I might let you make me Juno!

by thegraveyardmortician

Summary:

New Years Eve: Kyle and Cartman find themselves at the same house party: drunk, hostile, and restless like always. Bored and unsupervised, they stumble across a dusty old book tucked behind someone's parents' wine rack. Half-drunk and egging each other on, they read a spell aloud just to mock it.

Weeks later, Kyle starts experiencing strange symptoms. He's tired, nauseous, emotionally erratic. When the truth comes out, it's worse than he imagined. He's seventeen, he hooked up with his arch nemesis, and now, he's somehow pregnant with his spawn.

Notes:

• Inspired by Herbert Garrison's Night School for Unwed Fathers by hollycomb

The title of this work is inspired by Juno by Sabrina Carpenter, and the work is inspired by the film Juno, and also inspired by the work I tagged!

Chapter 1: Have you ever tried this one?

Summary:

The Prologue!

Notes:

Maybe one day a story I write won't be started with these two hooking up at a party and drunk.

In the cramped crawlspace beneath the kitchen sink, a teenage girl knelt, her breath catching in the stale air. She held an ancient, cracked leather-bound book, its gold-embossed cover faded almost to nothing, but she knew what it was. 

Outside, faint chanting drifted through the night air from a nearby clearing where her cult had convened: an eerie, half-forgotten circle dedicated to the worship of Cthulhu, the sleeping god beneath the waves. The heavy beat of drums echoed against the distant shore.

She fingered the brittle pages, eyes tracing the faded script. The spells weren’t just love charms or blessings: they were invocations, keys to things best left buried. Things older than time, hunger lurking beyond the stars.

With a shaky hand, she slid the book into the crawlspace’s dark corner, wedging it beneath a loose floorboard where no light could touch it. Her lips pressed into a thin line as footsteps sounded overhead: her family returning from a weekend away, blissfully unaware of the darkness she’d tried to hide.

The girl disappeared into the shadows, leaving the book behind.

---------------

---------------

17 Years Later

Music thumped through the walls, vibrating the floors and making every glass on the counter buzz in place. Someone had turned the thermostat way up, or maybe it was just the sheer number of people jammed into the living room, half of them already sweaty from dancing, the other half shouting to be heard over whatever overproduced pop remix was blasting.

The kitchen wasn’t much better: beer puddles on the tile, sticky Solo cups abandoned on every surface, and a faint smell of something burnt drifting in from the oven. Kyle had been standing near the fridge for ten minutes, trying to decide if the warm can of light beer in his hand was worth finishing, when Cartman appeared at his side like a heat-seeking missile for sarcasm.

Cartman had that flushed, smug look he got after exactly three drinks: when the alcohol wasn’t quite enough to slow him down, but plenty to strip away any filter he might’ve pretended to have. He looked Kyle up and down, a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead catching the light.

“You look like you’re having so much fun, Broflovski,” Cartman drawled, cheeks flushed either from the booze or from spite.

“More fun than watching you sweat through that shirt,” Kyle shot back, eyeing the damp fabric clinging to Cartman’s chest.

Cartman smirked like that counted as a win. “Come on, Jew, loosen up. It’s almost midnight, the world’s still shit, and we’re still not dead. That’s reason enough to celebrate.”

Kyle’s eyes drifted to the pantry door: a rickety thing that always seemed a little off. The floor beneath it had a slight dip, and a faint draft whispered from its cracks.

“Hey,” Kyle said, nudging Cartman’s arm. “Did you ever notice that weird space under the pantry floor?”

Cartman rolled his eyes. “Why the hell would I notice that?”

“No, seriously. It feels hollow.” Kyle walked over to it, crouched, and pressed his fingers against the warped wood. “I bet there’s a crawlspace or something.”

Cartman raised an eyebrow but followed Kyle to the floor. “Alright, Sherlock. Let’s see if there’s treasure or rats under there.”

Kyle slid a dusty kitchen towel aside and found a loose floorboard near the back corner. He pried at it with a finger, and it popped up with a sharp creak. A cold draft rushed out, carrying the faint smell of old paper and dust.

Cartman peered in, squinting. “Looks like some creepy crawlspace. Wanna go spelunking, dude?”

Kyle grinned nervously. “Nope. But check this out.”

He reached inside and pulled out an old leather-bound book, cracked and worn, with faded gold embossing curling along the spine. The cover was almost too fragile to hold.

Cartman’s eyes gleamed with excitement. “Oh man, this is some kind of spellbook, isn’t it? Look at this fancy crap.”

“A… spell book?” Kyle asked, already reaching for it.

Cartman’s eyes lit up like a raccoon finding a glittering gum wrapper. “Oh, hell yes. Somebody’s mom was a total freak.”

They pulled it out together, the spine groaning like it hadn’t been opened in decades. Inside was a jumble: love charms, protection wards, and bread-blessing recipes scrawled in spidery handwriting, but their eyes caught on a page marked by a faded red ribbon:

For Two Hearts.

Beneath the title, an ornate script spelled out a series of instructions. At the bottom, in delicate, looping handwriting, was a note:

To be read aloud under the influence of merriment and the turning of the year.

Cartman smirked. “Perfect. We’ve already got the ‘under the influence’ part down.”

“You seriously want to do this?” Kyle asked.

“Don’t be a coward, Broflovski,” Cartman said, giving him an elbow that nearly sent him into the counter.

“Fine.” Kyle steadied himself, propping the book open with a bottle of fireball no one had touched. Below the English text was a block of writing in a curling, unfamiliar script.

“What’s this?” Kyle asked.

Cartman squinted. “Latin. Probably the real spell. The secret sauce.”

Kyle handed the book to him with mock reverence. “Then read it, Professor Cartman.”

He straightened dramatically, slurring through the first line with theatrical weight: “Amor vincit omnia, et nos cedamus amori…”

Kyle snorted. “Oh, very mystical. Totally buying it.”

“Shut up, you’re killing the vibe.”

They traded lines, each mangling the pronunciation worse than the other:

“Coniungamus corda, animoque fideliter… uh… corduroy latte?”

“That’s not—”

“Close enough!”

Kyle laughed, leaning in so their shoulders brushed. For half a second, as Cartman’s smirk softened into something quieter, they just… looked at each other. The noise of the party blurred into a dull hum, and there was a faint, strange pulse under Kyle’s ribs that had nothing to do with alcohol.

Before they could get any further, the kitchen doorway filled with Kenny, wearing a lopsided glittery party hat and holding a plate piled high with what looked like nachos but smelled suspiciously like pizza rolls.

“Dude,” Kenny mumbled through a mouthful, “are you guys reading a satanic cookbook?”

Stan appeared behind him, hair sticking up from static, smelling faintly of hard cider. “What the hell are you doing back here?”

“We’re in the middle of a serious ritual,” Cartman said, waving the book at them like it was a holy relic.

Kenny stepped closer, squinting at the page. “Sweet. Lemme try. ‘Lick-uh-mus animus… par…’ something-something… pasta?”

Stan leaned over Kyle’s shoulder. “You guys are gonna summon a raccoon or something.”

“Shut up!” Cartman barked. “We’re finishing this properly.”

Kenny grinned. “Count me in.”

The last lines turned into a drunken chorus: Cartman trying to sound grand, Kyle keeping a straight face for exactly two seconds before breaking, Kenny adding random nonsense words, and Stan mumbling along like he was reading karaoke lyrics in another language.

“In nocte novi anni,” Cartman started.

“Sub stella lucente,” Kyle followed, voice wobbly from laughter.

“Ligamus animal crackers—” Kenny sang loudly.

“That’s not—” Kyle tried, but Stan had already jumped in with, “Ligemus animas in… eternium? Eternity? Whatever.”

Somehow, through the mess, they all managed to land the last word together:

“Progeniemque pariamus!”

Silence fell for half a beat before Stan clapped his hands. “Cool. Shots anyone?”

Cartman lifted his Solo cup, smirking. “May we all be bound forever, whether we want it or not.”

Kyle clinked his cup against his, shaking his head. “Here’s hoping it’s nonsense and not some crazy baby-making curse.”

Kenny grinned wickedly. “If you two have a baby, I’m godfather. No take-backs.”

The four of them laughed, stumbling back toward the noise and flashing lights of the living room, but the chant seemed to follow them: a jumble of mispronounced Latin, stupid jokes, and something that, just maybe, had stuck harder than they meant it to.

-----------------

About an hour later, the party had spilled into the small, cramped bathroom off the kitchen. The noise from the living room was muffled, replaced by the constant drip of the faucet and the hum of flickering fluorescent lights overhead. Kyle and Cartman had slipped away from the chaos, both a little buzzed, the spell's strange energy lingering between them like static in the air.

Kyle leaned against the cold tile wall, rubbing at his temples. "Ugh, my head's killing me."

Cartman was pacing back and forth, Solo cup half-empty, eyes glazed but sharp. "You know," he slurred, "that spell was kinda... real, wasn't it? I mean, I feel... different."

Kyle glanced at him, suddenly aware of the way Cartman's dark eyes were fixed on him. 

"Yeah," Kyle said, voice softer, more tentative. "Me too."

Cartman stopped pacing and took a slow step closer, his breath warm and smelling faintly of cheap whiskey. "You're kinda cute when you're all serious like that, Jew."

Kyle's heart thudded painfully, but before he could think better of it, the spell's pull tugged at something deep inside him, loosening the walls he'd built around himself for so long. He swallowed hard, his voice trembling. Cartman's gaze sharpened, and without thinking, Kyle found himself stepping closer, their bodies almost touching. Cartman's smirk softened, his eyes flickering with something unreadable.

Then, without any real warning, Cartman reached out, brushing a hand over Kyle's arm. Kyle's breath hitched, and before he knew it, their lips were crashing together: rough, desperate, and messy. Kyle's hands trembled as they clutched at Cartman's shoulders, like he was trying to anchor himself against a tide he didn't understand.

The spell's strange magic seemed to hum beneath the surface, pulling them closer, blurring lines they'd drawn so carefully before. Kyle's usual caution slipped away in the haze of drink and enchantment, replaced by a raw, aching need.

Cartman's lips moved again, slower this time, tracing along Kyle's jaw. His fingers tangled in Kyle's hair, tugging gently. The Solo cup was forgotten on the sink as they stumbled into the cramped bathroom, shutting the door with a clatter.

Kyle's hands roamed hesitantly at first, then with growing confidence, tracing the lines of Cartman's shirt soaked through with sweat. "Jesus," he whispered fiercely. "Just... fuck me. Please."

Cartman's smirk softened into something raw, "I'm not gonna say no to fucking."

Cartman's eyes darkened with something that could have been desire, or amusement, or maybe a mix of both. He pressed closer, lips capturing Kyle's in a rough, hungry kiss that made Kyle's knees weak. Cartman's hands moved to the hem of Kyle's shirt, fingers brushing his skin through the fabric. Kyle's hands tangled in Cartman's hair, clutching, desperate for more contact.

Cartman's fingers traced down Kyle's side, sending sparks through him. Kyle's breath hitched, his body aching for more. "Please," he begged again, voice trembling. "I want you so bad."

With a low growl, Cartman captured Kyle's mouth, hands moving quickly to unbutton Kyle's shirt. Cartman's voice was low, thick with amusement and something darker. "You're really serious about this, huh? Begging like a damn idiot."

Kyle's cheeks burned red, but he didn't pull away. "I am. I want this. I want you. Please, just... don't stop."

Cartman smirked, lips brushing against Kyle's temple as he whispered, "You're lucky I'm in a good mood tonight. Otherwise, I'd make you wait."

"Fuck that," Kyle whispered back, voice cracking with need. "I want you now. Please, Cartman. Please fuck me."

Kyle's hands trembled as they tugged at Cartman's own shirt, finally slipping it over broad shoulders and tossing it aside. Their bodies pressed flush, skin hot against skin. Cartman's mouth found Kyle's neck, trailing kisses that burned and teased, while his hands roamed boldly, exploring the curves and hollows beneath the fabric. Kyle gasped, arching into the touch, craving more.

Slowly, deliberately, Cartman positioned himself, the weight of him solid and real. Kyle's breath caught as Cartman's hands steadied him, one on his hip, the other threading through his hair. The heat of Cartman's body pressed against him was overwhelming, raw and undeniable. Cartman leaned back just enough to spit into his palm, the sound sharp in the quiet between their breaths. He rubbed it over himself with a slow, deliberate stroke, eyes locked on Kyle like he was daring him to look away.

"You want this so bad, huh?" Cartman said, voice low and almost mocking.

Kyle swallowed hard. “Yes,” he whispered.

Cartman pulled back just slightly, eyes narrowing in mock disappointment. “Nah. That’s not good enough. You’re gonna have to beg, Kahl.”

The word landed heavy in the space between them, making Kyle’s stomach flip. His pride fought it for a heartbeat, but the ache running through him was louder. “Cartman—”

“Uh-uh,” Cartman interrupted, his tone dripping with satisfaction. “Say it. Tell me how bad you need it.”

Kyle’s voice cracked. “I—fuck—I need you.”

Cartman tilted his head, pretending to think about it, his grip on Kyle’s hip tightening. “Still not hearing you beg.”

Kyle bit his lip, breath shuddering out. “Please… please, Cartman. I need you to fuck me. I’ve been thinking about it all night. I can’t stop.”

Cartman’s smirk widened, something darker flickering in his eyes. “That’s better,” he drawled, his voice almost a purr. He pressed in closer, his weight pinning Kyle against the wall, the heat of him swallowing the last bit of space between them. “Guess you earned it.”

Before Kyle could snap back, Cartman pushed forward, the sudden stretch making Kyle’s head drop back against the wall with a strangled gasp. The first thrust was deliberate, a slow push that made Kyle’s breath hitch in his throat. His hands slid down Cartman’s back instinctively.

Cartman didn’t give him time to adjust. He rocked forward again, deeper this time, watching Kyle’s expression shift: half pain, half something rawer. “Yeah, fuck yeah” he muttered under his breath, voice almost reverent, “that’s it. Take it.”

Kyle’s eyes squeezed shut, the sound of their breathing loud in the cramped space. The tile was cold against his back, the rest of him burning. He bit down on a groan, his head tipping forward until his forehead brushed Cartman’s shoulder.

Cartman’s grip on his hip tightened, dragging him closer into each movement. “You’re even better than I thought,” he breathed against Kyle’s jaw, his tone low and heavy. “Kinda pissed I didn’t do this sooner.”

Kyle’s nails dug into him harder, a shiver running through him despite the heat. “Shut up,” he managed, though his voice came out thin and shaky.

Cartman chuckled, the sound low and self-satisfied, before driving into him again. “Make me.”

Every thrust pushed the air from Kyle’s lungs, each one blurring the edges of his thoughts. He could feel the damp heat between them, the faint sting of nails, the way Cartman’s breath kept catching like he was just as close to losing control. The sound of skin and breath thick in the air until Kyle’s legs trembled and his voice fell apart in small, desperate noises he couldn’t swallow down. Cartman’s own breathing grew rougher, his movements sharper, until the whole world narrowed to the press and pull of their bodies.

Kyle’s hand slid down between their bodies, fumbling at first before wrapping around himself. The touch made his knees nearly buckle. He gasped, shuddering, his head falling back against the wall with a dull thud.

Cartman’s eyes caught the motion instantly, his grin flashing dark and satisfied. “Oh, fuck yeah,” he growled, voice low and rough. He slammed his hips harder, making Kyle’s hand jerk unevenly as he pumped himself, caught in the brutal rhythm. “You gonna cum like this?” Cartman sneered, thrusting harder, watching Kyle unravel. “Gonna blow all over yourself while I fuck it out of you?

The pace quickened, muscles coiling tighter, breaths coming faster. Kyle felt himself teetering on the edge, every nerve alight, every sound in his body magnified. His fingers dug deeper, pulling Cartman closer, anchoring himself against the overwhelming flood of sensation.

“Come on, Kahl,” Cartman urged, voice rough, eyes dark and commanding. “Let go.”

The climax hit him like a wave breaking: violent, consuming, white-hot. Kyle cried out Cartman’s name, spilling over his own fist, streaks painting across his stomach as his whole body convulsed. His hand stuttered through the final strokes, movements jerky and uneven, until he slumped against the wall, panting, his body still trembling. Cartman didn’t slow, holding him through it, pressing him harder into the tile as he rode the aftershocks coursing through Kyle’s body. His grin was feral, but his eyes were locked on Kyle’s wrecked expression, almost reverent.

“Fuck,” Cartman muttered, breath harsh against his ear. “That’s it. That’s what I wanted to see. You coming apart on your own hand while I’m buried in you.”

Cartman groaned deep in his throat, following soon after, muscles tightening as he spilled into Kyle. They stayed pressed together, panting, hearts pounding wildly in the small space, sweat slick and sticky between them.

Cartman’s lips brushed Kyle’s ear, voice a low growl. “Happy New Year, Jew.”

Kyle smiled weakly, breath still coming in shaky bursts. “Happy New Year, Cartman.”

 

Notes:

SOOO, new story! Not really. I was looking through my google docs and found this gem, just sitting there with so much potential. Honestly, I had totally forgotten that I had a few rough drafts of the first chapters of this one done. BTP took my attention completely (that is my baby!) away from this one.

And. I just want a little side piece that is easy and not emotionally draining and isn't 6K words every chapter. This book will be a lot shorter word wise and lighthearted.

Chapter 2: Man, I feel like mold

Summary:

Chapter One!

Notes:

Title: Teenage Dirtbag by Wheatus.

You sillies, you get two chapters today!

The first week after New Year's slipped by in a haze of pretending. Kyle threw himself into schoolwork, burying his thoughts beneath piles of assignments and lectures. He did his best to avoid thinking about that cramped bathroom at the party, or about Cartman, who had been with him there. Cartman, for his part, said nothing. No mention to Kyle, and as far as Kyle could tell, no one else either.

In public, Cartman acted like everything was normal. He threw the usual insults, joked around with their friends, and laughed a little louder than necessary at dumb jokes. He was his usual self: confident, brash, and untouchable. Their interactions were almost painfully routine. Cartman jabbed at Kyle with insults; Kyle rolled his eyes and fired back. It should have made forgetting easier, but it didn't.

By the second week, Kyle started waking up feeling heavy and drained, like his body was carrying a weight that sleep couldn't lift. Mornings found him poking at his cereal while Sheila fussed over Ike's lunchbox, her sharp eyes watching him carefully.

"You're not eating," she said one Tuesday, voice tight.

"Not hungry," Kyle muttered, resting his chin on his palm.

"You've been saying that all week," Sheila replied, narrowing her eyes. "Are you getting sick?"

"I'm fine, Mom." He forced a spoonful of cereal down just to end the conversation, but the food sat like a stone in his stomach.

At school, Stan noticed too.

"You look out of it," Stan said quietly one morning at Kyle's locker.

"Yeah, well, try sleeping at my house with my mom yelling at Ike until midnight about getting off the computer," Kyle snapped. "All that kid wants to do is play Roblox."

Stan raised an eyebrow. "Uh huh. And what about the almost falling asleep in class thing?"

Kyle slammed his locker shut. "I study late."

/////////////

By the third week, the nausea came in waves that sometimes struck the moment he woke up, sometimes hit in the middle of class. Twice, he had to leave the room just to splash cold water on his face, trying to steady himself.

At dinner, Sheila's fork hovered halfway to her mouth. "You've barely touched your plate all week. Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine," Kyle said, stabbing at his food.

"You don't look fine," Gerald said from across the table, concern evident. "You're pale."

Ike snorted. "Maybe he's pregnant."

"Ike!" Sheila snapped, swatting him with her napkin.

Kyle rolled his eyes but gripped his fork tighter. "Very funny."

Meanwhile, Cartman seemed perfectly fine. He laughed louder than usual at school, shoved kids in the hallway with his usual brash grin, and joked with their friends as if nothing had changed. Kyle watched him from a distance, feeling the strange ache of isolation.

That same week, Kyle's cravings grew stranger. One night it was salted pretzels at ten p.m., the next a desperate thirst for orange juice so cold it hurt his teeth. One evening, he found himself devouring a bowl of spicy ramen noodles and didn't even stop until halfway through the second bowl.

"What's wrong with you?" Ike asked as he passed through the kitchen.

Kyle didn't answer. He was too caught up in the swirling thoughts that refused to settle.

/////////////

By the fifth week, Kyle could no longer deny the truth. The sickness had gotten so bad he threw up twice before first period, yet he endured the rest of the day clammy and half-conscious. That night, Sheila caught him leaning against the kitchen counter while the kettle boiled, eyes half-closed.

"That's it," she said firmly. "You're going to the doctor tomorrow after school."

"Mom, it's fine—"

"No. You've been pale, tired, and nauseous for weeks, and with your diabetes, you don't take chances."

Kyle knew arguing was useless. He mumbled, "Fine," and trudged upstairs.

At school the next day, Cartman was his usual self, a sharp contrast to Kyle's hollow exhaustion. He threw a snide comment Kyle's way during lunch, but the edge in Kyle's eyes made him pause for a second.

"You look like shit, Jew," Cartman said, almost grudgingly. "You sure you're not just faking it?"

Kyle wanted to snap back but instead turned away, tired of fighting with him, and also trying to keep his lunch down.

Later that day, in Dr. Harper's office, Kyle sat on the cold exam table, surrounded by the sterile smell of disinfectant. The doctor spoke calmly, making the ordeal feel routine.

"So, Kyle, your mom mentioned fatigue, nausea, and changes in appetite."

Kyle nodded. "About a month now."

"Any vomiting?"

"Yeah, mostly mornings."

"How's your blood sugar?"

"Usually fine, maybe a little low sometimes."

"That could explain the fatigue. Diabetes can be tricky: stress and diet changes can throw things off. Any changes in what you eat?"

Kyle hesitated. "I've been craving spicy and sweet things I don't normally want."

The doctor nodded. "Could be a mild virus or stress. I'll order bloodwork to be sure. In the meantime, eat balanced meals, keep sugars steady, and drink plenty of fluids."

Kyle forced a weak smile. "So, nothing serious?"

"Nothing alarming for now. If symptoms persist beyond two weeks, come back."

After the appointment, Kyle tried to follow the advice. He ate breakfast, kept to his insulin, and carried water everywhere. Nausea still hit in waves. Fatigue was relentless. At school, he struggled to stay awake; at home, he collapsed on the couch and woke hours later to Sheila's worried questions.

/////////////////

By the sixth week, Sheila was watching Kyle more closely at every meal.

"You've lost weight," she said, frowning.

"It's fine, Mom," Kyle said, avoiding her eyes.

"No, it's not. You need energy. Did the doctor call with your results?"

"No," Kyle said, poking his food.

Gerald looked up. "Maybe they haven't gotten them yet."

Ike snickered, "Or you're dying."

Sheila shot him a look sharp enough to cut glass.

Cartman, meanwhile, continued to act like nothing was wrong. He laughed with their friends, teased Kyle, and shoved him in the hallway at school. But Kyle noticed the rare moments Cartman would glance his way, eyes flickering with something unreadable: concern, guilt, or something else that he couldn't figure out in his head.

////////////

The Friday in the eighth week, Kyle was so exhausted he didn't even make it home from school. Stan found him at his locker, head resting on cold metal, eyes half-closed.

"You look awful," Stan said. "Let's go home, dude. I'll make you tea."

Kyle didn't argue. The cold February air bit at his face as they walked. His legs felt like lead.

At Stan's, wrapped in a blanket, Kyle took slow sips of warm tea. Kyle wanted to say, I don't think I'm sick. But the words stuck in his throat. To say them aloud would mean dragging Cartman into this, and he wasn't ready to tell Stan that he got fucked by their arch nemesis since preschool in the bathroom during a party.

The kettle whistled softly. Stan poured two mugs, watching Kyle over the rim.

"You need to go back to the doctor," Stan urged.

Kyle clutched his mug, voice barely a whisper. "I will."

/////////////////

It was the tenth week. The beginning of March when Sheila's phone buzzed at breakfast: an unfamiliar number that set her stomach tightening before she even answered. 

"Harper's office," the voice on the other end said, calm and professional. "Mrs. Broflovski? This is Nurse Patel calling regarding Kyle's follow-up. Doctor Harper reviewed the preliminary labs and we'd like him to come back in today for additional testing. Can you come in this afternoon?"

Sheila's mouth went dry. "Yes! Of course! We'll be there." She didn't hang up for a beat, listening to the nurse give scheduling options, then dropped the phone onto the table as if it were suddenly too heavy to hold.

Kyle, slumped at the counter in yesterday's hoodie, looked up. "Everything okay?"

Sheila folded her hands over the phone like it had been something fragile. "The doctor wants more tests. Today." Her voice was steady but small. "Get dressed. Ike, go finish your cereal and go to the bus stop." She didn't give him a chance to protest; in seconds they were in the car, the wind biting at their cheeks as they crossed town.

The hospital smelled like antiseptic and impatience. Kyle sat on the plastic bench between his mother and a stack of magazines he couldn't focus on. He'd been through the basic lab bloodwork three days before: fasting panels, energy questions, routine checks, but this felt different: the way Sheila wouldn't meet his eyes, the way the receptionist kept saying, "We'll get you in as soon as possible."

Hours stretched. A nurse drew blood again: more vials, polite small talk that Kyle could not answer. An ultrasound tech led him into a quiet, gray room and asked him to lie back on the cold table. The tech's practiced silence made the wait feel longer; she coughed politely and turned the screen away before starting, then frowned at the monitor and called in a colleague. Kyle's stomach dropped in a way that had nothing to do with nausea and everything to do with the sudden impossibility of the situation.

At midafternoon, Dr. Harper came in with a face that had practiced delivering benign news all his career. Today it carried a different expression: careful, incredulous, and oddly unsettled.

"Kyle," he said, taking a seat on the edge of the desk. He kept his voice the same clinical cadence he used with parents and teens, but there was no hiding the tightness at the edges. "We ran a full set of tests. Blood panels, repeat hCG, and the ultrasound. The labs came back... positive for a sustained elevated hCG. The ultrasound shows a gestational sac. I should be clear, this is not a typical situation. Under normal human physiology, this would not happen in a cis male."

Kyle's mouth went dry. For a second he tried to line up facts the way you line up dominoes: doctor appointment, tests, a weird childhood stomach bug, but there were no dominoes that fit. "What do you mean," he managed. "You said the tests were for—"

"For fatigue, gastrointestinal symptoms, and to rule out other causes," Harper interrupted gently. "When you explained your symptoms earlier and we ran the bloodwork, the hCG level was... elevated. So we repeated it and then ordered imaging. I want to be transparent: this doesn't fit standard medical expectations. We're calling in specialists: an endocrinologist, an OB/GYN team, and we'll consult medical genetics. But the immediate and factual result is that your body is showing markers consistent with pregnancy."

Sheila's hand clamped over his like a vise. Kyle felt her fingers tremble.

"No," she said aloud, the single word raw and half enraged. "That can't be right. There has to be—"

Dr. Harper held up his hand in a small, conciliatory motion. "We double-checked. The labs were processed twice and verified. The ultrasound image shows a gestational structure consistent with an early pregnancy. I know this is shocking. I'm not going to pretend there's an easy explanation. Right now the most important things are to get you specialist consultations and to make sure your medical needs are addressed: nutritional support, symptom control, and careful monitoring. We'll move forward with the plan, but I won't downplay the unusual nature of this diagnosis."

Kyle's breath left him in a single wheeze. The room seemed to tilt in slow motion: the beep of a machine, the muffled footsteps in the hallway, the fluorescent lights that felt too bright. 

"What does this mean for—" His voice broke. "For me? For school? For—"

"It means we'll have to approach this step by step," Dr. Harper said. "We'll assemble a team, run more detailed imaging and labs, and make sure you are medically supported. As for how this affects your life, school, home, you're going to need information before you can make decisions. I know that's hard right now. I'm going to have Nurse Patel set up the consultations immediately."

Sheila's face had gone from white to red to a thousand shades between. Her voice, when she spoke, was small and fierce. "How can this happen? How—Who—What do we tell people? What do we tell Kyle's school?"

Dr. Harper was honest. "I don't have a full explanation. Part of what we need to do is rule out lab error, though I'd say that's unlikely at this point: evaluate hormone profiles, and look for any anatomic findings that might explain what we're seeing. It's so atypical, we'll bring in specialists who handle rare and complex cases. For now, we handle the immediate medical safety and then work outward. We'll schedule the additional imaging and I'll walk you through each step."

Outside the door, the world was continuing in its ordinary way: an elevator dinged, a nurse called for a patient, someone laughed down the corridor. Inside, Kyle felt like a person split in two: the Kyle who had been ignoring cereal and trying to make it through class, and a new version of himself that hovered oddly detached, like an observer in a bad dream.

"How—" Kyle tried again. He thought of how the spell had felt ridiculous at the time, the Latin they'd mumbled drunkenly. He thought of Cartman's smirk and the way their mouths had collided.

Dr. Harper's expression shifted toward clinical curiosity rather than judgment. "Right now, we don't have enough data to say what caused this. We treat the patient, document findings, and contact relevant specialists and, if appropriate, reporting bodies for rare cases."

Sheila's shoulders shook. "Kyle! Are you okay? Do you understand?"

He had a flash of the kitchen, wine bottles, the book, and the memory felt distant and bright and utterly impossible to hold. All he could do was nod, a tiny, stunned motion. "I... I think so."

The rest of the afternoon dissolved into appointments and paper forms. A genetic counselor took a careful family history; a nurse gently asked about medications and allergies; someone wheeled a cart of pamphlets that said things like "Support Resources" and "Early Pregnancy Care." Each step felt simultaneously ordinary and surreal, like watching a procedure on television while someone else did the work.

Kyle swallowed hard. "So... I'm pregnant."

Dr. Harper nodded, "Yes. It's an unusual situation for a cisgender male, but the tests are clear."

Sheila's face paled. "This is... unbelievable." She squeezed Kyle's hand tighter.

Dr. Harper leaned forward. "We need to discuss your options moving forward, but first, we have to ask: do you know who the biological father is?"

Kyle hesitated, his throat tight. The room grew heavier, all eyes turning to him expectantly.

"It's... um... It's Eric Cartman," Kyle said quietly, barely above a whisper.

Sheila's eyes widened in shock, then narrowed in anger. "That boy? That—That Eric?" Her voice shook with disbelief and fury. "How could you let that happen? With him? After everything?"

Kyle said nothing. He stared at the tabletop, the weight of the room pressing down on him. Sheila shot a glare at Kyle but kept silent as the doctors continued.

"We must be honest," Dr. Rivera said. "Because of the placenta's invasive nature, attempting to terminate carries a very high risk of severe hemorrhaging that could be life-threatening. We strongly advise expectant management under close monitoring."

Kyle's jaw tightened. "So, I have to keep it."

"Yes," Dr. Harper said gently. "We will provide comprehensive care and support every step of the way, but immediate termination is not a safe option."

Kyle’s breath hitched before he could stop it, the air shuddering in his chest. He didn’t want to cry here, in front of the doctors, in front of his mom, but the tears came anyway, hot and fast, blurring the edge of the clipboard in Dr. Harper’s hand.

“I don’t—” His voice broke. “I don’t want this. I don’t know how to do this. I’m not—I can’t—”

Sheila shifted closer, cupping his cheek with a hand that still trembled. “Sweetheart—”

“No,” he said, shaking his head, the motion jerky. “You don’t get it. This isn’t just—” He cut himself off, chest tightening. The sterile smell of the room felt suddenly suffocating, like it was sinking into his skin. “I can’t—”

Dr. Harper’s voice softened, but it didn’t make the words any less heavy. “It’s okay to be scared. It’s okay to feel like this is too much right now. You don’t have to have all the answers today. What you need to know is that you are not alone, and we will manage this together.”

Kyle dragged the back of his hand across his face, but more tears slipped free. “Everyone’s gonna know. They’re gonna look at me—” His stomach twisted painfully. “What am I supposed to tell people?”

Sheila’s thumb brushed under his eye, catching a tear before it could fall. “We’ll figure that out. You’re my son, and I’m not letting you go through this without me. Do you understand?”

He wanted to believe her, but the pit in his stomach only deepened. His mind kept flashing to Cartman’s stupid grin, the sound of his laugh, the way this would all look if it got out. He curled forward, pressing his palms over his eyes as if he could block out the whole room.

Dr. Harper didn’t push him to look up. “We’re going to get the imaging scheduled for tomorrow morning,” he said quietly. “We’ll check the placental attachment and growth, and we’ll have a maternal-fetal medicine specialist talk with you about a long-term plan. Tonight, the only thing you need to do is rest.”

Kyle nodded weakly, but it felt like a lie. There would be no rest, just the sound of his own pulse pounding in his ears, and the cold, dizzying realization that nothing in his life would be the same again.

//////////////

Sheila’s hand gripped Kyle’s arm with a force that made him flinch, her fingers trembling just as much as his own heart was pounding. The walk to the car felt agonizingly slow, each step heavy with the weight of the moment neither of them wanted to fully face. Her eyes searched his, fierce and swirling with a mixture of fear, frustration, and helplessness.

“Kyle,” she began, voice low and tight, “we need to talk about this. We have to.”

He didn’t look at her. His jaw was clenched so tightly it ached, fists shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket as if that could somehow steady him. “What is there to talk about? You don’t get it, Mom. I’m the one carrying this. It’s my body, my life. I’m the one who has to live with it.”

For a long moment, only the crunch of gravel underfoot broke the silence. The world outside moved with indifferent normalcy: cars passing by, the distant hum of a lawnmower, birds calling, while inside Kyle’s chest, panic bloomed like a dark flower. 

When they reached the car, Kyle slid into the passenger seat with the weight of the diagnosis pressing down on him like a storm cloud ready to break. Sheila climbed in behind the wheel, her breath heavy, laden with unshed tears and the raw edge of anger that neither knew how to release.

The car sat still for a moment, the quiet between them thick enough to choke on. Then Sheila’s voice broke the silence, sharp and trembling, layered with disbelief. “I just… I can’t wrap my head around this, Kyle. Eric Cartman? Of all people! How could you even think—no, choose—to sleep with him? And unprotected? Do you even understand what kind of trouble this puts you in?”

Her hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly that the knuckles blanched white, her voice shaking under the weight of barely contained fury and fear.

“You have to tell Eric,” she said, her words landing hard, like a slammed door. “He has a right to know. But hear me now, you are not raising this baby with him. Not in this house. Not in this family.”

Kyle whipped his head toward her, heat rising in his chest. "Good! I don't want this baby anyway!" His voice cracked, more from frustration than guilt. "I'm not keeping it. I'm going to hand it over to the scientists, or whoever the hell wants to poke and prod at it. Let them figure it out."

Sheila's mouth fell open, outrage sparking anew. "Scientists? Kyle, are you even listening to yourself?"

Kyle shot her a hard look. "I didn't even think it was possible! I'm a guy, Mom, how the hell was I supposed to know this could happen?" He threw his hands up, voice rising. "And what do you want me to do? Pretend I'm excited? Pretend I'm gonna play happy family with Cartman?"

"I want you to take responsibility!" Sheila snapped, pounding the heel of her hand against the wheel for emphasis. "I don't care how it happened, you have to deal with it. And Eric—" her lip curled as she said his name "—needs to be told, whether we like him or not."

Kyle's laugh was sharp and bitter. "Yeah, that'll go great. I'm sure Eric will just love hearing he knocked me up. Probably make a joke out of it for the rest of my goddamn life."

Sheila glared at him, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous tone. "I don't care what he says or does. This is reality now, Kyle. Running from it won't make it disappear."

Kyle turned away, staring out the passenger-side window, jaw tight. "Then maybe I just disappear instead."

"Don't you dare say that to me," she said, her voice low but shaking. "You think disappearing is some kind of solution? You think you can just run away from what you've done and it won't follow you?" She let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Life doesn't work like that, Kyle. Believe me, I've lived long enough to know." 

"You already made one stupid decision: sleeping with Eric, and without protection, no less. I'm not going to watch you make another by acting like a spoiled child who thinks he can just throw away a baby like it's garbage."

Kyle turned back toward her, his face hot. "Do you want me to sit here and say I'm fucking thrilled? That I'm grateful Eric fucking Cartman managed to screw my life up in one night once again?" His voice cracked again, this time under the strain of holding too much back. "I'm the one who has to carry this. Not you. Not him. Me." 

Kyle's hands curled into fists in his lap. "I thought I couldn't get pregnant! I thought it was impossible! And for your information, I didn't catch anything, so maybe don't act like I've been rolling around with half the town."

Sheila gave a sharp scoff, shaking her head. "Oh, wonderful, congratulations! You didn't get an STD from Eric. That's your bar now? That's the standard for good judgment?"

He stared at her, incredulous. "You're acting like I planned this! Like I woke up one day and thought, 'Hey, you know what'd be great? Let's have sex with Eric Cartman, no condom, and see if I can become the first cis guy in history to get pregnant!'"

Sheila's head snapped toward him again, her glare sharp. "I love you, Kyle, but I am furious with you, and I'm so, so, so very scared for you, oh, my baby!" Her hands trembled on the steering wheel as tears welled in her eyes, the rawness of the moment pressing down on them both like a suffocating weight. 

Kyle swallowed hard, his throat tight and dry. The words hit him like a punch: my baby. It wasn’t just the diagnosis anymore; it was the weight of Sheila’s fear and love crashing into him all at once, unfiltered and raw.

Sheila’s voice softened, trembling beneath the weight of her fierce love and growing fear. “I see how scared you are. I’m scared too. I need you to know, no matter what happens, you’re not alone in this. I'm your mother, I'll always be that, I'll always take care of you, no matter what.”

Kyle swallowed hard, his throat tight, “I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted quietly, voice breaking. “I’m not ready for this. I’m not ready to be a freak, or a headline, or whatever people will say.”

Sheila reached over, her hand finding his on the console between them, fingers trembling but steady. Kyle looked down at their hands: hers warm and strong, his clammy and uncertain. For a moment, the outside world faded away: no judgment, no whispers, just two people grappling with the same impossible thing.

Sheila’s thumb brushed gently over his knuckles. “You don’t have to be ready right now,” she said softly, her voice steady but full of tenderness. "We’ll take it one day at a time,” Sheila promised, voice steady but gentle. “You’re my son. That will never change.”

Kyle nodded, tears slipping down his cheeks, mixing with the silent night outside as the car continued its slow journey home.

“My baby,” she whispered again, voice breaking under the pressure of the words. It was no longer just a medical diagnosis or a shocking news report; it was a raw, aching reality that transformed Kyle from her son into something so vulnerable it made her heart twist painfully. 

Sheila’s hand tightened around his like she could anchor him to the present. She glanced at the rearview mirror, eyes rimmed red, then found his face again. “I am so sorry I snapped,” she said, voice small and raw. “I didn’t mean to— I just… I’m terrified.” Her fingers trembled as she folded them in her lap. The admission was almost louder than the shouting had been.

Kyle let out a breath that sounded like surrender. “I know,” he whispered. “Me too."

When they finally started the car, Sheila stayed close in the way she drove: slower, more deliberate, as if the road itself had become fragile. Kyle kept his hand in hers until they pulled into the driveway, a quiet pact between them.

Notes:

There's a scene in Juno where a character makes Juno drop her books and then looks back at her as he walks away as she talks about how he secretly wants her. I think that fits these two greatly.

Also, I don't really have a reason on why I made Kyle the pregnant one, like, there is no deep reason for it.

I really wanted there to be shock, fear, and anger really showed in the reveal. I think all those emotions were important to show and portray. I feel like those are the emotions a lot of people feel when they find out pregnancy related news. It's all over the place.

Chapter 3: I'm home alone, you're God-knows-where

Summary:

“You know how they say to never drink and drive? Well, never drink and bone.”

Notes:

Title: Bored by Billie Eilish

The second the car slid into park, Kyle threw off his seatbelt and yanked open the door. Sheila called after him, but he didn't stop. He barely even heard her anymore. His boots pounded up the front steps, the porch light flickering overhead like it couldn't decide if it wanted to work tonight, and then he was inside, up the stairs two at a time, the air in the house stale and unfamiliar like he hadn't lived here his whole life.

He slammed his bedroom door so hard the walls rattled. The lock clicked a second later.

The house fell quiet, minus the low hum of the heater kicking on and the faint, stunned sound of Sheila's shoes on the hardwood floor downstairs.

Kyle pressed his back against the door, breathing hard, his heart still jackhammering from the argument. His room looked exactly the same as it had yesterday. Neat. Predictable. Like none of this had happened. Like the walls hadn't just caved in on everything.

He staggered toward the bed, peeled off his jacket with shaking hands, and collapsed face-first into the comforter. His fists balled in the fabric. A shuddering breath left him, and then another, and then the dam broke.

The tears came hard, fast, ugly. He didn't even try to hold them back. His shoulders shook with them, face buried in the mattress as if it could smother the sound, as if the bed could absorb the panic and the guilt and the slow, creeping disbelief that any of this was real. He felt sick, hollow, furious, humiliated, and completely, utterly alone.

Downstairs, the front door creaked closed. Then, muffled voices: his mom, his dad.

"What do you mean—?" Gerald's voice, low and confused.

"I said he's pregnant," Sheila snapped. Her voice wasn't raised, but it was sharp, brittle with the kind of fear that had no place to go.

A beat of silence.

"That's not... that's not possible," Gerald said slowly, as if maybe she had used the wrong word. "That's not how—"

"Well, apparently it is," Sheila cut him off. "Because I just spent the entire day at the clinic watching our son go through bloodwork and ultrasounds and being poked and prodded by doctors who didn't know what to say except 'statistical anomaly' and 'unknown presentation of reproductive anatomy.'"

Another pause.

"You're serious."

"Yes, Gerald, I'm serious!" Her voice cracked. "He's seventeen. Seventeen!"

Gerald sounded like he was still trying to wrap his mind around it. "I just—I don't understand. How could this happen? He's a boy, Sheila."

"Do you think I don't know that?" she snapped. "Do you think I didn't sit there at the clinic with every doctor looking at us like we were lying or hallucinating?"

"I'm not saying it's your fault—"

"Oh, but you are," she hissed. "Because that's what you do, Gerald. When something breaks, you ask me what I did wrong. You want to know how I let this happen."

"That's not fair," he said sharply.

"No, what's not fair is that our son is upstairs sobbing into his bed, probably thinking we hate him, because this whole thing is so insane that none of us knows what to say without making it worse."

A long pause.

"Is he sure?" Gerald asked finally, softer this time. "About the pregnancy?"

"He's sure," Sheila said, voice hollow. "They did an ultrasound. We saw it."

Kyle squeezed his eyes shut. He could still see the image—blurry, grey, unreal—burned into the backs of his eyelids. The cold jelly on his stomach. The way the technician had gone silent halfway through. The quiet, stunned click of keys on a computer. The word intrauterine. He hadn't asked what it meant.

"He's a child, Gerald. He's seventeen. He shouldn't be dealing with this alone. He shouldn't even be able to get pregnant, and yet here we are! He should be worried about college, or prom, or whatever the hell normal boys his age are supposed to care about. Not this."

Gerald sighed, a slow exhale that filled the air vent like fog. "Do we... Do we take him somewhere else?"

"He doesn't want another doctor. He barely tolerated today. You didn't see him. He was shaking. He sat there like, like the whole thing wasn't even happening to him. Like he'd already decided to float above it."

Kyle's chest constricted.

"He's terrified," Sheila said quietly. "And angry. And I think—I think he hates me right now."

"He doesn't hate you."

"I snapped at him. I yelled. I said things I didn't mean."

"You were scared."

"And so was he. That's the difference. He didn't get to yell."

Gerald didn't respond right away. When he did, his voice was heavy with something almost like shame. "I'll talk to him. Later. When he's ready."

"I don't know if he will be ready."

"We're his parents, Sheila. We're supposed to be ready when he's not."

Upstairs, Kyle curled in on himself, pulling the blanket up to his chin even though he wasn't cold. His face was hot with dried tears, his mouth dry, his body aching in a way that didn't have a name.

Part of him hated that they were talking about him like a problem to fix, like a fragile vase they didn't know how to hold. Another part of him wanted to run back downstairs and collapse into their arms like he was five years old again, before any of this had been real.

He just lay there in the dark, breathing slow and quiet, listening to their voices as they carried on like a distant echo of some other family, some other life, some other version of him that had never needed to be this afraid.

////////////////

Cartman had been having what he considered a pretty good couple of weeks.

School was dragging as usual, but his grades hadn't tanked yet, Kenny had been in a decent mood lately, and, most importantly, Kyle hadn't been around to bug him much. Not that he was keeping track or anything. The absence of that constant redheaded, holier-than-thou presence had made things quieter. He chalked it up to Kyle being busy with his usual nerd crap. Maybe some debate team thing, maybe cramming for a test only he cared about. Whatever it was, Cartman hadn't questioned it.

If anything, he'd been... fine. More than fine.

It wasn't that he'd forgotten that night, it crept into his head more often than he cared to admit, in those moments when the world was quiet and no one could see his face. It was like an itch in his brain he couldn't quite scratch: heat, sweat, the sound of Kyle's voice breaking in a way he'd never heard before. It kept replaying, in the gross, shameful way he would have expected.

Whenever his mind wandered, he shoved it back into a corner, slapped on his usual smirk, and told himself it was just a one-off thing. A lucky, freak accident in the universe that was never going to happen again.

He joked around with Kenny at lunch, trashed Clyde in video games after school, spent his weekends at the arcade or loitering at the 7-Eleven. If anyone asked, he'd say life was exactly the same.

But every once in a while, late at night, lying in bed, his mind would drift to how Kyle had looked in the low light that night, flushed and breathless, hands clinging like he didn't want to let go. Cartman would roll over, bury his face in the pillow, and tell himself to stop thinking about it.

After all, Kyle wasn't here to remind him, and Cartman sure as hell wasn't going to be the one to bring it up.

////////////////

It was late on a Saturday night when Cartman ended up at Heidi's place. She'd texted him after a party, saying she was bored, and since he'd already been halfway across town grabbing drive-thru, he figured why the hell not?

They'd fallen into this weird, off-and-on thing ever since breaking up last year. It wasn't a relationship; it wasn't even romantic. It was just... familiar. Easy. She'd hit him up when she was bored, and sometimes he'd call her when he needed someone to listen, someone who actually knew him outside of the crap he gave his friends. Sometimes, it was just touching each other and sex, a stress relief from the worries of school and the real-world looming over them as their graduation grew closer and closer. 

Heidi's room was warm, smelling faintly of vanilla and some kind of fruity body spray. They'd already hooked up on her bed, both of them now lying side by side. She was scrolling on her phone, hair messy, tank top slipping off one shoulder. Cartman was staring at the ceiling, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

"You're quiet," Heidi said finally, not looking up.

"I'm fine," Cartman muttered, but his tone had that edge: the one that meant absolutely not fine.

She side-eyed him. "What, did I do something?"

"No, it's... not about you." He rubbed a hand over his face, exhaling hard. "It's just... this stupid thing. With Kyle."

Heidi actually laughed a little. "God, you two are so weird. What happened now?"

Cartman hesitated, then shrugged like it was nothing. "Nothing happened now. It's just... I can't stop thinking about something that did happen. Weeks ago. It was... hot. Like, annoyingly hot. And I hate that I keep thinking about it."

Heidi's eyebrows rose. "So... you hooked up with him?"

"Hooked up is a very strong word, one I wouldn't use," Cartman said, smirking faintly, but his ears went red. "It was a one-time thing. I mean, I figured it would just be... whatever, y'know? Get it out of our systems. But it's stuck in my head."

She tilted her head at him. "Sounds like you really liked it."

"That's the problem, I did really like it," Cartman shot back, a little too quickly. "It's messing with my brain. Like, I'll be in the middle of eating dinner and suddenly, bam! thinking about his face when I—" He cut himself off with a frustrated groan. "It's so annoying."

Heidi just smirked, leaning back on her pillow. "Maybe you miss him."

"I don't miss him," Cartman said immediately, glaring at her. "I just... want to fuck him again. Kyle was a damn good fuck."

Heidi raised an eyebrow, clearly amused but also curious. "A damn good fuck, huh?" She nudged him playfully with her shoulder. "So, you're just stuck on the fact that Kyle's good in bed."

Cartman scowled, cheeks flushing a deeper red as he sat up a little, running his hands through his hair in frustration. "Yeah, okay, maybe that's part of it."

Heidi smirked, clearly enjoying seeing this rare, vulnerable side of Cartman. She reached over and lightly poked his side, teasing. "Guess Kyle really got under your skin."

Cartman let out a shaky breath, staring back at the ceiling. "Maybe. But for now, I just want to forget about it... or at least get another good distraction."

Heidi laughed softly, rolling onto her side to face him, her eyes glinting with mischief. "A distraction, huh? And what exactly did you have in mind for this 'distraction,' Mr. 'I'm-fine'?"

Cartman's cheeks flushed an even deeper shade of red, but there was a flicker of a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

//////////////////////////

Kyle was sitting at the kitchen table, pushing the remnants of cold macaroni around his plate when Sheila came in, drying her hands on a dish towel. She'd been quiet with him most of the week, but tonight, there was a look in her eye that made his stomach sink.

"We need to talk," she said flatly, setting the towel on the counter.

Kyle sighed, already bracing himself. "We've been talking."

"No, you've been avoiding," she shot back, planting her hands on her hips. "You need to tell Eric."

Kyle's fork clattered against the plate. "We're not doing this again."

"Yes, we are!" Her voice sharpened. "This is his responsibility too, Kyle. You didn't make this baby on your own—"

"Don't call it my baby," Kyle cut in, glaring at her. "I already told you, I'm not keeping it."

"That doesn't matter!" Sheila snapped. "He still deserves to know. He has a right to know!"

Kyle's jaw tightened. "And what's he supposed to do with that? Throw a party? Cartman's not exactly the 'let's be a supportive dad' type."

"That's not the point—"

"No, the point is you think you get to dictate my life," Kyle shot back, heat creeping into his voice. "I'm the one stuck in this. I'm the one going through all these doctor visits. I'm the one whose life just blew up—"

Sheila slammed her palm on the counter. "You chose to get into bed with Eric Cartman! You made that decision, and now you're too much of a coward to face him!"

Kyle stood up so fast his chair scraped the floor. "You think I want him showing up every day, rubbing it in, making jokes, telling everyone? No thanks."

Sheila's voice softened, but only slightly. "Kyle... he's the father. You can't hide this from him forever."

"I'm not hiding it from him forever," Kyle said through clenched teeth. "I'm just... not telling him until I have to."

//////////////

The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and burnt coffee, the kind that had been sitting on a hot plate for hours. Kyle sat hunched in one of the stiff chairs, knees bouncing, his phone clutched in his hands but unused. He wasn't scrolling, wasn't reading, just holding it like a shield.

Sheila sat beside him, arms crossed tight, eyes fixed on the closed office door ahead. The silence between them was sharp enough to cut.

The doctor finally emerged, holding a clipboard and wearing that professionally neutral expression Kyle had come to hate over the past week.

"Kyle, we'll see you again in a week for your next scan. Everything's stable for now," she said. Then, after a pause: "And I do need to remind you, we'll eventually have to speak to the father about genetic screening and possible health history. It's important for the baby's care, and yours as well."

Kyle's stomach sank.

"We've been over this," he said flatly.

Sheila's head turned toward him so fast he could feel the heat of her glare. "We have been over this, and you're still not listening. You think you can just keep him in the dark? That's not how this works, Kyle."

Kyle shoved his phone into his hoodie pocket and stood. "It's exactly how this works. I don't want him involved."

"Too bad. He is involved whether you like it or not," Sheila snapped, standing too. "You can't just pretend Eric doesn't exist—"

"Stop calling him 'the father.'," Kyle shot back. "I didn't ask for this, I don't want this, and the second it's out of me, it's not my problem."

"That's not your decision to make alone," she said sharply as they stepped into the hall. "And it's sure as hell not your decision to keep his name off the record like this. He has a right to know."

"I don't care about his rights! He'd probably just laugh, tell everyone, and turn it into some stupid game."

"You don't know that—"

"Yes, I do!" Kyle's voice cracked, a mix of frustration and fear. "This is Eric Cartman we're talking about! The guy who's made my life hell for years, and you want me to hand him this? No! Absolutely not!"

They pushed through the sliding glass doors, the cool air outside hitting Kyle's flushed face. Sheila's voice followed him, still low but laced with steel.

"You are going to tell him, Kyle. You are going to face him. You understand me?"

///////////

Cartman stood outside Stan's house, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He'd knocked twice already, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets while he waited. When Stan finally opened the door, his expression was somewhere between surprise and suspicion.

"What do you want?" Stan asked.

Cartman rolled his eyes. "Calm down, dude. I'm not here to fight. I just—" He hesitated, glancing over Stan's shoulder before lowering his voice. "—I've been trying to get ahold of Kyle, and he's, like, totally ghosting me. Not even answering texts. Is he mad at me or something?"

Stan frowned, leaning against the doorframe. "I don't know. He hasn't really been talking to anyone. Even me. He's been... weird lately."

"Weird how?" Cartman asked quickly, trying to sound casual but feeling a knot form in his stomach.

Stan shrugged. "I don't know, man. Quiet. Kinda pale. Tired all the time. He's been missing school, which is not normal for him at all."

Cartman snorted. "What, like his mom finally found a way to nag him into a coma?" He smirked, but Stan didn't laugh.

"Seriously, Cartman, if you did something, maybe you should apologize. He's obviously going through something."

Cartman's smirk faltered. "I didn't do anything," he muttered, glancing away.

/////////////////

It was late when Cartman found himself standing outside the Broflovski house, staring up at the familiar second-story window. He felt stupid, like this was some middle school nostalgia trip gone wrong, but something in him itched too much to just walk away.

He glanced at the street to make sure no one was watching, then hauled himself up onto the narrow strip of siding beneath the window, fingers gripping the drainpipe for balance. The metal was cold under his palms, and his boots scraped against the wall.

When he reached the window, he rapped his knuckles against the glass, three sharp knocks, the same way he used to when he was sneaking over to convince Kyle to play Xbox until 2 a.m. At first, nothing happened. The curtains were drawn tight, the faintest glow of a desk lamp bleeding around the edges. He knocked again, harder this time.

Finally, the curtain shifted just enough for a pair of startled eyes to peer out.

Kyle's expression went from confusion to something sharper: panic, almost. He yanked the window up just enough to stick his head out.

"What the hell are you doing?" Kyle hissed, voice low, glancing over his shoulder like he was afraid someone else would hear.

Cartman grinned, trying to mask the sudden unease he felt at Kyle's reaction. "What, no 'hi, Cartman'? No warm welcome for your childhood climbing buddy? I had to scale a freakin' wall for this."

"You can't be here," Kyle said quickly, his voice tense. "Seriously, go home!"

Cartman's smirk faltered. "Dude... what's going on with you? You've been avoiding me for weeks. You're pale, you look like crap, and even Stan says you're not talking to anyone. Did I... do something?"

Kyle's grip on the window frame tightened, knuckles whitening. "It's not about you. Just—Please. Go."

Cartman tilted his head, searching Kyle's face. "Then tell me what it is. You think I'm just gonna leave after climbing up here? Nah, dude, I'm not—"

"Cartman." Kyle's tone had an edge now, firm, almost pleading. "Go home."

Cartman hooked his elbow over the sill instead of climbing back down, leaning half in through the open window. "Nope. Not going anywhere 'til you tell me what the hell's up. I didn't almost fall off a wall just to be told to 'go home.'"

Kyle glanced toward his bedroom door like he was listening for footsteps. "Cartman, I mean it. Leave."

Cartman narrowed his eyes. "You've been ghosting me. You won't answer texts, you avoid me at school, and you've barely even been showing up. So what? Did I piss you off? You mad about something I said?"

"Cartman—"

"Or," he pressed, smirking in that smug, probing way, "you've been secretly seeing some guy and you're too embarrassed to tell me!"

Kyle's jaw worked. "This isn't a joke."

Cartman's smile faded, replaced with irritation. "Then say it. Whatever it is, it can't be that bad—"

"Yes, it can!" Kyle suddenly snapped, voice sharper than he intended. "It's your fault, Cartman!"

"Oh my God, it is about that!" Cartman's voice went up a notch, and he leaned in. "Jesus, dude, what—Did I—"

"It's not—" Kyle's voice cracked with frustration. "You don't get it!"

"Then explain it! I'm standing here, freezing my ass off, trying to figure out why my so-called best enemy won't even look at me anymore!"

Kyle's temper snapped. "You wanna know why? Fine. I'm pregnant. I'm pregnant and it's fucking yours, you fucking asshole!"

Cartman stared at him, blinking like his brain had short-circuited. "The fuck do you mean, pregnant?"

"Exactly what it sounds like," Kyle said, his voice tight. "The doctors confirmed it. And yeah, if you're wondering, it's yours."

Cartman just stared at him for a beat, then let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Oh my God. You’re serious? That’s… wow. You’ve officially lost it.”

Kyle’s expression didn’t change. “I’m not joking.”

“Yeah, sure. And I’m the Virgin Mary.” Cartman swung one leg over the sill like he might climb in. “What, is this some kind of freaky guilt-trip prank? You mad at me so you tell me I ‘knocked you up’?” He even did air quotes.

Kyle’s voice sharpened. “It’s not a prank.”

“Dude, that’s not even possible.” Cartman’s tone was half mocking, half uncertain. “You’re a guy. I’m a guy. Last time I checked, that’s not how science works.”

“It happened,” Kyle said, his grip on the window frame whitening again. “There’s a doctor. There’s a test. Do you think I want to be saying this to you right now?”

Cartman shook his head, grinning like he couldn’t help it. “This is rich. You’re seriously doubling down on this.” 

“You think I’d make it up?” Kyle demanded.

“Honestly? Yeah.” Cartman leaned back, trying to smother whatever that flicker was. “Because otherwise you’re telling me I’m in the middle of some Lifetime special about miracle man pregnancies, and I’m the deadbeat baby daddy, and that’s… dude, that’s insane.”

Kyle’s chest rose and fell faster, anger and disbelief mixing in his face. “Believe it or not, I don’t care. It’s still happening. It’s yours.”

Cartman barked out another laugh, louder this time. “Oh, this is gold. You’ve finally snapped, Broflovski. You been watching too much weird anime or something?”

Kyle’s eyes narrowed. “You think I’m lying because it’s easier than facing the fact that you’re involved in this.”

“‘Involved’?!” Cartman scoffed. “You’re telling me you magically got pregnant from, what, one time? That’s not how it works!”

“It is!” Kyle’s voice rose, his words shaking. “Do you think I wanted this? Do you think I planned this?!”

“Oh, please,” Cartman shot back, jabbing a finger at him. “This is exactly the kind of melodramatic crap you’d pull to make me feel bad. You’re probably just trying to guilt me into—”

“Into what?” Kyle snapped, stepping closer to the window. “You can’t even take five seconds to think maybe, just maybe, I’m telling you the truth!”

“Because it’s insane!” Cartman’s face was red now, but not entirely from the cold. “Guys don’t get pregnant! That’s not real life, that’s—”

“That’s my life right now!” Kyle’s shout cut him off, voice cracking. “You think I’m making it up? Fine, come to the next appointment. Come see the damn ultrasound. Maybe then you’ll shut up long enough to realize this is real!”

Cartman shook his head again, but slower now, like the fight was starting to feel less solid under his feet. “You’re just—no. You’re not doing this to me.”

Kyle’s glare didn’t waver. “Too late. You already did this to me.”

Before Cartman could spit out another denial, footsteps thundered down the hall.

The door slammed open, hitting the wall with a crack.

“Kyle, bubeleh, what in God’s name—” Sheila’s voice stopped cold as she took in the scene: Cartman hanging halfway in through the open window, Kyle standing rigid, both of them red-faced and breathing hard. Her eyes sharpened instantly, moving past the awkward tableau to the tension in the room.

“I knew it,” she said flatly, her voice like ice.

Cartman blinked. “Knew what?”

Sheila didn’t even look at him. She kept her gaze fixed on Kyle, like she was silently asking if this was about to get worse. Kyle’s shoulders hunched the tiniest bit. That was all the confirmation she needed.

“You—” She turned on Cartman with the kind of glare that could flay skin. “You have a lot of nerve, Eric Cartman.”

Cartman blinked at her. “Uh—Hi?”

“Don’t you ‘hi’ me.” Sheila stepped into the room, crossing her arms. “Kyle told me everything.”

Cartman’s stomach dropped. “Everything?”

“About the pregnancy. About you.” Her tone was like a judge pronouncing sentence.

Kyle didn’t look away from Cartman, his arms folded tight.

Cartman forced a laugh, trying to shake it off. “Okay, wow, you too? Did you guys rehearse this? Because I’m telling you, it’s not true.”

“Oh, so my son’s a liar now?” Sheila snapped.

“Yes! I mean—No! I mean—He’s wrong! Or—Look, this is insane! Guys don’t get pregnant, it’s, like, basic biology!”

“You think I don’t know what basic biology is?” Sheila’s eyes narrowed. “The doctors know! I know! Kyle knows! The only one refusing to know is you!”

Cartman pointed at Kyle. “This is all in his head!”

Kyle’s voice was low, but it cut through Cartman’s protest like a blade. “You think I’d make this up? You think I’d tell my mom, go through doctor visits, deal with all of this just to screw with you?”

Cartman’s mouth opened, but nothing came out.

Sheila’s eyes softened for the briefest second when they flicked to her son, then hardened again as she pinned Cartman in place. “Do you understand what you’ve done? Do you understand the position you’ve put him in?”

Cartman’s voice pitched up, defensive and shaky all at once. “You’re both out of your minds! I didn’t—This isn’t—”

“Eric.” Sheila’s tone dropped into that lethal, low register that made grown men shut up. “Get. Inside. Now.”

For a second, Cartman looked like he might bolt back out the window. But Kyle was standing right there, arms crossed, eyes locked on him in silent challenge. The weight of both stares pinned him in place.

With a muttered curse, he swung his legs inside, boots hitting the carpet. “Fine. But this is bull—”

“Sit,” Sheila ordered, pointing to the desk chair.

Cartman sat.

Kyle didn’t move from his spot by the window. He just kept staring, his breathing finally slowing, though his hands still curled into fists at his sides.

Sheila shut the window behind him with a firm snap, her gaze never leaving Cartman. “We’re going to have a conversation, Eric. And this time, you’re going to listen.”

Notes:

Updates might be slow. I start back to college next week! Let me know what you thought of this chapter!

Chapter 4: Once upon a time, a few mistakes ago

Summary:

"This is one doodle that can't be un-did, Homeskillet." - Juno

Notes:

Title: I Knew You Were Trouble by Taylor Swift.

Sheila stood with her arms crossed, blocking the door like she was guarding the only exit. Her stare was unflinching, the kind that made even Cartman's usual smugness shrivel.

"First," she said, her voice clipped, "you're going to tell me exactly what happened that night."

Cartman shifted in the chair, feigning confusion. "What night?"

Kyle scoffed. "Don't play dumb."

"I'm not playing—"

Sheila's voice cracked through the air like a whip. "Enough!" The word hit hard enough to silence both of them. "You may be able to worm your way out of trouble with your mother, Eric, but not with me. I know what happened. I know you and my son were... together. And I know he wouldn't be in this position if it weren't for you."

Cartman's leg bounced restlessly. "Okay, see, you keep saying that, but you're acting like it's just a normal thing for a dude to get pregnant. It's not. It's—"

"Do you think I care if it's 'normal'?" Sheila snapped. "Do you think I haven't had to wrap my head around this already? I've been with him to the doctor. I've seen the results. I've sat there while my son had to listen to words no teenage boy should ever have to hear, and I've watched him try to hold himself together."

Kyle stared at the floor, jaw tightening. Cartman's eyes darted between them, but Sheila didn't give him time to gather himself.

"And you weren't there, Eric," she continued, her voice lowering but somehow becoming more dangerous. "Not once. No calls. No messages. Nothing. You just disappeared like it was all going to go away if you ignored it long enough."

"I didn't know!" Cartman protested, his voice cracking more than he wanted it to. "He never told me!"

Kyle's head snapped up. "You didn't give me a chance! You've been avoiding me since that night!"

"That's—" Cartman stopped himself, clenching his fists in his lap. "That's not—"

"Not what? Not true?" Kyle's voice was sharp, but there was a tremor underneath. "You didn't even care to find out why I was acting weird. You just wrote me off. And now you're here, pretending like this isn't happening."

Cartman opened his mouth, but Sheila stepped forward, leaning over him so he had to look up. "Well, it is happening. You are going to face it. No running away, no hiding behind sarcasm. You don't get to leave this room until you've looked my son in the eye and acknowledged the truth."

Cartman's breath caught, but he tried to cover it with a scoff. "And if I don't?"

Sheila smiled, but there was no warmth in it. "I'll call your mother, and believe me, I'll make sure she hears every detail."

The silence that followed was heavy. Cartman slouched back in the chair, staring anywhere but Kyle. His mouth worked like he was chewing on words he couldn't spit out.

Kyle's voice broke the quiet, low and unsteady. "You can believe me or not, Cartman. But it doesn't change what's real."

Cartman's gaze finally flicked to him, and for a split second, there was something raw there—panic, maybe, or the first crack in his wall of denial. His jaw tightened, his eyes darting to the floor, then back to Kyle, then away again like the air in the room was getting too heavy. His knee bounced under the desk chair, each jittery movement more agitated than the last.

"This is ridiculous," he muttered, but the edge in his voice had shifted, it wasn't smug anymore. It was thin, frayed. "You're just trying to mess with me. This is some long game to make me feel like crap, and you're loving it."

Kyle didn't flinch. "Do I look like I'm loving any of this?" His voice was quieter now, but each word landed hard. "Do I look like I've been sleeping? Eating? Having a good o' time while you get to pretend nothing happened?"

Cartman's mouth twisted, searching for a comeback, but the words didn't come. He laughed instead, sharp and brittle. "You've always hated me, dude. Always. So why wouldn't you pull some crazy stunt to ruin my life?"

"Because it's my life that's been ruined too!" Kyle snapped, stepping closer, his face flushed and eyes burning. 

Cartman flinched like the words hit harder than he expected, but his voice shot up in volume. "What the hell even are you saying? Guys don't just—" He cut himself off, the last word hanging unsaid because he couldn't bring himself to say get pregnant without feeling it echo in his own head.

"You don't get to decide what's possible," Kyle bit out. "You weren't there when the doctor explained it. You didn't see the tests. You don't know what it's like to have everyone's eyes on you because you're—" He stopped, swallowing hard before his voice could break. 

Cartman's breathing quickened. He shoved back in the chair, the legs squealing against the carpet, and stood so suddenly the chair rocked behind him. "No. No, you're trying to trap me! That's all this is. Some insane guilt trip to make me feel responsible for—" He gestured wildly at Kyle, words failing him again.

Sheila's voice cut in, low but steady. "Eric, if you were so sure he was lying, you wouldn't be yelling."

Cartman froze for a fraction of a second, then scoffed. "Oh, please! I yell at him every day."

"Not like this," Sheila said.

Kyle's eyes narrowed, catching the slight waver in Cartman's posture now, the way his weight shifted from foot to foot, his hands twitching at his sides. "You're scared," he said, and the certainty in his tone made Cartman's head snap toward him.

"I'm not scared," Cartman shot back instantly, but his voice cracked halfway through.

"Yes, you are," Kyle pressed, stepping forward again. "Because you know there's a chance I'm telling the truth, and you can't handle it."

"Shut up," Cartman muttered.

Kyle didn't. "You'd rather call me crazy."

"Shut up," Cartman barked, louder this time, his face twisting.

"You'd rather pretend it's impossible—"

"Shut up!" The words ripped out of him, his voice breaking completely now.

The room went still. Sheila watched him carefully, her eyes catching the tremor in his hands, the uneven rise and fall of his chest.

Cartman broke eye contact first, dragging a hand over his mouth, muttering something too low to catch. The fight had shifted: he wasn't lashing out just to win anymore. He was lashing out because the ground under him was starting to crack. Kyle saw it. He didn't push another word, but he didn't step back either. The silence between them was suddenly louder than the shouting had been.

Cartman's breathing was ragged now, like every inhale caught somewhere between panic and anger. His eyes flicked to the window, too far a drop to make a quick escape without looking desperate, then to the door, where Sheila stood like a guard dog that hadn't eaten in days.

"You don't get it," he said finally, but his voice was rough, stripped of its usual bite. "If you're telling the truth—If this is real—then I'm..." He trailed off, shaking his head, as if saying it out loud would make it permanent.

Kyle crossed his arms, gaze unblinking. "Then you're what?"

Cartman's jaw clenched. "I'm stuck with you. Forever."

The way he said it was venom and fear mixed in equal measure.

Kyle's stomach twisted, but he didn't look away. 

"This isn't just 'we have to deal with each other at school'—This is—This is life-Ruining crap! My life!" Cartman ran a hand through his hair like he was trying to scrape the thoughts out of his head. "You have no idea what this is gonna do to me."

Kyle laughed, sharp and humorless. "You? What about me? I'm the one carrying it. I'm the one everyone's gonna stare at. I'm the one who gets to deal with it every single day, and you're worried about you?"

"That's not—" Cartman bit down on the words, chest heaving. "God, you're such a—"

"Finish it," Kyle challenged, stepping in until they were nearly nose-to-nose. "Call me whatever you want, it won't change the fact that you're scared shitless and trying to make this my fault like you always fucking do!"

"It is your fault!" Cartman exploded, but there was a break in his voice at the last word, betraying the edge of something else underneath: something shakier. "You—You should've—God, I don't know—done something."

Kyle's face hardened. "So should you!"

That landed. Cartman's mouth worked soundlessly for a moment, like he wanted to argue but couldn't get the words out. He looked away, his eyes darting to the floor, to the wall, anywhere but at Kyle.

Cartman swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing. "I need—" He stopped, glancing toward the door again, but Sheila didn't move.

"You need what?" Kyle asked, his voice quieter now but cutting through the air like glass.

Cartman didn't answer right away. His hands curled into fists, then uncurled, then curled again. Finally, he muttered, "I need to get out of here."

"You can leave," Sheila said, "but it won't change the truth waiting for you outside that window."

For the first time since she'd entered, Cartman didn't have a comeback. He just stood there, shoulders tight, like a man deciding whether to run or stand his ground, and knowing either way, he was already cornered.

Cartman's knees buckled slightly as the words sank in, and his usual bravado evaporated. His hands clawed at his hair, tugging frantically, and then his chest started heaving, shallow and rapid.

"I... I—" His voice broke into a strangled sob. "I can't... I can't—"

Kyle flinched, stepping back a pace, watching the walls of Cartman's denial crumble into something raw and terrifying. "Cartman..." he said softly, unsure if he should reach out.

Sheila, however, didn't hesitate. Despite the anger still coiling in her chest from seeing him at the window, something in her motherly instinct kicked in. She stepped forward, crouching slightly to lower herself to his level. "Eric," she said gently, hands outstretched, "look at me. Breathe. Please."

Cartman's sobs grew louder, uncontrolled now, and he buried his face in his hands. "I... I'm... I'm gonna—"

Sheila's voice stayed steady, firm but warm. "No. You're not gonna break. Not here, not now. You're scared. That's okay. It doesn't make you weak. Look at me, Eric."

He peeked at her through trembling fingers, and she gave a small, patient nod. The sobs hit again, louder, ragged and desperate, as he sank to the floor. Sheila hesitated only for a heartbeat, then knelt beside him, hand brushing against his shoulder. "Shh... it's okay, Eric. Breathe."

Kyle watched silently, torn between disbelief and pity, as Cartman's panic attack rolled through him. He had never seen him like this: helpless, unguarded, completely undone. Sheila's presence, calm and patient, seemed to anchor him slightly. His shoulders shook violently, tears streaking down his cheeks, hiccupping sobs punctuating the small space.

Sheila kept her hand steady on his shoulder. "Just breathe with me. In... and out..."

Cartman's voice cracked into near-whimpering. "I... I can't... I can't... I'm... I'm a failure... I'm..."

"You're not a failure," Sheila whispered, squeezing his shoulder gently. "You're scared. That's all, and that's normal. You've never faced something like this before. You will get through it. You're not alone. Not anymore."

For the first time, his sobs slowed, the edge of his panic dulled just slightly by the steady presence beside him. Even though she hated him, even though he had caused endless chaos in their lives, Sheila's maternal instinct wouldn't let him unravel alone. She had no claim to mother him, but she couldn't stop herself. Not now.

Kyle still stood near the window, arms crossed, his own emotions tangled. He didn't move closer, didn't speak. He let her take over, silently absorbing the raw vulnerability of the boy who always seemed untouchable, now exposed and shaking on the floor before them.

Cartman's hiccupping sobs turned into quiet whimpers, and Sheila's hand stayed firmly on him, guiding him to breath in and out slowly. Slowly, ever so slowly, the chaos in the room softened, replaced with a fragile, trembling stillness.

"I... I don't know what to do," Cartman whispered finally, voice cracking and low.

"You don't have to know yet," Sheila said, her tone firm but soothing. "Right now, just let yourself feel it. You're not alone. Not now, not ever in this room. You're safe."

Sheila stayed by Cartman's side, hand on his shoulder, as his sobs finally began to ebb into ragged breaths. His body still shook, small hiccups escaping him with every exhale. Kyle remained at the window, tense but silent, letting Sheila handle him for now.

After a few minutes, Sheila gently released her grip but stayed close. "Okay, Eric," she said, her tone firm but calm, "We need to call your mom. She's going to need to know what's happening."

Cartman's head shot up, panic flickering back into his eyes. "No! No way! She's going to kill me! She'll freak! I can't—"

"She won't hurt you," Sheila interrupted, her voice soft but unwavering. "She'll be upset, yes. She'll be angry, but right now, she needs to know. You're not handling this alone. We're calling her, and she's coming over. That's the best thing for everyone."

Kyle watched as Cartman's hands fumbled for his phone, shaking. "She's really coming?" he asked cautiously.

"Yes," Sheila confirmed. "Now do it before you panic again. Breathe, Eric. One step at a time."

Cartman's fingers trembled as he unlocked his phone and searched for his mother's contact. His lips pressed into a tight line. "Hi, Mom..." His voice was low, cracking halfway through the word. "I... uh... we need to... I mean..."

"Take your time," Sheila said gently, kneeling beside him again. "Tell her what you need to. Just speak slowly. Breathe."

He nodded once, swallowed hard, and tried again. "Mom... I... I need you to come over... it's important... Kyle... uh... and his mom... and... it's—it's serious."

Cartman's lip trembled. "I... I don't know... I can't explain it all... I just need you to come."

Sheila gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "That's enough for now. She'll be here soon. You're doing fine."

Within minutes, the distant hum of an engine approached, followed by the sharp screech of tires on the driveway. Cartman jumped slightly. "She's... She's here," he whispered, his voice barely audible.

Kyle moved aside, letting Sheila open the door as the familiar figure of Liane Cartman stepped through, her face a mix of confusion, fear, and maternal instinct. "Eric! What's happening? Why are you crying? What's going on?"

Cartman's face crumpled entirely, and he fell forward, letting himself be caught partially by Sheila's steadying hand and partially by his mother's instinctive embrace. "I... I don't know how to... I... I..."

Sheila gently guided him to sit on the floor, while Liane knelt in front of him, holding him gently. "Shhh... It's okay, baby," she murmured. "Whatever it is, we'll figure it out together. Just breathe. Mom's here."

Kyle stood nearby, silent but tense, watching the scene unfold. He felt a strange mixture of relief and apprehension: this was the moment the secret was fully out, the moment that would change everything.

Cartman's sobs softened into quiet hiccups, his face buried against his mother's shoulder. Sheila stayed by his side, a steady presence, keeping him anchored as the chaos in his mind slowly ebbed, giving him space to finally feel, however painfully, that he wasn't alone.

Liane glanced up at Sheila briefly, a wordless nod passing between them: Sheila had stepped in as a surrogate anchor, and now it was time for his real mother to take over, helping him face what came next.

"Eric... Honey, slow down," Liane said, brushing strands of hair from his damp forehead. "Talk to me. What is happening? Why are you crying like this?"

Cartman's voice came out as a strangled whisper. "Mom... It's... It's... I messed up... It's serious... I didn't mean for it to happen..."

Kyle, standing off to the side. His voice cracked, but the words came out sharp and fast. "I'm pregnant... and it's his," he said, pointing to Cartman.

Liane's eyes widened as if someone had hit her with a sack of bricks. "What? Kyle... What are you saying?"

"I'm saying exactly what I said!" Kyle snapped, his hands clenching. 

Liane's mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. "That... That's impossible! Boys... can't... this... this cannot happen! I don't believe this!"

"Mom, please tell her," Kyle said, desperation creeping into his voice. "You saw the tests. You know it's true!"

Sheila's lips pressed together, trying to stay calm as Liane's disbelief boiled over. "Liane, it is true. The doctors confirmed it, but she doesn't need to hear me convince you right now. We'll show you the evidence."

"Evidence?!" Liane barked, pulling slightly away from Cartman. "I don't need evidence! I don't even know what to believe! You're telling me my son, my little boy, could have done something like this? And it's... it's true? I don't accept it. This is crazy!"

Kyle's anger flared. "You don't get to just decide it's not true because it's convenient for you! It is happening!"

"I'm his mother!" Liane shot back, voice rising. "I know my son! This doesn't make any sense! Boys don't get pregnant, Sheila! You're not his mother—You don't get to just say it's real!"

Sheila's jaw tightened. "And you think just because you're his mother that you know everything? Liane, listen to me, look at him! He's terrified! He's shaking! He's sobbing on the floor! You think he'd fake this?"

"I... I just..." Liane's voice cracked, her own panic and denial mixing with fear. "I can't... I can't believe it!"

"Then believe this!" Sheila said sharply, reaching into her bag and pulling out the folder with Kyle's medical records. "I wouldn't bring this if it weren't real. Ultrasound reports, test results: everything confirmed by professionals. If you think for one second that I'm lying or exaggerating, look at them."

Sheila placed the papers on the floor carefully, pushing them toward Liane. Liane's hands trembled as she bent down, picking up the top sheet. Her eyes scanned the words, the medical jargon, the ultrasound images. Her breath hitched.

Kyle watched, tense, as Liane's disbelief wavered, and Cartman's body shook with renewed sobs, the panic of his earlier denial now colliding with the undeniable reality in front of him.

"This... This says what? This... this can't be... Eric... it's... it's..." Liane's voice faltered as she looked down at her son, then back at the papers, then at Sheila. "It... it's real?"

"Yes," Sheila said softly, placing a steadying hand on Liane's arm. "It's real. Eric is the father, and Kyle... well, Eric needs to take responsibility."

Cartman whimpered again, burying his face in his mother's shoulder. "I... I didn't mean... I didn't—"

"I know, baby," Liane whispered, holding him tighter, rocking him slightly. "I don't understand it, and it scares me too, but you're not alone. I'm here. We'll figure this out together. Just breathe."

Kyle stayed near the window, tense but quiet, absorbing the weight of the moment. Two mothers, one in denial and one resolute, were now confronted with the impossible reality. And as Cartman's sobs slowly subsided into quiet hiccups, held steady by Liane's arms and Sheila's presence, Kyle realized that the secret that had hung over them for weeks was finally fully revealed, and there was no turning back.

The room settled into a tense, fragile silence, the three adults and the teen father-to-be all forced to reckon with a truth none of them could ignore.

Sheila and Liane's hands didn't leave Cartman, but now their expressions shifted from shock to furious curiosity. Liane's voice trembled as she finally spoke, clutching the medical papers in one hand while keeping the other lightly on Cartman's arm.

"How did this even happen?" she demanded. "I mean... it's impossible! Boys don't—this isn't... you have to tell me how! Where? When?"

Kyle swallowed hard, glancing at Sheila, who nodded subtly, giving him the space to speak. His voice was low, hesitant, but steady enough to fill the quiet room.

"It... it was New Year's Eve," he began. "We were at a party... drinking. I know we shouldn't have, but..." He trailed off, taking a deep breath. "We were in the crawl space under the kitchen, and we found this... spell book."

Liane's eyebrows shot up so sharply it almost hurt. "A spell book?"

"Yes," Kyle said, a little defensively. "It was old. Weird symbols... It looked like someone had been using it for rituals or something. I don't even know why we opened it."

Sheila leaned forward, voice firm but calm. "Kyle, tell us exactly what happened. We need the whole story."

Kyle nodded, cheeks flushing as he tried to hold his composure. "We recited a spell. I didn't think it would do anything. We were... curious. We thought it was just a joke."

Cartman's whimpers hitched, his voice weak and trembling. "Then... We... We had... sex... in the bathroom," he admitted, burying his face in his hands again. "I... I didn't think... I didn't think it... I didn't know..."

Liane gasped, her free hand flying to her mouth. "You what?! In a bathroom? Both of you?" Her eyes darted between Cartman and Kyle. "And you did this... knowing what you were doing?"

"No!" Kyle said sharply, trying to get the words out before Cartman's sobs swallowed the room. "We weren't thinking about consequences! It was... I don't know... a stupid, drunk mistake. We didn't think it could actually: this could happen!"

Sheila put a hand on Kyle's shoulder, squeezing gently. "It did happen, Kyle. How exactly did this spell factor in? Was it... magical? Was that what caused this?"

Kyle shook his head. "I don't know! We just read it aloud! Something must've... I don't know! But right after... after... well... we... we..." He trailed off, embarrassed beyond words.

Kyle's eyes met Sheila's, grateful for her calm presence, and then flicked to Liane, who was still trembling but clutching Cartman tightly. "It was stupid. A mistake."

Kyle rubbed his palms against his jeans, the skin of his knuckles pale from the pressure.

Sheila crossed her arms, speaking like someone trying to keep her composure for the sake of everyone else in the room. "Alright. We know when. We know where. We know how. And now... we need to talk about what's next."

Liane's head snapped toward her. "Next? Sheila, they're seventeen! He's—Kyle is—this is—" She cut herself off, the panic plain in her face.

"Screaming about it isn't going to change the fact that it's happening," Sheila said firmly.

Liane looked like she might explode. "I can't believe this," Liane said, voice sharp and shaking. "How could you just let this happen? He's your son. You're supposed to be watching him—"

Sheila's head snapped toward her, eyes narrowing like a switch had flipped. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me," Liane said, her voice gaining heat. "Kyle's under your roof, and you—"

"Oh, don't you dare," Sheila cut in, her tone suddenly dangerous. "Don't you dare stand here and act like your son is some innocent bystander. Eric knows exactly what he's doing—"

Liane barked a humorless laugh. "Oh, please. He's barely out of his senior year of high school and you think he has some kind of grand master plan? No—He was probably led on—"

Kyle jerked forward in his seat. "Led on?!" His voice cracked with outrage. "Are you serious right now?!"

"Stay out of it, Kyle," Sheila said quickly, though her tone was softer toward him. She turned back to Liane. "If you'd been paying any attention to him instead of spoiling him rotten, maybe he wouldn't think drinking himself stupid and messing around in bathrooms is acceptable!"

Liane's jaw dropped. "You think I don't pay attention? At least I don't keep my son locked in some moral chokehold so tight he explodes the first chance he gets to rebel!"

Sheila's hands went to her hips. "That 'moral chokehold' you're mocking? It's called raising your child to have some decency! Something your son clearly missed along the way!"

Cartman groaned quietly and put his hands over his face, like if he couldn't see them, they couldn't see him. "Oh my God..."

"You think you're so high and mighty, Sheila," Liane went on, leaning forward, "but your perfect little boy was there too."

Kyle stood up, his voice cracking louder now. "It was both of us, okay?! Stop acting like it was some one-sided thing!"

But the Moms barely broke stride.

"Maybe if you'd talked to your son about reality instead of lecturing him about ethics like it's some religion—" Liane started.

"Maybe if you didn't treat your son like a baby who can't face consequences—" Sheila fired back.

The boys exchanged a quick, miserable glance.

Sheila's voice rose another notch. "You can't deny the facts. He's the father, Liane. I have the paperwork right here!"

Liane finally looked down at the medical papers Sheila had spread on the coffee table. Her hands shook as she picked them up, scanning the DNA confirmation, the ultrasound results. Her eyes widened, and her breath caught.

"It... It really is true," she whispered, voice barely audible. "Eric. You're... The father?"

The room fell silent, save for Cartman's quiet sobs, Liane's shallow breaths, and the ticking of the clock. The impossible truth was fully out now, and no one could ignore it.

Kyle sat back in his chair, watching both mothers and Cartman. "So... What now?" he asked quietly, almost to himself.

 

Notes:

I was so worried about Cartman not being in character this chapter that I almost rewrote the entire thing, but after thinking about it, I decided that this IS in character for him.

I thought that Shelia comforting him during his panic attack is in character for her. She hates him and thinks that he has ruined her own son's life, but she's also a mother and sees him as a child (which he is, even though he is 18!) struggling through something HUGE. I feel like her maternal instincts would have worked through the hatred to comfort him until Liane could come.

I know I said it before, but updates will possibly slow, as I started college again, and I work full time now. I sometimes write at work, but I mostly try to do schoolwork there and leave the writing to home time. This week was mostly introductory work for school so, I was able to really get away with it.

ALSO. A playlist:

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/43gZT4O39hJh44IGpE4COy?si=a07f0dba876145c1

Chapter 5: You will never have to hurt the way you know that I do

Summary:

Title: good 4 u by Olivia Rodrigo.

The silence that followed Kyle's quiet question stretched, heavy and suffocating, until it felt like the walls themselves were leaning in.

Sheila still stood, her arms crossed tightly across her chest, her expression stern but no longer blazing with fury. She was measuring the room, measuring the two boys, measuring Liane's shaky composure. Her lips pressed together as though she already knew the answer to Kyle's question but dreaded saying it out loud.

Liane, however, looked like she'd been dropped into ice water. She clutched the folder of papers to her chest, eyes darting between Kyle and Cartman with a strange, almost frantic rhythm. Her son was trembling against her side, still hiccupping between breaths, his cheeks blotchy from tears. She brushed his hair back with trembling fingers, her voice breaking.

"What now?" she repeated, her tone laced with disbelief. "Now we... what, Sheila? What do we do with this? They're children. My son, my baby, is crying on the floor and you're asking me to think about what comes next like this is something we can... can just make a plan for?"

Sheila's tone hardened again. "We have to, Liane. Pretending this isn't happening won't make it disappear. My son is pregnant. Your son is the father. Those are the facts. You don't have the luxury of denial anymore."

Kyle bristled, hugging his own arms around himself. "I don't need you to argue about it. I need to know what's going to happen to me. To the baby. Am I even—" His throat tightened. "Am I even going to be allowed to stay in school once everyone finds out?"

The question made Cartman's head jerk up, eyes wide and panicked. His stomach lurched, and he gripped at his knees.

"They can't know," he blurted. His voice was raspy, raw from crying. "Nobody at school can know. If they do, it's—it's over. They'll never let me live it down. I'll never—" He cut himself off with a strangled sound, shaking his head violently.

Kyle shot him a sharp look. "You'll never live it down? Look at me! I'm the one carrying it, Cartman. They'll see it every time I walk down the hallway!" His voice cracked, the raw edge of his fear finally breaking through his anger. 

"Stop yelling," Sheila snapped, her authority slicing through the tension. She turned back toward Liane, who was still frozen in disbelief. "We need to start with the basics. Doctors, appointments, making sure Kyle is healthy. After that, we talk about school, about how to protect them both. But first, we get a real plan in place."

Liane shook her head as though trying to wake from a bad dream. "You expect Eric to just—what? Shoulder all of this at eighteen? He's not ready—He's barely..." She trailed off as she looked down at him, still pale and shaking. Her hand cupped the side of his face, gentle but desperate. "He can't handle this."

Cartman let out a weak laugh, brittle and unsteady. "Yeah, no kidding," he muttered, his voice breaking. His eyes flicked toward Kyle for the briefest second, guilt and terror colliding in that single glance, before he dropped his gaze back to the carpet.

"You'll both have to handle it," Sheila said flatly, no room for argument in her tone. "Ready or not, it's here, and running away from responsibility won't make it go away."

Kyle bristled. "I'm not raising this thing, and I'm not raising it with him!" His voice cracked, and he bit down on the words, but the damage was already done.

Cartman flinched like he'd been struck. His tear-streaked face twisted, defensive rising through the fragility. "Oh, that's great, Kyle. Real supportive. You're all fine with dumping this on me, but the second I'm in the room it's, 'I don't want him involved.'"

"Both of you, enough," she snapped, then turned her fire on Liane. 

"What exactly are you expecting him to do, Sheila?" Liane shot back. "Get a job? Drop out of school? He doesn't even know how to take care of himself, let alone—" Her voice broke, and she pulled Cartman closer like she could make him small again. "He's not ready."

Kyle's voice cut through, quieter than before but sharp enough to sting. "And you think that I am?!"

That landed. Both mothers froze, finally turning to look at him, really look at him. The dark circles under his eyes, the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands fidgeted at his sides like he was holding himself together by threads.

The silence pressed down on the room until Sheila finally broke it, her voice clipped but controlled.

"Alright," she said, folding her arms tighter. "We've danced around this long enough. We need to start talking about next steps. Because whether we like it or not, decisions have to be made. Kyle is pregnant. That's not changing. The question now is how we deal with it as families."

Kyle shifted uncomfortably, feeling the heat of both their gazes. "What does that even mean?" he muttered.

"It means doctor's appointments, Kyle," Sheila said, softer now. "It means making sure you're healthy, that the baby is healthy. It means paperwork, insurance, the school finding out—"

At that, Kyle's chest tightened. "School?"

"They're going to notice eventually," Sheila said gently. "Your teachers will need to know why you're missing classes for appointments. When you start showing, students and teachers will talk."

Liane flinched. "Oh, God. The school. The kids. Everyone's going to—" She clamped her mouth shut, pressing her lips together.

Sheila reached out, touching her son's arm. "Kyle has another appointment next week. You're coming too, Eric."

Cartman recoiled. "What? No! Why do I—"

"Because you're the father," Sheila said, her tone sharp enough to cut him off cold. "You need to start hearing this from the doctors directly. You need to understand what's happening, not just to Kyle, but to your child."

"My—" Cartman choked on the word, shaking his head. "No. No, that's—"

Sheila continued, relentless. "Second, we talk about who tells who. Kyle's friends will find out sooner or later. Better they hear it from you than from gossip."

Kyle's stomach lurched. "You want me to announce it?!"

"Not announce," Sheila said, though her voice softened slightly. "We'll need to decide who you trust to know first. Stan, Kenny... People you rely on. They notice when you're not yourself, Kyle. It'll be easier if they don't find out through whispers."

Kyle glanced at the floor, throat tight. The thought of Stan looking at him with pity, or worse, betrayal made his chest ache.

"We'll need to sit down with the school. Discreetly, with the principal. We'll discuss accommodations: time off for appointments, extensions if needed, and..." Shelia hesitated, her eyes flicking to Cartman. "We need to consider what happens if the truth spreads wider. Both of you will need to be prepared for the fallout."

"You mean the ridicule. The bullying. The way this whole town will turn on him the second they hear. Do you have any idea what people will say about my son!?" Liane exclaimed.

Kyle laughed bitterly. "Your son? What about me? I'm the one who's—" He cut himself off, his voice breaking.

Cartman shifted, muttering into his hands. "I can't... I can't do this. Everyone's going to hate me even more than they already do."

Kyle rolled his eyes, but he stayed quiet. Sheila crouched slightly, forcing Cartman to meet her eyes. "Eric. Listen to me. This isn't about who people like. This is about responsibility. You don't have to know how to do everything today. But you will show up. For Kyle. For the baby. That's step one."

Liane bristled. "Don't you start barking orders at my son—"

"Then you tell me, Liane," Sheila snapped, her voice cutting through the room like glass. "What's your plan? Keep spoiling him until the day comes and there's a baby on his doorstep? That won't work this time. There is no easy out."

Liane pulled back slightly, still clutching Cartman like she could shield him from the world. Her voice was trembling, a mixture of frustration and fear. “So… what, Sheila? We just march them both into the doctor’s office and start making all these… plans? Like they’re grownups? They’re kids!”

Kyle flinched at the word, feeling the weight of it. Kids. Right, because kids can’t be pregnant. Kids can’t have to make choices that will affect the rest of their lives. He glanced at Cartman, who was curled slightly into himself, mumbling something incoherent under his breath. Kyle’s chest tightened.

///////////////////

The fluorescent lights in the clinic buzzed faintly, giving the waiting room a sterile chill that made Kyle's skin crawl. He sat hunched forward in the stiff plastic chair, his coat zipped high, hands jammed in the pockets like he could disappear into himself. His mother sat beside him, back rigid, the stack of medical papers balanced neatly on her lap as though she was ready to slam them down on the doctor's desk the second anyone questioned them.

Across from them, Liane perched on the edge of her chair with Cartman pressed against her side. He looked miserable, drowning in a baggy black hoodie, his eyes red and swollen. His knee bounced so violently it rattled the chair legs against the tile floor. Every few seconds, his gaze darted toward Kyle, only to whip away again when their eyes almost met.

When the nurse finally appeared, clipboard in hand, her polite smile froze as her eyes flicked from Kyle to the others. "Kyle Broflovski?"

Kyle stood automatically, throat tight. He felt Cartman shift beside him, but no footsteps followed. Sheila stood too. "Eric. Liane. Come on."

"I don't need to be—" Cartman started, his voice already sharp.

"Yes, you do," Sheila cut him off, her tone brooking no argument. 

Liane touched his arm gently. "Sweetie, it's best if we're all there. Just for support."

With an exaggerated groan, Cartman dragged himself up, muttering under his breath. Kyle didn't turn around, but he felt the weight of Cartman's presence trailing behind him as they walked down the narrow hallway.

The exam room was too bright, the paper on the table crinkling as Kyle climbed onto it at the nurse's instruction. His legs dangled off the side awkwardly, his sneakers squeaking faintly as he tried not to fidget. The nurse took his vitals, her professionalism strained but steady, before leaving with a murmured assurance that the doctor would be in shortly.

Silence settled. Cartman leaned against the wall, arms folded tightly, his gaze darting anywhere but Kyle. Liane perched nervously on a chair, her hands clasped in her lap. Sheila stood tall near the counter, her posture stiff.

When the door opened again, Dr. Hernandez stepped inside: a middle-aged woman with a warm but serious expression. She glanced at the chart, then at Kyle, then at the others. "Alright," she said gently. "Kyle, it's good to see you again. How have you been feeling since our last appointment?"

Kyle's mouth went dry. He managed a shrug. "Tired. Sick, sometimes." His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. "Just... weird."

Dr. Hernandez nodded. "That's normal, given your condition. We'll go over everything carefully today." Her eyes softened, then shifted deliberately to Cartman. "And you must be Eric."

Cartman straightened, caught off guard. "Uh... yeah."

Her smile was small but kind. "I'm glad you came. It's important that both of you hear what we discuss today. This is a shared responsibility."

Cartman bristled, but he didn't argue.

The doctor moved to the counter, flipping through papers. "So far, Kyle's tests have confirmed that the pregnancy is viable. It's unusual, of course, medically unprecedented in many ways, but everything indicates that the fetus is developing normally."

Kyle ducked his head, heat rising in his cheeks. He felt exposed, like every word was a spotlight.

Sheila's voice steadied the air. "So what's next?"

"Next," Dr. Hernandez said, "is monitoring. Regular checkups to track both Kyle's health and the baby's development. Given that Kyle's body wasn't designed for this, there are risks: increased strain on his organs, possible complications during delivery. It will be important that he eats well, gets rest, and doesn't miss any appointments unless necessary."

"It's progressing like any other pregnancy," the doctor said. "The difference, of course, is that Kyle is male, which means his body is under unique strain. We'll be monitoring him closely for complications."

Cartman's face went pale. "Complications?"

Dr. Hernandez folded her hands. "Risks for both him and the child. His body isn't built for this, which means delivery will almost certainly require intervention. Possibly surgical. We'll know more as things progress, if Kyle doesn't develop another way of giving birth before that time."

Kyle's throat tightened. He swallowed hard, finally lifting his gaze to the doctor. "And if... if I can't..." He trailed off, unable to say survive it.

The doctor's expression softened. "That's why we'll watch carefully. But you're healthy now, Kyle. Your body is adapting better than we'd expect. You'll need extra rest, careful diet, supplements. And..." Her eyes flicked to Cartman. "Both parents should be present, whenever possible. Emotional support is just as critical."

Cartman's stomach dropped. "Wha—me? No, no, no, I don't—"

Liane grabbed his arm. "Eric. Enough."

The doctor continued. "Whatever... circumstances brought this about, the reality is that you're both involved."

Kyle's jaw clenched. He spoke for the first time since entering. "I don't need his support. I've been fine without it this long."

Cartman flinched, eyes darting toward him before snapping away. "Fine? You look like hell, dude." The words came out harsher than he meant, but his voice cracked halfway through.

Sheila turned sharply. "Eric."

Dr. Hernandez cleared her throat, easing the tension just enough to keep the conversation moving. "We'll focus on Kyle's health for now. But I want you both to understand: if this continues to term, you'll both have decisions to make: about delivery, about custody, about the child's future."

Liane's hand shot up. "Custody? He's eighteen! He can't raise a baby, neither of them can!"

Sheila's voice was steel. "They can learn. From us, if they have to, but this baby is real, and we don't run from it."

Kyle closed his eyes, the words echoing in his head: the baby is real.

Real like the buzz of the lights, like the crinkle of paper beneath him, like the steady thump of his own racing heart. His stomach turned, hot and sour. He couldn’t look at anyone.

“Real, yes,” Dr. Hernandez said carefully, “but right now what matters most is Kyle’s wellbeing. He is my patient. We’ll take this one step at a time. Why don’t we take a look today? An ultrasound will let us check on the baby’s development, and it may help to have something more concrete than just words.”

Kyle’s chest tightened. His throat felt thick. He nodded, though his stomach squirmed.

The nurse reappeared with a cart, wheeling in the machine. The room shrank around the harsh hum as it powered on. Kyle lay back stiffly as the paper crinkled beneath him, his coat tugged off by Sheila’s brisk hands.

“Lift your shirt for me,” Dr. Hernandez said softly. The gel was cold against his skin, making him shiver.

The probe pressed down, and after a beat, static flickered into a shape on the grainy screen. The room went utterly still: just the faint whir of the machine and Kyle’s shallow breathing.

“There,” Dr. Hernandez said. Her voice softened, almost reverent. “That’s your baby.”

Kyle stared at the blurry image, eyes burning. It didn’t look real, just shifting shadows. He swallowed, then muttered, his voice low and bitter: “He doesn’t need to see this.”

Cartman jerked, caught off guard. “What?”

“You don’t care,” Kyle said, still staring at the screen. His jaw clenched. “You’ve made that pretty clear. So just… don’t pretend now.”

The heartbeat filled the room, quick and relentless, like it belonged to someone else entirely. Kyle’s chest rose and fell too fast. He couldn’t tear his eyes from the screen, from the blur of movement that tied him and Cartman together in ways he wished he could undo.

Liane leaned forward, her hand on her son’s arm. “He does, Kyle. You may not always see it, but Eric cares more than he lets on. He’s here, isn’t he? That counts for something.”

Kyle’s laugh was sharp and humorless. “Wow. Great. A gold star for showing up.” His eyes flicked to Cartman, cold. “Guess that makes him Father of the Year.”

“Kyle,” Sheila warned, her tone clipped.

“No, seriously.” Kyle sat up a little, the gel still sticky on his skin. His voice cracked but he didn’t stop. “Because being dragged here whining and rolling his eyes totally proves he’s ready for this. Totally proves he gives a damn about anything but himself.”

Cartman’s head whipped toward him, his face blotchy. “Don’t act like you know what the fuck I give a damn about!” His voice cracked, harsh in the tiny room.

“I don’t have to know!” Kyle shot back, hands clenching into fists at his sides. “You’ve shown me for eighteen years, Cartman! You don’t care about me, you don’t care about anyone! You’ve never cared, and now suddenly I’m supposed to believe you’re gonna care about that?” He jabbed a finger at the screen, the blurry image still pulsing with life.

Cartman pushed off the wall, his arms flailing as his words tumbled out too fast. “Oh, yeah? Like you’ve been so perfect, Kyle? At least I didn’t hide it from everyone for months like some little coward—”

“Eric!” Liane gasped, horrified.

Kyle’s face burned, hot with rage. “Fuck you! At least I’m not pretending to give a shit just because my mommy says I’m supposed to!”

Cartman’s eyes went wide, his face twisting red. “Oh, that’s real nice, Kyle. Real fucking nice! Take it out on my mom because you can’t handle your own shit!”

“She’s the only one covering your ass!” Kyle snapped, his voice ragged. “If she wasn’t here, you wouldn’t even be in this room, you’d be at home playing Xbox, pretending none of this exists!”

“Stop it, both of you!” Sheila’s voice cut like glass, but they didn’t stop.

Cartman’s face went scarlet, his mouth twisting. “Oh, you think you’re so much better than me, huh? Big fucking hero, hiding letters, lying to your mom, sneaking around like a little bitch, yeah, real noble, Kyle!”

The room fractured with voices: Sheila barking “Enough!” while Liane grabbed at Cartman’s arm, the doctor raising her hands to try and calm them, but Kyle and Cartman were too far gone, their voices crashing over the heartbeat like static.

Kyle barely heard her, his pulse roaring in his ears. “At least I don’t need my mom holding my hand to get through a doctor’s appointment! Jesus, Cartman, you can’t even breathe without her telling you how!”

Cartman’s whole body jolted like he’d been shocked. For a second, his mouth opened with no sound, eyes glassy, before fury burned over the crack. “You shut the fuck up! You don’t know what it’s like, you’ve had everything handed to you your whole life: family, money, and you still act like you’re the victim!”

Kyle shoved himself upright on the crinkling paper, shaking. “Yeah? Well at least I won’t be stuck in this town, living off Mommy forever!”

The words hung in the air, jagged and final.

Cartman reeled back as if struck, his face crumpling before he smoothed it into something hard, ugly. “Fuck you, Kyle.”

The room froze. Sheila’s hand twitched at her side like she wanted to step in, her face pale with fury. Liane looked stricken, half rising from her chair, her lips parted with some instinct to comfort, but Cartman jerked away before she could touch him.

The heartbeat on the monitor filled the silence, fast and insistent, a sound that should have been miraculous but instead seemed to mock the four of them. Kyle sat rigid on the exam table, breath shallow, his fists still balled on the crinkled paper. He felt the sting of his own words catching up with him, like a delayed burn, but he refused to take them back.

Cartman shoved past his mother, his chair screeching across the tile as it toppled sideways. The door banged against the wall when he yanked it open.

“Eric!” Liane called, her voice desperate.

He didn’t look back. He stormed down the hall, heavy footsteps pounding against the linoleum, each one echoing like a gunshot until the sound faded. The door swung shut behind him with a hollow slam that made Kyle flinch. The exam room suddenly felt even smaller, suffocating in its brightness.

Liane sank back into her chair, pressing her trembling hands to her mouth. Her eyes glistened, shining with a mix of shame and helplessness. Sheila stood stiff as steel, her gaze flicking between her son and the closed door, lips pressed into a thin, unreadable line.

Dr. Hernandez, calm even in the charged air, reached over and quietly turned off the monitor. The heartbeat cut out abruptly, leaving only the faint buzz of the fluorescent lights. “Why don’t we take a few minutes,” she said gently, her voice the only steady thing in the room.

Kyle stared at the blank screen where the blurry shape had been moments ago, his chest aching. He didn’t want to look at his mother. He didn’t want to look at Liane. He didn’t want to think about Cartman storming out.

The gel on his stomach had gone tacky, cold, and itchy, but he stayed frozen on the exam table, staring at the black monitor. His reflection faintly warped back at him in the glass—tired eyes, pinched mouth, a face he barely recognized.

Sheila broke the silence first, her voice clipped, practical, as if forcing herself not to shake. “Clean him up, please,” she said to the nurse, who had crept back in at the sound of the commotion. Her tone left no room for argument, but her hands were balled at her sides.

The nurse moved quietly, apologetically, dabbing Kyle’s skin with warm cloths, murmuring about residue and comfort. Kyle didn’t answer. He felt like his skin wasn’t really there anymore, like everything that had just happened had left him hollowed out.

Liane’s voice finally came, soft and frayed. “He didn’t mean it.” She stared at the floor, shoulders curled inward. “Eric… He gets defensive, he lashes out when he’s scared. He doesn’t know how to—”

Kyle’s laugh cracked through her words, brittle and sharp. “He’s scared? You’re seriously going to stand there and tell me he’s the one who’s scared?”

“Kyle,” Sheila warned, her voice taut.

“No!” Kyle snapped, swinging his legs off the table, the paper tearing beneath him. His sneakers squeaked against the tile as he stood. His chest rose and fell hard. “I’m the one throwing up every morning. I’m the one the doctor keeps saying might not make it through this. But poor Eric, he’s scared, so I guess we all just have to forgive him for being a piece of shit, right?”

Liane flinched as though the words had physically struck her. “That’s not what I—”

Kyle’s eyes burned, and his voice cracked as he cut her off. “He doesn’t care about me. He never has. Everyone wants to act like that’s going to magically change because—” He gestured wildly toward the blank screen. “Because of this. But it won’t. It won’t, and I’m not going to sit here and pretend he’s anything other than exactly what he is.”

The silence that followed was jagged, suffocating.

Sheila finally moved, stepping closer to her son, one hand brushing the back of his arm. Her voice, when it came, was steady but cold. “That’s enough for today.” She looked sharply to Dr. Hernandez. 

Kyle stood stiffly, trembling with leftover rage and the aftertaste of shame. He pulled his coat back on with jerky motions, avoiding everyone’s eyes. The door that Cartman had stormed through loomed in front of him like a threat.

He wanted to follow. He wanted to scream at him again. He wanted to never see him again. He wanted everything and nothing at once.

Instead, he zipped his coat to his throat and walked out without a word.

The hallway smelled faintly of disinfectant, sharp and sterile, every footstep echoing against the linoleum. Kyle walked fast, his coat clutched tight around him, Sheila’s heels clicking close behind. Liane trailed silently, dabbing her eyes with a crumpled tissue, her shoulders hunched.

At the end of the corridor, through the glass doors, Kyle could already see Cartman outside. He was slouched in the passenger seat of Liane’s car, hood pulled up, staring stubbornly out the window like he could will the world away. His hand jerked once, maybe wiping at his face, before he yanked the hood lower.

“Wait.”

Dr. Hernandez’s voice cut through the air. She had followed them out of the exam room, her white coat swaying slightly as she caught up. In her hand was a small envelope, the kind that crinkled faintly with glossy paper inside.

Sheila stopped first, her mouth tightening. Kyle froze reluctantly, his pulse thudding in his ears.

“I didn’t want you to leave without these.” Dr. Hernandez’s tone was gentle but firm, leaving no room for refusal. She held out the envelope. “Your ultrasound pictures.”

Kyle stared at it like it might burn him. His hands stayed buried in his coat pockets.

Sheila reached automatically, but the doctor shifted her hand, her gaze fixed on Kyle. “For him,” she said quietly. “It’s his choice what to do with them.”

The air pressed heavy. Kyle’s throat worked as he forced one hand free. He took the envelope, the edges cool and slick under his fingertips. It was so light it barely felt real.

Dr. Hernandez’s expression softened. “Whatever’s happening between you two, whatever fears there are… this is real. And it deserves to be acknowledged.” She hesitated, then added, “Not for me. Not even for your parents. For you and the baby.”

Kyle swallowed hard, his grip tightening on the envelope. Through the doors, he could see Cartman shifting in the passenger seat, his knee bouncing like it had in the waiting room. The sight made Kyle’s stomach twist.

He wanted to rip the envelope in half. He wanted to tuck it away where no one could see. He wanted... God, he didn’t even know what he wanted.

Sheila touched his arm. “Come on, sweetie,” she murmured, but her eyes flicked toward the envelope with something almost reverent.

Kyle stuffed it deep into his coat pocket without looking. “Let’s just go,” he muttered.

The glass doors hissed open, spilling them into the cold air. The car idled at the curb, exhaust curling white against the gray afternoon, and Cartman’s hooded face didn’t turn as Kyle and his mom walked by.

The envelope burned against his chest the entire ride home.

 

Notes:

Feedback is appreciated! Thank you for reading!

Chapter 6: You're just a little bit too much like me

Summary:

Chapter 5!

Notes:

Title: Hermit the Frog by MARINA.

March 19th, Week 11

By week 11 of pregnancy, your baby has developed distinct human characteristics! Hair follicles are forming not just on the crown, but on the rest of the body. Those tiny hands and feet have individual fingers and toes. Meanwhile, fingernail and toenail beds begin to develop this week; in the next few weeks, the nails themselves will start to grow.

As you reach the end of the first trimester, all your baby's vital organs are in place, and many have already started to function. The liver is making red blood cells, kidneys are making urine, and the pancreas starts making insulin. The four chambers of your baby's heart are fully formed, and the baby's heart is beating.

By the end of this week, the baby's genitals will start developing. The external sex organs: the penis and scrotum in boys, the clitoris and labia in girls-don't start to differ from each other until about 11 weeks. And even then, it takes several more weeks to be able to easily see the difference between boys and girls on an ultrasound.

///////

Kyle stepped into the familiar chaos of Stan's room, the shelves cluttered with trophies, books, and remnants of their childhood battles. The air smelled faintly of old socks and gym shoes, grounding him in a strange, comforting normality.

Stan was already at his desk, headphones around his neck, doodling in a sketchpad. He looked up at Kyle and immediately noticed something: subtle, but there. The tight line of his jaw, the faint curve of his shoulders pulling inward, the weight in his eyes that wasn't usually there.

"Hey," Stan said cautiously, rising to meet him. "You okay?"

Kyle let out a humorless laugh and slumped onto the edge of Stan's bed. "Yeah. Sure. Totally fine." He glanced down at his backpack, the envelope pressing into it. His fingers itched to pull it out, to throw it across the room, to keep it tucked in like a secret he couldn't face.

Stan moved closer, perching on the corner of the bed. "You don't have to say anything if you don't want to," he said softly. "I just... you looked like shit yesterday. I wanted to make sure you weren't... you know, completely falling apart."

Kyle's throat tightened, and he swallowed. "I'm not falling apart," he muttered, but it came out as more of a question than a statement.

Stan didn't push. Instead, he reached for the controller on his desk and turned on the old console hooked to the TV. "We can just play for a while. Nothing serious. You can beat me, or I can beat you."

Kyle sat on the edge of Stan's bed, fingers wrapped tightly around the straps of his backpack. The weight of the envelope inside pressed against him like a physical force, and for a long moment he couldn't bring himself to move, couldn't breathe past the knot in his chest. Stan watched him quietly, giving him the space he didn't yet know he needed.

Finally, Kyle swallowed, voice barely above a whisper. "Stan... I have to tell you something."

Stan froze mid-gesture, the controller in his hand still. "Okay," he said gently. "Whatever it is, it's okay. You can tell me."

Kyle's throat tightened, and the words he had rehearsed a dozen times tangled up in his mind. His eyes flicked down to the floor. "It's... It's about... about me."

Stan leaned forward slightly, careful, patient. "Yeah? I know something's going on. You don't have to—"

Kyle cut him off, voice trembling now, the dam finally giving way. "I'm pregnant."

Stan's face went through the stages in three seconds flat: blank, then calculation, then full-tilt panic. He shoved the controller aside so hard the console chirped and the TV skipped. "No. No, that's not... Guys can't get pregnant, Kyle. That's not a thing. That's—" His voice snapped and broke, disbelief ricocheting through the room like a thrown bottle.

Stan's breaths came too fast, like he was running an invisible sprint. "You're messing with me, right? This is some joke. You're—" He broke off, sounded suddenly small, then louder again. "How? How is that even possible? There's no—"

"Stan." Kyle's voice was quiet but steady, the kind of voice that had stopped both of them from doing stupid things since they were kids. He let each word land before he spoke the next. "I'm not joking. I'm not making this up. Stan, I've never lied to you before. I'm not lying to you now."

It was a small sentence, a single-axis hinge, but it felt like the whole room waited to see which way it would swing. Stan's face shifted; the frantic flailing in his shoulders lost a fraction of its violence as he processed the words. "You've never lied to me," he echoed, almost to test it. "You swear?"

Kyle nodded once, hard. "Swear."

He sank down onto the bed, his head in his hands, breath shuddering. "I—" He sounded lost, like a child who'd been told the world rearranged itself overnight. "Okay. Okay."

"I heard the doctors say it. A lot. I heard the heartbeat. I have the picture." Kyle's fingers fumbled at his backpack strap and then, with a sort of tired deliberateness, he pulled open the bag and took out the envelope. He set it on Stan's knees. "I'm eleven weeks apparently."

Stan's fingers trembled as he peeled the photo out. For a long second he only stared. The grainy greyscale image sat oddly small and enormous at once. He brought it closer until the lines blurred; his mouth moved silently as if trying to map the image with words that wouldn't come.

Kyle watched him searchingly: searching, too, for a look that might tell him whether they'd just lost each other or whether the knot tying them together could hold.

Finally Stan let out a breath that could have been a laugh or a sob.

"This is insane," he said, voice far quieter now. "This is so messed up. I thought... I thought I could handle weird, but this—this is next-level weird."

Kyle exhales like he's been holding his breath for months. The words come out small and raw, barely more than a confession. "Yeah well... Cartman's the father."

Stan shot to his feet, pacing a jagged line across the room. His hands tore through his hair, a frantic rhythm. "Oh my god! Oh my god! You're telling me—You're telling me you and Cartman—" He broke off, a sharp laugh of disbelief bursting out, too high-pitched to be anything close to humor. "What the actual fuck, Kyle?!"

Kyle hunched forward, gripping his knees so tight his knuckles whitened. "Don't—Don't make this worse, okay?!"

"I'm not making it worse, it's already worse!" Stan snapped, spinning around. His eyes were wild, glassy with something between fury and panic. "You—Out of everyone—You slept with Cartman? You let him—" His hands flailed helplessly, the words choking in his throat. "And now you're... pregnant with his—" He couldn't even finish the sentence.

Stan froze mid-step, chest heaving, the panic in his eyes colliding with guilt. His voice broke softer this time. "Kyle... You and Cartman... How—Why would you even—"

Kyle dragged a hand down his face, exhaustion cutting through his anger. "It just happened, Stan. I can't explain it. It wasn't some plan, it wasn't... it wasn't supposed to be anything. It happened. And now this is happening." He jabbed a finger at the ultrasound photo lying between them. "This is real."

Stan stared at the grainy image like it might suddenly rearrange into something else: proof that the universe wasn't this cruel. He shook his head hard. "I can't—Kyle, I can't process this. You hate him. You've always hated him. And now he's—He's part of you. He's part of this. You're tied to him forever!"

"I know!" Kyle's voice cracked, loud and desperate. "You don't have to remind me! I already feel sick every time I think about it." He shoved his hands through his curls, gripping hard.

The fight drained out of Stan all at once, leaving only a boy standing in the middle of his room, terrified for his best friend and even more terrified of what it all meant. He sank back down onto the bed, shoulders slumping.

"Jesus Christ, Kyle," he whispered. "This is insane." His hand rubbed at his face again, as if he could scrub reality off. After a long pause, he looked at Kyle, eyes raw. "Just. Oh my god, Kyle, how?! How did this even start?! You and him?! How the hell does that happen!?"

Kyle felt his stomach drop. His first instinct was to push back, to tell Stan it was none of his business.

"It wasn't supposed to happen," he said, voice low. "It started out so stupid. New Years night, at that party... We hooked up. I didn't even tell myself why, I just—" He broke off, jaw clenching as his face heated. "It went too far, and now here I am."

Stan's face twisted like the words were acid. He shot up from the bed again, pacing, fists flexing like he didn't know where to put the anger.

"I'm sorry. I just... I can't wrap my head around it. You and Cartman? And now... this?" He glanced at the photo again, then back to Kyle. "I want to tear him apart for touching you."

Kyle's throat tightened. He gave the faintest nod, clutching the strap of his backpack again like it was the only thing tethering him.

Stan's fists flexed at his sides, then opened, then clenched again, like he was trying to hold something in his hands that kept slipping out. His pacing carved a path into the carpet, jagged and restless. Every time he stopped, his eyes landed on the ultrasound photo like it was radioactive, then darted away just as quickly.

Kyle sat hunched, backpack strap twisted tight in his grip, his curls half-shadowing his face. His chest rose and fell unevenly, but his eyes never left Stan. He looked like he was bracing for impact, waiting for the next wave to hit.

Finally, Stan turned on him again, voice raw. "You know what kills me? I'm sitting here, trying to wrap my head around this—trying not to lose it—and all I can picture is him. Cartman. His smug face. Him laughing about this. About you." He jabbed a finger toward Kyle, sharp with accusation but softened by fear. "He's not gonna let you breathe, Kyle. He's gonna make this hell for you."

Kyle's shoulders hunched deeper, as though he was trying to make himself smaller. His voice cracked around the words. "What do you want me to do, Stan? Pretend it isn't happening? Pretend it's not his?"

For a moment, the only sound was Stan's ragged breathing and the faint hum of the TV still frozen on the console's pause screen. Stan dragged both hands down his face, muffling a sound that was half growl, half groan. Then he turned back, eyes bloodshot and shining.

"I want to fix this for you," he said, voice breaking into something fragile, desperate. "But I don't even know where to start, Kyle. I don't know how to protect you from him."

The words cracked something open in Kyle. His chest squeezed so tight it hurt, his own eyes burning. For the first time since walking into Stan's room, his defenses faltered. His voice dropped, low and exhausted, almost childlike. "You can't. No one can."

Stan sank down onto the floor, back against the side of the bed, head tipping back until it knocked softly against the wood. He laughed once, short and broken. "Jesus, dude... you're asking me to just—what? Sit here and watch you go through this with him? With Cartman?"

Kyle stared at the carpet, his curls shadowing his face. His voice came out rough. "I'm not asking you for anything. I'm just... telling you."

The simplicity of it hollowed Stan out. He dragged his palms down his face, then looked up at Kyle again, eyes red. "I can't stand him. I can't stand the thought of him touching you. And now—now he's part of you. Part of your life. I don't know how I'm supposed to live with that."

Kyle flinched, like the words were a knife slid too close. He opened his mouth, closed it again. For a moment, his eyes shone too brightly, but he blinked the burn away, jaw set hard.

Stan swore under his breath and shoved up from the floor, restless again. He grabbed the ultrasound photo off the bed and stared at it like it might give him answers. His hands shook as he held it. "This thing—this tiny thing—that's yours. I see that. I get that. But all I can think about is him hovering around, twisting it, twisting you. And I want to break something because I can't do shit about it."

Kyle finally looked at him, eyes rimmed red but steady. "Then don't."

The two words cut sharper than Stan expected. He blinked, mouth falling open.

"Don't break anything. Don't make it worse. Just—be here. Please." Kyle's voice cracked on the last word, softer than he'd meant it to. "God, I didn't mean to dump all this on you tonight."

"Yeah, well," Stan said softly, giving his shoulder a squeeze, "you didn't exactly get a choice in the timing." He tilted his head, glancing at Kyle's hunched frame. "Besides, what are best friends for? You'd do the same for me."

Kyle didn't answer, but his silence said enough.

The minutes ticked by. At some point, Stan leaned back onto the bed, stretching out on top of the covers, and Kyle followed without comment, too drained to argue. They ended up side by side, shoes still on, the photo of the ultrasound resting on Stan's nightstand.

Kyle turned onto his side, facing away, shoulders curled in tight. Stan lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, his hand resting just close enough that Kyle could reach for it if he wanted to, but Kyle didn't.

It didn't matter. Stan stayed awake longer, listening to the slow rhythm of Kyle's breathing until it deepened, the tension finally easing from his friend's shoulders.

Stan grabbed the blanket at the end of the bed and pulled it over both of them in an awkward sweep, like muscle memory from countless childhood sleepovers. 

He didn't care that Wendy would probably be annoyed if she knew he was spending the night curled up with Kyle: it wasn't like that, and never would be. This was different. 

//////

The next morning at school, Stan was still buzzing like a live wire. Sleep had been impossible; every time he shut his eyes, he saw that ultrasound photo glowing behind his eyelids, Cartman's smug face hovering beside it. The idea of Kyle carrying Cartman's kid was like a stone in his stomach he couldn't swallow.

By second period, he'd already made up his mind. Kyle didn't have to know. Hell, Kyle shouldn't know. Stan was his best friend, and best friends did what they had to, even if it meant storming into hell alone.

Gym was third period. The smell of varnished wood and sweat hit him as he pushed through the doors, the echo of sneakers squeaking on the floor mixing with the bark of Coach yelling at kids to pick teams for basketball. Cartman was already there, leaning against the wall with that insufferable grin, tugging his gym shirt down over his stomach. He looked like he didn't have a care in the world.

Stan's blood boiled. He didn't wait for the game to start. He walked straight across the court, shoulders squared, his sneakers squealing against the hardwood. Cartman caught sight of him and rolled his eyes.

"Oh, Christ," Cartman muttered. "What now, Stan? You here to cry about Wendy again?"

Stan's fist clenched before he even spoke. "Shut up." His voice was low, vibrating with fury. He stopped right in front of Cartman, so close he could see the smudge of sweat on his forehead. "We need to talk. Now."

Cartman tilted his head, feigning innocence. "He told you, didn't he?" His voice was syrupy with mockery. "Bet you loved that. He always runs crying to you when he can't handle his own shit."

Stan shoved him, hard enough that Cartman stumbled back a step. A couple kids glanced over, but the teacher was still distracted with the equipment cart.

"Don't talk about him like that," Stan snapped, voice shaking with fury. "He's—He's terrified, Cartman. And you—" He jabbed a finger at Cartman's chest. "You're the reason he's in this mess."

Cartman straightened his shirt, smirk sliding back into place like armor. "Oh, I'm the reason? Please. Don't act like Kyle didn't come crawling to me. He wanted it, dude."

Stan's vision tunneled. The pounding in his ears drowned out the squeak of sneakers, the whistle, the chatter. He grabbed Cartman by the collar and slammed him against the bleachers, the bang echoing off the high ceiling. A hush rippled across the gym as heads turned.

"Shut the fuck up!" Stan's voice cracked, raw with fury. "You don't get to make him feel like garbage just because you're proud you managed to trap him. You've ruined his life enough already—Don't you dare ruin this too."

Cartman's smirk faltered again, his eyes narrowing. For once he looked unsettled, like Stan's anger had cut deeper than he expected. But he covered it fast, lips curling into a sneer. "Guess what, Stan? At the end of the day, that's my kid. Nothing you can do about it."

Stan's grip tightened on the collar, every muscle in his arm straining with the urge to lay him out across the bleachers.

The coach's whistle finally blared, sharp and furious. "Marsh! Cartman! Knock it off!"

Stan released him with a shove, stepping back, chest still heaving. The gym buzzed with whispers as the rest of the class pretended to stretch, eyes darting back to the confrontation. Cartman straightened his shirt again, fixing his smirk like a mask, but Stan caught the flicker in his eyes: unease, maybe even fear.

As the class split into teams for basketball, Stan forced himself to breathe, fists still twitching at his sides. He hadn't solved anything. If anything, he'd just lit another fuse.

Stan dribbled the ball, muscles coiled, every ounce of his anger toward Cartman channeling through the movements. He had been pacing, seething, and now he had a target. He eyed Cartman across the court, who was leaning lazily on one hand, trying to act unconcerned, but the way his eyes darted nervously toward Stan betrayed him.

Stan faked left, then sprinted right, ball pounding against the floor like a war drum. Cartman scrambled to match him, arms flailing in a desperate attempt to block. The tension between them made the small gym feel like an arena.

"C'mon, fatass! Try and stop me!" Stan barked, voice low and dangerous, a growl barely under the sound of the bouncing ball.

Cartman's face contorted into a snarl, panic mixed with determination. "You're gonna regret this, Marsh! I'll—"

Before he could finish, Stan drove toward the hoop with every ounce of force he had, and when he jumped to make the shot, he flung the ball with too much velocity. It struck Cartman squarely in the face.

A sickening crack resonated as Cartman staggered backward, blood erupting from his nose in a dark, vivid spray. He stumbled, hands pressed to his face, eyes wide with pain and fury.

"You—!" Cartman's voice was a strangled roar, thick with blood and rage.

Stan dropped the ball, chest heaving, adrenaline still pulsing. "Get the hell out of my way!" His voice shook, a mix of fear, anger, and frustration all spiraling out at once.

Cartman, furious, lunged at Stan, shoving him hard across the court. Stan stumbled but regained his footing instantly, swinging an arm to shove back. The next few seconds became a blur: Cartman throwing punches, Stan blocking and shoving back, the ball forgotten as they tumbled across the shiny floor, feet slipping and arms flailing.

A few classmates gasped and scattered, forming a loose ring around the two. Coach blew the whistle, bellowing, but it did little to stop the chaos. "MARSH! CARTMAN! OFF THE COURT! NOW!"

Blood dripped down Cartman's face, smearing his hoodie. His mouth was twisted into a grimace, fury and humiliation mixing into something feral. "You're gonna pay for that, Marsh! You hear me? Pay for it!"

Stan's chest heaved, adrenaline coursing through him like fire. "You don't get to ruin his life!"

Cartman hissed, backing up a step, eyes wild. "Oh, I already did!"

The bell rang for the next class, cutting through the tension like a blade. Both boys froze, chests rising and falling rapidly, red-faced and glaring at each other. Sweat and blood mixed in the air, the gym smelling of exertion and something metallic.

Stan's fists were still curled, trembling slightly. The fight wasn't over, not by a long shot, but for now, they were pulled apart by the reality of schedules, the class change bell, and the unavoidable eyes of classmates who whispered and stared.

Cartman stumbled toward the locker room, one hand still pressed to his bleeding nose, muttering curses under his breath and glaring at the back of Stan's retreating figure. Every step was laced with rage and humiliation, and the thought of Kyle sitting in chemistry while this was happening seemed to fuel his fury even more.

He leaned against a bench, one hand still pressed against his bleeding nose, hoodie hooded low over his eyes, trying to nurse both humiliation and rage. Stan stormed in behind him, chest heaving, fists still curled. Neither of them spoke at first, the air between them taut, crackling with every word unsaid.

"You think this is over?" Stan finally snapped, voice sharp, slicing through the locker room like a blade. "You think I'm just gonna let you walk away after what you did to Kyle? After you—you got him pregnant!"

Cartman blinked, momentarily thrown off by the bluntness, then snorted, his pride and anger flaring. "You act like Kyle didn't want it! Like he didn't—"

"You don't get it!" Stan shouted, taking a step closer, fists still tight. "He's... He's carrying your baby, Cartman. Your kid! Do you understand what that means?"

Cartman's eyes flicked down, guilt flashing under the mask of bravado, but his voice stayed rough. "Means I should have wrapped it before I tapped it."

The words hit Stan like a slap. His whole body tensed, rage surging hot and uncontained. He grabbed Cartman by the front of his hoodie and slammed him back against the lockers, the metal rattling so loud it echoed through the empty room.

"Don't you fucking joke about this!" Stan barked, his voice breaking with fury. His knuckles were white around Cartman's shirt. "You think it's funny? Kyle's sick every morning, hiding under layers of clothes, scared out of his mind, and you—" He shoved him again, harder, eyes blazing. "—you stand here making jokes about it?"

Cartman wheezed, his smirk flickering but not quite gone. "What do you want me to say, Stan? Huh? That I'm sorry? That I'll be the perfect daddy? Grow the fuck up."

Stan shoved him again, his voice rising. "Kyle's life is on the line. His body, his future—everything! And you're standing here cracking jokes like it doesn't mean anything."

For the first time, Cartman's façade cracked. His hands trembled where they were clenched against the locker handles, his eyes darting away. "You think I don't lie awake every night wondering how the hell this happened, wondering what the hell I'm supposed to do now? I'm scared, Stan. Scared shitless. But what the fuck am I supposed to do about it?"

Stan's grip faltered, just slightly, enough for Cartman to wrench himself free. Cartman stumbled forward, wiping his nose with his sleeve, smearing blood down the gray cotton. He wouldn't look at Stan directly, his eyes darting around the tiled floor.

"You're scared," Stan said flatly, breathing hard. His voice had lost some of its fury, but the weight behind it remained.

Cartman's jaw tightened. He finally looked up, eyes red and glassy. "Of course I'm scared, asshole." The words came out harsh, almost spat, but they trembled at the edges.

//////

The whispers hit like daggers the second Kyle stepped into the hallway after fourth period. He'd expected the looks: side-eyes, muttered jokes, but not the tidal wave of voices, each one louder, sharper, more specific than the last.

"...he's pregnant."

"...no way, he's a guy."

"...Cartman's kid, dude. I heard it in gym—"

"—disgusting—"

"—freak show."

His stomach dropped so violently he thought he might be sick. He tugged his hoodie lower, his hands balled into fists in the pocket. His pulse throbbed in his ears, drowning out even the squeak of sneakers and the slam of lockers. He caught snippets of laughter trailing behind him, and then the worst part: Cartman's name, tied to his own, repeated over and over like a curse.

Kyle pushed harder through the crowd, trying to escape, but everywhere he went the voices followed.

By lunch, Kyle was vibrating with humiliation. Every hallway he'd walked through that morning had been full of whispers, kids side-eyeing him like he'd grown a second head. By the time he spotted Stan in the cafeteria, sitting across from Wendy, his chest felt so tight he could barely breathe.

He slammed his tray down, startling both of them. "What the hell did you do?"

Stan froze mid-bite, his face immediately guilty. Wendy reached out carefully, her voice soft. "Kyle, maybe you should—"

"Don't," Kyle snapped, his glare slicing toward her. "Don't act like you know what's going on."

Wendy's eyes widened, hurt flashing across her face, and Stan's chair scraped back hard against the floor as he shot to his feet. "Hey! Don't talk to her like that." His voice was sharp, protective.

Kyle whipped toward him, fury and shame blurring together. "Oh, so you can make a public scene with Cartman, but I can't tell your girlfriend to mind her own business?"

Stan's fists clenched at his sides. "She is my business, but so are you. You think I'm just gonna sit here while Cartman—"

"You made it worse!" Kyle cut him off, his voice cracking in the middle of the crowded cafeteria. "You couldn't just keep your mouth shut, could you? Now everyone knows, everyone, because you had to play hero!"

The table beside them went dead silent. Wendy glanced between them helplessly, her lips pressed tight, and Kyle could feel the weight of the entire cafeteria listening in. His face burned, the back of his neck prickling with heat. He shoved his tray away, untouched food rattling, and stormed off before Stan could answer, before Wendy could try again. The cafeteria seemed to buzz louder as he pushed through, whispers trailing after him like smoke.

He was going to find Cartman.

 

Notes:

Thank you all so much for your feedback and love on this story! I love reading your thoughts!

I wanted to add some little pregnancy facts to make it more real and immersive.

Kyle and Eric still have a way to go until they're friends, but do not fret! We will get there!

I feel like the overprotective Stan trope is SOOO overdone in this fandom, but like, I would have had the same reaction for real.