A/N: My regular readers are probably wondering what the fuck this fic is, and South Park readers are probably wondering why this fuckass anime author is publishing SP shit. Full explanation in the end A/N, but for now...enjoy, I guess?

This fic was made in collaboration with parksouth for the spdrabblebomb! You can find this on her AO3 and tumblr under the same name (i.e., parksouth). Go review, reblog, kudos, like, and whatever else the hell it is you do on AO3.

Disclaimer: I don't own South Park.

Kenny watches Craig sip at his dark roast, and presses his lukewarm lemonade to the back of his neck. The condensation on the bottle cools his sweaty skin, and not for the first time since he woke up at the asscrack of dawn, he debates dumping the lemonade down his shirt.

"It's the middle of fucking July," Kenny mumbles. "How the fuck are you drinking coffee? And wearing that stupid chullo?"

Craig shrugs and stuffs a duffle bag between a suitcase and a mini-keg of beer. "I dunno, how are you wearing your face?" He takes another sip of coffee, longer this time – Kenny doesn't miss the half-smirk he's trying to hide behind the cheap Styrofoam.

"I think the chullo's fried your brains, because that was the dumbest comeback. Christ, Tucker, you only have two brain cells to spare, give them a break."

Craig flips him off and shuts the trunk of the car, the only barrier between Kenny's eyes and the sun. He squints. Even at 5 AM the damn thing's too bright. "Could you have slammed that thing any louder? I thought you didn't want your parents to hear."

"Does it look like I give a shit? Get in the car."

"Don't fucking put garbage in my car, you asshole," Craig snaps. Kenny puts on an affronted face and holds up the crinkly paper he's spent the past three minutes folding. "Origami isn't garbage, you uncultured swine."

"It is when it's made of fuckin' fast food wrappers."

Kenny kicks the McDonald's bags out from under his seat and reaches for one of the burger wraps. It's less creased and makes for cleaner folds. His fingers move with a surgeon's precision, neatly tucking triangles into pockets and smoothing out corners.

"Is that a fucking duck?"

"Keep your eyes on the road, dickface."

"So it's a duck."

"It's a crane, you goddamn bat."

"Are you calling me blind?"

"Are you going to pick up your fuckin' Nobel Prize for Obviousness?"

Craig punts his empty coffee cup at his head (his fourth one since this morning) and turns on the radio. The volume is too low for the song to be properly heard but the soft bass thrums under Kenny's feet. He holds his completed crane up to the sunlight, watching the rays spill over the paper wings like a gentle stream over rocks.

"Here." Kenny puts the crane between the two A/C vents. "It's yours. The car needs some decor."

"Sure, until it fucking falls off on the next left turn." Craig snorts.

"I don't wanna be the asshole here but since there's no one else, the duty falls to me – can you, like, not be yourself for five minutes? We're on vacation, dude. Free of school, family, South mcfucking Park, and everything else that comes with that shitfest. This roadtrip is a chance for us to just…be. No direction, no plans, just you, me, and the fifty thousand miles of dirt and asphalt we're driving across."

"I would hardly call a roadtrip a vacation."

"We're in a tiny enclosure and it's over a hundred degrees out. If we close our eyes for a second, we can pretend we're on a low-budget trip to Cuba."

"Americans aren't allowed in Cuba."

"Shut the fuck up."

Kenny grabs the wheel and swerves them back into their lane. "Fucking Christ, Craig. Switch with me, you're half asleep as is."

"When Cartman grows wings and flies, I'll consider it," Craig sneers, rubbing at his eyes furiously.

"The saying is when pigs grow wings and fly."

"There's a fuckin' difference?"

His hand-eye coordination may be off, but Craig is still miraculously still on top of his snide commentary. That may get them off if a cop decides to pull them over, but Kenny is in no mood to die on this trip.

"Seriously, dude, you're gonna kill us. Pull over at least."

"In hell. There's a motel in like…twenty miles. We can make it," Craig assures. His eyelids do that fluttery thing that Kenny sometimes finds himself doing in math class after an all-nighter, and that's when he knows Craig needs to pull over or they'll wind up on national news as the two idiots who rolled into a ditch at 2 AM.

"Switch. Pull over. I don't give a damn, really, but those are your options." Kenny says firmly. His eyes fall to the glovebox, which he pops open. It's mostly full of insurance papers and the original car manual, but he finds a picture of Stripe stuffed under a bill for gas. "Who will look after Stripe if you die? You can barely pay your sister for this week."

Craig flicks the indicator and pulls off onto the shoulder, sliding to a slow stop. Kenny smirks. If there's anything he knows about Craig, it's that mentioning Stripe is the easiest way to blackmail him into doing anything. His love for the hamster rivals Cartman's love for cheesy poofs.

"Why the fuck do you have a picture of Stripe in your car? That's gay, dude."

"Go shove a rat up your ass. You'll find one in your living room, I'm sure," Craig says. The brunet pushes his seat back and crosses his arms over his chest. Kenny reaches over and turns the car on, blasting the A/C. It's too hot and humid outside to consider rolling down the windows, and even if it were moderately cooler, there are one too many bugs buzzing around in the dark that would suck him dry and leave him infected with god-knows how many diseases. Kenny yanks off his shirt and sighs.

"So we're not switching?"

No response.

Kenny snaps his shirt in Craig's face. "Hey, Tucker. We switching?"

Craig snores.

"This asshole fell asleep," Kenny says in disbelief. "Un-fucking-believable."

They almost miss the 7/11 as they pass it by. The faded colours and broken neon 'open' sign blend right in to the thick shroud of dust that clogs up the air and paints the sky a musty brown. When they get out of the car, Kenny isn't surprised to see it coated in dirt. He doodles a dick on the rear window before chasing after Craig into the store.

The A/C is broken inside, and the only sounds are of the squeaky fan perched on the cash counter, and a standard country one-hit wonder over the radio next to the fan. Craig is by the stack of 24-pack water bottles, hemming and hawing over the ridiculous prices. It's fucking water, for God's sake. Basic human right or whatever, so why do they have to pay for it? A slurpee, on the other hand, is worth the dollar-fifty they were charging.

Craig stomps over carrying an off-brand pack of water, topped with a couple dozen bags of chips, a box of granola bars, a nacho tray, and sunflower seeds. "Why the fuck are you buying slurpees?"

"The fuck are you buying a nacho tray?" Kenny counters. "Seriously, dude, you remember fuckin' nachos but forget the twizzlers?"

"So you don't want the nachos."

"No, I still want the fucking nachos. It's the sentiment, dude. Anyways, you strike me as a blue slurpee kinda dude." Kenny waves the giant cup in his face. "But you also strike me as a mountain dew kinda guy, so I mixed the two."

"Jesus Christ, that cup is as big as your head."

"Which one?" Kenny leers. Craig has no free hands so he uses his foot to kick his kneecap harshly before shuffling over to the counter. Kenny picks up his coke zero slurpee and the extra 99 cent gulp for when the slurpee is done and follows in suit. The cashier is almost as old as the dirt outside, and he scans the items at a glaciers pace. The blond looks around the bare convenient store, finally settling his gaze on a rack of maps.

"Hey, what town are we in?" he asks the cashier.

"Nearest town's about fifty miles out."

A beat. "Throw in one of those maps, too."

Kenny wishes he'd decided not to cheapskate his phone plan. He'd used his 500 MB within a week of his bill being paid off and there was no way he could afford the extra money tacked on to the next bill if he used more data by turning on the phone's GPS.

Kenny also wishes he'd paid more attention in geography class, because this map makes about as much sense as those financial people on the evening news when they blabbered on about stocks or whatever else the hell it was that people invested in.

"Have you figured out the nearest city yet?" Craig asks. "It shouldn't be that hard to read a fucking map."

"Shut the fuck up, asswipe, I'd like to see you try."

"Okay," Craig says blandly, and yanks the map out of Kenny's hands, laying it out over the steering wheel.

"You can't read a map and drive, moron!" Kenny yells, pulling the map back. He taps a spot just north of Route 76 and says, "The nearest city is Sterling. Just keep going straight and we'll be there. Even you can manage this."

Craig grabs the map again. "No, dumbfuck, the nearest city is Boulder. You aren't even driving, how did you miss this?"

Kenny snatches the map. "No. Sterling."

"Boulder."

"Ster. Ling."

"Boul. Der."

When Kenny reaches for the map this time, the paper crane he'd placed on the dash tumbles down, landing on the map. "Dude, you knocked over Gregory!"

"You named the crane Gregory?" Craig's eyebrows shoot up and disappear under the rim of his hat. "That's such a basic name."

"Says Craig."

"Shut up. The crane isn't Gregory. His name is McChicken."

"Wrong bird."

"Eat my asshole."

"God, Craig, not while we're driving," Kenny replies in mock scolding. He flutters his eyelashes and purrs, "I'll do it if you pull over at a nice motel, though."

Craig's only reply is to smack him in the face with the back of his hand. Kenny yelps and rubs his nose, willing away the sting. "That hurt, fuckface."

"Good." Craig then points down to the map. "McChicken has spoken."

Kenny follows his slender finger to where he's indicating and lifts McChicken's head just long enough to read the city name. Denver, Colorado. He places McChicken back on his pedestal and folds up the map, throwing it under the seat to join its paper brethren.

"Alright, then. Denver it is."

They arrive in Denver just before nightfall.

Kenny finds that the soft reds and pinks cresting over the mountain skyline, fighting the black sheath of the night, is far more appealing than the tall buildings and shopping malls that populate downtown. He can't see any stars, but he imagines they're dotting the sky in thick clusters. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots Craig staring up at the sky forlornly. The mountains back in South Park are nowhere near as majestic as the ones here, but at least the city lights were dim enough that the stars were visible.

"Cygnus would be right there, yeah?" Kenny points directly above his head. Craig breaks out of his reverie and snorts, grabbing his arm and angling it a little more to the right. "No, dipshit, Cygnus's constellation would be here. You were pointing at Lyra."

"Close enough." Kenny smiles, dropping his arm. Craig has yet to loosen his grip on his elbow. Kenny doesn't tell him to. They stand there for another five minutes, gazing at the vast expanse of the empty sky and pretending they can see the beautiful pictures the stars would have painted. Craig's hand drops lower and lower, eventually landing on Kenny's wrist. The blond glances down. If he pulls his hand up…

"Let's get back in the car," Craig says suddenly, pulling away.

"I'm hungry," Kenny whines. If he has to eat another bag of chips he may or may not end up giving himself an emergency colon removal. He doesn't know how Cartman does it; perhaps he has three stomachs, like a cow.

"When are you never hungry?" Craig grumbles. Nevertheless, he turns heel and makes his way over to the rush of downtown. He looks over his shoulder and cocks an eyebrow. "You coming?"

"Dude, how do you pronounce this?" Kenny points at the menu. "Q…yui…noah? Kyunoah?"

"You mean quinoa?"

"Yeah, that." Before Kenny can ask any more questions about the foreign dish, the waitress pops up like a jack-in-the-box. She puts their cokes down and smiles at them perkily. She's way too excited for 10 PM. Probably snorted a line or two of Adderall on the back of her tray before her shift.

"Can I take your orders?"

"Yeah, can I get the quinoa? Hey, stupid question, but what kinda meat is that?" Kenny asks.

Craig laughs.

Real, full-bellied laughter that has him shaking in his seat and stuffing a fist in his mouth in a desperate attempt to stay quiet. He pulls his stupid chullo down to cover his eyes and wipe at the tears that trickle down his face and dribble down the corners of his nose. He looks so fucking dumb in that moment, but Kenny thinks that if he had to do it again, he probably would. Just to see that stupid face break for a second.

"It's not meat," the waitress explains. "It's a type of plantain."

"Ah." Kenny has no idea what a plantain is but it sounds expensive and healthy, and he knows from experience that healthy and expensive things tend to taste like ass. Craig is still gasping for air, clutching at his chest and bursting into a new fit of giggles every time he seems to calm down. The waitress looks at him warily. "Would you like another minute with the menu?"

"You know what? Nevermind." Kenny grabs Craig's hand and heaves him out of his seat. Craig falls against him and he has to loop his arm over Kenny's shoulder to stay upright. "We'll just go. Thanks anyways."

They end up spending about forty dollars on shit from McDonald's and taking their feast out to the car. Craig scarfs his Big Mac down in a record two minutes before moving on to his McWrap, while Kenny is still working on his Quarter Pounder.

"You're gonna get fat if you keep this up," Kenny comments. "You'll be giving Cartman a run for his money when it comes down to who's gonna die from heart disease before they're thirty."

Craig mumbles something that sounds like 'choke' around a mouthful of chicken, and flips him the bird. Kenny swats at his hand and steals a sip of his sprite. He leans back and sighs deeply, sweeping his gaze over the empty parking lot of the McDonald's. There's a group of geese picking at some leftover bun pieces, and the sole streetlamp illuminating the area flickers like something out of a horror movie. Kenny fiddles with the radio until he finds a channel playing some generic pop hit. The silence between the two is peaceful and not at all awkward, and Kenny finds he's enjoying this brief reprieve from his usual gang. By now, Cartman and Kyle would have probably tried to suffocate one another with the paper bags on the floor, and Stan would have been bitching about missing Wendy like the whipped baby he was. Craig, however, is content to keep to himself.

"How the fuck did this happen?" Speak of the devil.

"How did what happen?" Kenny asks.

"This. This trip, us…" Craig reclines his seat and turns his sleepy eyes on Kenny, who uses his coke straw to pick at the food between his teeth. "Dunno. Fate or some shit, I guess."

"That's gay." Craig smiles and closes his eyes.

"You're gay."

"Can't argue that."

In a spur of spontaneity, Kenny picks up the map from the floor and unfolds it. There are some condiment stains, but it's still readable. He pokes Craig's shoulder until the brunet cracks an eye open and grunts.

"C'mon, let's let McChicken decide where we go next," Kenny says, holding out the paper crane. Craig lifts his right hand and holds the crane's head between two fingers, brushing Kenny's own. "A'ight."

"On the count of three," Kenny instructs. "One…two…three."

They let McChicken drop onto the map with a soft plop. Craig picks the crane up and places it back on the dash between the A/C ducts while Kenny holds the place on the map.

"Well, guess that's out next stop." Craig puts his seat back into position and starts the engine. His hand falls to the gearshift between the seats and he puts the car into reverse. "Gonna be a long ass night."

Kenny covers his hand over the gear and stares resolutely out the front window. "Good thing I'm here to keep you entertained."

A/N: I promised a full explanation, didn't I?

Ok, I actually? Fucking love South Park, it's a hilarious show tbh. Anyway, parksouth and I were like "Oh shit let's do something for spdrabblebomb" and we stayed up until like 6 AM writing this. There's your explanation.

R&R.

-Eien