Hypothermia

It began, as it always does, with a snide, offhand comment, and down came the avalanche.

Boulders rumbled and tumbled into the void below, unsuspecting. One after another, colossal blocks of rolling ice poured down into the ground. Trees were shaved off the earth by this unstoppable force; and the howling winds, the desolate screams of the life being buried within this catastrophe, the drowned voices of helpless passers-by, and indeed all breath stopped at the tirade streaming from the top of Kyle's lungs.

"I...am so SICK of you, Cartman!" His voice seethed with rage. He pointed a gloved finger at the other boy, whose outward indifference only served to fuel his anger further. "You have no idea how fucking tired I am of hearing you blab on and on about my people and my stupid culture and my embarrassing hair and my greediness! Just about everything that comes out of your mouth makes me want to vomit! You have no remorse! You never learn! You don't care about anything but yourself! You're a pathetic excuse for a human being!"

Cartman fed off of this energy. He would never tell Kyle, but this, precisely this, was exactly the spice of life he was craving every day. When the smaller boy was finished talking, he smiled a tiny smile of appreciation, which the other interpreted as spite.

"What the hell are you smiling for? Wipe that grin off your face, asshole, and answer me!"

And oh, now that Kyle was starting to nag like a little bitch, Cartman's excitement became more visible. He laughed a full, hearty laugh, clutching his middle section as the air involuntarily left him. Behind them, the gathering crowd of onlookers shared apprehensive glances at one another. There was simply no way this was ending without a bloodbath.

“You know what?” Kyle said, his cold glare not faltering, despite Stan pulling his sleeve and Kenny doing the same to Cartman.

“What, Jew?”

“You’re worth none of this shit I’m fighting for. You care nothing for the way the world works, what anyone other than YOU goes through every day, or how I feel. You’re just in it for the laughs, huh?”

“I live for it,” Cartman replied proudly.

To the side, Wendy rolled her eyes; she knew that anyone’s efforts to get these two to get along were in vain. No number of Stan’s and Kenny’s would pull them apart long enough for them not to kill each other. Bebe was taking a video recording to upload to Youtube. Craig stood there flipping off everyone who convinced him to help stop Kyle before he went and beat up the fatass. Butters looked worriedly between the two boys, wondering how he should step in without being murdered in the process. Someone ought to call a teacher or something, but no one dared move with this amount of tension fizzling between them.

Cartman watched Kyle’s expression simmer down from outright rage into something he couldn’t understand. The redhead’s cheeks were pink with anger and he still trembled with fury; but his glassy eyes spoke volumes of something else. Something strange, something Cartman had seen before, but he couldn’t pinpoint it for the life of him.

Kyle broke his stare. “Cartman, I am done.”

Did he just give up?

“I’m done with you,” he repeated. He turned back, stealing his arm back from Stan and shaking it with vehemence behind him.

Eric reeled from the finality of his words, and now he beheld the damage. The battle was won, and his pride remained intact. The deluge overcame him; Kyle's unstable torrent of covered-up hurt and the smallest icicles of betrayal dug into his thick skin. They prickled uncomfortably; that didn't mean he wasn't okay. Eric surveyed the damage, taking in everything around him that he once held precious, now in shambles. The wake of Kyle's retreating, victorious steps, the carnage lay for all to see: torn dreams, misplaced feelings—

Eric thought he would be happy at the crux of his "victory"; but was even this not enough? Did he have to murder the Jew to extract the most complete enjoyment of life possible? He wasn't complete. He needed something more. But Kyle couldn't get any angrier than this:

Kyle walked away, still red and fuming, but he never wanted to be near that asshole ever again. Every time, it was the same. Every time, he had to pull his strings, make him tick like an angry time-bomb; even Cartman had to know that he had a limit to the racist jokes, the insensitive actions. But every time, Kyle rose to the griping threats, urged by instinct rather than the need to defend his ideals. He didn't really understand. Either way, it was over now, he thought happily to himself; this was a new day, a new place, an existence that he would henceforth commence without the abomination named Cartman.

Cartman was more than bewildered by the new tactic from his friend. "Hey, come back," he called tentatively, to no avail. “Filthy, rotten coward! You never walked away from anything in your life! Now come back and face me!”

The crowd slowly dispersed, seeing that no more fighting was happening—some in relief, most in disappointment.

This was the worst part of the storm. The cold winds leftover from the furies of the heavens. The silent wait for rescue. Why wasn’t he fighting?!

“Kyle?” Eric pleaded. But only the falling snow echoed his desires. He would be left for dead. Cold and alone. Perhaps this wasn’t a victory. It was crippling him from the inside out, starting in a corner of his chest that housed a stone-cold heart that rarely succumbed to emotion.

“Kyle!” he repeated, a half-scream that eased some of his distress. He wondered how Kyle’s name did that.

Kyle was near the front door of the school, midway through entering. “What?” came the exasperated reply. Eric knew the implications of such a response; their dance was beginning all over again.

“Wait up. I don’t want to be the last one to enter the classroom; Mr. Garrison’s gonna be pissed again.”

At least that’s what he should’ve said. In the absence of the crowd, what Eric actually said were the two words that hurt the most to say.

Kyle looked at him for a while, studying the honesty that his statement contained; Cartman didn't throw around any apologies, even a fake one, for no reason. “Okay.” Kyle held the door open, and Eric caught up, grinning widely. They walked side by side to the classroom, hands in their pockets, viciously ignoring each other all the way.

Eric sighed as they reached the door. He felt drained from summoning the word "sorry" from his unused vocabulary, and it showed. But he could breathe now, and everything was alright. Kyle was a storm, his storm, and his tourniquet, all the same. The one he craved, fought for, would die for. Kyle was the blanket that kissed his wounds and hid his scars. Kyle was the cold that killed him and breathed life into him every day...