Chapter Text
Kenny yanks open the creaking door of his battered pickup and all but shoves the kid inside. His hand stays at the small of the other's back longer than it needs to—like pressure alone might make the whole thing less surreal.
The kid stumbles in with a grunt and a muttered complaint about being man-handled but doesn’t resist. He just slumps into the cracked vinyl seat like the weight of the last few weeks finally hit all at once, gravity working its way down on him, smothering.
The door groans shut behind him with a finality Kenny feels shoots up in his spine.
He rounds the front of the truck, breath fogging the cold air, and slides into the driver’s seat with a grunt. The engine stutters, then turns over on the second try. The heater kicks on like the sound of someone clearing their throat. It smells like stale dust and old cigarettes, but it’s heat, and right now that’s everything.
They sit in silence. Just the soft whir of the fan and a gentle rattle behind the dash, like something small and broken is trying to escape.
Kenny glances sideways — and then just stares.
The kid’s curled in on himself, huddled near the vent like he might crawl inside it if he could. The kid’s eyes are closed but he’s not asleep. More like he’s just done. That kind of done that settles in your bones when you’ve run out of fight for the day.
His hood’s fallen back, the parking lot lights cast harsh stripes across his face through the windshield, painting white lines over the shadows of this younger him’s face. He looks pale, gaunt. There are purple smudges under his eyes, the hollows of his cheeks look like they’ve been carved out with a dull knife.
Kenny’s seen that look before in Karen when she’d get sick and hide it, because she didn’t want to be a problem. In himself, too, more times than he can count. There are only so many shapes that hunger, cold, and hopelessness can wear. Eventually, they start to look the same on everyone.
Something twists hard in his gut. Tight and sharp and familiar. The old, choking helplessness of wanting to fix something but can’t.
It’s an ache that’s soaked into his bones -- not being able to save the people who need saving.
He feels it now. All of it.
Because this kid -- this impossible, even more broken version of himself -- isn’t a hallucination. Isn’t some dream or cosmic joke.
He’s here. Real. Breathing. Freezing.
And completely alone.
Kenny swallows hard and grips the steering wheel until his knuckles go white.
He can’t take the kid home. That’s not even on the table. Not when he left the grocery store empty-handed, forgot his mom’s cash. Not when he knows full well that if anyone on Earth could clock something like this — two identical-looking guys walking through the front door — it’d probably be the woman that birthed him, blitzed or not. She may be a drunk, but she at least wasn’t blind, or dumb.
And what’s the alternative? Drop the kid back in that alley? Let him freeze to death next to a dumpster?
Kenny swallows hard.
That isn’t a real option. Not in this world. Not in any world.
Not when the kid’s already shaking like he’s coming down with something. Not when his hands are red and cracked and bleeding at the knuckles. Not when his clothes are soaked through, clinging to his bones like second skin. Not when he looks like the cold’s already working its way inside.
So, they sit there, the truck humming softly, exhaust trailing into the dark. Time stretches, folds in on itself.
He thinks about calling Kyle.
Then immediately regrets thinking about calling Kyle.
Kyle is smart. Kyle is skeptical. Kyle is the kind of person who asks the right questions—every single one Kenny doesn’t want to answer. He’ll assess the situation and most likely assume that Kenny’s finally snapped.
And what if he’s right?
What if he has?
The windshield fogs up, streaked with the ghosts of their breath. Kenny exhales into the stillness.
“Shit,” he mutters. “What the hell do I even do with you?”
There’s a beat of silence — and then:
“Not dump me back in that alley, hopefully,” the kid mumbles, not opening his eyes. His voice low. Hoarse. Barely a whisper.
Kenny startles, glancing over.
He exhales something between a sigh and a laugh. “No,” he says. “I won’t do that.”
“Gee, thanks.” The kid’s head tilts slightly, curls tighter against the heater vent. “Heat’s nice.”
Kenny doesn’t answer. Doesn’t know what to say.
But he understands. This person next to him – who is him – all piss and vinegar and sarcasm, even on his death bed…
Kenny lets the truck idle a while. Until it starts to choke on itself and he finally has to shifts the gear into drive when the engine starts to shudders, tires crunching over the frozen slush as he pulls out of the Save-A-Lot.
There is no destination. No plan. Just forward.
That’s all they got right now.
After all, where the hell are you supposed to take an alternate version of yourself who dropped into your timeline like a stray dog in a snowstorm?
There’s no guidebook. No prep course. Just those black-and-white sci-fi flicks that run on local cable at 3 a.m., sandwiched between car dealership ads and televangelists that he leaves on because he’s either to exhausted or high to be bothered to turn them off.
So, he drives.
Kenny’s brain is a jumbled mess. Part of him wants to scream. Part of him wants to turn the truck around and pretend this never happened.
He wasn’t lying to the kid. He can’t just stop and drop him. Not with the temperature scraping the bottom of the thermometer. Not without anything, least of all answers.
Old side streets stretch into empty intersections which stretch into more empty streets that are so familiar he could navigate blind. They blur past them as he tries not to have some kind of panic attack.
It doesn’t take long for the kid to fall asleep. Or something close to it. His breathing evens out, his frame slumping with a slow, exhausted grace. He looks like he’s dissolving -- little by little, with every bump in the road.
Kenny’s eyes flick to the passenger seat again, catching a glimpse of his own tired face being jostled in time with the worn-out suspension.
It is weird, seeing himself like that. Even weirder knowing that this kid — this version of him — trusts him enough to sleep in his presence.
A month ago, Kenny would’ve laughed in anyone’s face if they said he could be a safe place for anyone.
Now he’s a lifeline for himself.
He doesn’t know what to do with that.
His heart pounds. Loud. Relentless. Like the inside of his chest is trying to crawl out.
The truck continues to rattles along the empty roads. Kenny stares ahead, watching the frost thaw and crack over the windshield, white fingers clawing at the glass.
He circles the same neighborhood twice. Then a third time. Each pass drains the tank more and more until finally, the low fuel light flickers to life.
He drives on trying not to think about any of that, just that moving forward is better than staying still, and it has the added bonus of letting the kid sleep, even if he looks like he’ll wake up with a kink in his neck.
It doesn’t take long for the gas gauge to dip into the red. Kenny grits his teeth.
He all but coasts the truck into the nearest gas station. It’s one of the ones with flickering overhead lights and half the pumps taped off, but it’s open. That’s all that matters.
He kills the engine. The heater dies with a final wheeze, and cold rushes in like a punch to the chest.
The kid stirs immediately. Jerks upright like he’s fallen from a dream. His breathing’s sharp and panicked, but then his eyes land on Kenny, and he settles. Not all the way, but enough.
“Where are we?” he mumbles, voice scratchy, throat clearly raw.
Kenny doesn’t move. Doesn’t even look at him.
“Gas station,” Kenny says. “Need to refuel.”
The kid squints at the flickering lights outside. Then back at him.
There’s a sort of recognition in his look, and Kenny can’t help but wonder how similar their versions of the world actually are, or if there are some warped edges: the pumps red instead of blue. Gas prices cheaper by a dollar – more expensive. If Kenny’s reality is rose-tinted or gray in comparison…
“So that’s it?” he asks, sarcastic but soft. “Just keep driving around till we run out of gas?”
Kenny exhales slowly, fogging up the windshield again. Doesn’t answer.
Because it wasn’t a plan. Not really. Just motion. Just the illusion of doing something while his brain flailed for answers.
The kid leans back in the seat, dragging his hood over his face again like he’s trying to disappear. “Cool. Solid leadership. Gotta love a man with no plan.”
Kenny doesn’t rise to the bait. He pulls the keys from the ignition. The jingle sounds too loud in the silence. Then, slowly, he pulls out his phone.
Battery: 32%.
Perfect.
No time left to stall.
He just pulls the keys from the ignition, the jingle breaking the silence.
He turns to face the kid with a finality, searching his own eyes to gauge how stupid he thinks he is right now.
His own defiant exasperation meets him head on, and he just sighs.
“You got a Kyle where you come from?” he asks.
The answer comes in the form of a long groan, the kid dragging his hood over his face like he can physically block the idea.
But there is no argument.
================================================================
Kenny’s hands shake as his thumb hovers over Kyle’s name like it might burn him. Not from fear – not really – it’s from the cold, adrenaline, and something else he refuses to name, but not fear.
He swipes the call button quickly, before he can chicken out.
A few feet away, the younger version of him crouches next to the gas pumps in the dark, pretending not to eavesdrop while very obviously doing exactly that.
The line rings.
Three rings.
Four.
“Kenny?”
Kyle’s voice is groggy, but a concerned edge is already slipping in — that undertone of suspicion creeping in that makes Kenny’s stomach knot.
Shame surges up like acid. He almost hurls the phone into the snow, almost pretends it was an accidental dial, yet another glitch in the matrix. — anything but dragging Kyle out of bed to deal with his bullshit. Again.
But Kyle’s already checking the time, voice faint as he pulls the phone from his ear.
“Dude, it’s — shit, it’s two in the morning. What the fuck?”
He exhales, stares across the parking lot — past the frost-covered dumpsters, past the cracked pavement — to the dull flicker of a streetlight near the liquor store.
“I know,” Kenny says, trying to steady his voice. “I’m sorry. Listen—”
“—Are you hurt?”
“—No—”
“—Are you in trouble?”
“—No. Dude, please—”
Kenny rubs at his face with the heel of his hand, dragging it down like he might physically scrub the panic out of his skin.
“—Are you drunk?”
He closes his eyes, grinds his teeth a little, and snaps, “Kyle, shut up.”
Instant silence. He feels a pang of guilt for it, but he’s already in too deep now. He forces his voice softer.
“No, I’m not drunk. Or high. Karen’s alright. I’m... I’m alright. No one’s hurt. Or dying.”
A pause. Kenny’s eyes drift back to the other him—long limbs folded up beside the pump, tapping his duct-taped shoes together like he’s keeping time. He looks like hell. Still somehow manages to smirk when their eyes meet.
“Yet,” Kenny mutters.
Kyle sighs on the other end. A little relief, a little resignation.
Then: “So, if everything is peachy, might I ask why’re you waking me up right now?”
“I need your help,” Kenny says. The words feel like splinters in his throat.
Another beat of silence.
Then—firm, immediate, no hesitation:
“Okay.”
Kenny closes his eyes. That one word hits harder than it should.
He hears movement -- sheets rustling, a light switch. “Where are you?” Kyle asks, sounding several feet away now.
Kenny swallows, mouth dry. His eyes drift across the road to the laundromat glowing sterile white behind fogged-up windows.
“Can you meet me at that laundromat across from Stark’s Pond?”
There’s a click as Kyle puts him on speaker. More rustling, the drag of a closet door. “Yeah. Okay. I can do that.”
Then his voice is close again, like he’s picked the phone back up. “You’re sure you’re okay?”
Kenny squeezes his eyes shut, feeling that old, dangerous warmth under his ribs. If he weren’t imploding, he might actually get sentimental — that after months of silence and weeks of ignored calls, he can reach for Kyle in the middle of the night and Kyle will come running, no questions asked, except if he’s okay.
Sour bile pools in his mouth as Kenny watches the younger version of himself pull the hood tighter around his face. Watches him try and fail to look unaffected by the cold. His hands are tucked up into his sleeves, shoulders hunched, pretending – and failing – not to be interested while he awaits his verdict.
It makes him want to spit.
“Yeah, Mom,” Kenny says into the phone. “I’m fine.”
There’s the sound of feet taking stairs two at a time, then keys jangling, then what must be the Broflovski’s front door creaking shut.
“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” Kyle says, probably already throwing himself into the driver’s seat of his pristine Honda, maybe even forgetting his obsessive pre-drive inspection for Kenny’s sake.
Kenny doesn’t reply. He just hangs up. Lowers the phone. Pockets it. Turns to the other him.
The kid raises an eyebrow. “Well?”
Kenny studies him. “You better be real,” he mutters. “Because if Kyle can’t see you… or worse, if he can and thinks this is some kind of psychotic break…”
The kid shrugs. “He’ll believe us.”
Kenny raises an eyebrow. “That confidence coming from experience, or are you just guessing?”
“I mean, if your Kyle is like mine…”
Kenny exhales, breath shaky.
Ten minutes.
Ten minutes, and either he’s vindicated… or he ends up in a padded room.
Awesome.