Author's Note: Well this should be an interesting project. Started as a vague idea for Creative Writing, though I had to "edit" out the South Park for the assignment I turned in. I was so disgruntled I turned around and wrote it all back in to a private copy. It was supposed to be a one-shot but once I started "re-Sparking" it, the bloody thing started swelling into something a bit out of kilter with a single submission. It's the first attempt I've made at first person submission which is possibly why it was so hard to predict its size. It strays from my comfort zone of all that is sweet and fluffy, but hopefully there's still enough in there for it to be enjoyable.

Warnings: Strong language at times, character death and attempted suicide. Not a particularly happy story at later points. I've arranged the prologue to give you what hints you need as to exactly what character death to expect so read it and let that help you determine whether this will story will be along the lines of what you could enjoy. As stated in the summary the focus is entirely Kenny/Butters, beyond that expect a hint of Style.

Disclaimer: I do not own South Park or any of its charismatic characters; they belong to Matt Stone and Trey Parker.

"Time doesn't always heal; it just breathes and swallows memories like the seasons change – sending showers; beating flowers into the mud. And nothing is forever in this place. Nothing but the way my heart fits in your hands; the held breath of hope;"~Author Unknown

FoF Prologue: Chasing you

Death is near; he hunts the very city street I stand on. He's probably lurking and slipping through the same crowd of people I'm so carefully scrutinizing. Don't ask me how I know for sure. It's not like there's a big neon sign saying, "Death is coming." Yet if you've spent as much time around that dread specter as I have, you start to notice the little hints he likes to drop when his hand draws close. Like right now, how there's a sudden coldness in the air in spite of the summer season.

My hands react first, before I even register the reason they start to quiver. Suddenly I find it surprising that my breath isn't coming out in foggy tendrils. Then my mind reasserts and I take in the people walking swiftly by in wife-beaters and shorts. Even my body hasn't completely adjusted to the sudden chill, a bead of sweat still tracks its way from the line where dirty blonde hair meets pale skin. It slides down my brow to hide under my chin, escaping the glaring sun above. In spite of all this, I still feel the cold, not on my skin, but beneath it. Oh yeah, Death is close.

My hands move to rub my arms, but I stop them; I would look ridiculous fending off a shiver in the middle of June. With effort I make my hands go back to my side and rest on the brick wall I'm leaning against. I don't want anyone's attention right now.

I try to make myself invisible while I watch the people pass; it's not that hard to do, I blend in with the riff raff in this part of the city. This isn't entirely by accident; I cased this area yesterday before I stole the faded torn jeans and orange shirt I now wear. Don't ask me why I picked orange, old habit I guess. The clothes look big on me, but then again, I'm not exactly one of those filled out guys, so everything looks big on me. Not to say I'm small, I'm actually above average in height, hovering around six feet. I'm just on the skinny side. A nice person would say thin or lithe, an asshole would say, starved. Actually an asshole would say I look like a poor ass pop-tart, white bread, and mayonnaise eating piece of trailer trash that's probably never had real meal in his life. What can I say; I was once friends with a very fat and long-winded asshole. He had a lot to say about my life.

The memory doesn't really sting much; I'm not that poor or hungry anymore. Well I'm still poor, but I've reached a point where it doesn't really matter. You don't exactly get to take it with you when you die after all. Now if I really need something I just take it, like I did my current outfit. It's not like I'm usually alive long enough to deal with consequences.

Someone tosses me a look; a passing girl who's eyeing me with a speculative glance. I guess even this thin I can still pass for an attractive guy, that eighteen year old, devil-may-care, rebel look turns quite a few heads. Sometimes I'm afraid I'll be stuck looking this way forever, I haven't changed in years, not since I took matters into my own hands. Those hands now rub unobtrusively against blemish and scar free wrists. It's true what they say, be very careful about accepting gifts, especially from people related to Satan. With a mental smack, I stop that train of thought and still my hands again. Like I said I don't need the attention, a pity staying perfectly hasn't stopped people from checking me out.

Of course it isn't all bad that people can't seem to get enough of looking at me, I've used that to get what I want occasionally. If you knew me when I was younger you'd find it hard to match that kid to the guy flirting or openly abusing his charms for clothes or a free meal. Hard to believe I used to hide it all in parkas and hooded sweatshirts when I was little. Since leaving South Park and those days behind I've certainly earned my fair share of admirers, it must be the sapphire blue eyes and golden brown hair. Everyone's a sucker for blue-eyed blondes, I know I certainly was.

I register the admiring look from the girl, but I don't return the favor. I don't really need anything right now. Plus she's not my type and I'm very, very particular about my type. It's not exactly a very common variety either; you could say it's a one-of-a-kind. The Leopold Butters Stotch kind actually. No one else I've met affects me like he did. It's how his tiny pink lips brought a warm heat to my face even when locked in a perpetually innocent smile. It's that rare shade of pale blue in his eyes, like a thin sheet of white frost over a dark lake. Eyes that seem bottomless, with one look you find yourself swimming in their depths for hours on end, trapped under their frozen icy surface. I could lose track of the time just thinking about that eternally cheerful face. But I don't have time for daydreams right now. I have to focus, I'll see him soon enough. At least I will if my luck holds out. I return to examining the crowd of people, somewhere in that mob is what I need so desperately. I have some reassurance that the moment's getting closer, another of Death's hints just dropped.

The colors that move by, a virtual rainbow of clothing adorning the stream of humanity before me fade to dark echoes of their former vibrant shades. Reflexively even after all these times, I look up to the empty sky. No cloud have obscured the glaring sun. No one else has stopped to pause and squint in response to a sudden dimming of the light. All of this just proves that I am right. It's not just my eager imagination, it's almost time.

Death is practically here now, perhaps in the shadows of this very building, maybe about to turn that corner, or behind the cold eyes of the business man who just walked by. I don't know for sure who or where he is, even with all of our intimate acquaintance. I've never met the collector of souls; I've just learned his calling cards.

Finally I can still my hands no longer and with haste my right flashes to my pocket to retrieve the photograph. A small boy stares at me solemnly, dark hair, light eyes, pale skin, its hard to tell more than that; the photograph seems like it was made at a carnival, one of those old timey pictures you pay 20 bucks for just so you can get the damn thing in black and white. He's young, maybe third grade, but he looks older, somehow the entire picture looks wrong, and not just because of its old style. It's the face that throws the viewer off; it's so serious, devoid of expression. Hard to imagine you can take a picture of a kid that isn't smiling or frowning. Maybe if it was for a family album, but he's not decked out in fancy clothes for an adoring mother; he's in a small t-shirt, hair still messy, staring out at me in dull consideration, frozen for the camera man. A mug shot would have more emotion. The style doesn't really surprise me; I'm used to it by now. No one in these pictures I'm given ever smiles for the camera, if a camera was even used to take them. Considering the source of the photographs I receive, I have serious doubts.

In front of me a woman walks by talking animatedly into her cell-phone. She is completely oblivious to the world around her, yelling loudly and obnoxiously into the small plastic device into her hand. It's annoying, downright rude actually how loud she is, but that's not what caught my attention. Her other hand is clutched lightly by a small child walking beside. This could be him; I try to restrain the excitement. Not yet, not till I'm sure. I can't tell with his face down, his eyes hunting the sidewalk for a distraction. I try not to be obvious as I try to get a better view of the child. I don't want people to think I'm a pervert but I have to know. He looks the right age maybe eight or nine. With a start the boy spots something on the sidewalk and reaches down, his hand slipping smoothly from the woman's fingers. A copper penny is snatched up eagerly. He looks up with pride to show her, a treasure for the woman, his mother I assume. The boy's face is now easily visible and again my eyes track to the photograph and back. Lucky me. It's a perfect match.

I flip the picture over and in elegant hand writing the current date is written, along with a specific time and location. I know the place, it's nearby. I scouted it out yesterday when I picked this spot. A quick glance at the nearest clock reassures me that I still have two minutes to go. As if all the little tell-tale signs from the Reaper weren't reassurance enough. Still I relax a little at the confirmation that everything's going the way it should. Once again the photograph is on the money, not that they have ever been wrong.

Stealthily I crumple the picture, before discreetly tossing it into a trashcan. I step away from the wall and join the swell of humanity. Sometimes I forget to get rid of the pictures and when people find them later they ask dangerous questions. I might as well spare myself the media frenzy, the incompetent detectives, and constant news coverage that follows finding something like that. Last time they found one, people were looking over their shoulder for months afterwards. I prefer them distracted and carefree; it makes things so much easier for me. Ultimately it doesn't really matter if I have the photograph anyway; I have the where, when, and who now. The how will be made clear soon enough and I stopped caring about the why a long, long time ago.

I adjust my step, inching closer to the two figures that have become the only distinct faces I care to identify in the blurry sea of humanity swimming past us. We are a trio now, locked in pace and rhythm, the two of them never realizing they'd acquired an orange clad shadow.

The woman never noticed the boy's penny and with a look of loss he places it in his pocket. He casts his eyes downward again to the ground before continuing to walk beside her. He's too disappointed to bother reclaiming her hand and she's too distracted by her shouting match with the person on the phone to notice. I notice though, I have to resist the urge to grind my teeth, even if this makes it all easier for me. Sometimes people can be really stupid; they make it way to easy for Death.

The sidewalk ends in a river of black asphalt and the woman stops walking, responding to the command from the red glowing hand on the other side of the street. The boy never bothers to look up. His eyes still search the ground for something that will earn him that desperately craved attention. He just keeps right on walking into the intersection. Green lights flash, an engine roars awake, and all too soon the moment is upon the three of us. Like I said, the how becomes elementary quickly enough.

It's come down to the seconds now but like always I have the advantage. I was expecting it. With eyes still locked on the small figure, I shoulder past the chatty mother. I may have left a bruise on her when I pushed her aside; I wasn't exactly worried about being gentle. Frankly the bitch could stand being roughed up a little; it might help her remember what really matters next time. She has no idea how very lucky she was to have me here.

Thigh muscles clench. Hips rotate the torso forward. Hands move backward to brace my weight. Feet grip the sidewalk for traction. My body has prepared itself for the leap by instinct with no actual thought on my part. Then an explosion of adrenaline hits my system, making time seem to slow compared to the reactions of my body. The knees straighten so quickly I can hear the popping sound of bone leaving socket. My ankles flex and my feet relinquish their grip on the ground. My arms shoot forward, palms flattened. My eyes lock on the small target my hands are now aimed at. The boy's weight is nothing compared to my momentum. When we collide he virtually flies the few feet that remain between him and the other sidewalk. There's a sharp impact as my body hits the street, but its inconsequential compared to the wall of force that hits me from the side a second after.

As my body shuts down, I'm grateful that feeling is the first of the senses to go. The half second of overwhelming pain was more than enough; I welcome the numbness spreading up my body now. Interestingly enough the other senses grow deeper before they fail. Oil soaked tar, burned rubber, and blood all mingle strongly, the scents I will carry with me to the grave this trip. Slamming car doors, loud honks, gasps, and shrieks, these are the echo's that will chase me down the long dark tunnel towards that blinding light. I've closed my eyes, they'll go soon anyway and I could tell you what's going to happen next without even looking at the scene around me.

Nearby a woman will be clutching her child in desperation, using her hands to reassure her of his safety as streams of hysterical tears blur her vision. Around the intersection people have stopped to stare and point. Some will scream, someone will call 911, and every single passerby is recording the details in their mind with the intensity of a reporter, already planning out what they'll tell their friends later. The boy is torn between looking at his trembling mother and staring at the broken figure on the street, possibly with shock, possibly with gratitude.

If it's gratitude it's misplaced. This wasn't for him or his bitch of a mother, or anyone else here. Tomorrow the papers will probably talk about the brave kid on Cherry Street and there will be a posthumous award or gaudy medal. 'Hero' will be printed in huge bold letters on the headlines. The irony is so rich I bet Damien and Satan are shaking the walls of Hell with laughter. I'm not a hero, never will be, never want to be. Heroes help the needy, sacrifice for a greater good and all that pompous crap. I can tell you honestly; this wasn't for anybodies good but my own. If that picture had been of a convicted killer, I'd have pushed him out of the way with the same intensity, the same desperation. The only thing that would have changed was I'd probably have needed a running start to move the extra weight. It's not about the victim; it's about the death. This was about stealing that precious moment from him and fulfilling my aching need for an 'acceptable' release from this binding mortal coil.

By now you've probably realized I'm not really interested in living anymore. I hope no one feels sad about this. They wouldn't want to be down here either, not if they had an angel by the name of Leopold Stotch looking for them up at the gates of Heaven. I'd stick around and explain that to all these horrified people around my broken body, but I don't have that kind of time. I hate to keep him waiting. Impatient as I am though, I'm not at the gates yet, there's still the usual routine to go through first. That long dark tunnel I mentioned earlier, voices of long dead relatives, life-story, and all that theatrical crap.

I don't know how they got the details of death right, but all that junk they feed you in movies and stories is, if you'll forgive the bad pun, 'dead on.' You have to deal with all that crap every time you die, even the insanely long part where your life flashes by your eyes. From your first memory to your last, you get to remember all the good, all the bad, and all the in-between. It would surprise you how long the crappy in-between parts take. After nearly a hundred deaths you get used to this, after a thousand it gets downright irritating. By now I'm just bored, fading in and out of my own memories, not even bothering to watch my own life pass me by again.

But I still always pay attention to some parts. With burning intensity I go from disinterested to focused, as it draws closer to my teenage years, as we get closer to fourteen. That's where this began, where an innocent crush became a heart wrenching need. That was when my life changed, and all unknowing I set the stage for everything that has followed. It led to all the good times, all the wonderful times, all the amazing times, and yet…it also led to that one horrible night, and every bittersweet moment thereafter.

Could I have found the strength to change it if I knew then what I know now? Would I have chosen another path, if I knew I would end up a luckless damned soul? That I would spend eternity with arms desperately reaching up to Heaven, while both feet drag me ever downward? I'm not sure I could give him up even if it would spare us both. I'm just too selfish and as much as this sucks, as much as this hurts, he's still mine forever, even if I only get him for a few short moments at a time.

I like to believe I could have resisted and spared him everything if it was just me, if this was a case of unrequited longing. If, if, if, fucking hell, after all this time, why do I bother still playing games with ifs. The truth is I wouldn't change anything, I was lost the instant I knew he loved me too. I don't have these regrets for myself, I can live with it. Well technically I can die with it. But what about what it cost him? I wonder if he would feel the same now, take it all as it came or change things back when it mattered. As my flashing by life slows down, I find myself falling back into the familiar memories all over again. The questions fade away to the only one that still matters. It's not a question for me though and I'd never have the courage to ask him. So I prepare again to pore over the pages of my life, searching those key moments for some clue to the answer. Oh, Butters, do you ever regret your promise? Do you wish you hadn't kissed me back?