Lately, Kyle Broflovski couldn’t go anywhere without running into the same goddamn sight—Butters Stotch and Eric Cartman hanging out like they were best buddies. At first, Kyle figured it was some weird fluke, but no—day after day, it kept happening, and it was driving him up the wall.

In the hallway, he’d see Cartman leaned up against a locker, laughing—actually laughing—at something dumb Butters said. Butters would beam ear to ear, clutching his books, while Cartman looked like he wasn’t about to call him a dumbass or slap him in the face for once. It made Kyle’s skin crawl.

In the cafeteria, sometimes Cartman would slide into the seat next to Butters, trays clanking together, whispering stupid jokes that made Butters giggle until milk came out his nose. One time, Kyle swore he saw Cartman push half his fries toward Butters like he was actually sharing. Sharing. Cartman. Kyle nearly dropped his own tray.

It was worse outside of school. Riding his bike past Cartman’s house, Kyle had seen Butters splashing around in the pool, while Cartman lounged smugly on a floatie with sunglasses, barking at Butters to bring him a soda. Another time, Kyle saw them walking home together, Butters with both backpacks slung over his arms like Cartman’s goddamn pack mule, while Cartman rambled away. Even at the bus stop, Cartman would lean in close, whispering into Butters’s ear until he snorted into his sleeve like it was the funniest shit in the world.

Kyle couldn’t wrap his head around it. After all the times Cartman humiliated Butters, manipulated him, flat-out tortured him—why the hell would Butters willingly hang around him? And worse—why the hell was Cartman suddenly acting like he gave a shit? None of it made sense. Every time Kyle saw them together, his jaw tightened, his chest burned, and his brain screamedwhat the actual fuck*.*

Now, sitting in the cafeteria across from Stan Marsh and Kenny McCormick, the sight of Butters and Cartman laughing across the room wouldn’t leave his head. The usual clatter of trays and screech of sneakers on linoleum blended into a dull buzz. Kyle just stared at his food—mashed potatoes going cold—while stabbing them with his fork over and over, brows furrowed under his ushanka.

Stan paused mid-bite, spoon halfway to his mouth, and squinted at him. “Kyle… you okay, man?” he asked, voice cautious.

Kyle snapped his gaze up, shoulders stiff, then sighed and looked away. “Oh… I guess I’m fine.” His tone was clipped, sharp. He stabbed the potatoes harder. “I just don’t get why the hell Butters and Cartman are hanging out so much lately. Like—everywhere I go, there they are. In the hallway, cafeteria, Cartman’s fucking pool—” Kyle’s jaw clenched. His grip tightened on the fork until his knuckles went white. “It’s driving me nuts. That fatass literally put his cock in Butters’s mouth just to ‘prove’ he was gay for fuck’s sake!”

Stan gagged instantly, shoving his tray back. His nose wrinkled in disgust. “Blech, dude, don’t fucking remind me. I vaguely remember that and I still feel like I’m gonna puke.” He wiped his mouth on his sleeve dramatically, eyes squeezed shut.

Kyle rolled his eyes, voice rising with frustration. “I know, right? And one time that piece of shit tricked Butters into thinking the world was ending—just so he could trap him in a goddamn bomb shelter and take his spot at my birthday party at Casa Bonita.” His face flushed pink, his fork jabbing downward like a knife. “But I guess Butters is too much of a clueless airhead to realize Cartman doesn’t actually see him as a friend—just a tool to use and toss aside like trash.”

Stan smirked faintly, leaning back with his arms crossed, eyebrow raised. “You know, Kyle… you seem weirdly pissed about the whole thing. You’re not even that close to Butters, and suddenly you give a rat’s ass? You were just taunting Cartman about shoving his dick in another dude’s mouth. You pretty sound jealous to be honest..about Cartman, just saying dude.”