Kyle shifts uncomfortably in the back seat of Kenny's truck as they cruise up the hill toward the source of blaring metal music. Kenny and Butters, as usual, are blind to the world around them as they chatter back and forth like songbirds.
"Can you guys remind me why I had to come to this thing? I support your music and everything, but this isn't my scene at all," Kyle huffs as Kenny parks the truck on a patch of grass aside from the driveway at the top of the hill.
Kyle already feels out of place because he's the only one wearing colors other than black. Kenny's wearing baggy cargo pants with a tight long-sleeve shirt and Butters is wearing a flowy calf-length skirt and one of Kenny's too-big band shirts. This is all a stark contrast to Kyle's khaki corduroys and pale green sweater.
"'Cause we're supportive friends and you need to get out more," Kenny responds cockily as he unbuckles.
"Oh, Kyle, it'll be alright. We don't know most of the people here, either!" Butter says confidently as if this helps soothe Kyle's unease.
Kyle groans and climbs out of the vehicle, obviously having no choice but to follow his friends into the massive farmhouse.
As soon as they breach the doors, the scent of alcohol and weed is overwhelming. This doesn't come as a surprise though, because the gig they're playing is a fundraiser for a weed company that literally runs on this property. Not only that, but the loud music combined with people cheering at the two band members makes Kyle's bones vibrate. This also makes sense, he supposes, because from what his friends have told him, their band covers metal and rock songs.
Kenny waves his arms dismissively in an effort to shut the crowd up, but he still has a shit-eating grin plastered on his face. Butters cowers behind his boyfriend as they push through the crowd, but smiles nonetheless. The small, bashful waves he grants a few people they pass contradict the source of his popularity.
Lastly, Kyle just hovers behind Butters with his head down. No one knows him because he's essentially nobody, meaning some people try to shove past him without a second thought in favor of talking to the band members.
"Fuck off, man," Kenny snaps over his shoulder at a particularly underdressed girl who shoulders her way between his two followers. Kyle can't help but chuckle as she scoffs and glares at him.
After what feels like forever, they finally break through the crowd to escape to the basement. Kenny opens the door and ushers the other two through before following them down the rickety stairs.
Downstairs smells the same as the rest of the place, albeit far more subdued. Kyle observes the room and notices that it's more like a suite, having a countertop against one wall and a bathroom door in the corner. There's a couch in the center of the room, facing the TV mounted above the counter, though nothing plays on the screen. A few bean bags sit in front of the couch, though only one is occupied, and turned to face the couch's occupants.
"Evening, gentlemen," Kenny announces their presence to the small group gathered in the room. A couple of heads turn in acknowledgment.
"Hey there, f-f-fellas," One of them says. Jimmy, if Kyle remembers correctly. He recognizes him from school, though they've never really talked.
Jimmy occupies one side of the loveseat. Cartman sits in the middle and a boy Kyle doesn't recognize sits on his other side. The guy doesn't even glance their way, absorbed in a game of solitaire on his phone. The occupied bean bag holds Tweek, who sits on a black-haired boy's lap. Kyle assumes that it's Craig, Tweek's boyfriend who allegedly goes to the same school as the last member of Crimson Dawn.
Kyle suddenly becomes painfully aware that he knows almost nothing about his friends' band, nor the crowd the band causes them to hang out with. He regrets not asking for a briefing or something before getting thrown into the mix.
