Rewrite of an old fanfic. Drugs, sex, and rock 'n roll: that's how we roll. [Slash, Multiple Pairings]
.:Pass the gun around Give everyone a shot...give everyone a shot, you gotta
Pass the gun around
And throw me in the local river, let me float away:.
-"Pass The Gun Around," Alice Cooper
All he can feel is anger and hate and pain, all directed towards him - he knows that if he doesn't figure out what's going on, why he hurts, all of this pain will keep growing and soon - soon he won't even know who he is - there's a throbbing in his head and in every part of his body and all he can think about is how much he hates himself how much he wants this to stop and he just wants to lay down and die
Kenny wakes up with his heart pounding and bruises on his wrists. His mind is still kind of fuzzy and his head starts to hurt with the idea of a hangover.
His dream still lingers in his mind, but he's pretty sure that he didn't do something stupid, like yell or kick out in his sleep. After all, the only bruises he has are from the night /before/, not from being asked to shut up. His eyes ache and he's pretty sure they're still bloodshot.
He exercises them by going over the ultra-modern furniture of the nice apartment - and his eyes catch the large clock hanging across from the bed, reading eight o'five.
"/Shit/," Kenny mutters, running a hand through his wiry, greasy blonde hair and sliding out of bed as quietly as the springs will allow.
He dresses hurriedly, forgoing buttoning his shirt for tying his hair back instead. He reaches out and grabs a half-empty can of beer, draining it and wincing at its flat, warm taste. Then, Kenny leaves this stranger's room through the window, leaving nothing behind to remind the stranger /who/, exactly, he had slept with the night before.
He stumbles through the snow in untied cloth jogging shoes, and buttons his shirt. He tries to convince himself that he doesn't have a problem - and then he checks his watch, curses, and decides he does.
Pip is very slender, small, and unfortunately very light. As his head hits the brick wall behind him, he begins to think that perhaps that is why he's always in this sort of position. It's rather foul and unhappy, but he's long since gotten used to it.
He breathes through his mouth because his nose is full of blood, and winces as his assailant raises a fist. This one, he assures himself, is going to only hurt for just a moment.
"Hey, back off!"
Pip doesn't need to look to know that the voice is Stan's, and the attacker doesn't need to look to know Pip is thankful.
"Hey, look - the kid hit me first. I'm just teaching him a lesson."
Pip makes a noise - almost a laugh, more like a whine - and Kenny says from his left, "I really doubt that."
He's dropped, allowed to breathe, and he watches Kenny and Stan eye the attacker warily.
"So, how many people did you fuck last night, McCormick?"
Kenny's eyes flash and Pip wishes he wouldn't let others say such things about the other blonde, but there's not much he can do when he can hardly breathe properly.
"Hey, fuck you," Kenny growls, "Don't you have a puppy to kick or something?"
"No, but I sure as hell wouldn't mind kicking a bitch like you."
Stan raises an eyebrow and says, "Dude, you suck."
With a sneer, the assailant responds, "Not as much as your boyfriend does, that's for fucking sure."
It only really takes little things - like associating his friends with his after-hour activities - to set Kenny off.
And so, it's not horribly surprising when Kenny lashes out and punches the guy in the nose, sending him down in one hit.
"Don't fucking talk about Stan that way," the blonde growls, looking to Pip briefly. "We better get going; we'll be late for third period."
Pip stands and pats his clothes, trying to get the snow off.
"You really shouldn't let people push you around," Stan sighs as they start for the front doors, "We're not always going to be here."
"Thank you," Pip tells them, feeling slightly depressed, "I suppose I'll go clean up..."
"We'll see you in class, then," Kenny says, putting a hand on Pip's shoulder, "Keep an eye out."
Pip nods, watches the two walk away, and then waits for a hand to grab his shoulder.
"Your faggy fucking friend is going to be in a lot of trouble."
Pip sighs, waits for his back to hit the lockers, and hopes the bell will ring before he can't breathe again.
Kenny tunes his guitar just before music class and looks around, idly taking note of who's there and who he might have a swing at before the day is done.
He catches the eye of a big, bulky senior - someone who would give Cartman a run for his money - and realizes he's probably going to get the shit beaten out of him today.
"You hit my little brother," the senior growls as he approaches, bringing with him a wave of silence as others look on.
"Yeah, well..." Kenny plays a chord. "He was kinda asking for it."
He knows better and moves his guitar as the guy grabs him by the collar of his hoodie and drags him close.
"You better fucking watch yourself, asshole."
He's let go of and the senior exits the room. Kenny sighs, plays another chord, and decides he's got a problem.
Kenny loves music, and can find it anywhere. In this case, he hears his heartbeat as the baseline; the systematic smack thump kick plays the drums; and his wheezing is the guitar backing up the lyrics of the older brother of some fucker he busted the nose of earlier today.
When the song reaches its crescendo, he coughs and spits out a molar. When the song ends, he's relieved to find the bass is still pumping.
He stares at the sky and wonders - even though he hasn't died in years - if he's going to live this time.
He lies there for a while, and then he hears Cartman's voice from around the corner of the school.
"If you're lying, you fucking frog, I'mma bust a cap in your ass!"
A moment later and he can see Butters' face just above and to the left of his own.
"Hey," he rasps, because what else can he say?
"Shit, dude," Kyle mumbles from somewhere behind Butters, "You got fucked up this time."
Kenny winces as Cartman pulls him up, and he tries to take a step. Cartman grabs him when he stumbles and, with a quiet groan, lifts him up.
The blonde almost wants to say something - an apology maybe - but his friend's expression tells him he doesn't need to say a word. The brunette would probably have done it anyways.
They get to Kenny's house and he almost asks for his mother, but Cartman's already put him on the bed, and there's no point anyways since she's never home this early. Kyle leaves and comes back a moment later with a wet washcloth, sitting on the side of the bed and handing it to the blonde.
"Thanks," he mumbles, idly wiping at his face and hoping he's getting all the blood off.
"You're gonna have one hell of a black eye," Stan says, looking at both Pip and Kenny. The guitarist takes a moment to look at the Brit himself, and then he groans.
"What the fuck, froggy? You look worse than you did before-"
"Fucker got him in the bathroom," Cartman grumbles, "Jesus, am I gonna need to hire fuckin' bodyguards for your blonde asses?"
"Cartman, you don't have bodyguards to hire," Kyle responds dryly, rolling his eyes.
Kenny moves to respond but suddenly finds Butters latched onto him, practically shaking like a Chihuahua.
"Kenny, why do you let this happen?" he moans.
The other boys look nervously at each other, and Kenny waves them away, putting an arm around Butters thin shoulders.
As the others leave, he says, "I don't let it happen. You know I hate it just as much as you do."
"W-well..." Butters sighs and mumbles, "A-At least you aren't gettin' b-beat up all the time l-like Pip..."
"...It's not just that I hate, kiddo. But yeah, Pip's got it bad too." He smiles a little and adds, "You're a really good friend, Butters."
"W-What?" Butters asks, thrown off by the sudden change in the topic.
"You're always putting up with our shit, you know? Not to mention you're still here even though Cartman teases you all the time."
Butters blushes and shakes his head. "Aw... I-it ain't nothin'... I j-just like lookin' out f-for my friends, is all."
"I know. Thanks."
Butters sighs and Kenny wipes at his face some more, hoping that the shiner he's going to have won't hurt his chances tonight.
Kenny sighs, and pulls his shirt on, trying very hard not to move his spine too much because it fucking /hurts/, and he's sure there are welts on his back. He stands and grabs his hoodie and tries not to listen to the phone ringing in this dingy apartment, tries not to pay attention to the answering machine message asking where the owner is and why he didn't call last night.
He slides out the window and down the fire escape, checking his watch and swearing because it's only five in the morning.
His mind is a blank, empty slate and he likes it that way. The bottle of Southern Comfort he stole from the guy's fridge will keep him up to date, and fuck it if he gets to school two and a half hours before it starts - fuck it if he gets there drunk.
He knocks back a bit of comfort and tries to forget he has a problem.