, but the nurses and doctors outnumber him. He slumps against the gurney in defeat, eyes closing as he accepts the gas.

The light isn't as harsh. It stays in one spot, coming from his right. His breathing is low and long, his head is aching, his right leg is completely numb, part of his face feels like burning water. An itch on his neck brings his hand up, scratching at it. A device attached to his finger gets in the way, and he takes it back to look at it. It glows red, clamped onto his index finger with the use of a tiny spring. Events click into place, and he jolts forward, pulling at wires stuck to his back. An alarm sounds, but his mind is on one thing. He puts his feet over the side of the hospital bed, touching the floor and teetering towards the door. He grabs the side of the bed for stability, splashing bright red across the white sheets. Confusion passes his face as he tries to grasp the red. He looks down at his wrist, sees the blood running from a tiny pin-prick, turns to see the IV dangling uselessly from the bag.

The door opens, two nurses file in quickly, cornering him against the bed. He holds his injured wrist out, staring at them blankly, before collapsing on the floor. His head hits the bed, and he curses, struggling to get on his feet once more. The younger nurse helps him, grabs him under the pit and pulls him up and onto the bed. It isn't good enough. He tries to push off the bed again, but she stops him.

"Please, you can't be walking around right now. You need to heal," she says, nodding as she pats his shoulder gently.

"Where's Kyle?" he mumbles, voice slurred with drugs and pain and who knows what.

The woman hesitates, looking to the other nurse for assistance.

He looks up at her, sees her green eyes swimming in and out of focus. "Where is Kyle?" he repeats angrily.

"Um, I'm not authorized to answer that question. I can bring the doctor in..."

Reaching out and grabbing the woman's smock, he fumbles and pulls the shirt down. He winces as the woman's name-pin opens, poking into his skin. "Where the fuck is the Jew, whore?" he demands.

The older nurse steps in, removing his hand and relieving the younger of her duties. She grabs Cartman's wrist, placing a new IV into the spot the last had pulled free from. She refits the pulse monitor on the boy's finger and looks up at him. "I'm sorry, Mr. Cartman, but the driver was killed. I'm not authorized to release any more information. Would you like me to send in a doctor?" she asked.

Cartman took his hand back, sunk into the bed. Suddenly, his world has turned upside down, and he has nowhere to turn. The nurses wait to see what he will do before leaving the room cautiously. The news sinks in the more he repeats it in his head. The more he thinks about it, the more he can see the deer as it runs off, the tail flapping wildly side to side, waving goodbye to the accident it created. He sees the window shield crack and spider out from the center as the world outside turns upside down. He remembers hearing Kyle shout out, but the words are garbled in his mind. A split second that he didn't listen, that he was too busy with his own problems and his own life.

He doesn't want to talk anymore. He doesn't want to go back to the truck. He doesn't want to go home, and he doesn't want to stay in the hospital. Every option he has is the wrong option, and he has the feeling that is the way it will be until the day he dies.

For once in his life, Eric Cartman doesn't know what he wants.

But back up, wait.

This isn't the beginning of the story.