Chapter Text
Eric groans into his pillow at the sound of his alarm, his phone vibrating against the linoleum floor. He slides his arm out from under the covers, blindly feeling for his phone. He's done this so many times he no longer needs to be looking at his phone to turn the alarm off, just swipes his thumb left and the gratingly cheery alarm ceases chirping. He plans to go back to sleep, but then he remembers. It's shower day, so no sleeping in. He groans again, rolling onto his back, and feeling for the light switch by his bed. The ancient bulbs thrum and then flicker to life, needing some time to wake up too and illuminate the room. Although really, Eric thinks, even the happiest-go-lucky person would need a stern prep talk to do the job of his light bulbs. It may be the most depressing job in the world.
The novelty of living in a hotdog is a fleeting one. Anything fun or cool about it disappears the moment you go to run some water and you get dollops of ketchup and mustard squirted in your face. Eric thought his Washington Redskins kickstarter scheme was a pretty big fuck-you, but it pales in comparison to the 'fuck you' of condiment dispensers sharting in your face and reminding you that you live in a wiener.
Eric can't say he and his mom have grown accustomed to living in the hotdog, or even that they make the most out of it, they just tolerate it, because what else can they do? His mom sleeps on the couch, and has transformed the counter where the cash machine once was into a makeshift kitchen with a tiny stove. This space also doubles as their dining area, and breakfast bar, something they didn't have at their old house. Eric sleeps in what was once the kitchen. It's a tiny space that barely fits Eric's possessions. His clothes hang on a rail, his photography equipment is tucked away in a corner collecting dust, and his keyboard is next to his bed. He has a small, faded red stool that is missing some stuffing to sit at while he plays, but he mainly takes the keyboard off his stand and plays it on his bed surrounded by crushed cans of Mountain Dew.
After seven years of living here his room still smells like sauerkraut, but now it smells like bacon, the only smell that can successfully mask the sauerkraut stench, if only temporarily. A smile stretches lazily across his face, and his stomach growls loud enough to quiet the voices in Eric's head telling him to go back to sleep.
He throws back the covers, and steps out of bed to begin his stretching routine. His muscles are always stiff and sore after a night of sleeping on his hard, inadequate mattress. He then reaches for a pair of creased sweatpants and slips his sneakers on, grabbing his backpack before heading out into the kitchen where his mom poking at crispy streaks of bacon and is all dressed to head out to work. Turns out, Eric isn't so appalled by the thought of his mom having a job and not being here when he gets home from school, when he wants to spend as much time away from home as possible.
"Morning, sweetie!" she smiles, her make-up hardly concealing the dark circles under her eyes.
"Morning..." Eric replies, voice still a little hoarse so soon after waking. The only good thing about getting up at 6:30 is that he's awake for his mom to make him breakfast.
So what if she's working and he's seventeen, he's still her child and that means she is legally required to feed him.
"Bacon and waffles?" she asks as Eric takes a seat on the creaky red stools at the counter.
"Sure."
Eric doesn't look up from his phone, scrolling through Facebook.
"Maple syrup?"
"You know it," Eric replies, preoccupied with the pouting selfies of his female classmates, and unfunny amateur-hour memes.
A plate of bacon and waffles drizzled in maple syrup is soon placed in front of him, with a knife and fork on the side. He picks up a streak of bacon and starts chewing it lazily. He can feel his mom's eyes on him, but he doesn't look up.
"Eric, honey, I have something I want to ask you... and I want you to please keep an open mind."
He looks up then, swallowing the bacon in his mouth. His mom's shoulders are hunched, her hands are clasped in front of her, and behind her - where the menu used to be - is the dream board that Eric insisted they create not long after moving in. Some of the glittery macaroni has fallen off, and some of the pictures are peeling, but the dream of getting out of this dump is still very much alive. Eric's half of the moodboard has pictures of rad, aqua pools, gaming centres, and a menagerie that would make Joe Exotic jealous, whereas his mom's mood board has photos of the garish coloured houses that line the streets of South Park, the type of house they once lived in, as well as kitchens with gleaming, granite islands, and, most importantly, sparkling bathrooms.
Eric doesn't know if he believes in manifestation, that simply creating a monument to your desires will get you what you want (he's more of a stomp-your-foot-and-cause-a-scene/step-over-all-the-competition kind of guy, depending on the end goal), but it kind of worked when he wanted to go to Casa Bonita for Kyle's birthday. He created a countdown to Casa Bonita, and he got in! With some shutting the competition in a bomb shelter too. So maybe the formula to success is being absolutely focused on what you want and not being afraid to be as ruthless and conniving as possible to get it.
"Okay..." he says slowly.
His mom's mouth draws into a thin line and she wrings her hands together.
"Well, it's just that... you know mommy is working very hard to find us a more suitable place to live."
Eric is half-listening as he continues to scroll through his feed.
"This is no place for a teenager to live... or anyone to live, really, and in a couple of years I know we'll find somewhere more suitable, but well, we could maybe find our dream home a lot quicker if you were to, um... get a job. On Saturdays."
Eric blinks at the mention of Saturday jobs, his thumb hovering over the screen as he looks up.
"Huh?"
His mom's shoulders fall and she now slides her hands into a prayer position and tucks them under her chin.
"Eric, please, I think it would be really good for you!" she sighs. "I hate to ask this, because I so want to be able to provide for us by myself, but it's tough..."
Eric has resumed scrolling absent-mindedly as his mom tries to convince him that a Saturday job is a good idea, but one post catches his eye. It's a poster for a Battle of The Bands contest happening in South Park next month, with one lucky band winning a free recording session at Spinny Mountain Records and a cash prize of... $50,000?! Eric almost falls off his stool.
"Holy shit..." he whispers.
"Oh, sweetie, I know it's a lot to ask, and that going out to find a job is scary, but I really think it will be good for you-"
"Yeah, mom, shut up a sec..." Eric says irritably, peering closer at the post and reading the requirements. Sign-ups are open this week, auditions are in two weeks time, and for the contest itself you just need to perform one original song. A grin spreads across Eric's face. "One original song? I can do that with my hands tied behind my back!"
"What are you talking about, poopsie?"
"The answer to our problems, mom!" Eric exclaims.
She blinks, still not getting it.
"Oh, have you seen a listing for a job? What's the position?"
Eric huffs and rolls his eyes. As if anyone got the house of their dreams by fucking working on a weekend.
"What? No mom, fuck that! This is so much better than a job! This is..." he laughs, giddy with delight. "This is our fucking ticket out of here!" He shoves his phone in his mom's face. " Battle Of The Bands!"
She balks a little, before taking the phone off Eric and peering at the post. She gasps.
"Oh, goodness! Fifty thousand dollars?"
Eric chuckles, body thrumming with excitement.
"I know, mom!"
"I didn't even know you had a band, Eric," she remarks, returning his phone to him.
Eric rolls his eyes at the minor technicality, because it really is a teeny tiny, microscopic technicality. He's an amazing pianist, he has song writing experience, two friends who are pretty gifted in the music department, and Kyle! Kyle can do something, right?... He can play bass! And maybe handle their finances or something, draw up a budget for their costumes and set design and stuff. He can be the band bookkeeper! Eric is buzzing like he's chugged ten coffees. With his song writing prowess, Stan and Kenny's musical abilities on the guitar and drums, and with Kyle handling the books they're unstoppable.
"I don't, but I can easily throw one together! I used to do that shit all the time when I was little! I just need to text the guys..."
Eric opens up their group chat, The Broship , and can't type fast enough: " hey assholes meet me in the quad at 8:15 an exciting opportunity has come up that will be very worth your while."
"There!" he grins triumphantly as he hits send. His eyes wander to the top of his phone and in his excitement, he hasn't realised the time. "Okay, mom, I have to go."
"What about your breakfast?" his mom asks as he hops off the stool.
"Could you put it in some tupperware for me?" He puts his backpack on his shoulders. "I'll eat it on the way."
His mom sighs, grabbing his plate.
"Alright, sweetie."
As his mom is sliding his barely eaten breakfast into a tupperware container, Eric makes his way behind the counter and does something he hardly ever does. He wraps his arm around his mom's waist and places a big, smacking kiss on her cheek. But whatever, he's in a terrific mood and closer to getting out of this dumb fucking 'house' than ever. She yelps in surprise but soon laughs.
"I'm gonna get us out of here, mom, just you wait." He grins, before snatching the tupperware container from her. "Thank you."
"You're welcome, sweetie," she replies as he rushes out the door. "Be safe!"
Eric practically skips to school, and for once enjoys the chilly, mountain air on his face. What he doesn't enjoy is the breakfast he guzzles on the way. He tucks into it in a fit of excitement, backpack sliding off his shoulders as he holds the tupperware container with one hand and gracelessly stabs at bacon and waffles saturated with maple syrup with another.
By the time he's reached school and the deserted locker room he feels bloated, his breakfast sitting like a stone in his stomach. His chin is sticky with maple syrup, and he's glad to be having a shower.
While the hotdog does have a toilet tucked away in a dingy closet, it does not have room for a shower, let alone a tub. Hence, Eric is forced to get up earlier than usual three times a week and shower at school. He brushes his teeth before stripping off and stepping into the school's volatile shower. But this morning, he doesn't curse at the icy cold stream that greets him, just lets the water reach the temperature of lava and contently washes his hair. Thick steam wraps around him as he belts out a favourite Elton John song, and Eric imagines that the steam is actually a sick, dry ice effect on The Battle Of The Band s stage. He's belting into the mic, and his bros are backing him up, and the crowd is going wild. That $50,000 is as good as his.
" So goodbye, Yellow Brick Road! Where the dogs of society howl! You can't put me in your penthouse! I'm going back to my plough! Back to the howling old owl in the woods, huntin' the horny back toad..." he does a dramatic spin, only slipping a little bit on the tiles. " Oh, I've finally decided my future lies beyond the yellow brick ro-oh-ooaaaad! Aaah, aah-"
"Cartman?"
Eric blinks his eyes open to see Kyle standing a few feet away, a towel wrapped around his waist while he is very much naked.
"Ah!" he yelps. "Kyle!"
He snatches his towel from the wall and wraps it around his waist, before turning the water off. Luckily, Kyle has shielded his eyes, but the damage is already done. He was never supposed to see this.
"What the fuck?" he exclaims.
"Sorry!" Kyle huffs. "Are you covered up?"
"Yes, I'm covered up!" he snaps. "What the fuck are you doing here?"
Kyle lowers his arms slowly, and when he realises Cartman is sufficiently clothed he huffs haughtily and folds his arms.
"I have a track meet coming up and I wanted to practice a bit before school!"
Eric blinks, narrowing his eyes at Kyle. Rage bubbles up inside him when he realises that his secret has been discovered all because Kyle had to come into school early to do the most pointless thing ever.
"What the fuck, practice for a track meet? Do you really not know how to run in a straight line?"
Kyle glowers at him.
"Fuck you!" He pulls his shoulders back. "The question is what are you doing here?"
"None of your business!" Eric snaps, before his shoulders slump in defeat. Seriously, what's the point in hiding? "I..." he looks at his feet, before rolling his eyes and lifting his head to the ceiling, but his head naturally wants to lower, ashamed. "Sometimes I shower here, okay?"
"Wh-" The laughter Eric was expecting bubbles in Kyle's voice before it quickly fizzes out. "Do... do you not have a shower at home?" Kyle asks, voice soft.
Eric glares at Kyle and rolls his eyes like the answer is obvious, because it is fucking obvious!
"No, my hotdog house does not have a shower."
"Oh..." Kyle whispers, nodding. He doesn't look at Eric, just searches the tiles for answers. He looks up when he seems to have found one, wincing. "Oh, dude, you can always shower at my place?"
"What?" Eric asks. He thought laughter would be bad enough, but it's nothing compared to this. Pity. His face hardens, and so does his voice. "No thank you, Kyle. I don't need your charity."
Kyle blinks, stung. He sighs and rolls his eyes.
"It's not charity, I'm just saying-"
"And I'm just refusing," Eric cuts in. "Also, I'm done here. So I'll just get changed and let you shower in peace." He brushes past Kyle. "I've, uh, warmed it up for you," he tries to joke.
Kyle doesn't laugh, just sighs heavier than before.
"Fine. Thank you."
Eric keeps his head down and his shoulders hunched as he makes his way back to the locker where he put his clothes. There's a hard, hot lump in his throat and he just wants to get dressed as fast as possible. He gathers his clothes and looks over his shoulder. The showers are visible, but all Eric can see amidst the steam is the back of Kyle's head and his red hair. He rolls his eyes and scurries around the corner, so he can get changed in peace and avoid any accusations of peeping.
"Hey, Cartman!"
Eric pulls his t-shirt over his head and huffs.
"Yes. Kyle?" he replies, rolling his eyes dramatically.
"What was up with that message in the group chat?"
Eric snickers under his breath, grinning to himself as he puts on his pants.
"All in due time, Kyle!"
If anything can extinguish his mortification, it's the reminder that his days of showering in the school fucking gym will soon be over.
Eric's leg is jittering as he waits in the quad for the guys. He slipped out of the locker room before Kyle could get out of the shower and talk to him any further about what he saw, or project his pity onto him. His hands are clasped in front of him on the frosty table, and he's kind of worried that his fingers have frozen together. His leg shakes in time to his pounding heart, and he actually has to remember to breathe. In through his nose for five seconds, out of his mouth for seven. When he does that, his breath hangs icily in the air. He can't recall the last time he felt this excited, and hopeful, and fucking impatient. Seriously, where are the guys?
With that thought, Stan, Kyle, and Kenny appear from around the corner, chatting with their hands tucked in their pockets. His shoulders drop and a smile flickers across his face. He tries to rein in his eagerness, he doesn't want to look like a fucking dog who has just noticed their masters coming up the driveway. He can't believe he just thought of these assholes as his masters. He will never serve them but still, he's not above asking for their help.
It's easy to lose the eager smile when he makes eye contact with Kyle, and the horrifying thought enters his head that Kyle told the guys what he saw in the locker room this morning.
"It's about time, assholes!"
Stan frowns and looks at his Apple watch.
"Dude, it's eight fifteen dead on."
Eric huffs and rolls his eyes.
"Whatever, please take a seat."
The guys all wordlessly huddle up on the opposite side of the table and Eric's gaze keeps wandering to Kyle. He clears his throat and gives him a small nod.
"Kyle..."
Kyle looks at him for some kind of cue, but Eric's not giving him one. He returns his short nod.
"Cartman..." he murmurs.
"Alright, what's this all about, man?" Stan asks.
"Yeah, I can't take it anymore," Kenny adds, with much needed levity.
With that, Eric adopts his salesman stance. He rolls his shoulders back, sits up straight and puffs out his chest, all the while beaming confidently.
"Gentlemen, we are about to embark on the most amazing, life-affirming, financially windfalling experience of our young lives."
His three friends all share confused looks.
"Okay..." Stan says slowly.
"We are going..." Eric takes a deep breath, and he can feel the delicious tension sitting in his chest. "To reform Moop!"
Eric doesn't falter even when he's met by perplexed silence. He was anticipating this.
"Huh?" Kenny asks, brow furrowing.
"Yeah, why would we want to do that?" Kyle adds.
Eric rolls his eyes and huffs.
"Battle Of The Bands, that's why, Kyle! It's coming up in about a month with a cash prize of fifty thousand dollars! And with our musical backgrounds and my killer song writing ability, it's as good as ours! This is the best chance I've got to leave that crappy hotdog behind so what do you say?" His shoulders slump and he looks between his friends with the most humble, puppy dog eyes he can muster. "I'm really counting on you guys."
Eric chews his lip as he scans his friends' faces. Kyle has pursed his lips, seemingly considering Eric's offer, meanwhile Stan and Kenny shift in their seats and share wary looks. Eric can feel his eyebrows knit together. If anything, he expected this silent deliberation to be between Stan and Kyle, not Stan and Kenny. Kyle looks at Eric too, just as perplexed.
Stan rolls his eyes to the sky and sighs.
"Kenny, you tell him."
"What?" Eric's gaze ping-pongs between the two of them. "Tell me what?"
Kenny sighs too, shifting in his seat.
"This is awkward, um..." his eyes wander the table contemplatively before he looks up at Eric, wincing. "Cartman, dude, we're so flattered by the invitation but we've already entered the competition."
Eric blinks, a little blindsided but any chance to compete is one he needs to take, right?
"Oh..." he nods, before smiling brightly. "Oh, well, I would've appreciated the heads up, but hey, it doesn't have to be Moop! There's still time for me to write a song."
Stan shakes his head, face creased slightly.
"No, dude, what Kenny means is... we signed up Crimson Dawn for Battle of The Bands , with Butters and Jimmy."
Eric's jaw tightens and he feels like he's stood under that lava hot shower again. Scratch that, he feels like lava, magma, whatever the fuck you want to call it is coursing through his veins like searing sludge, and it's taking everything in him not to lose his shit right now. His body is shaking like a volcano about to go off, but he's trying real hard to keep his cool. No, actually, fuck that too.
"You what?!" he erupts.
"Yeah, what?" Kyle pipes up.
Eric blinks, but doesn't look in his direction. He's too pissed at Stan and Kenny to pay attention to Kyle.
Stan shoots Kyle a puzzled, affronted look before he fidgets and returns his gaze to Eric.
"We didn't tell you because we didn't think it was a big deal! Plus, I have a crappy living situation I want to get out of too!"
Eric rolls his eyes dramatically, body sagging with indignation.
"Oh, boo-hoo, poor Stan on his fucking farmhouse with his cringy, pothead dad! At least you have a house and a dad you can't stand, I have no fucking dad and I live in a hotdog!" He whips his head in Kyle's direction who is, for once, lost for words. "Did you know about this?"
Kyle shakes his head, and it seems like he can't decide whether to address Eric or glare at Stan and Kenny.
"No, I had no idea."
Eric huffs, throwing his arms up.
"That's great." He sneers at Stan and Kenny. "Kyle and I are being punished for not being in your screamo band because we were stuck in an ICE camp, is that it?"
Stan - never one for confrontation - looks positively wiped by this interaction, and stares at Eric bewildered, with a deep dent in his brow.
"What?"
"Dude, this isn't punishment, okay!" Kenny snaps. "Look, we really hope you can pull something together and find a way to compete, but we can't help you. I wish we could." He sighs, and puts his hand on Stan's shoulder. "Come on, Stan..."
Stan gives Eric a shy, apologetic look, but Eric just glares at both of them as they leave. How could they be so fucking selfish? Don't they want to help him after everything they've been through? Don't they owe him some loyalty?
"Yeah, sure, you wish you could help!" he shouts as they walk away. "You could've talked to me before you signed up your dumb fucking band! Fucking assholes! God damn it..." He drops his head in his hands, and his breaths are now coming thick, fast, and anxious but he won't spiral. "What the hell am I gonna do now?" He sighs and clasps his hands together, pressing his fists hard against his forehead. "Okay, regroup, Eric, regroup. You don't need those pricks."
"Cartman, it's gonna be okay."
Eric jumps at the sound of Kyle's soft voice. He didn't even realise he was still there. Why is he always there?
"Kyle, what are you still doing here?" he rolls his eyes. "You are of the least use to me."
Kyle scoffs, eyes widening.
"What are you talking about? I can play bass!"
"Sure you can, Kyle," Eric mutters, rolling his eyes, because how is Kyle's mediocre bass playing going to help him?
Kyle glares at him across the table, nostrils flared.
"I can play bass, you son of a-" Kyle stops himself mid-rant, smiling sardonically and raising his hands. "You know what? You're right," he says, getting to his feet. "You don't need me, and my garage that we can practice in. You don't need my charity, right?"
Kyle climbs over the bench so calmly after having called Eric's bluff. Yes, Kyle is his weakest card, but it's better to have one card than no cards at all, especially when that card has a garage they can practice in. Eric hadn't even considered where they would practice! If he wants this to work, if he wants to pull together some band for the competition he has to work with what he's got, and right now, all he has is Kyle.
"Kyle, wait!" he exclaims, scrambling out of his seat and diving for Kyle before he can get away. He lands on the hard ground with a huff, winding himself, but he still has his arms wrapped around Kyle's legs.
"Cartman!" Kyle yelps, almost getting taken down with him.
He twists his body around and grimaces at Eric on the floor, before looking around to check if anybody else can see. Eric doesn't care who sees. He's already been humiliated enough this morning, any onlookers to his grovelling would just be collateral damage.
"I do need your charity! Please, Kyle, I'm sorry I so need your charity!"
Kyle huffs, looking around him once more.
"Alright, get up, you're embarrassing yourself. So does this mean you want me to be in the band?"
"Yes," Eric replies slightly breathlessly as he gets to his feet. He brushes off some gravel stuck to his jacket. "Are you in?"
Kyle eyes him up and down, folding his arms smugly.
"I think I'll need a more formal invitation than that." He smirks, lifting his chin.
Eric bites the inside of his mouth to smother the dark, angry growl building in his throat. Clearly, Kyle isn't so adverse to verbal displays of grovelling, so Eric leans into it, clearing his throat begrudgingly.
"Kyle Broflovski, your self-righteousness, runner of the track, and most obnoxious of all my friends, will you please do me the honour of resuming your role playing bass for Moop and also let us practice in your garage?"
Kyle snorts, eyes slipping shut as he nods.
"Sure."
Eric puffs out his chest, filled with a renewed hope, and he grins.
"Sweet," he replies, before something occurs to him that voicing may lead to this blowing up in his face already, but he has to ask. "One question though, why do you want to be in Moop so badly?"
Kyle blinks, before his jaw tightens and he gulps audibly.
"Oh, uh, to help you get out of the hotdog, obviously." He blinks again, before lowering his head and trying to make eye contact. "I had no idea it was so bad-"
"Okay, I get it," Eric cuts in, quickly deflecting his pity.
"Plus, I'm kinda pissed at those guys for signing up without telling us," Kyle adds, folding his arms again.
Eric's eyebrows twitch and he nods.
"Right? What the hell is that about?"
"We are going to have to start looking for other members though, dude," Kyle points out more seriously. "It can't be just us."
Eric nods, but before he can suggest auditioning people, he remembers another player in his roster, somebody who he worked with on a far more successful project than Moop. A grin spreads across his face.
"Oh don't worry, I know exactly where to start looking."
Later that afternoon, Eric finds himself sitting on the cold bleachers, waiting for Kyle's track practice to be over so they can ask Kyle's teammate and Eric's ace in the hole, Tolkien, to join the band. He was an integral part of Faith +1 , and when Moop turned their backs on Eric when he wanted to take the band in a new, more financially viable direction, Butters and Tolkien came through for him. Butters may be a no-good traitor now, but he's hoping Tolkien will be their salvation.
Eric has been feeling a sense of deja vu all day, although he has one unlikely member of his friend group backing him up this time. Kyle. It's not as if Kyle being an ally is a foreign concept though. In fact it is often a fruitful, albeit rare, partnership. But while Eric has decided to not speak to Stan and Kenny, Kyle is still trying to 'rise above it' and be their friend, acting like a mediator almost. But Eric doesn't want mediation, he wants to stick it to Crimson fucking Dawn, and one way to do that is by having a killer line up.
Kyle was reluctant when Eric suggested they approach Tolkien after practice, saying it wouldn't be great timing. But he had no rebuttal when Eric pointed out what exactly a good time would be, and they really can't afford to wait. Eric found himself saying he would come to Kyle's track practice before he could stop it, and brushed off Kyle's reminder that he thought track practice was stupid. Now having watched practice for himself, he takes it back. Yes, it is mainly running fast in a straight line but there are also hurdles to jump too.
When Eric arrived at the cold, boring practice he consoled himself with the thought that he'll get to see Kyle trip over a few hurdles and have a good laugh. But as always, Kyle has to ruin his good time by being pretty fucking awesome, actually. It's alright though, Kyle will never know how begrudgingly impressed Eric is.
Practice is now over and when Eric catches Kyle's eye in the bleachers, he waves. Kyle's shoulders droop and he tucks his hands into his grey, South Park High Track and Field hoodie as he makes his way over to him. Eric also gets up and trots down the bleacher steps.
"You ready?" he asks, hopping off the bleachers.
Kyle's cheeks are pinked from the cold air and the exercise, and he sighs.
"I guess..." he tucks his hands deeper into his pockets, a wrinkle in his nose. "I feel a little weird springing this on him now though. It's like an ambush."
Eric scoffs, eyebrows raised.
"An ambush? Dude, Kyle, asking Tolkien to join Moop is a fantastic offer, not a threat."
"I know, but something about you randomly approaching somebody and putting them on the spot like this feels kind of threatening."
Eric smirks and lifts his chin.
"Maybe it's my aggressive business style?"
Kyle arches an eyebrow.
"Aggressive business style?"
"Aggressive frontman style then." Eric rolls his eyes at the technicality. "But this attitude is what's gonna win us battle of the bands." He looks over Kyle's shoulder to see Tolkien walking up the field with the rest of the team, heading for the locker room. "Oh shit, quick before he goes inside!"
Kyle sighs again, eyebrows raised.
"This is weird," he reiterates, before they jog over to him.
"Tolkien!" Eric exclaims. It causes Tolkien to jump a little and turn around. "Buddy, my man, what is up?"
"Oh, hey, Cartman..." Tolkien's eyebrows furrow and he looks between the two of them warily. "What are you doing here?"
"Well, Kyle and I have something to ask you, Tolkien," Eric replies, slinging his arm around Kyle's shoulder. Kyle doesn't protest, but Eric is sure he heard him growling, displeased, in the back of his throat.
The dent in Tolkien's brow deepens.
"Wh..." he blinks, and his features soften, realisation spreading across his face. "Oh." He clears his throat and scratches the nape of his neck. "Listen, guys, I'm flattered, but you know I'm dating Nichole, right?"
Eric blinks, before narrowing his eyes at him. What the hell does that mean?
"Huh?"
"Oh ew, Tolkien!" Kyle snaps, before shoving Eric away from him.
Eric glares at Kyle, before it clicks what Token was insinuating and he's way more pissed off at Tolkien for even thinking Eric would ever want to do that with Kyle, let alone invite a third party, than he is with Kyle for shoving him. He's surprised that rumour he made up about them dating has stuck around for so long, although he supposes that showing up to Kyle's track practice like a doting boyfriend doesn't do a lot to dispel such assumptions about his and Kyle's relationship.
Tolkien's face falls, horrified.
"I'm so sorry."
"Yeah, you should be Tolkien!" Eric snaps, his anger setting his face ablaze. "That's fucking sick!"
Tolkien balks at that, shoving his hands in his pockets and frowning at Eric.
"What's so sick about it?"
Kyle seems curious to know too, raising his eyebrows pointedly at him.
"N-n-nothing!" Eric replies, voice scratchy and at an octave he does not like. "I'm not homophobic, okay, I think Tweek and Craig are cute, it's just that you'd even think I would..." his palms prickle and his stomach lurches at the thought of it. He grimaces. "With Kyle..."
Tolkien sighs, pulling his hands out of his hoodie pocket and raising them.
"Okay, okay, I'm sorry. It was an honest mistake."
"It's fine," Kyle murmurs, face pinker than before.
"So what was it that you guys wanted to ask me?" Tolkien asks, shoving his hands in his hoodie pockets once again.
Kyle turns to Eric, eyebrows raised, once again looking for his cue. Eric will give him one this time. He nods graciously to let Kyle extend the invitation. He doesn't know if this makes them look gayer in Tolkien's eyes.
"Well, Battle of The Bands is coming to South Park, and the winner gets a cash prize of fifty thousand dollars," Kyle explains. "Cartman and I are reforming our old band from when we were kids, Moop, to compete and we'd love it if you would join us."
Tolkien doesn't react straight away, just nods for a couple of seconds as he considers it. A good sign, Eric hopes.
"What would you want me to play?"
"Bass, of course!" Eric beams.
Kyle whips his head around to glare at him.
"Cartman, what the fuck?"
Eric rolls his eyes, exasperated. He knew Kyle would react like this, and he did agree to him playing bass, but they all need to play to their strengths, and bass is undoubtedly Tolkien's strength.
"Excuse us one second, Tolkien," he says pleasantly, putting a hand on Kyle's shoulder and they turn around.
"Cartman, I thought I was playing bass!" Kyle hisses.
Eric sighs, eyes slipping shut and holding out a pacifying hand.
"I know, I know, but Kyle, with Tolkien playing bass we'll have so much more of an edge over the competition." He raises his eyebrows, because he knows Kyle isn't stupid. He doesn't need to say it. "If you catch my drift..."
Kyle narrows his eyes at him.
"No," he replies, folding his arms. "Enlighten me."
Eric rolls his eyes and huffs. Kyle may not be stupid but he's still a fucking asshole.
"It's just that Tolkien has a certain... genetic advantage ... when it comes to playing bass, that you do not."
Even though Eric is sure Kyle knew what he meant before he even said it, his eyebrows still almost shoot off his head.
"Dude, that is so fucking racist."
Eric huffs.
"How is it racist to say that he's good at something?"
"So what am I supposed to do?"
Eric eyes Kyle up and down and draws his lips together, hoping he doesn't have to say it.
" Well , there are other areas where you too have a genetic advantage, like the financials-"
Kyle steps away from him, jaw pulled tight and glare boring holes into him.
"Cartman, don't even fucking go there."
"Guys?" Tolkien pipes up, lifting his hand gingerly.
Eric blinks, turning around and smiling. He almost forgot he was there.
"What's up, dog?"
"Two things. First of all, yes, Cartman, that was really fucking racist. Secondly, if Kyle really wants to play bass then I can play guitar."
Eric blinks, mind whirring at what he's just heard. He looks to Kyle, who is in a similar state of disbelief. Then it dawns on Eric. They got Tolkien. He grins and punches the air triumphantly, even though he's not playing bass like Eric originally intended. He supposes Tolkien being there at all is a compromise he can live with.
"Hell yeah! We got ourselves a ringer!"
"You actually want to join?" Kyle asks, eyebrows raised, before Eric can nudge him and hiss at him to not ask too many questions.
Tolkien shrugs.
"Yeah, I mean it could be fun. Cartman is an insufferable asshole-"
"Ay!" Eric snaps, the tips of his ears burning.
"Don't worry, I'll keep him in check," Kyle replies, with a slight smile in his voice.
Eric glares at him, but Kyle doesn't acknowledge it.
"But Faith Plus One was huge so I know that you're capable of creating a successful band," Token adds.
Kyle's face breaks out in a grin.
"Alright!"
Eric beams, stepping closer to Token and extending his hand to shake.
"Welcome to Moop, Tolkien. You will not regret it."
"Yeah, well, we'll see," Tolkien replies uneasily as he shakes Eric's hand.
"Okay, so that's our guitarist," Kyle says. "Now we just need a drummer."
Tolkien shrugs.
"How about Tweek?"
"Huh?" Eric blinks, brow furrowing. "That twitchy little freak plays drums?"
"Yeah, dude, he's like fucking Rain Man when it comes to instruments."
"Yes, Tolkien, that was really fucking ableist," Eric quips, narrowing his eyes at Tolkien.
Tolkien rolls his eyes, but the way he shifts his weight tells Eric that he got to him.
"You really think Tweek would want to join?" Kyle asks.
Tolkien's head tilts to the side and his mouth scrunches up.
"Well, he might need some convincing, but how about you guys come to my place and you can see what Tweek's got?"
Kyle looks at Eric.
"What do you think, Cartman?"
Eric nods, a smile spreading across his face.
"Sounds like a plan to me."
Turns out they might have another ace, after all. But since it's Tweek, maybe it's more of an anxious wildcard with coffee rings all over it.
That evening, Eric heads to Tolkien's house with Kyle to check out Tweek's drumming skills. Given Tolkien's praise of Tweek's musical abilities, Eric had high expectations, and right now they're being exceeded as he listens to Tweek's killer drum solo. The only way Eric can think to describe Tweek's drum playing as is arachnoid, his hands moving in such a blur over the shiny, silver drum kit that it's hard to believe he only has one pair. The acoustics of Tolkien's large, airy dining room only enhance Tweek's performance. When he and Kyle arrived and Tolkien said that Tweek was all set up in the dining room, Kyle asked if Tolkien's parents would mind all the noise, but Tolkien waved Kyle's concern off, and clarified that Tweek was setting up in the second dining room anyway. Eric had balked behind Tolkien's back at the fact he had more than one dining room.
It's a good thing he has two dining rooms, actually, as Eric can hardly hear himself think about how Moop is going to be unstoppable and how his days in the hotdog are numbered, over Tweek's enthusiastic, undeniably skilled performance. He gives an equally as impressed Kyle a nudge, sharing delighted grins with him, before Tolkien catches their eye, wearing a smug, 'what did I tell you?' kind of expression.
When Tweek finishes, face pinked and chest heaving, they all get to their feet and applaud.
"Alright, man!" Tolkien grins.
"That was fucking tits, Tweek," Eric adds.
Tweek blows a wispy tendril of hair out of his face. His hair is so brittle due to regularly being tugged from his follicles that he often wears it in a low, frizzy bun now.
"Uh, thanks?" he replies, shoulders drawing up as he tucks the obstinate tendril behind his ear.
Eric adopts his salesman stance again, rolling his shoulders back and clapping his hands together.
"Now, Tweek, I'm sure Tolkien has filled you in on why we're here."
Tweek's eyebrows draw together and his gaze flits back and forth between Eric and Tolkien.
"No, not really?"
Eric's confidence splinters a little and he glares at Tolkien. Kyle must be glaring too, because Tolkien actually squirms. Eric rolls his eyes to help him get back in the zone.
"Okay, well, the three of us are forming a band, Moop, to compete in Battle of The Bands, and we would love for you to come on board as a drummer."
Tweek's dark eyes are wide and wary, slowly sliding over to Tolkien.
"Seriously, man?"
Tolkien laughs uneasily, glancing between Tweek and Eric.
"Yeah, seriously! Come on, it could be fun!"
Tweek lowers his head slightly, as if he's missed something, looking directly into Tolkien's eyes.
"But I thought you said that when you were in that Christian rock group with Cartman he was a self-centered, obnoxious racist dickhead."
"Uh, yeah, I did say that, but Faith Plus One was huge, Tweek! Yeah, Cartman is an asshole but when it comes to stuff like this he knows what he's doing."
Eric is willing to tolerate quite a bit as long as he gets what he wants, but these names and accusations being hurled at him are getting a bit excessive. He huffs and folds his arms tightly across his chest.
"You know, I'm not appreciating all this slander being directed at me."
He sees Kyle rolling his eyes in his peripheral vision.
"Shush," he says, before stepping in front of Eric with his most encouraging smile. "Tolkien's right, Tweek. Cartman's no picnic but this is kind of his forte."
Tweek nods, chewing the inside of his cheek.
"I get that. It's just..." he sighs. "I don't know, being around you guys is so stressful-"
"We've chilled out a lot since you hung out with us, Tweek. Even Cartman! Plus, Tolkien's gonna be there."
"Yeah, dude, I've got you," Tolkien chimes in. "Haven't you always wanted to be in a band?"
Tweek fidgets, and the small, black stool he's sitting on squeaks as he does so.
"Yeah..." he murmurs, nodding. "Yeah, I have."
"Exactly! Plus, who knows who's gonna be at that gig!" Tolkien continues, eyes bright and wide. "This is a chance for you to really shine, dude."
Kyle nods in agreement.
"You deserve some recognition, man. You're seriously talented."
Eric rolls his eyes to the ceiling. Again, he'll tolerate quite a bit as long as he gets what he wants, but all these compliments coming Tweek's way are a bit excessive.
"Jesus, why don't we just bring Craig in here to suck him off?" he mutters.
Kyle gives him a sharp nudge with his elbow.
"Dude, do you want a drummer or not?"
Eric sighs, hoping that answers Kyle's question that, yes, he does want a drummer.
"Fine." He bats his eyelashes at Tweek. "We could really use you, dude, and I promise to make this experience as stress-free as possible for you. All you have to do is the drumming, that's it. Just leave the rest to me."
Tweek eyes Eric up and down as he considers it, but ultimately turns to Tolkien before he gives his answer.
"And you're really sure about this, Tolkien?"
Tolkien looks to Eric and Kyle before he answers, and Kyle must be giving the same wide-eyed, impatient look as Eric for Tolkien to just answer already, because Tolkien pulls his shoulders back and nods, as resolutely as he can.
"Yes."
Tweek rolls the drumsticks in his palms a couple of times, before he nods slowly.
"Alright," he replies with a small smile. "Alright, I'll do it."
"Yes!" Kyle cheers.
"We have our band!" Eric exclaims, and shares a lame high-five with Kyle that the both of them seem to regret once the moment has passed.
They avert each other's gazes and Kyle clears his throat without actually following it up with words.
"Just... one more thing," Tweek adds.
"Sure, man, anything," Eric replies, eager to move the conversation along.
"When we're on stage... could I have a curtain or something? To cover my face?"
Eric blinks, eyebrows drawing together.
"Huh?"
"It's just that..." Tweek lowers his head, fidgeting. "I'm a little nervous about people watching me, you know, judging me and booing me. If I had a curtain, or a veil, or something it would make me feel more comfortable."
Eric arches an eyebrow.
"What, like Sia?"
Tweek shrugs.
"Yeah, kind of like Sia."
"Well, I don't think that should be a problem," Kyle replies, before Eric can.
Eric isn't too thrilled about the idea at first, but the more he thinks about it, the more he thinks it could work. Perhaps it'll make them stand out more? Plus, maybe the face Tweek makes when he's drumming should be hidden behind a veil. Eric doesn't think the other drummers competing will be poking their tongues out in concentration while they play.
"Okay, Tweek, you can be the eccentric, antisocial one." Eric takes a small, pleased breath. "Gentlemen, I really do think this is the start of something great."
Tweek and Tolkien are sharing smiles that dare to brim with excitement, and when Eric catches Kyle's eye they beam at each other in a way that feels a lot more comfortable than a high five.
"Oh hey, boys."
Tolkien's dad in the doorway snaps Eric out of his daydreaming.
"Hey, dad." Tolkien nods.
"I thought I heard drumming in here," Mr Black says, spying Tweek's drum kit.
"Yeah, Tweek was auditioning for Cartman's band," Tolkien replies.
Mr Black blinks, and looks in Eric's direction.
"You have a band, Eric?"
"Yep," Eric replies, puffing out his chest. "We're even competing in Battle of The Bands ."
"You don't know if the Marshes son's band is competing do you? I've been hearing their racket a lot more than usual lately."
Eric and Kyle share confused looks.
"Yeah, actually they are," Kyle replies uneasily.
"Alright." Mr Black nods contemplatively. "In that case then, I would love to be your sponsor. If that's a thing?"
Eric blinks, his jaw dropping a little. He feels like he should ask Kyle to pinch him. He doesn't know if that's a thing, but he's hardly going to say now.
"You're... you're seriously?"
"Dad, are you sure?" Tolkien pipes up.
"Of course, son! You know I'd do anything to support you..." his cheery tone fades away. "And if that means you wipe the floor with Randy Marsh then that's even better."
Tolkien arches a wary eyebrow at his dad.
"It's Stan's band, dad, not Mr Marsh's."
Mr Black chuckles, eyes slipping shut as he shakes his head.
"Oh that doesn't really matter, son. You just do me proud now and kick their asses!"
Eric grins, delighted. Yeah, wading into this Tegridy/Credigree rivalry is a little messy, but Eric fucking loves messy. Plus, spite is an excellent motivator, so he's in no doubt that Mr Black will happily hand over a lot of cash to fund Moop's victory over Crimson Dawn, which would be a de facto victory for Credigree too. It's literally a win-win.
"Oh, we won't let you down, Mr Black."