May Nothing But Happiness Come Through Your Door

[sop]

18,022
pg-13
kenny/butters
the Stotch family goes to City Wok for dinner, Kenny waits their table, and learns that you should never second guess your fortune

“Dennis! Go a clean tables. Lots of crumbs and a food on the floor!”

“Got it, boss.”

Seven o’clock on a Thursday pulls in a whopping fifteen customers average. There’s Skeeter, per usual, who orders the same damn thing he always orders from his booth in the back: wonton soup, two egg rolls, and a General Tso’s deluxe platter. It’s served with pork fried rice instead of vegetable for a buck fifty more. There’s a couple Mr. Kim ushered to a freshly wiped table six minutes ago, complimentary fried noodles half gone. But for the most part, City Wok is dead. The restaurant thrives on take-out and delivery more so than brick and mortar service, which Kenny is in charge of. Every day after school, he pedals up and down the streets of South Park dropping off bag after bag of piping hot food, sesame oil and chicken fat watering his mouth. On nights they rake in enough cash, Mr. Kim lets him take home the ugly rejects that don’t quite make the cut. They taste like shit and make him feel like shit, but sometimes Kenny gets third trimester-level cravings for those greasy little nuggets of beef. There’s nothing else in this whole damn town that sticks to his ribs the way City Wok does. Sure beats Pop Tarts and Captain Crunch for dinner.

Tonight, however, doesn’t seem like that kind of night. Business is glacier slow; no one’s even rang their phone. He’ll probably have to heat up a can of SpaghettiO’s when he gets home and hope Karen doesn’t mind. They've been eating them three days in a row now. She usually doesn’t complain, but Kenny wishes he could feed her something else that isn’t, well, complete garbage.

Kenny sweeps up some crumbs under table five and sighs.

When the restaurant’s like this, he usually whips out his phone to text Stan some dick art, complete with jizz and balls. He’s perfected his penises over the years, adding some really sweet shit like veins and pubes into his designs, and Stan’s the only one who kind of appreciates his artistry. Stan’ll text back a lol or lmfao if he’s really into it, and then somehow steer the conversation into begging for some low key gay porn (two dudes make out while they double team a chick). It's hilarious, really, how deep in the closet Stan is. There's no fucking way he jacks it to girls, not when he's always asking for videos of that one ginger twink that kind of looks like Kyle. Wendy’d be heartbroken if she didn't already know.

So Kenny does just that and pulls out his cracked LG. It's so old it’s still got a keypad and antenna.

[sent @ 07:05pm] wut up marsh

When he doesn't get an immediate response, Kenny pockets his phone and goes back to sweeping. Ten minutes later, it buzzes.

[received @ 07:15pm] hey
[sent @ 07:15pm] wut u up to?
[received @ 07:16pm] recovering frm the party. hbu?

Yesterday, Wednesday, aka Butters’ post-birthday “but we’re actually celebrating it today” bonanza. Everyone had been invited for a round of bowling at Mick’s Lanes to celebrate Butters turning sixteen, without his oppressive parents and their ridiculous hatred for fun. Kenny had planned the whole thing on short notice when Butters’d told him between periods how he’d spent his actual birthday re-organizing the food pantry; he’d accidentally placed the Nesquik on the wrong shelf again and Mr. Stotch was not in the mood for chocolatey, soupy “oatmeal”.

“That’s fucked up,” Kenny had said, more upset about the whole ordeal than Butters was.

“Well, maybe it’ll be better next year!” Butters had replied, disgustingly chipper and hopeful of the fact as he swapped out his Algebra textbook for Chemistry.

Kenny couldn’t wait a whole goddamn year, and Butters didn’t deserve another crappy birthday.

So he convinced Kyle to provide the food and Stan to buy the drinks while he recruited anyone who wasn't busy or a total fucking asshole (see: Cartman) to meet at the bowling alley around eight.

The usual suspects showed—Craig, Tweek, Jimmy, Token—as well as a few unexpected ones—Clyde, Jason, Kevin and Wendy. Cartman came at the last minute even though he wasn't invited, but brought a present (a shitty one just so he could eat the complimentary KFC, but a present nonetheless) so Butters felt obligated to let him stay. They bowled for a bit and demolished four sixteen piece buckets before Kenny decided what this party really needed was a little more fun. He’d snuck in three unlabelled water bottles of vodka inside his parka before the festivities had started and poured shots left and right when management wasn’t looking. One for Stan, two for Kyle, three for Jimmy, and an ungodly amount for Tweek. That's when Kenny got the bright idea to get Butters to try a little mixed in with his Sprite. Butters seemed wary at first, nervous about what it'd do to him, but ultimately gave in with a flippant “what the heck”, chugging his drink without care.

That’s when shit hit the fan.

[sent @ 07:16pm] working. u still hungover?
[received @ 07:16pm] i puked my guts up after history. i think mrs walker knew
[sent @ 07:16pm] nice. hows kyle
[received @ 07:17pm] still sick. y r u asking me?
[sent @0 7:17pm] bc hes right next to u duh
[received @ 07:17pm] fuck u dude
[sent @ 7:17pm] kinky ;)
[sent @ 07:18pm] no but srsly, u heard from butters yet?

No one has, so far as Kenny knows. He’d asked around, naturally, when Butters hadn’t met him by his locker before first period. Or after third. Or when he was supposed to meet Kenny by the water fountains outside Home Ec so that they could walk to lunch together.

Fuck, if only he could afford something better than a mid 2000’s flip phone. Butters doesn’t have a phone because his parents won't let him, and Kenny doesn’t have a computer, which is why he’s relying on word of mouth to find out what went down.

[received @ 07:19] no. he wasnt at school today or on facebook. hes probably grounded or smth
[sent @ 07:19pm] fuck
[received @ 07:19pm] y do u wanna find him so bad dude
[sent @ 07:20pm] gotta initiate my plan man. i owe him one
[received @ 07:21pm] good luck dude. i think we fucked up his life. for real this time
[sent @ 7:20pm] thnx. let me know if u c him.
[received @ 07:21pm] k will do. have fun @ shitty wok
[sent @ 07:22pm] have fun holding kyles hair back when he finally voms

Mr. Kim pokes his head out from the kitchen. His combover is in shambles. “Hey! Dennis! You a cleaning the tables, yes? Spray and a wipe for shitty customers! I no pay you to stand around!”

“Yes, sir! Clean the tables! On it!” Kenny shouts back. He chucks the broom into a corner, shoves his phone back inside his pocket, and grabs the spray bottle from behind the counter along with a rag. Mr. Kim’s a questionable man and his Chinese heritage suspect, but if there’s one thing he isn’t it’s untidy.

Kenny spritzes down the cheap plastic tabletops with the appropriate amount of cleaner, enough to get the job done and not a single squirt more. He used to do this a lot back in fourth grade when he’d been hired illegally. Out of the entire child labor force, Kenny was the only one who stuck around. Mr. Kim viewed that as some bizarre form of loyalty and decided to increase his wages over the years, steadily rising from a few bucks an hour to ten cents over minimum wage. He still doesn’t have insurance or whatever, but it’s enough and Kenny kind of prefers being paid in cash anyway. No taxes or paper trail and he can hide the bills between the pages in his Playboy's. His mother doesn’t touch those.

Giving up on finding anything else out, Kenny grabs a pile of napkins and starts refilling the dispensers one table at a time.

Just as he’s ready to move on to the next table, the door chimes.

He stops counting—Mr. Kim is very particular about how many napkins go in each dispenser—and looks up. “Welcome to City Wok. Take out or dine—”

The sentence dies on the tip of his tongue.

Mr. Stotch holds the door open for his wife, Linda, who snaps like a rubber band back to her husband’s side. Butters shuffles in behind them, pushing the left door open by himself because his father closed it on him.

Kenny blinks and clears his throat. “Dine in,” he finishes.

“We’ll be dining in,” Mr. Stotch says, grip firm on his wife’s hip, as if trying to convince everyone that their relationship is picture perfect, that he isn’t “bicurious” or sneaking out at night for anonymous cock.

Butters sniffles. He looks uncomfortable and wholly out of place.

“Great. Right this way.” Kenny grabs three menus from the counter and guides the Stotches to a large table on the left. Stephen sits next to Linda, Butters opposite them, twiddling his thumbs.

So, like, this is pretty fucking awkward. Mrs. Stotch still looks really pissed. She’s got the same holier-than-thou expression from last night on her face and it’s pretty obvious she wants to keep their interactions to a minimum. Mr. Stotch, in comparison, looks fuckng serene, which means he’s probably plotting Kenny’s untimely murder or something. And sure, Kenny might’ve been the one to get Butters completely hammered, but it’s not like he’s the driving force behind Butters’ inevitable corruption. That’s all on Backdoor Sluts 9 and modern parenting’s use of television as a babysitter.

Why they’re even here, he doesn’t know. Kenny’s never seen them at City Wok before and they certainly don’t order take-out. They probably didn’t even know he waits tables here. But that’s not really important right now. What is, though, is getting Butters alone, away from his parents. They’re watching him like two possessive hawks, ready to rip apart anything that gets too close to their chick, which makes things a tad difficult.

Kenny whips out his pad of paper and a pen. “Can I start you guys off with something to drink?” he asks, voice shaking. “Some hot tea? Sodas?”

Butters opens his mouth to say something, but Mr. Stotch cuts him off before he can even form the first syllable in Coke. “I’ll take an unsweetened iced tea, sweetened for my wife, and our son would like a water. Isn’t that right, Butters?”

“Y-yes, sir,” Butters mumbles.

His head’s bowed, pretending to peruse the menu. He’s either too ashamed to look Kenny in the eye or the description for their honey garlic chicken rivals the literary genius of John Steinbeck. Not that Kenny’s read any of his shit. He doesn’t have time for books, which is why he’s currently failing English.

“Gotcha. I’ll be right back with those.” Kenny shoves the pad back into his apron, next to his smokes, and slips the pen behind his ear.

He tries not to stare as he fills their drinks, but it's hard not to.

They’re fucking nuts.

Everyone in town knows about the time Butters’ mother tried to kill him, their old car rolling into the river with Butters buckled inside. Or how they both chained him up in the basement because they’d thought their son had “risen from the dead”. Or that time Mr. Stotch had beaten Butters black and blue because Cartman prank dialed him at work, pretending to be his son, and called him a pussy over the phone. It took about three weeks for the bruises to fade.

Everyone seems to know, but no one fucking does anything about it. And, somehow, throughout all of this, Butters just keeps smiling.

His own folks put Butters’ to shame in the category for “worst of all time”, but there’s something indescribably irritating about Stephen and Linda Stotch that’s always made him hate them more. Their faux yuppie, better-than-you attitude never scored them any points in his book.

And now they’re talking loudly, to Butters.

Kenny doesn’t mean to eavesdrop (really, he doesn’t), but Jesus, it’s like they’re broadcasting their entire fucking conversation to the whole damn restaurant.

“You should be thanking us that you’re even here right now, Butters,” Mr. Stotch starts, wagging his finger. “We would’ve left you in your room, but who knows what else you might’ve gotten up to in there! More alcohol, huffing glue! Maybe a little crack cocain! This was supposed to be me and your mother’s date night. Well thanks a lot for ruining it, young man.”

“That’s right,” his mother agrees. “What you did was incredibly selfish, Butters. I hope you’re happy with yourself, because this is the only time you’ll be allowed to leave the house in a long, long while.”

Butters sniffles a little, like he’s ready to cry. Kenny forgets to pull back on the pitcher, grip on the handle knuckle-white.

“Aw, geez, mom and dad, I sure am sorry,” Butters mumbles, still staring down at the table. “I promise I’ll never do it again.”

“You’re damn right you won’t,” Mr. Stotch says. “And why didn’t you tell us that—that boyl—” he can’t say podunk white trash redneck in the middle of the restaurant so, yeah, “that boy” will do just fine “—works here!”

Butters fidgets with the hem of his sleeve, silent.

“I guess that’s what you get for trying something different,” his father mutters.

Mrs. Stotch leans into her husband’s side, gripping his arm. “Oh, Stephen. What if his MPD’s come back?”

Years ago, the Stotches had convinced themselves that Butters suffered from MPD—Multiple Personality Disorder. Of course, Butters didn’t, but it’s not like they’d had much of a presence in Butters’ adolescence to know that. So they’d shoved pills down his throat and hoped that’d fix the “problem”, solve their little dilemma with minimal interaction. Well joke’s on them because Kenny used to swipe those tiny pink capsules out of Butters’ lunchbox every day to get wicked high behind the school. And because he’d always known there wasn’t anything about Butters that needed fixing. If they do decide to get another prescription, Kenny’ll offer his services again because it’s the least he can do. The only thing, really.

“I guess we’ll have to take him to the psychiatrist and see if we can get him on those meds again. He’s clearly not in his right mind. No son of ours would get drunk behind our backs,” Mr. Stotch comments, shaking his head in disappointment. “Or flip off his own mother!”

Butters sighs.

The iced tea overflows. Kenny stops pouring and wipes his palm on a towel, moving on to Mrs. Stotch’s order.

God, what he'd give to drop a huge, fat loogie into both of their drinks, but he kind of doesn't want to get fired. This job’s the only thing he’s got going for him besides his other business venture, which is currently six feet under thanks to the democratic process. At least you’ve gotta be twenty-one and over to score weed, so Kenny’s still got some clueless fucks on his list. Namely Craig Tucker and Token Black, and, during the off season, Stan Marsh. Even their star quarterback needs to mellow out every once in awhile.

If only Butters’ parents got the memo.

Kenny returns, balancing all three drinks in one hand. Another useless talent, like sucking his own dick and coming back from the dead.

“One sweet, one not, and a water for Butters. Here ya go.” He passes them out because God forbid Linda and Stephen actually help. “You guys ready to order yet?”

Mr. Stotch closes his menu, frowning. He’s probably finished coming up with a solid alibi to absolve him of Kenny’s murder. “I’ll have the moo goo gai pan and my wife’ll have your kung pao chicken,” he says, refusing to meet Kenny’s eyes, like he's fucking diseased or something.

“I hope it packs a punch!” Mrs. Stotch jokes.

Butters’ parents cackle.

Kenny grimaces.

Butters fakes a laugh.

“White rice and egg drop soup for the two of us,” Mr. Stotch finishes. “Butters.” He turns to stare at his son.

Butters clears his throat and apprehensively points toward combo meal number five. “I-I’ll have the pork lo mein and a—”

“Now Butters,” his mother interrupts, tone soft yet stern. “That’s a lot of carbs, sweetheart. Don’t you think you should be cutting down on those? You’re never going to get rid of your pudgy tummy like that.”

“Your mother’s right, Butters,” Mr. Stotch says. “You don’t want to be tubby, do you? Especially after that little stunt you pulled last night. You should be grateful it wasn’t beer, mister, or you’d be working that gut off right now.”

Ironic considering the only one at their table who needs a fucking diet is Mr. Stotch; he’s bloated a little over the years.

Butters keeps himself pretty damn fit with the whole male cheerleader shtick he’s got going for him. Of course his parents don’t know about that little secret. They’d probably call him a queer or something if they ever found out, horrified that their son might be engaging in “feminine” extracurriculars. There’s nothing remotely girly about locking a chick’s thighs around your head, though. And, shit, Kenny wishes he’d thought of it sooner.

“Oh, geez, I-I guess not,” Butters mumbles, staring down at his palms. His thumbs are doing that twiddling thing again, a habit he falls back on whenever he’s really nervous or about to be in big trouble.

Mrs. Stotch smiles. “Of course not, honey. So why not pick something a bit healthier, hmm? Maybe a salad?”

“That’s a great suggestion.” Mr. Stotch turns to look at Kenny. “Do you have salads here?”

Kenny sighs. “Uh, I guess.” They don’t. There aren’t any fucking salads here because this is a Chinese restaurant, not a goddamn TGI Fridays.

“Excellent. Butters’ll have a salad then. With a light vinaigrette.”

Kenny pretends to scribble down Butters’ order but draws a skinny cock and balls instead. He names the shaft Stephen and its saggy testicles Linda. “Yeah, sure thing. I’ll go put that order in now. If you guys’d like to freshen up, the bathroom’s over there.” Kenny tilts his head exaggeratedly toward the hallway in the back. Butters doesn’t seem to get the hint.

Mrs. Stotch hums with interest. “Butters, why don’t you go ahead and wash those hands before you eat?”

Mr. Stotch stretches out and rests his arm across the back of his wife’s chair. “Go ahead, son. And make sure you scrub those hands well! I’ll be inspecting them when you get back!”

“Y-yes, sir!” Butters gets up and sort of shuffles out of his chair, shyly excusing himself past Kenny. Probably the most interaction they’ve had all fucking night. At school they talk all the time. During and after lunch, between classes, while Butters practices the cheerleading team’s next routine, but Butters can’t so much as look him in the eye with his parents around and that pisses Kenny off even more.

Kenny skulks over to the kitchen. “Order for table ten,” he says, pinning the revised paper to Mr. Kim’s ticket holder. He may or may not have forgotten to change Butters’ lo mein to a salad.

Mr. Kim eyes Kenny’s chicken scratch—his penmanship’s about the same as it was in fourth grade—and frowns. “Dennis, hurry up and a take noodles to the table! And then refill drinks!”

Fuck, he needs to hurry up or he’ll miss his window. “On it.”

*

Kenny makes a beeline for Butters after he finishes attending to the Stotch’s ridiculous demands (no, City Wok doesn’t have complimentary hot towels for your face and hands and, no, Kenny isn’t going to go microwave some—this isn’t Benihana’s, either), hoping to catch him before he's finished singing the whole alphabet.

Butters is on letter “m” by the time Kenny gets there. “Butters,” he says, knocking against the closed door. The only bathroom at City Wok is a single unisex stall with tacky wallpaper and Chinese lanterns for lighting. “You takin’ a shit or can I come in?” He’d push the door open, but Kenny’s not a hundred percent sure Butters has outgrown peeing with his pants around his ankles.

“Kenny? Is that you?” Butters asks from the other side, pausing mid-song.

“Yeah, it’s me. Open up, dude.”

“All right. Lemme dry my hands first.”

The water stops running, a toilet flushes, and then the door’s opening. Butters is on the other side, smiling goofily, like everything’s peachy keen. God, it should be illegal for someone to look so happy when everything is decidedly not. But then again, it wouldn’t be Butters if he wasn't grinning like a loon. Kenny’s convinced he’s the only other person in this whole fucking town who truly understands the consequences of bad parenting. Besides, like, Stan. His dad’s pretty fucked up, too.

Kenny pushes himself inside the bathroom and shuts the door behind him. “Butters, what the hell?”

Butters freezes. “I-I didn’t mean to toss the paper towel into the toilet, Kenny! Honest! There’s just no waste basket in here and—”

“I don’t care if you flushed the paper towel down the toilet, Butters.” He really doesn’t. At least not right now. But if the damn thing stops up again, Kenny’ll be the one in here with the plunger. “I’m talking about your parents. What the fuck happened last night? Why weren’t you at school? Did they ground you?”

Which are pretty stupid questions to ask.

Of course they did.

Every couple of weeks, Butters is grounded for the dumbest fucking shit. Like the time Mr. Stotch yelled at Butters for breathing a little too loudly, cold stuffing up his nose. He got two weeks for that. Or the time Butters used up the last of their cheddar cheese slices to make himself a sandwich. Three weeks. Or just yesterday, when Kenny, Stan, and Kyle had shuffled an incredibly trashed Butters up to his front door.

Kenny doesn’t even want to think about the life sentence Butters’ll be serving for that particular shitstorm.

Butters twists his fingers nervously. “Yeah,” he says after a while. “They did. Three months. No television, no video games, no friends, no nothin’. I hafta go to my room after school every day and study s-so I don’t fall into a lifestyle of sin and debauchery.” A scripted answer probably spoon-fed by Butters’ father.

“Did they do anything else?”

He really shouldn’t ask because that’s personal, but Kenny’s a little protective when it comes to Butters, and he knows if he doesn't Butters’ll keep the whole thing bottled up again.

“O-oh, uh, w-well my dad kinda whooped me after I threw up on the carpet and flipped off my mom…” Butters subconsciously tugs down on his sleeve. There's probably a goddamn bruise under it.

Kenny slumps against the door and exhales a shaky breath. “Butters, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for that to happen. Honest to God I didn’t. Jesus, I just—” He rubs his face and holds it in his hands for a moment, unbelievably guilty. He always knew he was a fuck up, but this really takes the cake, a special kind of fucked up that'd most definitely secure him a seat down in hell if he didn't have one already. No, really. He has one. Satan told him so.

Butters puts on a big smile. “It’s not your fault, Kenny. I shouldn’t have asked for that second drink. I’m no good at holdin’ my liquor.”

Of course Butters would try to apologize for something he didn’t do. Of course.

“No, look, Butters. This is my fault, okay?” Kenny says, horrified. “I gave you those fucking shots because I wanted to you to have a good time, and I fucked it up. I fucked it up worse than your actual birthday. Jesus fucking Christ.”

It’d be easier if Butters was upset or something, if he’d just say yeah, that’s right, Kenny, you’re a complete asshole for ruining my birthday and getting me grounded, but Butters doesn’t say any of that and he sure as hell doesn't get mad. Kenny secretly wishes he would. He knows how to deal with that, with angry shouting and physical violence. His parents have conditioned him to expect the worst from people considering the McCormick method of communication involves balled fists, not words, and the fact that Butters hasn't thrown a punch yet is mildly unsettling.

Butters sighs and takes a step closer, grabbing Kenny’s hand. It’s warm and soft, and Kenny likes how it feels against his own. He doesn't deserve it. “But that’s not true, Ken. Ya didn’t fuck it up.”

Kenny’d laugh at the fact that Butters just cursed if it he weren’t about to puke up his intestines. “I got you so drunk you couldn’t even walk, Butters. Me and Stan had to drag you through town, all the way to your house, and then your mom blew a gasket the second she opened the door. So please, tell me again how I didn’t ruin your goddamn birthday.” The hand Butters isn't holding shakes. He needs a light.

Butters squeezes Kenny’s fingers a bit tighter. “Kenny,” he says, his own name rolling perfectly off Butters’ tongue. “That party you threw for me mighta been the best birthday party I’ve ever had! No one’s ever done nothin’ like that for me before and I’d do it all over again if ya asked me. Honest.”

Butters is too naïve for his own good. “Butters, listen, you—”

“No, you listen here!” Butters snaps. Kenny’s jaw retracts shut. “I get grounded all the time because o’ you guys, and every time ya feel sorry for me. Well, heck, I ain't sorry! At least not this time. I had a blast yesterday even if my parents did get awful sore with me. But it was worth it, Ken, and I don't appreciate you trying to make me think otherwise! So thank you for thinkin’ about me and throwin’ that party. It was the best birthday gift anyone's ever gotten me.”

If Kenny were smoking, the cigarette would've fallen out of his mouth by now, ash flaking to the floor. Butters is never this passionate, about anything. It's kind of hot.

“You're welcome?” Kenny offers, still not sure what the appropriate response is.

“See? Was that so hard?” Butters smirks, proud of himself. He plants his hands confidently on his hips.

“Kind of. Jesus.” He had a whole speech planned, too, and, if necessary, a little groveling on his hands and knees. Looking back on it, Kenny's glad he didn't have to initiate phase two of operation “Make Everything Right With Butters”—the bathroom floor’s fucking gross.

“Well I’m glad you’re okay.” If Butters weren't so damn cute Kenny'd find him annoying. Well, more annoying. But mostly cute. “I think you need a hug right now, Kenny. Can I give ya a hug?”

Kenny knuckles his left eye, rubbing away the exhaustion (he didn’t really sleep well last night), and smiles. “Sure,” he replies because fuck it, he really does need one.

Butters wraps his tiny arms around Kenny's waist and squeezes so tight Kenny thinks he might actually crack a rib—but it feels good, being held, the warmth, Butters’ sincerity, everything. Kenny returns the gesture and hugs back like he means it, and he does. Kenny definitely does. Karen's they only one who hugs him anymore, but this feels different, not at all familial and way too intimate to be platonic. Kenny buries his nose against Butters' sweater and gets a big whiff of his detergent. It’s fresh and flowery and way cleaner than Kenny’ entire house smells. If he could just stay here like this for the rest of his shift that'd be great, but Kenny gains some perspective, realizes that they're standing inside a bathroom, City Wok’s bathroom, and that he should probably let Butters go before his parents have a conniption.

“Feel better?” Butters asks. His face is flushed, a soft red. It suits him.

“Yeah, a bit,” Kenny says. “You hugging me was not how I envisioned this whole emergency bathroom meeting going down, but it was nice.”

“How'd you think it was gonna go?”

Kenny shrugs. “With a lot more begging and maybe some free weed.” Usually Kenny just blows people for forgiveness, but something tells him Butters wouldn’t have appreciated that.

Butters’ eyes widen like saucers. “W-well I don't know about all that, but it's the thought that counts. That woulda been awful sweet of ya, Kenny.”

“Dunno if I'm sweet, but it's the best I could come up with besides changing your order. But that was kinda last minute, so it doesn't count.”

“Changed my order?”

Kenny folds his arms, proud of himself. “Yup.”

“Why?”

“We don't have salads here,” Kenny laughs.

“Ya don't?”

“Nope.”

“Then what'd ya order for me?”

“Oh, uh. The lo mein,” Kenny says. “Like you wanted.”

Butters smiles even wider, likes he's just won the goddamn lotto. “Really?” he squeaks.

Kenny smiles right back. “Really. Butters, you can eat whatever the hell you want. You look great.”

“Ya mean it, Ken?”

Jesus, this kid’s gonna be the death of him. Has been since the third grade when Butters drew that picture of them together, flying in an airplane, “My friend Kenny” scribbled in crayon. Kenny still has that drawing somewhere, shoved in a dresser drawer or something. Butters doesn't remember doodling it.

“Yeah, of course I do.” Kenny leans back against the door, arms tight across his chest. “You’re on the fucking cheerleading team for Christ’s sake. I mean, not like your parents know that, but still. You’re fucking fit, dude. No way in hell you’re fat. Did they forget Cartman exists?”

Butters gets a laugh out of that, giggling so hard he shakes like a leaf. Kenny joins him.

Over the past six years, Cartman’s weight has exploded, inversely proportional to how popular he is (i.e. not very). A lot of kids at school hate him, which, admittedly, doesn't seem all that different compared to when they were ten, but it's way more visceral now, a hatred that’s torn their tenuous friendship apart. Stan and Kyle refuse to sit next to him or even breathe the same air. Craig and his gang occasionally entertain Cartman during lunch, and Butters… Well, Butters has learned that Cartman never really valued their relationship in the first place and that he’s way better off without him. Probably the best damn decision Butters ever made besides donning spandex on most Friday and Saturday nights.

“Yeah, that’s true,” Butters says, confident. “Boy, it’s no walk in the park, neither. They make us do all sorts of exercises like runnin’ and jumpin’ and a million squats! It’s not easy pickin’ those girls up!” Obviously, judging by how toned Butters’ arms look under his thin sweater. He’s not ripped exactly, but he’s definitely got some muscle. Kenny has a similar build courtesy of lifting boxes packed to the brim with soy sauce and MSG. “‘Cept I'm gonna hafta quit when I go back to school tomorrow,” he sighs, sounding so pathetically sad.

Kenny's throat closes up. “Wait, what? Why?”

“Cuz I'm grounded,” Butters explains. “I can't go to practice if I'm supposed to be studyin’ in my room at the same time.”

Fuck. Kenny kinda forgot about that part and now he feels guilty all over again. “You could tell them. That you're on the team,” he suggests unhelpfully, knowing fully well that Butters can't because it'd only end in yet another three months being added to his solitary confinement.

Butters exhales a long, shaky breath, shoulders slumping. “Ya know I can't, Ken. I'll just tell coach the truth and hope she lets me join the team again for basketball season. Oh, I sure hope the girls won't be too sore with me.”

So, on top of ruining half of Butters’ sophomore year and his social life, Kenny’s gone and nuked his chances at becoming co-captain. Incredible.

“If they are just tell ‘em it’s my fault their base is under house arrest. I'll take the heat.”

Kenny's fucked a few girls on the squad before, out of boredom mostly. It didn't mean anything. A couple of them got really pissed when he told 'em that, but he's pretty sure their wrath back then can't compare to the apocalyptic hellfire he's about to inspire from the whole fucking team. Their coach, too.

“Uh, well, okay, Ken. But they may not be too happy.” Butters is fucking clueless when it comes to chicks. Kenny isn't sure whether to categorize that as annoying or adorable.

“It'll be fine.” It won't. He needs to fix this. “You should get back out there though, your parents might bust down the door any second now. It's been like—” Kenny checks his phone “Like seven minutes, dude. I don't want them catching you in here with me.” They'd combust into flames if they did.

“O-okay. Well, um. Thanks for bein’ a pal and apologizin’. I sure do appreciate it!” Butters walks past Kenny and turns the knob. “And sorry about the paper towel! I really didn't mean to chuck it in there! Honest!” he throws over his shoulder before leaving.

Kenny watches Butters walk down the hall, snorts, and then whips out his cellphone

*

[sent @ 07:40pm] hey bebe i need a favor
[sent @ 07:41pm] bebe!!!!
[sent @ 07:43pm] stop sucking clydes dick and look at ur phone
[received @ 07:43pm] wtf kenny??? wut do u want????
[sent @ 07:44pm] i need a favor
[received @ 07:44pm] wut kind of favor
[sent @ 07:44pm] a cheerleading favor
[received @ 07:45pm] im not hooking u up w/ another girl kenny. ashley and miranda hate ur guts
[sent @ 07:45pm] this isnt a booty txt. i need ur help wit smth
[received @ 07:45pm] help w/ wut???
[sent @ 07:46pm] wut would happen if the team lost butters
[received @ 7:46pm] …….r u srs rn?
[sent @ 07:45pm] im srs. wut would happen
[received @ 07:46pm] wed fucking lose to north park thats what.
[received @ 07:47pm] dont tell me u...omfg. u did. ISTG IF U FUCKED UP OUR CHANCES IM GONNA KILL YOU FOR REAL
[sent @ 07:47pm] k but how could we hypothetically fix that
[received @ 07:47pm] I DONT KNO U ASSHOLE. WTF DID U DO??????? AND WHAT ‘WE’????
[sent @ 07:48pm] well u better start thinking of smth b/c i might have just screwed the team. metaphorically. not literally this time
[received 07:48pm] FUCK U KENNY MCCORMICK!!!!!!!!!!
[sent @ 07:48pm] thnx but no thnx. i dont wanna make clyde cry. again

*

The Stotches’ orders are done thirty minutes later. Mr. Kim has them hot and ready on the counter, waiting to be delivered to table number ten. All Kenny has to do is bring them over on a tray. But before he drops their plates off, he thinks a little revenge is in order, on Butters’ behalf of course.

They're tearing Butters a new one again—bitching and moaning about his poor taste in friends (Kenny specifically, that he’s a goddamn troublemaker and horrible influence; they’re not wrong) and how Butters is going to end up homeless under a bridge if he doesn't watch it, nevermind the fact that there aren't any fucking bridges in South Park.

Skeeter and the couple at table six paid about ten minutes ago so it’s just the Stotches. Which is perfect, because what Kenny has planned is definitely going to get him fired. If anyone catches him in the act, that is. He needs this job, sure, but he needs Butters’ forgiveness more.

“—and you know what happens to people who sleep under bridges, Butters? They get AIDS and die! That’s what’s going to happen to you if you don’t watch it, mister!”

“That's right, Butters. And after that, who knows what else you'll become addicted to?! Heroin? Crystal meth? Lady Gaga?!”

“Oh hamburgers. I think I might be addicted to that last one already...”

“Oh, God, he's already slipping, Stephen! Our son is becoming an addict!”

“Now you've gone and made your mother upset, Butters! Congratulations!”

“Aww, gee whiz.”

Butters looks up for a fraction of a second, just long enough to catch what Kenny’s doing over by the counter. It's obvious he doesn't mean to laugh because his parents are really tearing into him, but he makes the tiniest little squeak that throws his father off, speech dead in the water.

“What the hell is so funny about this, Butters?!”

“N-nothin’, sir!”

“It better be nothing! AIDs is no laughing matter, young man!”

It’s not. It totally isn't. What is, though, is all the hot chili sauce Kenny's dumping into Mrs. Stotch’s kung pao chicken, usually reserved for “$5 Sucky-Sucky Night”; you pay five bucks and Mr. Kim’ll gives you a cup of his super spicy sauce, and whoever manages to suck it all down gets a free T-shirt plus their picture taped to the wall. No one's ever been able to get through the whole cup before. Partially because the sauce actually burns your tongue. Partially because the restaurant keeps attracting the wrong customers with a name like “$5 Sucky-Sucky Night”. Mr. Kim doesn't seem to understand why.

Kenny slathers a liberal amount on every single piece before moving onto Mr. Stotch’s surprise.

He’s got something else in mind for him.

Mr. Kim keeps a bottle of Milk of Magnesia under the counter. Kenny supposes after years of eating the shit he cooks, Mr. Kim is now incapable of actually taking one, cornstarch and sesame oil clogging his bowels. Kenny grabs the small bottle, makes sure to let Butters take a good look at the label, and then dumps a couple capfuls into the sauce; Kenny mixes it well and good so that the laxative mostly blends in. This shit’s no joke. It guarantees a movement in twenty minutes or less and the fact that Kenny just doubled the dosage should, hopefully, speed things up.

Butters slaps a hand over his mouth because he’s giggling like a five year old.

His parents fidget in their chairs, backs turned to the culinary fiasco behind them.

“What on Earth is wrong with you, Butters?!” Mr. Stotch snaps.

“H-hiccups, sir! J-just a bad case o’ the hiccups,” Butters lies behind a snort.

“Well you better swallow those hiccups, young man! Now’s not the time for trapped air! And where the hell is our food? I knew we should’ve gone to Bennigan’s.”

Kenny figures now’s as good a time as any to drop their food off, before Mr. Stotch commands Butters to stop breathing or something else equally ridiculous. “Sorry for the wait,” he says, stopping next to their table. “Here’s your orders.” He sets the tray down on the table by theirs and passes out their meals. “Kung pao chicken for Mrs. Stotch, moo goo gai pan for Mr. Stotch, aaand the lo mein for Butters.”

“Lo mein?” Mrs. Stotch says, confused. “I thought Butters ordered the salad.”

“Yeah, um, we—we ran out of, uh. Salad. We ran out of it,” Kenny replies as he puts her egg drop soup down.

“You ran out of salad,” Mr. Stotch repeats, tone dry.
“Yup. We ran out. It’s a pretty popular menu item,” Kenny says, smiling. Butters is smiling, too. “Anyway, enjoy your meals. I’ll go refill your drinks. Lemme know if you need anything else.”

Kenny bites the inside of his cheek to keep from cackling like a lunatic.

Fuck their salad.

*

The best thing about Mr. Kim’s chili sauce is that it takes a little bit before the heat starts to sink in, sneaking up on you when you least expect it and then—bam! Your tongue's numb. Mrs. Stotch eats her sixth piece of chicken, chews about three—four times, and then recoils, face scrunching, like she’s just ingested one of Cartman’s rancid farts. “Oh, my!” she exclaims loud enough for Kenny to hear all the way on his side on the restaurant.

“What is it, mom?” Butters says, trying so very, very hard not to give anything away.

“This chicken is incredibly spicy,” she replies, eyes watering. “Oh my goodness, I think—I think it's burning my tongue!” Her mouth drops open, panting desperately like a dog. Mrs. Stotch looks around frantically for something to drink. Kenny still has their glasses hostage.

Mr. Stotch leans across the table, concerned. “Linda, are you all right?” He looks over his shoulder, at Kenny. “Could we get those drinks back? My wife's thirsty over here!”

The second Kenny gives Mrs. Stotch her iced tea, she snatches the glass from his hand and starts to chug, downing the whole thing in about ten seconds. Her forehead's perspiring, there's sweat beading on her chest and arms, and her face is the brightest shade of red Kenny's ever seen. Jesus fucking Christ he's gonna lose his shit. Butters is, too, judging by how hard he's biting down on his chopsticks; the wood might actually snap in half. That or he’ll break a tooth.

“Another refill, please,” Mrs. Stotch begs, voice strained. She's shaking worse than Tweek does after five cups of coffee.

“You got it,” Kenny says, smirking. Not in a “haha that's what you deserve, bitch” kind of way, but a “waking up on Christmas morning to find food stamps in your stocking” way—which isn't a universal experience for most kids, but the feeling definitely is. And that's how Kenny feels right about now—giddy, excited, juvenile, and so very pleased with himself. Santa’s got nothing on him.

Mrs. Stotch continues to suck down glass after glass of iced tea, which then becomes water after she finishes the whole pitcher by herself.

“Just how spicy is your kung pao chicken?” Mr. Stotch snaps, panicked.

Kenny refills Mrs. Stotch’s water glass for the tenth time. “Well, it definitely packs a punch,” he jokes.

The Stotches frown.

Butters spits out a noodle.

“I’m fine,” Mrs. Stotch says, fanning herself. She’s got some intense underboob sweat going on. Her makeup’s melting, too. “I’ll just eat the rice for a little bit to help cool my tongue. Goodness gracious, it sure is spicy, though.”

“Linda,” Mr. Stotch says, wiping his face with a napkin. He's about three quarters of the way done. “If the chicken’s too spicy, then maybe you shouldn’t—oh.”

Kenny grins, elbows on the counter, head resting in his hands.

There it is.

Mrs. Stotch stops mutating into a fish long enough to put her water down. “Stephen? Stephen, what’s wrong?”

Oh, this is too good.

Mr. Stotch’s fork clatters to the plate. He loosens the knot on his tie. “I, u-uh. I think I need. Bathroom. I need to go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back,” he says, breathing it out in one big rush of air.

He practically leaps out of his seat and runs toward the hallway, racing past Kenny on his way there. Kenny pinches the bridge of his nose and waves a hand in front of his face. Jesus fucking Christ, Mr. Stotch might’ve actually shit himself.

Butters’ mother fans herself with a napkin. “Oh my goodness,” she declares for the second time that night, still sweating profusely.

Kenny pops some fried noodles into his mouth to keep from howling with laughter. He shoots Butters a glance, just to see what his face is like now, and is pretty damn pleased because Butters is snorting water out of his fucking nose.

Phase three of “Make Everything Right with Butters” is a complete, unmitigated success.

*

Roughly thirty-five minutes and sixteen seconds later (Kenny’s been watching the wall clock for posterity) Mr. Stotch emerges from the bathroom. He looks as though he’s been through absolute hell—Kenny would know. Pit stains under his arms, drenched shirt, walk of toilet shame, and faintly smelling of crap, he takes a seat next to his wife, groaning with a mixture of pure agony and embarrassment. Because he just shit himself. Inside City Wok.

Not missing a beat, Kenny slides up to their table, small tray of fortune cookies and check in hand. Mr. Stotch feebly grabs the check holder, stares at the bill, and then reaches for his wallet. He’s got this look on his face like he knows Kenny fucked with their food, but if he does, Mr. Stotch doesn’t say anything. It’s not like he has proof. Beside the uncontrollable diarrhea currently headed straight for the sewers.

“Well, I hope you guys enjoyed your meals,” Kenny starts, grinning.

“Just delicious!” Butters chirps. He finished his entire plate.

Mr. Stotch grunts softly and passes the bill back to Kenny, credit card sticking out from the top. If Kenny were a complete asshole, he’d steal their information to buy enough toilet paper and eggs for the greatest teepee prank of all time, but he’s not. Butters still has to live with them.

He swipes the card and returns with a pen in hand. “All right, you’re all set. Thank you for dining at City Wok. Come back any time!”

Yeah, they won’t. Ever. Kenny’s cool with that.

Mrs. Stotch stops wiping herself mid-pat to open a fortune cookie. She rips off the plastic, snaps the cookie in half, and eats the wafer, ignoring the small piece of paper inside. It lies crumpled on the table.

Butters stares at her while she eats. “Mom, you’re not gonna read your fortune?” he asks, pocketing his own cookie before anyone notices. They’d probably tell him to put it back or something, like one little cookie’s gonna fuck up his weight.

“Oh, no. I’m not,” she replies. “I don’t really believe in those sorts of things.”

“It’s bad luck if ya don’t,” Butters argues. He seems really adamant about it and grabs her fortune for her, reading it aloud. “‘A friend asks only for your time not your money’,” Butters recites, smiling. “A-and your lucky numbers are 5 12 45 21 10 67.”

“Well this friend is asking for your money, Butters,” his father says as Kenny starts bussing their table, stacking their dirty dishes onto his serving tray.

Kenny stops long enough to accidentally eavesdrop again. Totally not on purpose.

“Uh, w-what?” Butters asks, straightening in his chair.

“You’re in charge of the tip, young man. Don’t you remember our little rule about eating out now?” Butters is giving him this deer in headlights look, so Mr. Stotch takes it upon himself to reiterate the details of their incredibly stupid arrangement. “Your mother and I pay for the meal, but now that you’re sixteen, you should be chipping in with the expenses.”

Butters’ eyes go wide. “Oh, hamburgers,” he moans. Whatever money Butters had yesterday is property of Mick’s Lanes now. Kenny feels like such a fucking asshole.

Mr. Stotch stands, chair legs scraping against the floor. “Then I guess you’ll be helping him clean this mess up, mister! Come on, Linda.”

Butters panics, rising to his feet as well. His parents are already halfway to the door. “Wh-where are you guys goin’?” he stammers, sounding like the human embodiment of every puppy, kitten, or hamster ever abandoned in a cardboard box on the sidewalk.

“Your mother and I are going home!” his father yells, arm winding around Butters’ mother’s waist. “Maybe a little hard work will knock some sense into you, Butters. And don’t you even think about coming home until you’ve worked off what you owe!” All, like, seven bucks.

“Goodbye, Butters! Don’t drink! Or do drugs!” Mrs. Stotch calls over her shoulder, waving.

The bell chimes as the Stotches leave, door slamming closed behind them.

At least the room smells better.

Kenny opens his mouth to attempt an apology, but Butters cuts him off with a sigh, moaning: “Well, shit.”

*

Ixnay on the whole success thing.

Yeah, it—it wasn’t.

*

[sent @ 08:30pm] so like i found butters
[received @ 08:30pm] for real? where is he?
[sent @ 08:30pm] attached_image_342342.jpeg
[received @ 08:31pm] why tf is he washing dishes w/ u????
[sent @ 08:31pm] long story man long story
[received @ 08:32pm] his parents sell him into slavery or smth?
[sent @ 08:32pm] nah but they ditched him here b/c he didn’t have tip $
[received @ 08:32pm] wtf r u srs?
[sent @ 08:33pm] would he b washing dishes if i wasn’t...
[received @ 08:34pm] so like hows he doing?
[sent @ 08:34pm] ok. hes better @ this than me lol
[received @ 08:34pm] i meant emotionally dumbass
[sent @ 08:35pm] oh. well. fine? i guess. its butters dude. u kno how he is
[received @ 08:35pm] tru. but like is he? for real?
[sent @ 08:35pm] idk lol but im gonna try and make things right. i just want him 2 b happy
[received @ 08:35pm] gay
[sent @ 08:36pm] wutever just make sure u dont tongue fuck kyle 2 hard or hes gonna puke in ur mouth
[received @ 08:36pm] KENNY!!!! DUDE WEAK
[sent @ 08:36pm] the tongue fucking or the puking??? sum ppl r into that
[received @ 08:36pm] just stfu and go back to playing house w/ butters
[sent @ 08:37pm] when he gives birth to that food bb ill name it after u guys <3
[received @ 08:37pm] thats sick dude
[sent @ 08:37pm] :( and i was gonna ask u guys 2 b godparents

*

The only positive about this whole experience is that Butters is really fucking good at entertaining customers. Like, crazy good.

Thirty minutes after what Kenny has since dubbed “The Crappening”, Butters is flittering around the restaurant taking orders, filling drinks, wiping tables, and fetching menus. Amongst the vast repertoire of characters Butters used to slip in and out of as a child exists “Garçon Butters”, a character Cartman had invented exclusively for his stuffed animal tea parties. Butters would pour Mountain Dew into their tiny cups and portion a couple handfuls of Cheesy Poofs onto their plates, making sure each doll was served before Cartman, naturally, sucked everything down. The game was super fucked up and pretty damn manipulative in retrospect—Butters being Cartman’s pseudo slave and all—but Kenny’s pretty grateful Butters knows his way around a kitchen right about now because the sudden influx of late night customers is almost too much for him to handle on his own.

Apparently there’s this super posh, amazing multicultural festival thing going down in SoDo SoPa tonight and because the restaurants by Kenny’s house aren’t diverse enough, they’ve all come here—drunk as fuck and ready to sample some “authentic” Chinese cuisine.

The restaurant’s packed.

Kenny told him to just hang around. To like, sit down at a table or something and twiddle his thumbs, but Butters being Butters politely refused and insisted that he at least help out because “ya can’t serve all these people on your own, Ken!” which, okay, yeah. That’s true. But Christ, this wasn’t how it—any of it—was supposed to go down.

Butters is currently wearing Kenny’s apron and scribbling down table six’s order while simultaneously greeting the next group coming through the door.

“Hello! Welcome to City Wok!” Butters says with a megawatt smile.

Mr. Kim steps out from the kitchen and frowns. “No, no, no. You got it all wrong. Like this, Bobby: Hello! Welcome to City Wok. Can I take a order, please?”

Butters makes this cute little sound Kenny can’t quite categorize, but it’s really fucking adorable, like a cross between a gasp and a hiccup. “O-oh! Okay!” He clears his throat. “Hello! Welcome to City Wok! Can I take a order, please?” he tries again, giving it his all.

Mr. Kim pats Butters’ shoulder. “Good, Bobby. Good. You make a good employee. You won’t get paid because I not gonna hire you. But, good, good!”

“Well, I don’t need the money, sir. I’m just here to help out my best friend in the whole wide world, Kenny!” Butters says cheerily.

And now Kenny’s smiling too, so wide his cheeks start to hurt because goddamn, what Butters just said might’ve been the nicest fucking thing he’s heard all night. No, scratch that. All fucking year.

“Whatever. Now go cut more vegetables for city soup! Quick, hurry! More customers coming!”

The kitchen isn’t exactly spacious, but there’s enough room for the two of them. Kenny flash fries some more chicken in the wok while Butters slices mushrooms and peppers.

“Boy, Kenny, you’re pretty good at that!” Butters comments, grabbing another button cap. Like hell City Wok can afford shiitake.

Kenny smirks. “Yeah, I’m not too shabby. We actually do a little cooking in Home Ec every now and then.” When they aren’t learning how to pick up sugar daddies.

“It sure looks like fun! Ya think I should join next year? We’d be in the same class and everything.”

Their schedules don’t exactly align. Kenny never was smart enough for honors classes and Butters doesn’t slouch when it comes to academics; his parents won’t let him. They only time they get to hang out around school is between periods or during lunch, which is too fucking short in Kenny’s esteemed opinion. So being in a class together, like Home Ec, would be super fucking sweet.

“Yeah, dude!” Kenny says, flicking his wrist. The breaded chicken jumps in the wok. “You totally should. It’s pretty fucking awesome. I mean, you learn how to cook and shit, and sometimes you sew, which is really helpful because they teach you how to fix all your busted clothes.”

For real though, Home Ec’s pretty fucking rad and Kenny’s glad he took the course again. He always liked it in elementary—even if his intentions were less than pure, fueled entirely by the desire to pick up chicks—but now that he’s older, Kenny actually appreciates the bullshit housewifey stuff the other guys relentlessly tease him for. Seriously, it’s awesome that he can fix Karen’s tattered skirts or patch the moth holes in her t-shirts now.

“Gosh, that sounds pretty swell, Kenny. I sure would love to take it! I-I don’t think my folks would approve, though. And the only thing I know how to cook is Eric’s powdered donut pancake surprise.” Which doesn’t require all that much cooking in the first place. It’s pure diabetes on a plate. Butters is pretty good at slicing those vegetables, though. They’re roughly the same size.

“Fuck your parents. They’re assholes. What’s one more secret anyway?” Kenny winks at Butters.

Butters flushes. “Well when ya put it that way…”

“I think you should go for it. If you wanna crochet, fucking crochet. If you wanna bake some goddamn brownies, bake some goddamn brownies. Just do whatever the hell makes you happy, Butters. Don’t let anyone stop you.”

“Being with you, Kenny, sure does make me happy,” Butters mumbles over the loud hiss of oil and Kenny has to stop cooking—stop breathing—because Butters did not just—he fucking didn’t. But he did. And Kenny doesn’t know how to respond to that.

It’s like he’s been shot, and he knows damn well what that feels like. A knife to the gut, someone ripping out his insides, a motherfucking chainsaw slicing through his right arm.

None of that compares to the sharp ache in his chest.

Oh God, it’s fucking worse than being reborn.

“Yeah?” Kenny says, licking his suddenly chapped lips. He really, really needs that smoke.

“Uh huh. You’re always bein’ extra nice, makin’ me smile a whole lot, and I sure do appreciate how you’re always lookin’ out for me,” Butters rambles. “And when you put all that spicy chili sauce on my mom’s food and then my dad went and crapped himself, right in his pants!” Butters giggles and the sound is almost distracting enough to make Kenny burn his order. “Geeze, these last two days’ve been the best of my life. And it’s all because o’ you, Ken.”

Kenny’s chest does something twisty and tight, heart galloping a mile a minute. “Butters, I—”

“Oh, shoot!”

The parry knife in Butters’ hand clatters to the floor, a couple drops of blood splattering on the cutting board.

“Shit, Butters, are you okay?” Kenny moves the hot wok to one of the unused burners and grabs Butters’ wrist instinctively, inspecting the cut.

“It’s not that bad.” Butters winces a little when Kenny moves his ring finger around. “Just took me by surprise is all.”

It’s not bad at all. Just a little nick, but it’s bleeding pretty steadily and Kenny doesn’t like how shocking the blood looks against Butters’ pale skin.

Kenny rummages around under one of the cabinets until he’s pulling out their shitty little first aid kit. Mr. Kim’s cheap, but not that cheap. There’s some neosporin, bandages, and gauze inside, but Kenny doesn’t think he’ll need all that. Just the first two, probably.

He runs some water over Butters’ cut, pats it dry, and then squeezes a generous (too generous) amount of neosporin over the wound. When it’s good and slick, Kenny rips open the band-aid with his teeth and wraps it snug around Butters’ finger. Not too tight cuz he doesn’t want it to hurt.

“Better?” Kenny asks, like he’s a worried mother hen and Butters his accident-prone chick.

Butters flexes his finger and smiles. “I think so. It still hurts a little when I move it.”

When he’s high like, three hours from now, the answer’ll be crystal fucking clear, but Kenny doesn’t understand what currently possesses him to take Butters’ wrist, bring his bandaged finger to his lips, and kiss it. Actually fucking kiss it. Like they’re middle school sweethearts.

Butters blushes so hard Kenny can feel it against his face.

“How about now?” Kenny says, all slippery smooth, like he’s trying to pick Butters up and—oh. Oh.

Shit.

“Feels better,” Butters mumbles so softly Kenny can barely hear it over the blood pounding in his ears.

There’s this little voice in Kenny’s heading saying kiss him you moron (he’s working on it, okay?! Jesus…) and he’s about ready to listen to that voice too, when Mr. Kim bursts through the kitchen and shakes his fist.

“Hey, that’s not a part of recipe!” he screams, pointing at the blood on the cutting board. “Quit screwing around and finish those orders!”

Effectively killing the mood, which Kenny’s a little thankful for because he doesn’t know just where it would’ve taken him.

Or what he might’ve done.

*

(That’s not true, he does know.

He’s just a little scared of facing it and—

and—

Fuck.)

*

They close up shop sometime around eleven.

Kenny’s burnt out and Butters can’t possibly pour anymore green tea.

Mr. Kim sends them on their way fifteen minutes later, complimenting Butters on his incredible performance while not-so-subtly reminding him that he won’t see a single cent for his stellar service. And that he needs to get the fuck out of his restaurant. Now.

But before Kenny bikes Butters home (because he’s a goddamn gentleman...and because Butters doesn’t have an actual ride anymore, which is, like, kind of his fault) Kenny excuses himself to go smoke.

His last cigarette was around seven hours ago, just after school, with Craig.

It’s a filthy habit, one he knows’ll end up killing him (ha!), but Kenny’s a bastard who never knew when to quit, and he could use a nicotine high right about now. His stomach’s still doing that queasy earthworm thing, squirming and slithering whenever Butters gets too close. His hands are shaking, too. Have been since Butters blindsided him with those big eyes and even bigger talk.

Kenny slouches against the wall and takes a satisfying drag. Christ, it feels good. Really fucking good. Better than sex. Almost.

Butters wanders over while Kenny’s working on his third puff, worrying the hem of his sleeve again, eyes droopier than Mrs. Choksondik’s tits. The stray cat around the corner must’ve left. Kenny vacated the scene ten seconds ago, before Butters’ cute cooing triggered a spontaneous heart attack.

“I’ll be done in a minute,” Kenny explains, huffing down the cigarette a bit faster. “Just needed one real quick.”

“Take your time, Kenny! I ain’t in a rush or nothin’,” Butters says, voice thin. He’s wiped. Kenny needs to get him home soon, before his parents flip their shit.

A cool, October breeze kicks up the leaves around their feet, whipping the scattered trash and newspapers into a frenzy. Butters shivers and clutches his arms. It’s gotta be forty degrees out here.

Kenny grunts and clamps down on the cigarette between his lips, shucking his parka off. “Here,” he mumbles, “take it,” offering the orange jacket with his left hand.

Butters stares at the coat, perplexed by its proximity and relative distance from Kenny’s body. “Oh, no. Kenny, I couldn’t. Yer gonna get cold out here.” He smiles apologetically, trying so hard to be polite, waving his hands in a universal display of “no, but thank you!”. The sound of his chattering teeth says otherwise.

Kenny sighs and takes a step forward, forcibly pushing the parka into Butters’ arms. “Nah, I’ll be fine,” he insists, because he will be. For the most part. He’s no fan of the cold (hence all those years stuffed inside a coat, the one he wore throughout the entirety of elementary school, the very same one he had to toss in sixth grade because his arms wouldn’t stop growing), but he can deal with it, better than Butters at least. The Stotches pay their electricity bill. The McCormicks’ pile up.

“You sure?” Butters fidgets with the zipper, almost sold on the idea of wearing it.

“A hundred percent, dude. Go ahead. Wear it.”

“Well, uh, th-thanks, Ken! If ya get cold, though, let me know and I’ll give it straight back, you hear?”

Kenny snorts. “Yeah, sure thing, Butters. Just put it on. You’re shaking.”

He’d be lying if he said Butters didn’t look good in his parka, swallowed up by the heavy fabric, practically swimming in those sleeves. It’s way too big for him, too long, but Butters grins like a loon anyway, cocooning himself inside Kenny’s second home. He rubs his nose against the collar, sighs, and Kenny swallows because those goddamn earthworms just won’t go away.

“Better?” Kenny says. He takes another drag.

“Much! Thanks a bunch, Ken!” Butters zips up the coat and shoves his hands inside the pockets.

Kenny smirks. “No problem.”

It’s still windy as fuck and Kenny’s hair keeps getting in his eyes, but Butters looks comfortable now and that’s what’s important. Goosebumps be damned.

Butters throws the hood up and wrinkles his nose. “It sure does smell a whole lot like you, Kenny.” He takes a deep breath, eyelashes fluttering closed. They’re so fucking long.

Kenny’s gonna need another cigarette. “Yeah?” he says, voice thick with smoke. “What’s it smell like?”

“Like—” Butters takes another deep breath. Kenny remembers to take one, too. “Like smoke,” he says after a beat. “But not from your cigarettes. Like something’ else. Dunno what, but it’s smoky all right. And—” another “—and—and shavin’ cream, and somethin’ real, real warm. Like apple pie, but better!” Butters smiles dreamily, like he’s remembering his first kiss with Sally Darson behind the temp building. “Or maybe it’s the Chinese food. But, uh, that’s what you smell like, Ken. I-It’s real nice.” Butters blushes a little and hides behind the flap of Kenny’s hood.

Kenny chokes on his fucking cigarette. “That so?” he says, expression wiry, still coughing a little. Butters being...Butters shouldn't be this big a turn on.

Butters picks up on his own momentary lapse in sanity and giggles. “Sure is. Boy, I bet if you washed it, it’d still smell the same.”

He doesn’t have the heart to tell Butters that he’s never (not once since he bought the damn thing at the mall) actually washed it. Granted, Kenny hasn’t had the jacket for all that long, really, but it’s gotta smell worse than what Butters is describing. There’s no way Kenny’s remotely comparable to apple fucking pie.

“Maybe after tonight it won’t,” Kenny adds, smirking, some casual flirting slipping through the cracks.

“Huh? Why’s that?” Butters’ nose does this cute little wrinkle and—Jesus when did he start noticing Butters’ goddamn nose?!

“Cuz you’re wearing it,” Kenny says. “And someone like you—” he pauses to take another hit, contemplating whether he wants to go this far and “—yeah, you’d leave a mark.” Kenny winks for dramatic effect.

And that—that really turns Butters redder than a tomato. Butters about-faces and stares at the street because his cheeks and ears just won’t stop burning. He coughs to clear his throat, trying his damndest to keep it together. Kenny grins, thinking he could do this all day.

He flirts. A lot. With chicks, dudes, and sometimes his friends. It’s always a riot when Kyle squawks like an indignant parrot, Stan silently asserting his dominance, two seconds away from unzipping his fly and taking a piss over what’s his if Kenny doesn’t back the fuck off. Which definitely confirms their repressed homo-ness for each other.

But flirting with Butters is—it’s—it’s fucking Butters. He’s like the driven snow and the second coming of Christ all wrapped up inside this little bundle of kindness, fueled by determination and unrelenting optimism. Kenny’s trailer trash sans the trailer and probably the last person in this crappy little town worthy of being this close. He’s done a lot of questionable shit on account of his immortality, and, honestly, Butters deserves a lot better. He deserves someone stable, someone normal, someone safe. Kenny doesn’t meet the criteria for any of those things, not by a long shot, but he’s selfish and nobody’s ever given a shit about him the way Butters has—does.

“Hey, Kenny?” Butters says when he’s calmed down, somewhat composed. “What’s it like?”

Kenny finishes the last of his cigarette and stubs it out against the wall and, because he’s an asshole, flicks the butt to the ground. “What’s what like?” he says, already reaching for a second.

“Smokin’.” Butters replies, twiddling his thumbs. “I ain’t never had a cigarette before. Why d’ya like it so much? I mean, aren’t ya scared of...ya know…?” He waves his hand, silently implying lung cancer, COPD, emphysema, the light at the end of the tunnel.

A montage of their fourth grade Butt it Out! assembly flashes before his eyes. Kenny shudders. “Dunno,” he says, playing with the cigarette between his fingers. “Guess it’s something to do. Makes me feel good. Less stressed and shit.”

Whenever his parents get particularly rowdy, usually after they’ve drank themselves stupid(er), Kenny’ll burn through a whole pack while he sits on the hood of one of the junkers in the front lawn, wait out their bullshit, pretend he can’t hear his dad call his mom a slut or that she’s swung the lamp (their only lamp) at his head again. He’d take Karen with him, but the last thing she needs is secondhand smoke. He’s stupid, but not that stupid.

“You could always try yoga!” Butters suggests.

“Yoga?” Kenny says, incredulous. “Like, all that stretching and namaste bullshit?”

“Yup! It’s pretty great, actually.”

“Wait, since when do you do yoga?” Not exactly something the Stotches would approve of.

“Since I joined the team,” Butters explains. “All the girls told me it was a whole mess o’ fun so I said ‘what the heck’ and tried it, and guess what? I love it! We always do a little before practice starts. I bet you’d really like yoga too if ya gave it a shot, Ken.”

Cue a parade of illicit thoughts including, but not limited to, Butters’ rear snug inside criminally tight yoga pants, stretching on all fours, ass in the air, arms above his head and—abort! ABORT!.

Kenny discretely adjusts himself in his pants. “Maybe I'll join you one o’ these days,” he says, hand shoved deep in his jeans pocket, hoping Butters won't notice a damn thing. He takes another drag. “I mean, if you love it, can't be all that bad, right?”

Butters blushes.

Christ, he needs to tone it down.

“A-and it’s much healthier for ya, Ken! I’d be awful sad if something bad happened to ya. Honest, I would,” Butters stammers, right foot twisting back and forth, staring down at the nonsensical pattern he’s tracing. “Boy, I...I don’t know what I’d do if ya died.”

The punched out sound Kenny makes surprises them both, startling Butters from his daydreamy confession.

No one gives a damn.

Except Butters.

Karen loves him, sure. She says as much in the morning and before bed. Kevin, too, when he’s not drunk and calling from the last remaining payphone in the continental U.S.. But it’s different. Because they know just what the fuck Kenny’s dealing with on a daily basis here. Co-passengers on a one-way trip to Rock Bottom.

Butters is in a different boat entirely, but he still cares whether Kenny sinks or swims.

And Stan and Kyle. They’re cool dudes. Always have been. Like weird, incestuous brothers in a way. And they love him, sure. They do. But not as deeply as Butters does.

Kenny almost wishes he could undo every death—accidental, intentional, homicidal. Whatever. All so he could wipe away the look currently on Butters’ face, a look that says please don’t leave me, because I don’t know if I’d make it without you. Butters can. Has. He doesn’t remember it, but he has. All those times Kenny died, got shot or stabbed. Butters did just fine. But it’s like he knows somehow—knows on some weird cosmic level that Kenny’s been through the ringer a hundred times over. Knows he’s been shredded, crushed, eviscerated, and burnt to a crisp. And he’s sorry. So fucking sorry Kenny’s gone to hell and back. Literally.

If there ever was a way to get Kenny to quit smoking cold turkey, Butters’ quivering lower lip and shiny, Olympic pool-sized eyes just might be the thing to do it. Sure scares him harder than those VHS tapes of smokers’ lungs back in sixth grade did, anyway.

Kenny crushes the cigarette against the wall and drops it to the ground. Craig’d call it a waste. Kenny calls it a fresh start. “I guess it’s a good thing I’m not gonna,” he says when the flame finally goes out.

“Not gonna what, Ken? Die?” Butters quirks a brow.

“Yup,” Kenny laughs. “‘M not really feeling the whole dead and buried thing. Guess I’ll just hang out after school and watch you do flips for the rest of my life. Fuck, I’ll even throw you a birthday party every fuckin’ year. How’s that sound, Butters? Sound good to you?”

“It sounds great!” Butters giggles, swept up in the moment. “And then we can go ice skatin’ on the pond when it gets colder and go to the movies and oh boy! We can do a whole buncha things!” And then adds more seriously, voice lowering: “When my folks unground me, that is.”

Kenny snorts. “God, Butters. Sometimes you make me say the stupidest shit.”

Butters’ face scrunches and his mouth downturns. Fuck, that didn’t come out right.

“Not like, no, I mean. Not stupid like dumb or anything,” Kenny rambles. “Just.” Christ, why are words like lotto numbers; you can never pick the right ones. “Like I’m nine again and wearing underwear on the outside of my tights, ya know?” he tries, voice lowering, self-conscious of every syllable that leaves his mouth. “When I'm with you, it almost feels like I never grew up. Like this is all pretend and the alarm’s gonna go off any second now and you won’t be here. With me.”

Kenny doesn’t realize he’s out of breath until a big, warm puff of it fogs his vision.

Butters melts and reaches for Kenny, taking his hand, stroking the back of it with his thumb. Forget the cat, this—Butters caressing his fucking skin—is gonna give him cardiac arrest. “Well, Ken, that's how ya always make me feel,” he says, biting his lower lip. Kenny wants to bite it, too. “I’m always laughin’ and smilin’ around ya, like when we used to play ninjas! Those were the gold ol’ days.”

“Yeah, well you weren’t always laughing and smiling when we played that…” Kenny replies, scratching the back of his head. Not with the hand Butters is holding. That one he wants to keep right where it is.

Seven years ago, two months into winter, one shuriken to the eye. Butters still has a microscopic scar just below his left brow. Kenny knows it’s there even though Butters thinks it’s practically faded.

“Well, uh, that—that time didn’t count,” Butters comforts, squeezing his hand a bit tighter. “But all the other ones sure did! Like when we built sandcastles together! Or you dressed up like a princess! I always thought you looked cute with those little braids.” He hides his face against the inside of the hood.

Kenny bursts with laughter, inexplicably giddy. “Goddamn, Butters, you're just so…” The little plastic balls in his head keep spinning, turning, the right words getting stuck up the tube looped from his brain to his mouth. Better luck next time.

“Just what?” Butters says, smiling.

“Nothing,” Kenny sighs. Maybe now’s not the right time.

Another gust of wind blows by. Kenny inches closer, unconsciously seeking that extra bit of warmth now that his jacket’s gone. Butters does the same, feet shuffling through the leaves, fingers toying with the tips of Kenny’s own, like he’s not sure whether he should lace them or not. Kenny makes up Butters’ mind for him and intertwines their fingers, showing off a bit. Butters squeaks in both surprise and delight. Kenny’s heart swells.

“Hey, wanna go do something fun on your last night as a free man?” Kenny says after a beat. It’s getting chillier and the extra exercise’ll get some blood pumping. He feels energetic enough to bike Butters across the fucking country.

“I'm already havin’ fun, but I’m always ready to have more!” Butters says.

“Good. Okay. Let’s get going then, before your parents freak.”

Kenny unchains his bike from the lamp post and impatiently wipes the seat clean of any and all snow. It’s an old bike Kevin used to ride, green paint flecking off, beat up and in need of restoration. He’d given it to Kenny a couple of weeks after his sixteenth birthday after discovering that beer was way better at killing boredom than biking up and down their block.

“Hop on.” Kenny steadies himself on the seat and pats the handlebars expectantly.

Butters stares at them with concern. “I don’t know, Kenny. This doesn’t look safe…”

“It’ll be fine, Butters. I won’t let you fall.”

“Promise?”

“Promise. Get on, dude. Wanna get you home before midnight.”

Butters balances himself on the handlebars and grips them for dear life the second Kenny starts to push forward. They never did this as kids. Kevin refused to let Kenny ride—let alone touch—the damn thing before he junked it and Butters wasn’t exactly the type Kenny’d ask to ride with him if he did, too girl obsessed to haul extra weight for anyone without tits. So this should feel brand spanking new, fresh outta the box, except it doesn't, and Kenny swears on his six thousand or so empty graves that he remembers the exact way Butters is smiling, like maybe they've done this all once before.

He knows for a fact they haven’t, but maybe they should’ve.

*

[sent @ 11:35pm] guess where
[sent @ 11:35pm] attached_image_342343.jpeg
[sent @ 11:36pm] stannnnn stop blowin kyle and check ur phone
[received @ 11:37pm] wtf dude i was asleep
[received @ 11:37pm] y r u nd butters at elementary school playground
[received @ 11:37pm] wut fkng year is it
[sent @ 11:38pm] damn marsh musta ben sum orgsm. 2014 dude. and y the fuk not??
[received @ 11:38pm] bc ur 16 not 6 wut r u even doing there
[sent @ 11:38pm] playin tether ball im winning
[sent @ 11:39pm] shit
[sent @ 11:39pm] now im not
[received @ 11:39pm] stp txting me and concentrate on ur game then
[sent @ 11:40pm] i can multitask. u sound like kyle rn. his dick change u or smth. turn u into him
[received @ 11:40pm] im going back 2 sleep bye
[sent @ 11:40pm] sry sry but 4 real dude. u 2 r totally having another gay sleepover rnt u
[sent @ 11:41pm] u r
[sent @ 11:42pm] stan b honest
[received @ 11:44pm] fuck off kenny and go back to ur date w/ butters
[sent @ 11:44pm] tell kyle i said hi
[sent @ 11:44pm] butters also says hi n sweet dreams
[received @ 11:45pm] kyle says hi back
[sent @ 11:45pm] knew it
[received @ 11:45pm] go consummate ur gay marriage or smth
[sent @ 11:45pm] was it the ring that gave it away :p
[sent @ 11:46pm] attached_image_342344.jpeg
[received @ 11:47pm] thats a bandaid kenny not a rock
[sent @ 11:47pm] u cant buy love stan
[received @ 11:47pm] u can at least buy a plastic one
[received @ 11:47pm] now stop txting and let me sleep. it’s almost 12

*

“Cuttin’ it close doesn’t cut it.”

That’s what Principal Victoria used to say, right after Kenny dragged his sorry ass to homeroom before the final bell rang every fucking morning.

Tardies shmardies.

Time’s a meaningless concept when you’ve got an entire world’s worth stuffed inside your back pocket.

Kenny’s a pro at wasting all of his, down to the very last minute.

It’s something of a talent, really, being this good at nothin’.

Any other night, Kenny’d be ecstatic that it’s currently three minutes till twelve, school starting up again in roughly eight hours from now. There’s not much else to do in South Park and it’s not like Kenny’s particularly fond of his home. He’s perfectly content with following the same old routine: go to work, bike back, rinse off, pass out. End the day like you started it—in a blur. Done.

Except tonight.

Kenny’s not looking to rush tonight because every second spent with Butters feels stupidly short, like Kenny’s fighting for every one but time just keeps slipping through the cracks in his fingers, sand all over the sidewalk, crunching beneath his treads.

It’s all moving too fast and before Kenny knows it they’re parked just outside of Butters’ house, lights still on. The Stotches’ve probably been waiting up since they left the restaurant, out of some twisted form of love. Butters’ dad’ll throw a bitch fit the second Butters walks through the door, though. That much Kenny knows.

“And then when Eric faceplanted onto the lane!” Butters laughs.

He’s been re-telling the events from last night during their ride, specifically Cartman’s disdain for renting shoes at the bowling alley because, and Kenny quotes, “it’s a goddamn scam! Why the fuck do you need special shoes just to throw some big plastic balls around?! Bet the owner’s a greedy little Jew, that’s why!”

“Oh boy, that was just about the funniest thing I’d ever seen! Except for when ya dumped all that chilli sauce into my mom’s food. Kung pao! Right in the kisser!”

Kenny wheezes, and starts laughing, too. “Holy shit, Butters. How long’ve you been sittin’ on that one? ‘Kung pao, right in the kisser’. Fuck, you’d give Jimmy a run for his money with that shit right there.”

Butters wipes his wet eyes. “A-and then when he tried getting back up and slipped on it again!” he continues, half-giggling half-crying. “Oh, Jesus! That really was the best birthday party I’ve ever had. The only one, actually. Thanks again, Ken. I mean it. You’re a real pal.”

Kenny stops laughing and frowns. “Yeah, well don’t thank me just yet. Might’ve been your last one, too.”

Butters looks over his shoulder, grip tight on the handlebars. He hasn’t gotten off yet. Kenny wishes he wouldn’t.

“That’s okay,” Butters admits, comforting Kenny with his statement more so than himself. “If it was, then that’s fine with me. Just means we got a lot to make up for when we finally get out of here. Boy, I can’t wait for college!”

Kenny pictures Butters bounding up the stairs to his dorm room at the University of Denver, memorabilia overflowing out of the box in his hands, smile big and bright on his face. It’s a good thought. Easy to visualize and even easier to believe. He can see Butters fitting right in.

Kenny wouldn’t.

It’s not like he’s got the grades for it, anyway.

He’d probably end up flunking out, wasting his college days getting high and watching 24/7 marathons of Julia Child’s The French Chef.

“Yeah, me either,” he lies, not wanting to sour the mood.

“Well, I guess this is it.” Butters lets out a deep sigh and hops off the bike. Kenny does the same, albeit a bit more sluggishly, not ready for the night to end. “Thanks for biking me here, Ken. I sure do appreciate it,” Butters reiterates for the nth time. He blows an errant strand of blonde hair out of his eyes. It flops back into place. “Welp, it’s time for me to face the music. My folks’ll probably blow a gasket when they see me rollin’ in at this hour, but I don’t much care what they think right now. I just wish we could do it all over again tomorrow. Golly, I just...I wish it didn’t have to end.”

Butters’ smile deflates into a depressing frown that burrows its way deeper into Kenny’s already achy chest. “You could spend the night,” Kenny blurts out, nervously licking his lips. Butters looks up at him, bewildered. It’s too late to u-turn, so Kenny barrels on. “At my place. Just, like, don’t go home. You could stay. With me.”

They move a tiny bit closer once Kenny’s finished rambling like an out-of-breath madman, heaving a bit like he’s just run a marathon. He can still smell the soy sauce clinging to Butters’ breath. Kenny’s never felt so nervous in his entire life.

“Geeze, that’s so sweet o’ ya, Ken. Really, it is,” Butters starts, voice drifting off, wistful, contemplating his options. “B-but I don’t think I should. Gosh, that sounds swell. Honest, it does.” His eyes travel from the tips of his shoes to Kenny’s own and suddenly the air between them has become insufferably hot even though Kenny was close to freezing just ten minutes ago. Christ, it’s sweltering, but his toes feel like icicles. “But I can’t,” Butters finishes. He sounds firm. “I need to face ‘em sooner or later and, frankly, I’d rather rip this old band-aid off now and get it over with.”

It was pretty dumb to think Butters might just up and leave to go stay at his house because Kenny asked him to, but for a moment there Butters looked ready to say yes. Maybe in some alternate universe, he did.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Kenny sighs, still torn up a little. He laughs to cover it up.

Butters giggles, cheeks rosy. “Here. Lemme give this back.” He shucks off the parka still zipped tight around him, working his smaller arms through the gargantuan sleeves.

It’d probably be dumber to tell Butters to keep the stupid thing because Kenny’s convinced that’s where it’s always belonged, draped across Butters’ delicate shoulders.

As Butters shimmies out of Kenny’s coat, something shiny and plastic plops down into the grass by the sidewalk. They both follow the movement and stare. It’s the fortune cookie Butters swiped from earlier, still pristine and untouched inside its wrapper. Kenny bends down to grab it at the exact same moment Butters does. Their heads nearly bump.

“Sorry,” he breathes a millisecond after Butters.

They freeze, silent, and then burst into laughter, the nervous kind Kenny hasn’t felt since before his balls dropped.

“Here,” Kenny says, slipping the cookie into Butters’ palm. “This is yours. You should open it. Bad luck and all that.”

Butters smiles. “Yeah, okay. You gotta eat the cookie, too. Or the fortune won’t stick, neither. How about we split it?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Butters tears into the wrapper and gingerly pockets his garbage. With a snap, the cookie breaks clean in two. Butters hands Kenny half while he works the small slip of paper out of his piece. Kenny pops the whole thing into his mouth and chews, pleasantly surprised that it doesn’t taste like utter crap.

“What’s it say?” Kenny asks with his mouth full.

Butters unwraps the fortune and sucks in a deep breath. “Today you shed your last tear. Tomorrow fortune knocks at your door,” he recites. A generic saying with a hint of crypticism, something vague enough that anyone could claim. Kenny’s not a believer in horoscopes or astrology or whatever. It’s all bullshit as far he’s concerned. But Butters looks as though he’s reached the upper echelons of nirvana, an epiphanic stupor washing over his face as he lets the words sink in. Honest to God he doesn’t believe, but the fact that Butters does makes Kenny want to.

“Is, uh—d’you think it means anything?” Kenny mumbles, really wishing they were back outside the restaurant and holding hands again. Every time he catches a glimpse of Butters’ house, the magic seems to fade.

“Dunno,” Butters replies in the tiniest voice Kenny’s ever heard. “I think so, cuz fortune cookies always mean somethin’. Just don’t know what yet.” He stares at the paper and then pushes it into Kenny’s palm. “You should take it, Ken. I think it’s meant for you.”

Kenny stares at the fortune and then into Butters’ eyes. They’re big and glassy and full of determination. He wants to drown in them. “You sure about that? What if it’s not?”

“I’m sure. I got a good feeling about it.” Butters winks.

Kenny shoves the paper inside his coat pocket and smiles. “Thanks, Butters. I’ll hang onto this then.”

Butters beams, outshining the street lamp, and pops the cookie into his mouth. Kenny watches the movement of Butters’ jaw. “Good. I’m glad.” After he’s finished, he huffs out a breath. The moisture in it condenses. His arms are trembling, too. “Well, gee, I guess I should start headin’ in now. I sure had a blast with ya, Ken! I haven’t played tetherball in years! Maybe when I’m not grounded we can do this again.”

Kenny rubs the back of his neck and grins. “Yeah, sure thing, dude! I’m always down for a night out. Hell, I’ll bust you out of your room if you want.” He’s not joking.

“Oh, geeze. I don’t wanna get in trouble again. I-I think I’ll just wait it out.” Butters looks over his shoulder. The house lights are still on. He licks his lips, wetting them. Kenny’s eyes follow Butters’ tongue while his brain contemplates tasting it.

“I’ll wait as long as you need me to,” Kenny says, a little desperate. The clock is winding down.

Butters shoots him one last smile before turning to face his front door. They’re closer now, closer than Kenny remembers being. Little crackles of electricity singe the hair on Kenny’s arms. His blood pressure spikes. A frog croaks in his throat. “You’re awful sweet, Ken. I just—” Kenny doesn’t get to hear the rest of Butters’ sentence. He bites his lower lip, toys with the bandage around his left ring finger, and then turns around. “G’night, Kenny,” he says with a wave, swallowing whatever else was coming up. “See ya, tomorrow.”

“Yeah. See ya.” Kenny waves back, shell-shocked, and then treks back to his bike.

And is immediately filled with regret.

He should’ve fucking kissed him. Butters was practically begging for it. He should’ve—

It’s not like he’s shy. Ask anyone at school, Kenny McCormick isn’t afraid of anything. It’s not that. It’s just—

“Aw, hell.”

A hand grips Kenny’s elbow, forcibly turning him around, and the next thing Kenny knows Butters is pushing him up against his parked bike and kissing him, leaning up on his tiptoes to grip the front of his parka. Kenny steadies one hand on the seat and the other on Butters’ hip. It happens faster than he can process. Butters kisses like he doesn’t know how because he probably doesn’t, lips mashed together, eyes slammed shut. And, suddenly, Kenny can’t remember, either.

When Butters rocks back onto his heels and lets go, he exhales and swallows the lump in his throat. His breath is coming in short pants.

“If it weren’t too obvious, I think you’re mighty swell, Kenny,” Butters whispers, still clinging to Kenny’s parka as if it were a life vest and these last few seconds the sea. “I-I think you’re a lot more than that. And I hope you forgive me for being so forward, but I just really needed to kiss ya. So, um.” He unclenches Kenny’s parka. “So that’s that, I guess…”

Kenny swoops down and presses their mouths together, arm tight around Butters’ waist, left hand cupping his cheek. Butters squeaks in surprise, but melts into the kiss and presses back, linking his fingers behind Kenny’s neck. He tastes like vanilla wafer and sesame oil and the shared Coke they’d swiped earlier. Usually, Kenny’d throw in a bit of tongue at this point, his go-to second step, but frenching Butters feels wrong, like what they’re doing right now is bigger than both of them, too pure and sweet for what Kenny’s done in the dark.

The loud thump of Butters’ heartbeat drowns out the blare of a car horn a few blocks over. An ambulance could drive by and Kenny wouldn’t be any wiser. He’s too swept up in the taste of Butters’ mouth and the heat of his soft skin to notice that time is drifting further away. For once, Kenny thinks he doesn’t have enough of it.

Their second kiss ends sooner than Kenny’d like. His head feels a little scratchy and his ears burn, tingly and warm.

“Kenny,” Butters breathes and it’s the single most erotic sound Kenny’s ever heard, and he’s watched a lot of porn. A lot.

“Yeah?” Kenny says. His hand settles on the jut of Butters’ hip, stroking it softly with his thumb. He’s coming on strong but, fuck it. Butters is into this and he doesn’t really want to stop. Apparently Butters has got a thing for being pet, which probably has something to do with his parents in some capacity, but Kenny’s no shrink so he couldn’t explain it if he tried.

Butters drags his hands down Kenny’s chest, steadying his left palm over Kenny’s beating heart. “Would you like to go out with me some time? I-I mean, when I ain’t grounded and stuff? Like a-ah, um. Like a—”

“Like a date?” Kenny smirks.

Butters flushes the brightest shade of red Kenny’s ever seen. It’s sickeningly cute. “Like a date,” Butters repeats.

“I dunno Butters. I think we already had our first one,” Kenny says, a little smug. Fuck, it’s hard not to be. He’s got Butters—Butters!—right here in his arms.

“Oh, hamburgers,” Butters curses. “I think you’re right. Well, how ‘bout another?”

Kenny snorts and kisses the top of Butters’ head, fluffing his hair. It’s the softest thing he’s ever touched. “Fuck yeah, let’s go on another. We can have one every day. Just not at, like, school or anything.” In retrospect, that may not have been the best choice in locale.

“But I liked it when you spun me on the roundabout!” Butters protests. “It felt like we were kids again. I always loved that thing.”

“Jesus Christ, Butters,” Kenny laughs. “Okay, fine. But not City Wok. You couldn’t pay me to go there off the clock.” A lie. You could pay Kenny to do just about anything.

Butters nods in agreement. “How ‘bout I treat you to a nice cup o’ coffee then?”

They’d probably go to Harbucks because it’s the only place in town that brews decent java. Tweek’d see them, tell Craig, and then half the school would know by the end of the night.

“Sounds perfect,” Kenny says, smiling against Butters’ forehead.

Butters looks up at him through long, delicate eyelashes. “You sure you can wait three months? That’s a heck of a long time.”

Kenny grabs Butters’ hand and kisses his bandage. “Positive,” he says, knowing that if it’s Butters waiting for him, then yeah, he definitely can.

They share one last kiss—shorter than the previous—before Butters unwillingly tears himself away. When his front door closes, Kenny can hear the loud boom of Butters’ father’s voice echoing onto the street. An overwhelming sense of guilt curdles the happy warmth in his belly, and Kenny decides to bike home before it gets even worse.

On the ride back, he subconsciously thinks about Butters being yelled at while his parents rub even more salt into his wounds. It only reminds him of his own shortcomings, his inability to save Butters from the place he calls home, and the fact that Kenny can’t even say he did anything to stop it. Kenny’s blood pressure spikes. He switches over to a stray thought of Butters lying in bed wearing inappropriately juvenile pajamas (he’s bound to have a pair; everything about Butters is naive and immature) for a boy his age, touching his lips, and smiling into a pillow, fantasizing about his very first grown-up kiss. With Kenny McCormick, no less. Kenny doesn’t realize he’s been lickinig his own until a strong gust of wind cools the lingering saliva on them.

He pulls in to his driveway twenty minutes later and chains the bike to the garage door.

His dad is passed out on the couch, beer bottle in hand, while the TV buzzes with late night infomercials. Kenny grabs the remote and flips it off. Stuart’s the one who always bitches about the electricity bill.

Kenny’s stomach rumbles so he goes into the kitchen to scrounge around for some scraps. He finds a can of SpaghettiO’s in the back of the cupboard, pulls off the top, and heats it in a small saucepan. That was probably tomorrow’s dinner or something, but he couldn’t be fucked right now. He’ll bring home some leftovers or something after work.

Down the hall, his mother is snoring away on his parents’ small bed, half-dressed and clutching their bong. She’s a mess. Kenny closes the door.


“Kenny,” calls Karen from her bedroom.

He brings his pot of SpaghettiO’s with him and finds her sitting up in bed, rubbing her eyes. The pigtail braids she sleeps in are a frizzy, lopsided mess. Their mother must have done them, high.

“You’re home,” she says, relieved. There’ve been plenty of times before where Kenny’s made her question whether he would in one piece.

“Yeah, I’m back,” he replies, sitting on the edge of the mattress.

Karen's stomach grumbles at the smell of his SpaghettiO’s.

“Did you eat?” Kenny asks, annoyed that his parents dropped the ball. Again. She’s thirteen for Christ’s sakes. Not exactly self-sufficient, even though Kenny has been, out of necessity, since he was nine.

“No.” Karen shakes her head. “Mom got high and passed out a couple hours ago and dad drank himself to sleep. I couldn’t find anything to make, so I just went to bed.”

Kenny stirs the pot and sets it in her lap. It’s relatively cool now. “SpaghettiO’s?” he offers.

Karen frowns. “We had SpaghettiO’s?”

“Yeah, in the back, behind Dad’s whiskey.”

“Figures.”

They take turns eating out of the pot, passing the spoon back and forth as they try to stretch their dinner out; Kenny makes sure Karen gets more than half of the SpaghettiO’s and encourages her to eat the last bite even though she insists she can’t. He can always steal something at school if he’s still hungry tomorrow. Breakfast and lunch are free, after all.

“Did you see a girl or something?” Karen asks while Kenny licks the pot clean.

He pauses and stares up at her from over the rim. “No. Why?”

“Because, I dunno.” Karen draws her knees up toward her chest. “You look like you’ve been up to something.”

Kenny’s never actually dated anyone in his entire life (except for, like, Tammy Warner, which doesn’t exactly count), but if that’s what Karen wants to call his late night outings with girls, he’s totally cool with it.

“Yeah,” he replies after a beat. “I saw a girl.” He sets the pot down on her nightstand and makes for her braids. The unevenness is killing him. Kenny first started braiding Karen’s hair when he was eight, after he’d come to the realization that women’s clothing and fashion wasn’t just some childhood phase.

“Knew it. Is she pretty?”

An image of Butters dressed as Marjorine pops into Kenny’s head. “Yeah,” he says, looping a section of hair through. “She’s pretty hot. Blonde hair, blue eyes, cute smile. Really digs tetherball.”

“She sounds nice.” Karen smiles. “You gonna bring her home to meet mom and dad?” she says sarcastically. That’s something she picked up from Kenny.

Kenny kicks off his shoes and cozies up under the blankets next to her once he’s done fixing her braids. On nights like this, it’s better to share body heat than freeze to death separately. They used to do this all the time when Kevin was around, huddle together for warmth because their parents couldn’t afford to flip on the heater. Karen worms her way inside Kenny’s parka. Kenny hugs her tightly around the waist.

“Maybe. I really like this one,” Kenny yawns, suddenly feeling incredibly drowsy. “I don’t want to fuck it up.”

Karen snorts and closes her eyes. “That’s kind of our family’s thing, Ken. Fucking up.”

“Language,” Kenny warns. “And you never know. Maybe this time everything’ll work out.”

“Yeah, and why’s that?”

“Because.” Kenny clears his throat for dramatic effect. “‘Today you shed your last tear. Tomorrow fortune knocks at your door’,” he recites, emphasizing each word with his free hand.

Karen bursts into laughter. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

Kenny sighs and pulls the blankets up higher around them, cocooning Karen in her low thread count sheets. “It means you should never question a fortune cookie.”

*

He dreams about Butters that night, or Kenny thinks he dreams about Butters. The dream wasn’t exactly concrete and he couldn’t tell what was going on, but Kenny could feel Butters was there somehow, knew in his subconscious that Butters was thinking about him, too, halfway across town. It was the future, five, ten years from now. Where they were, Kenny didn’t know, but it was far, far away, some place warm and exotic, with a cool breeze and palm trees. Maybe Kenny saved up enough, maybe Butters won the lotto. Whatever. In Kenny’s dream, they were both happy, and that’s all that matters. And then the edges cracked, shattering into a billion pieces, the pleasant dream Kenny had exploding all around him. He wakes with a jolt, startled. His phone is vibrating.

The time on his phone reads 6:30am. If he wants Karen to catch the bus on time, he should probably wake her up.

Karen moans and bargains for five more minutes before Kenny eventually pushes her out of bed and into the bathroom so she can at least wash her face and brush her teeth.

Twenty minutes later, her bus shows up. Their bus, technically. Kenny’s not getting on it.

“Aren’t you coming to school?” she asks, climbing the steps.

“I’ll bike there,” Kenny lies, regretting his decision to forgo shoes. The sidewalk’s fucking cold.

Karen frowns because she can tell he’s bullshiting (she’s gotten way too good at that), but gets on the bus, anyway.

When Kenny walks back inside he finds his father missing from the couch. He must’ve woken up when Karen slammed the door—passive aggressively, Kenny might add—and crawled off to his bedroom or something, probably hungover as fuck.

Kenny does the same and flops face first onto his mattress, hugging his pillow. It smells like sweat. He needs to wash it.

Just as he’s about to nod off again, his phone vibrates. Kenny reaches for it on the floor and flips the lid open. He thought it was dying or something so he plugged it in, not realizing that he’d gotten a text message over half an hour ago. From Bebe.

[sent @ 06:45am] ur welcome mccormick
[sent @ 06:50am] istg u better come to school 2day and thank me personally 4 covering ur ass
[sent @ 07:10am] OMFG I CAN’T BELIEVE UR SKIPPING
[sent @ 07:25am] u better be here in 10 minutes or im spillin the beans!!!!

That last one makes Kenny bolt upright. Spill the beans? On what? What could Bebe possible know that—oh. Oh.

Okay so she lives a few houses down from Butters and it’s not exactly impossible that she might’ve seen something last night. Or heard. Stephen was yelling prettying fucking loud.

Kenny’s not exactly terrified of being outed—he’s pretty sure the entire school knows he’s sucked and fucked his way through their grade, but Butters, man. People’ve always thought Butters was a little fruity, but not this fruity. And if his parents somehow get wind of Butters’ penchant for kissing boys, then Kenny’s pretty sure he’ll never see him again. Goodbye, South Park. Hello, Jesus Camp. For the second time.

Kenny splashes some water on his face, laces up his boots, and unchains his bike from the garage, not even bothering to change his clothes.

School doesn’t start for another twenty-five minutes, meaning Bebe’s probably on the field, practicing with the squad. She runs that team like a taskmaster.

When Kenny gets there, he practically jumps off of his bike and sprints in the direction of their school’s official cheer. The girls always run through that routine last. They’re almost done.

He makes it to the bleachers just in time to watch Bebe be thrown into the air...by Butters. Wait, what?

Kenny rubs his eyes because fuck, maybe he’s still dreaming and this is all in his head, but when he opens his eyes again and looks, he realizes that, no, this isn’t a fucking dream. He’s at school. Watching Butters form the bottom of the pyramid and yell into the stupid megaphone. Jesus fucking Christ, what the hell is going on?

“Okay, let’s call it a morning,” Bebe announces, clapping her hands to signify the end of their morning workout. They’ll still have after school practice today, the competition’s only a few weeks away.

The girls filter out in small groups, not really paying Kenny any attention. Most of them aren’t on speaking terms with him, anyway.

“How do you do there, mister!” Butters chirps, racing over to greet Kenny. He’s sweaty and glistening a little even though it’s borderline fifty outside, wearing tight, black sweatpants and a South Park Cows t-shirt. He smells like Eggo Waffles and powder fresh deodorant.

Kenny picks his jaw back up. “Butters. How are—cheerleading? Why?” he pants, fully aware that nothing he said formed a single, cohesive thought. His brain isn’t functional at the moment.

Butters wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. “You’re not gonna believe what happened last night! So after, uh—” he lowers his voice so Bebe can’t overhear “—after we kissed.” Butters’ face flushes. “I marched on in there and was ready to give my dad a stern talking to, but he told me that Coach called him up and told him how I was on the team and everything, and that the competition’s next month, and guess what he did?”

“W-what?” Kenny mutters, still a little dazed.

“He grounded me for lying and letting the whole team down! So now I have to go to practice or else they’ll take my Lady Gaga CD’s away.” Butters straightens his back and wags his finger, imitating his father. “I can’t believe you hid this from us, Butters! You’re going there first thing in the morning and practicing your butt off, mister! If your team doesn’t win gold, you’re grounded! Do you hear me?! Grounded!”

Trust Stephen Stotch to find a way to ground Butters for not being apart of the cheerleading team. “That’s nuts,” Kenny breathes, barely believing it himself.

“Isn’t it? Looks like our fortune came true after all!” Butters twists the front of t-shirt nervously and stares down at his hands. “If you don’t mind waiting, I’d really love to walk to class with you, Ken, and m-maybe even give ya a good mornin’ kiss. If that’s not too much to ask.”

Kenny suddenly remembers neglecting to brush his teeth before he left, too paranoid about Bebe’s ominous threat to even consider personal hygiene. But the way Butters keeps looking up at him with those long fucking eyelashes of his and biting his lip—yeah, okay. Maybe just one kiss. “I’d love to walk to class with you,” Kenny says, smiling, wishing Bebe was six hundred miles away so he could pet Butters’ red cheek. “Go get your stuff. I’ll wait for you by the bleachers.”

“‘Kay!” Butters bounces off to grab his duffel bag and sports bottle.

Bebe slides up next to Kenny and wrinkles her nose. “You smell like a P.F. Chang’s,” she remarks, only mostly repulsed by Kenny’s day-old sesame oil smell.

Kenny frowns. “Thanks for covering my ass,” he mumbles, only marginally appreciative. He’d be a bit more gracious if she hadn’t threatened to forcibly rip Butters out of the closet. “I guess I owe you one.”

Bebe flashes her ring and index finger. “Two,” she says. “One for convincing Coach to call Butters’ parents last night and two for not telling the girls how you almost fucked us over.” The irony of that statement isn’t lost on her because she quickly adds “again” to the end of her spiel.

“Wait.” And then it hits him. “Is that what your stupid text meant?”

Bebe shoots Kenny a no shit look. “Yeah, what’d you think it was about?”

“Dunno,” he says, watching Butters skip on back to the bleachers, and his mood immediately lifts. Fuck, he’s an idiot sometimes. Bebe can be a bit of a bitch, but she’s not that kind of bitch. Just the fun kind, with an absurdly high tolerance for cheap grocery store beer. “But you’re fucking awesome, Bebe,” Kenny adds, throwing an arm around her shoulders. “Stop by City Wok some time and I’ll fix you something.”

Bebe rolls her eyes and playfully knocks his hand away. “Get outta here,” she jokes. “You know I can’t eat that shit. It goes straight to my hips.” It’s true. She’s the spitting image of her mother, and just as self-conscious of her thicker thighs.

“You ready, Kenny?” Butters says, positively giddy. He holds out his hand, waiting expectantly for Kenny to take it.

Bebe quirks a brow and passes a curious glance between them.

“As I’ll ever be,” Kenny replies, linking their fingers.

Bebe’s jaw drops as she pieces the puzzle together. “Wait, you two aren’t—”

“Don’t be too sore with me, Ken,” Butters whispers, “but I just can’t wait anymore.”

Butters surges up and kisses Kenny square on the lips.

Somewhere, behind them, Bebe gasps.

“Oh my God!”

Kenny laughs in shock, and kisses Butters back for all that he’s worth.

He slips his free hand inside his pocket, feels paper, and smiles, because Butters was right; maybe that fortune really was meant for him after all.