Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

They’re dancing, but it doesn’t feel real.

Tweek’s chin rests against Craig’s shoulder. Craig stays quiet, though his jaw flexes like words are trapped behind his teeth; something he wants to say but can’t.

“You’re being weird, man,” Tweek murmurs into the crook of his neck.

Craig exhales, eyes fluttering closed. “You’re always saying that.”

“Well,” Tweek laughs softly, “you are. More than usual.”

Craig leans back just enough to see him. Tweek’s hair is a chaotic halo, spiky and wild, framing the soft curve of his face. A flush blooms across his cheekbones, making his green eyes catch the spinning gym lights. Craig swallows.

He looks stunning.

“I like your suit,” Craig manages, but the words feeling too small for what he means.

Tweek tilts his head, skeptical. “You okay? You feel… far away.”

Craig folds back into him, resting his chin on Tweek’s shoulder this time. “Yeah. Just tired.”

Tweek doesn’t push. He never really does.

And that’s part of the problem.

Craig doesn’t know how long they’ve been moving like this - just that his arms feel right here, like they finally belong. Tweek fits against him too easily, puzzle pieces that shouldn’t align but somehow do. The comfort sharpens something in his chest, a flicker of guilt he can’t shake.

You don’t deserve this.

The voice is old. It slinks in during moments like this, when happiness should feel simple. It pries open his ribs and whispers into the hollow space inside. Tweek, so open and alive, moves like someone unafraid to feel.

Craig never learned how.

Tweek shifts in his arms, a tremor running through his shoulders - the same restless energy that always hums beneath his skin, waiting to break free.

“You’re somewhere else,” Tweek says, his voice barely audible under the pulse of the bass.

Craig swallows. “I’m here.”

Tweek leans back just enough to catch his eyes. In the dim light, Craig can see himself reflected in those wide green irises - fear flickering beneath them, or maybe hope. Maybe both.

“Don’t lie to me,” Tweek murmurs.

Then the song ends. The spell breaks.

A sharp blast of early-2000s dance-pop erupts through the speakers, the bass vibrating across the gym floor. The crowd jolts like someone’s scattered glitter and firecrackers into the air. A mix of laughter and shrieks rises above the chaos as “The Way I Are” by Timbaland kicks in.

Tweek bounces to the beat instantly, grabbing Craig’s hand with a grin. “Come on. Let’s take a break. I wanna make fun of everyone’s outfits.”

They weave through the crowd until they reach the wall. Craig sinks to the floor, legs sprawled, while Tweek crouches beside him, picking glitter off his jacket. 

Across the gym, Bebe stands on a folding table like it’s a stage, rhinestone heels flashing under the lights. Her red sequined dress catches every flicker of color as she waves two red cups in triumph. Near the speakers, Stan and Kyle linger side by side - awkward and tense. Stan keeps stealing glances at Kyle, who stands rigid, arms crossed, jaw tight.

Before them is Clyde - shirt long gone - in the center of the gym, attempting to twerk with all the grace of a malfunctioning marionette. The crowd around him howls with laughter, phones raised to immortalize his chaos.

“Why are we friends with these people?” Craig mutters.

Tweek wheezes out a laugh. “Because no one else would take us.” He’s still laughing when his hand lands on Craig’s knee, absently patting it in rhythm to the music. The touch is casual, maybe, but it sends a tiny spark through Craig’s chest that he pretends not to feel.

Craig’s eyes wander. Wendy’s spinning in circles with Bebe, her lavender dress flaring as she laughs. The gym lights bathe everyone in pinks and purples, heat and sugar-sweat hanging thick in the air.

Then he looks at Tweek.

Tweek glows - alive, bright, real. His hair catches the light, his cheeks flushed, his grin wide enough to outshine the strobe beams cutting through the dark. Craig watches him and feels the sting of all the things he can’t say. How much he wants to freeze this moment, to hold it between his palms before it disappears into memory.

“I’m glad we came,” Tweek says softly, breath still a little uneven from laughing.

Craig shrugs. “You wanted to.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean you’d actually come.”

Craig looks down. The spinning lights reflect off the floor, dizzying.

I tried to look good for you.

I almost didn’t eat today.

I don’t know who I’ll be in three months.

Sometimes I think I’d rather be dead 

But he says nothing.

Tweek studies him, like he’s searching for a pattern only he can see. “Can I ask you something?” he says quietly.

Craig nods.

Tweek hesitates, mouth parting - on the edge of honesty - then closes it again. The moment passes. He chews the inside of his cheek, looking away. 

“OH MY GOD!” Bebe screeches, bursting toward them in a cloud of sequins. “You two look this good and you’re hiding? Rude. Come be admired.”

“We’re resting,” Tweek laughs.

“Nope! Back on the floor, rainbow boys."

Clyde staggers over, breathless. “I did the worm! You missed it!”

“No one missed that,” Wendy deadpans, appearing behind him.

Clyde hauls Craig up by the arm, rambling about photos. Tweek lingers a second, giving Craig a quick, uncertain glance before the music swallows them again.

Bebe catches Tweek’s hands, spinning him wildly as Clyde flails in mock choreography. Laughter erupts as someone films, and soon the floor is a mess of limbs and light.

Craig edges back toward the wall. From there, the chaos almost looks beautiful. Everyone caught in a blur of youth and noise and fleeting happiness.

The DJ calls out for the final slow dance. A groan ripples through the crowd - half disappointment, half performance. The night’s winding down.

Stan and Wendy find each other easily. Kyle lingers by the punch bowl, stirring his drink like it’s the most interesting thing in the room.

Tweek turns to Craig, flushed and smiling. “One more dance?” His voice is tentative this time, softer - like he’s asking for more than a song.

Craig hesitates, but the word comes anyway. “Yeah.”

Tweek steps close, looping his arms around Craig’s waist. Alicia Keys glides through the speakers - warm, slow, golden. Craig’s hands settle at the back of Tweek’s neck, fingers brushing skin.

They sway. Soft light halos the gym. Craig watches Tweek’s lashes catch the glow, his smile loose and unguarded.

When you smile like that, I hate myself for not being able to.

Craig leans forward until their foreheads touch. For a moment, everything is still. Tweek’s lips brush his cheek, humming quietly along to the lyrics.

“If I ain’t got you,” Tweek half-sings.

Craig’s throat tightens. The ache crests - part love, part grief. He wants to say something - anything - but the words stay lodged in his chest.

Like, just for this one stupid song, everything might actually be okay.

It’s eighth grade when Craig understands - viscerally, unmistakably - that he is in love with Tweek.

Not the abstract kind, not the innocent childhood crush kind. It’s real, encompassing, and so disorientingly powerful that it sits in his chest like a second heartbeat.

There is no grand revelation, no cinematic cue. It arrives slowly, gently, like light leaking through a half-closed curtain.

One minute, he’s half-listening to Tweek rant about fractions, watching the way his hair frames around his face and how his fingers twitch with nervous energy. The next, Craig realizes he never wants to look away.

The past year has left him frayed. Home has become a place of echoes and ruptures - yelling behind thin walls, tension so thick it coils in his spine long after the noise dies down.

The divorce fractured everything, yet nothing seemed to stop moving. Birthdays went forgotten, holidays glossed over, as if time itself had chosen to ignore him. Craig hasn’t told Tweek.

Not because he doesn’t want to - but because the words feel too sharp, too exposed. He’s learned to keep his grief packed tightly, like glass wrapped in cloth.

But here, on the carpeted floor of Tweek’s bedroom, surrounded by the scent of acrylic paint, detergent, and the soft hum of evening approaching, everything feels suspended. Safe.

Their math homework lies scattered and abandoned between them like a poor attempt at productivity; overshadowed by shared laughter and the kind of conversation that spirals out into space - aliens, parallel dimensions, why vending machines seem sentient. Tweek talks fast, with his whole body, like his thoughts are trying to escape him faster than his mouth can keep up.

Craig leans back, hands planted behind him. He lets the words fade into background music, content just to observe.

There’s something magnetic about Tweek - something luminous. And it pulls at Craig in ways he doesn’t have the vocabulary to explain.

As the light outside shifts from gold to violet, the shadows in the room stretch longer. Then, without warning, Tweek rises, fidgeting, and heads to his closet.

Craig’s gaze follows, curious but relaxed. Tweek emerges with a box in his hands - small, wrapped in glossy blue paper dusted with silver stars. There’s a nervousness in his movement, a hesitation in his fingers as he kneels and holds the gift out.

"Happy birthday," he murmurs, voice barely audible.

Craig stills. They don’t do gifts. Not like this. Slowly, he accepts it, sets it in his lap, and stares. “I don’t even…” he starts, but can’t finish. The idea that someone remembered - cared - is almost too much.

The paper is neatly folded, the tape smoothed down with intention. Craig peels it back as if undoing it too fast might unravel the entire moment. Inside the wrapping, there’s a plain white box. He lifts the lid.

Inside rests a ceramic mug. Handmade, unmistakably so - imperfectly perfect. It’s stunning. Deep blue glaze swirls across the surface, flecked with silver like stars scattered through a galaxy. The inside is painted a matte black, as if he’s meant to drink from the void. Craig feels something catch in his throat.

“Tweek, I don’t even know what to say,” he says, voice quieter now. He turns the mug in his hands, tracing the design with his thumb. His fingers find the initials scratched into the base, subtle and small. He looks up.

Tweek is watching him - nervous, hopeful, open. And something inside Craig gives. Without thinking, he reaches out and laces their hands together.

“Thank you,” Craig says, the words thick with emotion. But it’s more than that. It’s gratitude, yes - but also awe, and something wordless he hasn’t yet learned how to name.

He can’t look away. Doesn’t want to. Tweek sits there, bathed in twilight, a chaotic glow of nerves and kindness, and Craig knows - knows - that he loves him.

Two weeks later, Craig catches a cold. Not a serious one - nothing hospital-worthy - but enough to knock him sideways for a few days. His voice is wrecked, his nose stuffed, his head foggy, and he’s moving through the world with the slow resignation of someone whose limbs feel twice as heavy.

He insists he’s fine - repeating it like a mantra: “Just a cold. I’m not dying. Calm down.” He says it to his teachers, to himself, to Tweek.

But of course, Tweek doesn’t listen.

That’s how Craig ends up lying half-buried beneath a heap of blankets, blinking sleepily at the ceiling as the sound of the front door clicks open. A moment later, Tweek appears in the doorway, backpack slung over one shoulder, hair messy from the wind, and a frown of fierce determination stamped across his face.

He doesn’t wait for permission. He drops the bag by the foot of the bed and starts unpacking like he owns the place - granola bars, tissues, cough drops, a mini hand sanitizer, and a folded fleece blanket with cartoon frogs on it.

“Tweek,” Craig croaks, already exasperated, “I told you, I’m -”

“Yeah, yeah, ‘just a cold,’ I know,” Tweek cuts in, waving him off as he heads for the kitchen. “You also told me you could survive on crackers and Gatorade. That doesn’t count as food, Craig.”

Craig groans and sinks further under the covers.

Within minutes, Tweek returns with soup - steaming, golden, and poured carefully into the ceramic mug he made for Craig’s birthday. The stars and galaxy paint shimmer faintly in the light, and Craig feels something small twist in his chest at the sight of it.

“Seriously,” he grumbles as Tweek perches on the side of the bed, holding the mug like it’s something precious. “I can feed myself.”

“You sound like you gargled sandpaper and you look pale as hell,” Tweek replies. “Shut up and open your mouth.”

Craig huffs out a breath that might be a laugh. He shifts upright with effort, propping himself on his elbow, and lets Tweek spoon warm broth into his mouth.

The soup is too hot at first - he winces - but Tweek is already blowing gently on the next spoonful, brows furrowed like this act requires all the focus in the world. He offers it up again with the same gentleness, careful not to spill a drop.

Between spoonfuls, Tweek talks. He rambles, really - about how their science teacher accidentally set off the lab’s fire alarm, about a kid who threw up in the hallway and made it into local gossip, about the stray cat that’s been lingering outside his house like it’s trying to move in.

Craig listens in a dazed haze, head heavy and slow, but not so out of it that he misses how much this means. Not the soup. Not the stories.

The presence.

Tweek being here, uninvited and unwavering.

At some point, Tweek shifts to sit beside him on the bed, cross-legged and fidgety, careful not to jostle the blankets. Craig doesn’t stop him. Tweek brushes Craig’s hair off his forehead, muttering something about him looking like a sad tumbleweed, and presses the back of his hand to his skin, checking his temperature like he’s done it before.

“I’m fine,” Craig says again, but this time it’s quieter. He keeps his eyes closed.

“Uh-huh,” Tweek answers, not buying it for a second.

They lapse into silence for a while. Tweek keeps talking occasionally - half to himself, half to Craig - but his voice becomes softer, more rhythmic. Craig starts to doze off to the sound.

He doesn't realize he'd fallen asleep until the quiet wakes him.

When he opens his eyes, Tweek is still there, scrolling through his phone with the sound muted, glancing over every so often like he’s just making sure Craig hasn’t vanished.

Craig watches him through tired eyes. Watches the way he leans back against the headboard, the way his fingers bounce anxiously against his thigh even when he’s still.

Craig’s chest aches - not from the cold, but from something warmer. Deeper.

Craig murmurs, “Thanks.”

Tweek pauses. Looks at him. “For the soup?”

Craig shakes his head weakly. “For staying.”

And for a long, quiet moment, neither of them says anything.

Craig drifts off again, Tweek’s presence anchoring him like gravity. A soft noise leaves his throat when Tweek gently cards his hand into his hair - soothing and comforting.

Prom comes to an end in a sea of slowing bodies and dimming strobe lights. Laughter and cheers rip through the commotion. The night just stretches forward like spilled ink - spreading across the hours with languid inevitability.

Students linger in the parking lot longer than necessary, unwilling to fracture the spell just yet. The wind has picked up, warm and fragrant with spring grass and pavement. Somewhere, someone’s laughter echoes off the building.

Craig drives with one hand loosely on the wheel, the other resting on the center console. Each time he shifts, their fingers graze, hesitant at first, then deliberate. Tweek leans his head against the window, the vibrations of the road humming through the glass into his skull.

They don’t speak much. Words feel unnecessary in the wake of the music still ringing faintly in their ears, the residual emotion coiled between them like a tether.

The car’s interior fills with a quiet intimacy: low radio, the passing blur of streetlights, and breath held in a shared silence that is far from empty. Tweek stares out the passenger window, watching the glow of sodium lamps sweep across the windshield in measured beats.

When they finally step into Craig’s house - slipping off their shoes with clumsy laughter, brushing shoulders - the moment doesn’t feel like an ending. The house is quiet, save for their voices. His dad is gone for the weekend.

Climbing the stairs to Craigs room, they find themselves stretched out on the bed beneath a canopy of fairy lights, their outlines traced in soft gold and shadow. They’re stripped down to their boxers and undershirts, their prom outfits tossed over the chair of Craigs computer desk.  

They lie inches apart; Tweek turns his head slightly, just enough to catch the outline of Craig’s profile - jaw tense, lips parted, brow relaxed in a way that tells him Craig is thinking too much again.

“I don’t want tonight to end,” Tweek murmurs.

Craig doesn’t respond right away. He swallows, shifts closer so their knees touch beneath the blanket. “Me neither.”

Fingertips find each other under the covers, nervous, searching, clasping.

Craig keeps his eyes to the ceiling. The soft glow of the old phosphorescent stars clings there, constellations from childhood that still pulse faintly with light whenever offered even the gentlest warmth. Tweek had given them to him years ago, a memory pressed into adhesive, still glowing.

It’s well past two a.m., the kind of hour where the world softens and honesty spills easier. 

“You ever think about how small we are?” Craig asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

Tweek’s brow furrows as he blinks at him. “Like… existentially?”

Craig lets out a quiet breath of laughter, the sound shaky and hollow. “Yeah.”

Tweek’s smile tugs at the corners of his lips, tired but sincere. “You always get like this after parties.”

“Like what?”

“Floaty,” he says, lifting a hand and gesturing up to one of the glow-in-the-dark stick-ons shaped like Jupiter. “Like your body’s here but your mind’s orbiting another planet.”

Craig shifts, turning just enough to look at him fully. Tweek’s hair is crushed flat on one side and sticking up wildly on the other. A smear of glitter still clings to the curve of his cheekbone, a shimmer that catches the moonlight and makes him look like something unreal - holy and chaotic and so utterly, breathtakingly alive.

“Do you ever regret it?” Craig asks like he's unsure if he really wants the answer.

Tweek’s brow furrows, eyes narrowing in confusion. “Regret what?”

“Being with me.”

The pause that follows is dense, saturated with all the things neither of them has said out loud.

“No,” Tweek replies. “Never. Do you?”

Craig’s gaze drops. His throat constricts, like it’s trying to stop the weight of years of self-loathing from rising all at once.

“No,” he says, finally. Then after a beat: “I just… sometimes I wonder how long this is going to last.”

Tweek doesn’t answer immediately. His eyes shift to the side, brows furrowed, parsing Craig’s words for what’s beneath them.

“That’s a fucked-up thing to say,” Tweek murmurs, finally.

Craig flinches. “I didn’t mean it like -”

“I know,” Tweek interrupts, this time more softly. “You’re waiting for the floor to fall out. Like it always does.”

Craig nods once, slow and heavy. He’s not surprised Tweek sees it, only ashamed he couldn’t hide it better.

“Yeah.”

But it’s more than that. It's the fear that this love is borrowed time.

Tweek shifts to close the space between them until Craig can feel the heat of him, the scent of cologne mingled with the salt of dried sweat, sharp and grounding.

“Maybe it doesn’t have to,” he says.

Craig turns to meet his eyes. “You really believe that?”

“I have to. We’re meant to be, Craig. We’re endgame.”

Craig feels something stir inside him, something he thought had shriveled in the cold silence of his own loneliness. Tweek’s eyes fill him with that unbearable ache of being seen as he reaches out, fingers tracing the soft skin of Craig’s cheek.

“Can I kiss you?” 

Craig can only nod, his throat too tight for words.

Their lips meet with caution at first - a slow, careful press like the closing of a wound. The kiss tastes like cherry punch and something deeper, something molten and unspoken. Craig melts into it, his lashes fluttering closed as Tweek’s hand cradles his jaw.

When they part, Craig is breathless, heart fluttering against his ribs like a bird that’s finally remembered how to fly.

Tweek doesn’t move far. He rests their foreheads together, one hand still warm on Craig’s cheek.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” Craig breathes.

“You’re shaking.”

“I know.”

Craig feels alive in a way that startles him - like blood has surged back into parts of his body and soul that had been dormant for far too long.

"Keep going,” Craig murmurs, the words barely pushing past the lump in his throat. 

Tweek doesn’t answer; instead, he leans in again, their mouths meeting with a hunger now. Tweek’s fingers bury themselves in Craig’s dark hair, tugging him impossibly closer, and Craig clutches him back, his hand sliding up the warm curve of Tweek’s arm, under his shirt and desperate for more contact.

Their bodies shift; tangled and breathless, until Tweek gently urges Craig down against the mattress. His hands find the hem of Craig’s shirt and slip beneath it, fingers trailing lightly across skin that flinches beneath the touch.

Craig hisses, his breath catching in his throat at the shock of Tweeks fingertips on his skin.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he confesses, voice cracking.

Tweek laughs, lowering his forehead to Craig’s collarbone. “I don’t either. But, Jesus, I’ve never wanted to figure it out with anyone else.”

That breaks something open in Craig.

He pulls Tweek to him and kisses him with a kind of desperation, fingers tangling in blond strands and legs winding together until they are one flushed, breathless tangle. Tweek tugs his undershirt over his head and Craig immediately raises his hands to touch the warm, heated skin on Tweeks back, fingers running and gripping.

When Craig pauses, hands hovering at the hem of his own undershirt, Tweek notices.

“Hey,” Tweek says quietly, reaching for Craig’s hand and threading their fingers together. “You’re safe with me, you know?”

Craig swallows, his eyes fixed somewhere over Tweek’s shoulder, breaths shallow and nerves buzzing just beneath the surface of his skin. “I just, I don't want... you to pull away from me.”

Tweek’s touch remains warm as he leans in and presses a slow kiss to the center of Craig’s chest, right where his heart is beating fast and frantic beneath the skin. “I know more about you than you think,” he says softly, lips brushing against fabric, “and I’m still here, Craig. I’m not going anywhere.”

Craig exhales slowly, then pulls the shirt up and over his head.

Tweek’s breath catches.

There, along the edge of Craig’s ribcage, green and yellow beneath the skin in jagged, uneven shapes, are bruises - old, but not that old. Fading at the edges, but still unmistakable. Still damning.

Tweek doesn’t pose a question. He doesn’t seek permission, nor does he press for explanation. He knows about this. He knows Craig’s life, inside and out.

But this is his first time seeing the evidence. It’s the first time Craig has ever been shirtless around him.

Slowly, Tweek leans in and begins to kiss the bruises scattered across Craig’s skin; gestures that seem more like wordless offerings than physical contact. Each press of his lips is imbued with a gentleness, as though he’s attempting to heal the damage not just on Craig’s body, but beneath it.

Craig flinches once, a sharp tremor of instinct, but doesn’t retreat. He lies still, silent, absorbing the tenderness like it’s something foreign. 

He inhales sharply as Tweek’s fingers dip below the waistband of his boxers. His hips lift in quiet acquiescence, surrendering to the motion. The barrier slips away, discarded and leaving Craig bare. His gaze stays fixed on Tweek as he undresses with equal ease, eliminating the final layer between them.

Then - then, Tweek is touching him - truly touching him for the first time.

Tweek wraps his fingers around Craigs cock, firm and warm and Craig’s reaction is immediate. His breath escapes in a stifled moan and he braces against Tweek’s shoulders, fingers curling instinctively into skin, seeking something solid to hold onto.

Each movement of Tweek’s hand draws a response - Craig’s hips shifting, his breath hitching in quiet gasps. The ache that has sat heavy in his chest for a lifetime, a dull and persistent weight, begins to dissolve under the rhythm of touch.

Tweek strokes him gently, pressing hot kisses to his neck as he moves his hand along the shaft before running his thumb over the head, collecting the precum that is already beading there. He murmurs softly against Craigs skin, fractured sentiments that come out half-formed but entirely sincere: "You’re so warm... god, Craig… you’re so beautiful..."

When Tweek shifts, crawling over him so that their bodies align, Craig’s muscles lock with intensity and sheer emotional pressure of being this close.

“Are you alright?” Tweek asks. His hair is mussed, sweat catching at the temples. 

Craig nods. “I want you.”

Tweek wraps his hand around both of them; their cocks hard, hot and throbbing with need in his grip. Craig holds onto Tweek on tightly, fingers clutching at the skin of his biceps. 

His legs shift, knees bending to cradle Tweek’s hips instinctively, opening with quiet urgency. Tweek lets out a quiet groan at the contact, the sound vibrating against Craig’s collarbone.

Craig grips at the pillow behind his head, then Tweek’s shoulders, then nothing at all, lost somewhere in the escalating tension. Everything becomes sensory: the heat of skin, the friction, the smell of Tweek’s hair and the breath shared between them. 

As the heat and tension coils in his core, Craig cries out. Tweek immediately responds, cupping his face. “You’re okay…I’ve got you.”

For a moment, Craig believes him.

The orgasm builds like a current, slow but undeniable, until it hits all at once. Craig arches with a gasp, body seizing around the sensation. He comes hard, hands gripping tight on the pillow behind his head. Tweek follows not long after, pressing his face into Craig’s neck, breathing unevenly and groaning as he rides out his own release, shaking.

They stay where they land, tangled in sweat and silence. There are no words exchanged in the aftermath - only a hum of breath. Craig grabs his boxers from where they cling on the edge of the bed and wipes their combined release from his stomach. Tweek chuckles at that, moving to lay on his back, still attempting to catch his breath.

Tossing the boxers aside, Craigs hand finds Tweek’s chest, palm resting above his pounding heartbeat. 

Tweek leans towards him to press gentle kisses wherever his lips can reach - the slope of Craig’s shoulder, the hollow of his collarbone, the place behind his jaw where his pulse still flutters wildly.

Tweeks hands roam gently, not to arouse, but to comfort, to reassure. Craig responds in silence, eyes closed as he threads his arms around him and tugs him close, burying his face in the curve of his neck. He inhales deeply, like the scent of Tweek - salt and skin and sex - is the only thing keeping him grounded.

There’s no fear left, now. No shame or embarrassment. Only the soft, invisible language of touch and closeness, the quiet whisper of their bodies murmuring I am here. I’m not going anywhere.

And in that hush - wrapped in warmth, in safety, in love - Craig doesn’t feel like he’s drifting out beyond reach anymore.

He feels, for the first time in what seems like forever, that he belongs.

He feels like maybe - just maybe - he is home, here in Tweeks arms.

Their breathing slows together against their cooling skin. Tweek’s hand remains tucked beneath Craig’s ribs, his thumb absently tracing slow, soothing circles against his side. The room is quiet, the weight of night pressing gently in around them – coming to a soft close.

Tweek begins to drift, his eyes fluttering closed as the last of his tension dissolves. His breath evens out, lashes fanning soft across his cheek. Craig watches him sleep, just for a moment - long enough to memorize the curve of his mouth, the subtle rise and fall of his chest.

Then, carefully, Craig slips out of bed.

He moves slowly, mindful not to wake him. The warmth of their bodies still lingers in the sheets, the smell of sex clinging to his skin like a memory he will never to let go of - but he needs a moment.

The air feels cooler outside the cocoon of their tangled limbs, the silence of the house settling into reality. He pulls on clean boxers and moves through the hallway barefoot, the floor cold beneath his feet, the quiet hum of night wrapping around him as he pushes open the bathroom door and steps inside.

Craig stands at the bathroom sink, shirtless and in boxers, the angles of his frame catching what little light filters through the hallway - collarbones sharp beneath pale skin, shoulder blades drawing hollow arcs across his back, the faint ridge of his sternum rising and falling with each breath.

Near his hips, faint bruises are beginning to take shape - Tweek’s fingerprints left behind like echoes, pressed into his skin in moments of desperate intimacy. A fresh hickey has surfaced above his right collarbone, another darkening just beneath it near his chest. Lower down, fading green and yellow bruises still linger across his ribs - remnants of pain he neither wants to recall nor acknowledge.

He doesn’t look at them.

Instead, he reaches for the tap and twists it on. He cups his hands beneath the stream, then throws it against his face. The chill bites immediately, seeping into his sinuses, prickling the base of his neck.

Then he lifts his gaze.

The mirror in front of him is aging - its silver backing eroding in one corner, a hairline crack spidering up from the bottom like a delicate fracture through glass.

But there he is.

The boy everyone looks at.

Pale skin and a mouth too red for his own comfort. Full lips that are bitten and swollen from kissing. Sloped cheekbones that soften his whole face, even when he’s tired. Especially when he’s tired. His eyes are that icy blue people like to call “striking,” framed by lashes too long to be fair. His hair is wet from the sink and clinging to his temples, soft and dark and curling slightly where it dries unevenly.

He resembles a version of himself he doesn’t recognize.

Not the person he feels within, but a constructed image - one people observe from a distance, discuss in fragments, reduce to something they can fucking categorize.

He's the subject of commentary, not conversation. The surface of a myth, not the substance of a life.

He hears the comments again, like echoes burned into his brain:

"You could be a model, man."

"You’ve got those eyes, y’know? The ones people remember."

"Your face is wasted on someone like you."

"You're so pretty when you're quiet."

And that one girl at someone’s Halloween party sophomore year who touched his face without asking and said, “You look like a painting. What’s wrong with you?”

"You look like a painting. What’s wrong with you?”

"You look like a painting."

"What’s wrong with you?"

He hears that one a lot, actually.

He leans in toward the mirror, scrutinizing his reflection with the detached precision of someone analyzing a problem that refuses to define itself. His gaze searches for the fracture point - for the defect others seem to detect so effortlessly.

Perhaps it isn’t on the surface at all. Perhaps it lies just beneath the eyes, where detachment begins to show, where disinterest blooms slowly into vacancy. It’s the quiet erosion of novelty. The moment people realize the aesthetic appeal doesn’t come with the emotional clarity they crave.

There’s always an arc: fascination, then retreat.

They admire how he photographs - the symmetry, the angles, the cultivated stillness. But they recoil from the moment he starts talking and revealing his inner world.

They like the shape of his lips, the quiet curve of his expressions.

But they lose patience with how he speaks, how infrequently he performs the script they imagine for him.

They’re drawn to the illusion of enigma.

They withdraw when the enigma turns out to be exhaustion.

He’s called beautiful. He’s called pretty. And yet the language always comes with an unspoken caveat: beauty devoid of depth, allure lacking animation.

Pretty, but emotionally opaque.

Elegant, but boring.

Tweek never speaks to him in those terms. He never weaponizes his silence or appearance. Never once has he made Craig feel like a disappointment measured against aesthetics or expectations.

And that absence - of judgment, of performance - is the only reason Craig can still bear to be seen at all.

But even now - after what they just shared, after how gently Tweek touched him, how close their bodies moved in the dark - Craig wonders how long it’ll last. How long before he becomes a weight too heavy to carry.

He wipes his face with the towel and doesn’t dry it all the way.

There’s a little mole beneath his left eye, something he’s always resented, a beauty mark that feels like a footnote no one else sees but he can’t unsee.

Tweek kissed it once, in that quiet, unexpected way of his - just leaned in and pressed his lips there like it meant something. Craig never knew how to feel about that. Even now, he isn’t sure if it made him feel loved or exposed.

He stares at his reflection a while longer, studying the familiar angles and shadows of a face that doesn't quite feel like his. The boy in the mirror looks composed, flawless even - like someone who should be happy, who should feel complete. Someone who looks like they have everything and still walks around empty.

He’s supposed to be fine. He knows that. Everyone expects it.

He lifts his hand, almost reaches out to touch the glass, but doesn’t. His fingers hover, twitch once, then fall away.

The light clicks off. 

Chapter Text

Stan’s basement smells like pizza grease and old carpet, the faint trace of Febreze lingering in the air like someone tried to clean earlier but gave up halfway through. The scent of teenage apathy quickly reclaimed its throne.

A movie plays in the background - something dumb that no one’s really watching, and everyone’s sprawled in their usual chaotic formations.

Clyde’s upside down in the armchair, legs hooked over the back, head hanging toward the floor. Bebe lies nearby on her stomach, a throw pillow tucked under her chin as she scrolls through her phone, her sharp laugh cutting through the room whenever she finds something she just has to show someone. Her braid’s half undone, streaked with glitter left over from prom the night before.

Wendy’s perched halfway up the basement stairs, whispering urgently into her phone. Her voice jumps between incredulous gasps and muffled giggles - “Nooo… Heidi, are you serious? Oh my god!” - before dipping back into quiet conspiratorial tones.

Jimmy’s half-swallowed by the beanbag chair, a torn bag of marshmallows in his lap. He eats them without pause, occasionally tossing one at Clyde’s face like it’s part of the entertainment.

On the loveseat, Kyle and Stan sit shoulder to shoulder. Neither says much. Stan keeps glancing at his phone without typing a word, while Kyle stares at the screen like he’s pretending to care about the movie. He looks annoyed, but with Kyle, that’s just his resting face.

Tolkien’s cocooned under one of the heavy quilts from the upstairs linen closet, sunk deep into the far side of the sectional. His phone casts a dim blue light on his face as he scrolls aimlessly, earbuds resting loosely around his neck.

Kenny’s stretched out on the carpet like he was born there, one arm tucked under his head and the other spinning a flip-lighter between his fingers. It clicks open and shut in an easy rhythm, though he never sparks it. Every so often, his eyes drift toward Craig, who hasn’t moved in nearly an hour.

Craig and Tweek are tucked together in the farthest corner of the sectional, under the faint buzz of a dying string of lights. Craig’s arms are crossed tight, his posture rigid, jaw set. He hasn’t spoken since they arrived. Tweek leans close beside him, their thighs pressed together, knees brushing. Craig doesn’t pull away, though tension hums through him like a live wire.

Tweek doesn’t talk much either, but the way he keeps glancing sideways at Craig - nervous, watchful - says more than any words could.

No one mentions it. But everyone notices.

Bebe yawns and stretches, setting an empty White Claw can clattering to the floor. Her sweatshirt rides up slightly as she moves, revealing a flash of gold glitter smeared along the waistband of her jeans. "This movie sucks."

"You picked it," Kyle mutters without looking away from the screen, arms folded over his chest.

"Yeah, because Clyde said he wanted something 'vibes-based.'"

Clyde waves a lazy hand. "And this has vibes," he defends. "Just... slow, sleepy ones. It's called tone."

"It's called dogshit," Kyle fires back.

"You liked it last time," Clyde insists. “Laughed your ass off.”

"No," Kyle replies, finally glancing over, "that was Kenny, and he was high."

“Word,” Kenny says, sprawled across the carpet like a lazy cat. He reaches up to swat at Craigs leg. "You alive up there, Calvin Klein?"

Craig exhales slowly, a sound of annoyance, and his voice a flat murmur. "Barely."

"He’s conserving energy," Stan pipes up from the loveseat, one foot propped on the edge of the coffee table. "He might have to show emotion later."

A few people snicker and Bebe shifts upright to cross her legs beneath her, clapping her hands for attention. "Okay. Highs and lows. What was your high this year, and what was your low?"

"Are we seriously doing this?" Clyde asks, already rolling his eyes. 

"Dead serious," Bebe replies, ignoring him. "No jokes. I will shush you." She looks over to the staircase where Wendy is still talking with Heidi on the phone. "Hey, sweetheart!" she calls with a grin. "You gonna join us?"

Wendy responds immediately, telling Heidi she'll call her later with the giggles of someone in the throes of girl-talk. She moves down the stairs and back into their circle, flopping onto the floor near Kenny, who shoots her a charming smile.

Bebe grins and looks around the room. "Who wants to go first?"

There’s a beat of silence before Jimmy clears his throat and lifts his hand like he’s in class. "I’ll go. High was g-getting into m-my first-choice school. Low was spraining my wrist dur-during the school play and still having to p-...perform. The crowd thought it was part of t-the show," he adds with a grin. "I’ve never heard laughter turn to h-horror that fast in my life."

Wendy, now tucked beside Bebe, leans forward, her voice softer. "My high was getting into Columbia. My low... knowing I’ll probably never live in Colorado again."

There’s a quiet murmur of agreement and solemn nods.

Kyle leans back slightly, arms till folded and his tone more matter-of-fact. "High was winning regionals with the debate team. Low?" He gestures broadly toward the room. "This. Knowing this is ending and it fucking sucks ass."

A heavier silence settles for a moment. No one disagrees. Even Clyde doesn’t have a comeback ready.

Stan rubs at the back of his neck, shifting where he sits next to Kyle. "High was... probably the camping trip at Red Rocks. When we stayed up until like four in the morning trying to light that stupid fire with wet wood and Jimmy kept telling ghost stories like he was auditioning for a Netflix special," he says. "That night felt good. Like, normal-good." He pauses, his expression tightening slightly. "Low was when my uncle Jimbo died in November. We didn’t talk about it much, but that was... a weird time."

Wendy places her hand on Stans knee in comfort, giving him a soft and knowing look. 

Tolkien shifts under his blanket and clears his throat. "I'll go. My high was the night we stayed at my parents lakehouse in August - when it stormed real bad and we all ended up soaked and screaming about ghosts in the attic, because Jimmy can't go on a trip anywhere without telling ghost stories," he says, and receives a few laughs from around the room. "Low was realizing how fast this year's gone. Like, we blinked and it’s almost over. And I don’t know if I’m ready to let it be the last time for a lot of things."

There are a few subtle nods. No one laughs or teases. The weight of Tolkien's words lingers in the quiet, like fog that settles in without warning.

Bebe turns her gaze. "Craig?"

The shift in energy is immediate. Everyone glances at the far end of the couch where Craig sits, slouched low and arms folded like he’s bracing against something invisible.

Craig stares at the carpet like it might open up and swallow him, and he stays silent.

"High?" Tweek asks gently from beside him, moving to hold his hand.

Craig shrugs without lifting looking at anyone. "None of it."

The silence that follows is immediate and sharp. Like a pin hitting glass.

Tweek pulls his hand away and his knees shift inward so he's not pressing against Craig as hard. It's a subtle, small movement that almost goes unnoticed. His throat works like he wants to speak but doesn’t.

"Jesus," Kyle mutters under his breath, eyebrows drawn together.

"Low?" Kenny offers softly, as if coaxing. He looks sober and uncharacteristically serious.

Craig doesn't look up. "That I'm still breathing."

There’s a pause. Then a breathy, incredulous laugh escapes Kyle. "Jesus Christ, man. Are you serious right now? You’re the ultimate buzzkill."

"Yeah," Stan adds with a half-laugh, clearly trying to play it off. "Prozac exists for a reason, buddy. Maybe look into it."

Craig turns his head slightly, his voice flat. "Thanks for the medical advice."

The room shifts uncomfortably. Tweek sits up a little straighter and his knee starts to bounce nervously.

"Okay! Well. That got dark," Clyde cuts in quickly, clapping his hands once and forcing a grin as he tries to redirect the mood.

"Alright, my turn" Kenny says with a practiced smile, moving in like a substitute teacher trying to steer a conversation. "Uhhh…. my high was when that rat fell out of the ceiling tiles during Sociology and landed on Miss Thornhill’s laptop. Anyone remember that?"

Bebe perks up, grateful for the change. "Oh my god, yes! It screeched like a little demon."

"Clyde ran out of the room screaming," Tolkien adds from his blanket fortress.

"It launched itself at me," Clyde says indignantly, already laughing. "That wasn’t fear. That was strategy."

"Your strategy was crying behind a trash can," Kyle says, smiling now.

The tension begins to dissolve as laughter ripples through the room again.

"Okay," Bebe says, once they’ve calmed. "Since high-low turned into group therapy, let’s do something lighter. Most embarrassing high school moment. Go."

"Why are you so obsessed with publicly humiliating us?" Clyde groans.

"Because I love you all," Bebe says. "And shame builds character."

"I’m in," Wendy says, sitting upright with a grin and adjusting the loose braid that’s falling over her shoulder. "Mine was definitely that time I wore that hoodie with the fake sleeves sewn in? The one that made me look like a discount Hannah Montana extra."

"Iconic," Bebe declares with a sharp laugh, pointing at her like she’s just nailed a punchline. "A direct hit."

"Clyde’s is definitely when his voice cracked during that speech at the junior class awards," Stan says, barely containing a laugh as he leans forward with his elbows on his knees.

"It’s still on the group chat," Kyle says with a wicked grin. He cups his hands around his mouth and shouts, "'RezzzILIENCE!'" mimicking the infamous squeak with full theatrical delivery.

Clyde covers his face with both hands and groans louder. "I hate you all."

"Clyde, you’ve def-definitely got more," Jimmy says, nudging him with his elbow and chuckling.

"Nope. I’ve reached my vulnerability quota for the night," Clyde insists from behind his hands, voice muffled but adamant.

"You peed your pants at Elitch Gardens," Wendy reminds him innocently, her tone light and sing-songy.

"One time!" Clyde shouts, sitting up straight and glaring at her with wide, betrayed eyes.

"You made it worse by trying to blame it on a soda spill," Bebe says, smirking.

"There was no soda," Kyle interjects, deadpan.

"There was a pee puddle," Stan confirms.

"A legacy was born that day," Tolkien adds dryly and doesn’t look up from his phone.

The laughter rises again, echoing warmly through the room like it has a life of its own.

Wendy leans back against Stan, stretching her legs out and folding her hands behind her lap. "Okay but seriously - what’s one thing you’ll actually miss next year?"

The mood dips into something softer. The chatter stills. For a moment, it’s just the buzz of the string lights overhead and the quiet flicker of a paused TV screen.

"Tater tots," Kenny says immediately, breaking the silence with a light note. "That one lunch lady liked me. She gave me extras."

"The days when no one noticed I skipped third period," Clyde adds, throwing an arm dramatically over his eyes.

"Everyone noticed," Kyle says without missing a beat. "We literally just didn’t care."

"Wow. That’s hurtful," Clyde mutters with mock offense, but there’s laughter behind it.

"It was kind of inspirational," Tolkien observes. "A perfect case study in flawless mediocrity."

"You’re all haters, and I’m thriving," Clyde counters proudly.

"I’ll miss messing around in the parking lot before class," Stan says, a slow grin tugging at the edge of his mouth. “That’s where the real shit happened."

"You mean hotboxing in your car with Kenny," Kyle amends, without missing a beat. 

"Also gonna miss it," Kenny calls and he grins up at the ceiling with the kind of smug, sleepy satisfaction of someone who knows he’s already a legend among them.

"I’ll miss our Econ group chat where we made Kyle do all the assignments," Clyde adds in, voice sweetly cruel.

"You mean the one literally na-named ‘KyleWillFixIt’?" Jimmy chimes in, grinning.

"Iconic branding," Bebe says with a snicker, raising her White Claw in salute.

"My f-favorite was when Kyle beg- begged us to stop relying on him and we jus-just replied with SpongeBob memes," Jimmy adds, unable to contain the laughter in his voice.

"I had a fever and three papers due. You people are sociopaths," Kyle mutters, though the corners of his mouth betray him. He’s trying not to smile and failing miserably.

"Your GPA soared under duress. We were just helping," Tolkien says, finally looking up from his phone with a dry smirk.

"We were the pressure," Clyde affirms.

"You’re welcome," Bebe quips, shooting finger guns.

"This is what love looks like, Kyle," Stan says with mock-seriousness, bumping his knee lightly against Kyle’s. 

"The best moment ever - w-when Kyle got that detention for c-calling Mr. Hanley a capitalist t-tool." Jimmy says, laughing already.

"He was a capitalist tool," Kyle defends, sitting up straighter like he's proud of this confrontation.

"He disagreed with you, so you wrote a manifesto about vending machine pricing," Tolkien adds casually.

"And printed it out in Comic Sans and taped it to his desk," Stan finishes, grinning wide.

"It was readable," Kyle grumbles, crossing his arms, but there’s no real heat in it.

The laughter that follows is loud and unabashed. For a few precious seconds, it feels like nothing will change. Like maybe this is it, and they’ve somehow escaped time.

Even Craig, still as stone in the corner, starts to blur into the atmosphere - folded into the noise, the light, the warmth. Almost. But not quite.

Tweek glances sideways, subtly. His fingers twist in the hem of his shirt. His gaze lingers on Craig, trying to understand his wavelength and the cause of his foul mood.

Craig hasn’t moved. Not even a blink.

And when Tweek drops his eyes again, he feels his nerves buzzing alight with worry and hurt. 

Tweek is eleven years old when he first understands that Craig isn’t like other boys.

Not in the simplistic way that adults often insinuate, but in a more complex, visceral sense that knots itself into Tweek’s chest anytime Craig turns away.

There’s something about him that exists out of sync with their peers: a reticence, a stillness that doesn’t feel vacant but intentional, as if he’s consciously shielding some essential part of himself - from everyone.

That day, they sit beneath the old jungle gym, with their knees scraped from recess games, the elbows of their jackets coated in the dust of worn woodchips. It’s late October, the air crisp and sharp, and the trees above have begun to shed their leaves, scattering them across the playground like forgotten thoughts.

Craig has a scratch trailing across one cheek - an aftershock of a rough game with Kenny - and he wipes the blood away with his sleeve like it’s just part of the routine. He doesn’t complain, doesn’t even comment. It’s just something that happens.

They don’t speak. They don’t need to. The silence they share isn’t empty; it’s meaningful in its own right. Tweek, whose days are usually filled with rapid speech, tics, and high-strung energy, finds himself unusually calm next to Craig. That quiet makes room for things that don’t have names yet - feelings that hover just beneath the surface.

He glances over at Craig and thinks: he looks like a secret. Not in the way magazines describe mysterious people, not as an affectation, but truly, like there’s a part of him that no one is allowed to touch. He exists like a locked door in a familiar house.

Craig doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t laugh loudly like the other boys, doesn’t react with dramatics. He looks straight ahead when angry, down at his hands when sad. It’s a language of posture, of silence, and Tweek is already learning how to interpret it.

He watches the way Craig sits, arms folded across his chest, not in defense against the cold, but as though physically holding himself together. And in a moment of rare certainty, Tweek reaches out and rests his hand lightly over Craig’s. It lasts only a second. There are no words, no eye contact, just warmth and tension beneath his fingertips.

Craig doesn’t pull away.

He doesn’t squeeze back either. But his hand remains still. 

Tweek is eleven when he realizes that small, wordless gestures means something. That Craig, in his own unspoken way, chooses to let him stay, and chooses to remain in Tweek's company.

He doesn’t know the term for what he feels. He can’t predict what it will become. But even then, he understands that whatever intricate, unnamed thing lives inside Craig’s chest, whatever weight he carries in silence - Tweek wants to be the one person trusted to witness it.

And he never lets go of that instinct. 

School picks back up, and senior year is nearly over.

Craig sits at his desk, body still, face blank, eyes fixed on a chipped corner of the wood like it might tell him something. He isn’t thinking - not really.

His body’s present, but his mind is elsewhere, hovering in the soft afterglow of two nights ago, stuck in the heat of Tweek’s breath and the pressure of hands that held him like he mattered. The warmth that spread through his veins - reminding him that he's alive.

His phone buzzes once in his hoodie pocket. He pulls it out with languid fingers, thumb sliding over the screen.

Tweek: i've got some huge news to share

Craig stares at the message for a moment, confused. He types:

Craig: what

Another ping arrives almost immediately.

Tweek: i’ll tell you in the hallway after class

Craig stares at the screen a moment longer, then locks his phone without replying.

Across the aisle, Stan shifts in his seat, dragging his chair with a scrape loud enough to make someone flinch. He turns around slowly, arm hanging over the back of his chair, brows lifted.

“You alive over there?” he asks, voice low and dry.

Craig lifts his middle finger without even glancing up. It’s more reflex than insult. The corner of his mouth twitches - not quite a smile, but something.

Stan narrows his eyes, giving Craig a longer look, like he’s trying to read behind Craig’s silence. His gaze drifts down to Craig’s closed notebook, the untouched worksheet beneath it. But he doesn’t say anything else.

Mr. Thompson’s voice drones on at the front of the class, distorted and watery like sound from a radio submerged under bathwater. Something about final quarter expectations, extra credit, last chances.

Craig barely hears it.

A test paper lands on his desk. Mr. Thompson doesn’t even glance at him.

He flips it open.

100%.

The red ink looks garish against the white page. Too meaningless.

Craig stares at it, then at nothing. His fingers twitch against the desk, skimming over years of carved initials, band logos, and profanity scratched into the surface.

All the noise of four years reduced to a background hum of memory.

Craig closes his eyes. Just for a second.

And the world keeps going without him.

The bell rings and for a moment he just sits there, staring at the 100% still bold on his test paper like it might blink and vanish.

Around him, desks scrape and backpacks zip and laughter bounces off the linoleum floors like none of it matters. Stan throws him a look on the way out - curious, maybe even concerned - but doesn’t say anything.

Craig gathers his things slowly, dragging each motion out like it might delay whatever’s waiting for him beyond the door. The hallway after class is hot and stuffy, like the building itself is trying to bake them alive.

Near the stairwell, Tweek is waiting, back against the railing, legs splayed across the tile. A sketchbook is balanced on his knee, pen tucked between his teeth.

There's something about the way Tweek looks right now - half-guarded, half-radiant - that makes Craig feel like he’s standing on a trapdoor.

Tweek doesn't look up until Craig’s shadow falls over the page. 

“Hey,” Tweek says, casually, though his smile betrays a nervous edge.

Craig answers quietly, “Hey.”

Tweek remains seated, his fingers tapping lightly against the spiral binding of his sketchbook, while Craig shifts his weight from one heel to the other, uncertain.

“I got into RISD,” Tweek blurts, the words pushing past his lips like they’d been lodged in his throat for hours.

Craig blinks, surprised, despite knowing it was coming. His stomach turns sharply.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Tweek says, his voice softening. “The scholarship’s not much, but it’s enough. I’ll work more this summer, figure it out.”

Craig nods. He wants to match Tweek’s energy; to express some form of joy - but the words feel foreign in his mouth. “That’s good. That’s... really good.”

“...Thanks.”

A silence follows, stretched taut by the weight of avoidance.

Eventually, Tweek speaks again. “You haven’t said anything about MIT.”

Craig glances away. His throat feels raw. He forces a swallow. “Yeah.”

“Did you get in?”

A pause. Then Craig nods, not meeting his eyes. “Yeah.”

Tweek’s face lights up briefly but it dims as he stands, a note of confusion already blooming beneath the surface.

“Craig, that’s incredible. We’ll only be an hour and a half apart. Why didn’t you tell me?”

Craig stuffs his hands into his pockets. His posture turns inward. “Didn’t think it mattered.”

“What do you mean it didn’t - ”

“I’m not going,” Craig interrupts. His voice is flat, resolute. Like closing a door.

Tweek reels, blinking hard. “What?”

“I’m not going.”

“But... why?” Tweek’s voice catches on disbelief. “It’s MIT. It’s what you’ve been working toward since middle school. Your grades… Jesus, everything was to get in, and you got in. Now you’re not going?”

Craig closes his eyes, trying to find the words - not the ones that would end the conversation, but the ones that reflect what he actually feels. He’s scared. Scared of not measuring up, of being ordinary in a place full of brilliance. Scared of failing, of realizing too late that he doesn’t love the dream he built his life around. But those truths stay locked behind his teeth.

So he says the next safest thing.

“It’s just not the right time.”

Tweek stares at him like he’s trying to make sense of a puzzle that suddenly doesn’t fit. “Since when?! Since when do we not talk about our future together - why are you throwing this away?”

Craig’s jaw tightens. “I’m not throwing anything away.”

“Craig, you got in. And you didn’t tell me. You didn’t even try.”

Craig’s voice sharpens. “Because I didn’t want this fight.”

A beat passes. Tweek’s hands fall to his sides.

“You didn’t tell me you got in… because you didn’t want to fight about it? How am I supposed to react to that? Jesus - Craig, this is everything we planned for,” Tweek presses, his voice tight. “I thought we were going to do this together. Our schools aren’t even that far apart. I thought... this is what you wanted.”

Craig says nothing. His eyes drop to the floor.

“Why aren’t you going?” Tweek asks again, softer now. “Please, Craig… Just help me understand.”

Craig looks up. For a moment, it’s all there in his eyes: the doubt, the fear, the ache of being seen and not knowing what to do with it.

He almost says it.

I’m tired. I’m lost. I don’t know if any of this matters anymore.

I keep thinking about killing myself.

But he swallows it.

And stays silent.

Tweek waits. He always waits.

But when no answer comes, he nods - tight, small like he was expecting this response the entire time.

“Okay,” Tweek says, pain etched in his green eyes. “I’ll see you at lunch.”

He turns and walks away - not in anger, not slamming doors. Just leaving, like he’s still hoping Craig might stop him.

Craig doesn’t move.

Chapter Text

The chair gives a soft creak every time Craig shifts, like it’s protesting his presence in a room that already feels too sterile, too still. He’s not even moving much but the sound echoes like a reprimand. Like even the furniture wants him gone.

“Sorry, it’s - uh. Loose,” Mrs. Keller says, gesturing vaguely toward the offending chair with a weak smile. “They’re supposed to replace those over the summer. Budget cuts. You know how it is.”

Craig doesn’t answer. His eyes are fixed on the diploma behind her desk, slightly crooked on the wall. The frame is a cheap imitation of wood, already peeling at the corners, betraying years of shitty light and dry air.

“So,” she starts. “You got in. That’s amazing, Craig. Congratulations. MIT doesn’t just accept anyone.”

Craig nods once. “Yeah.”

She smiles, trying to coax something out of him. “Top three in your class, full AP load, high SAT scores... I’ve worked in this school a long time, and I can tell you, you’ve got a real future ahead." She laughs, soft and genuine. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you ended up designing the next Mars rover.”

Still, Craig doesn’t smile. He rubs his thumb against the side of his index finger, worrying at a callus that isn’t there, like he’s trying to erase himself bit by bit.

“Did you get a chance to look over the financial aid packet?” she asks.

“Yeah.”

“And...? Is it doable?”

He hesitates. “It’s fine.”

Mrs. Keller leans back slightly, watching him now with quiet, practiced concern. “Craig, I’ve seen a lot of students come through this office. And I know when someone’s excited, and when someone’s... carrying something heavier.”

He shrugs again. It’s his only shield these days.

“You don’t have to have it all figured out right now,” she says gently. “It’s okay to not know. It’s okay to be scared.”

Craig’s gaze drops to the carpet. It’s the same dull gray-blue as the hallways, but thinner here, worn flat. 

“I don’t know if I’m built for it,” he says quietly.

“For what?” she asks.

“All of it. That future.”

Mrs. Keller tilts her head, a crease forming between her brows. “Why do you think that?”

Craig’s jaw tightens, and his voice slips out low, barely above a whisper. “Because I’m not who they think I am. I’ll get there and they’ll see it - that I’m just... I look like I’m supposed to be someone. But I’m not special. Just another pretty face with nothing underneath."

She sits with that for a beat. “Is that something someone told you, or something you believe about yourself?”

He doesn’t respond.

“You don’t have to explain everything. But you’ve come this far for a reason, Craig. There’s something in you that keeps pushing forward.”

Craig doesn’t look up. “I’m not trying to be dramatic,” he mumbles. “It’s just... I’m tired. All the time.”

Mrs. Keller nods. She waits for him to say more, and when it becomes evident that he won’t she speaks up. “Just because something’s wrong doesn’t mean you’re being dramatic, Craig. Feeling exhausted doesn’t make you weak or dramatic. It makes you human. You’re allowed to feel things. You’re allowed to take up space." She leans forward slightly; hands folded on the desk. “Don’t diminish your feelings, Craig. They’re just as real as everything else.”

He shifts in his seat. The chair creaks again. It’s not helpful.

“You don’t have to go to MIT,” she continues. “But don’t convince yourself you don’t deserve to. That’s not the same thing.”

Craig finally lifts his eyes. “I just... don’t think I belong there. Not right now, anyway.”

"Then take the time to figure it out. Take a gap year. That’s not failure. That’s making good choices to support your mental health. Calling it quits and making permanent decisions when you’re not feeling your best, isn’t.”

Without another word, she prints the deferral paperwork and slides it across the desk. Craig stares at it for a long second, then reaches out and folds it in half.

He doesn’t say thank you. But something about the way he stands - slow, a little less braced - suggests he might feel it.

The chair squeaks again as he pushes it back, a low groan that follows him as he walks to the door.

Just before he reaches the threshold, her voice follows him.

"Craig," she says gently. "You're not being dramatic. Even if you can’t believe that yet, just... don’t let that voice in your head be the only one you listen to."

Craig pauses, just a second. Then the door clicks shut behind him.

He steps out into the hallway and for a moment he just stands there - caught between the pressure of returning to class and the echo of the counselor’s words still ringing in his head.

Then he turns and walks toward the side exit instead, his footsteps quiet against the tile.

He doesn’t go back to class.

Craig walks the long way around the back of the building, cutting across the cracked blacktop and up the worn path that leads behind the gym. He tugs out a crumpled pack of cigarettes and lights one up. His boots drag in the gravel as he climbs the bleachers at the edge of the soccer field, half-obscured by old chain-link and scrubby pines. 

He feels rattled to his core after the counselor’s words.

He places the cigarette between his lips, closes his eyes, and leans his head back. Letting it burn.

“You know that’ll give you wrinkles, right?”

Craig doesn’t need to open his eyes to recognize Tolkien’s warm voice. He exhales slowly, letting the smoke curl past his lips. “Good.”

Tolkien ascends the bleachers and settles two rows back. “You sound like a French New Wave protagonist,” he mutters. “Tragic, glamorous, and needlessly self-destructive.”

“I’m just tired of being called 'pretty',” Craig says, flicking ash to the concrete.

“No one’s forcing you to live up to that,” Tolkien replies. “And for the record, I never used that word.”

"Doesn’t mean I have to like it.” Craig’s expression doesn’t shift. "What do you want?"

“You went to the counselor’s office and then came straight out here. Didn’t think I’d notice?”

Craig shrugs without much interest. “She wanted to talk about my future. I let her.”

“And?”

“And it didn’t change anything.”

“She told me you got into MIT. Said you hadn’t returned the forms yet.”

Craig glances at him sideways. “And how the hell would you know that?”

Tolkien shrugs. “I asked her, and she told me because you need support.”

Scoffing, Craig takes another drag on his cigarette. “I don’t need support.”

Tolkien raises his eyebrows. “Uh, huh.”

Craig doesn't respond.

“So, you just gonna cut class now?” Tolkien asks, eyebrow raised. “First Monday back and you’re already out here smoking like it’s summer break.”

Craig exhales, smoke curling through his teeth. “You’re skipping too, you know.”

Tolkien huffs. “Yeah, but I’m not the one trying to throw away my future.”

Craig shrugs. “I’ve already fulfilled my graduation requirements. The rest is just background noise.”

“Maybe to you,” Tolkien says carefully. “But Tweek’s been walking around like he’s waiting for bombs to drop.”

Craig stiffens almost imperceptibly. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You didn’t have to,” Tolkien replies. “But making huge life decisions like that when you’re in a relationship and not consulting the other person? It’s kinda fucked up.”

Wind slips through the bleachers, tugging at Craig’s sleeves. He pulls his hoodie tighter around him and refuses to look at Tolkien.

“Craig,” Tolkien adjusts his voice - low but firmer now. “… are you okay?”

Craig doesn’t answer.

Tolkien exhales in frustration. “Look, I’m not going to pry. I’m not here to be your therapist or dig through your baggage. But if your plan is to coast through the next few weeks ghosting your classes and zoning out behind the gym, you’re going to draw attention. You already are.”

Craig offers a weak, almost bitter smirk. “Is this where you give me the 'don't waste your potential' speech?”

Tolkien’s gaze sharpens, tone clipped. “No. This is where I point out that sulking isn’t strategy. Don’t pretend this is anything but avoidance.There’s pressure on all of us, man. People see your face and they assume you have it all figured out. They don’t question what’s underneath because they’ve already made up their minds about you.” 

Craig stays silent.

“It’s different for me,” Tolkien says. His gaze drifts across the soccer field before settling on Craig. “People make up their minds about me before I even open my mouth. Because I’m Black. Because I come from money. Because I don’t fit the stereotype they’re used to. It makes people uncomfortable. They don’t know whether to treat me like a threat or a trophy. I’m constantly being assessed.”

Craig says nothing but lights another cigarette. The breeze lifts the smoke and it unravels into thin tendrils that vanish before they rise too far.

Tolkien glances at him, more pointed now. “But you? You’re smart, Craig. And I don’t use that word lightly. You have an analytical mind, razor-sharp instincts, and you pick up patterns faster than anyone I’ve ever met. But instead of owning that, you bury it. You hide behind this whole ‘apathetic loner’ thing like it’ll protect you from having to try. And it drives me fucking insane.”

Tolkien’s tone hardens. “You let people make up all these backward-ass assumptions about you - and you lean into it like that’s all there is. Like that’s all you’re allowed to be… but, I know better. I’ve seen the way your brain works when you’re actually trying. You could do anything - go anywhere. But instead, you’re out here on a Monday morning skipping class like it’s already over."

Craig finally glances back at him. His face is unreadable, but his posture shifts - less like a shrug, more like a slow return from somewhere far away. Craig voice is soft when he speaks; “People think I'm supposed to be one way but they don't - they don't care about who I really am.”

Tolkien’s reply is immediate. “Of course they don’t. You don’t let anyone see past the surface. You’ve spent years curating an image that keeps people at a distance.”

The silence that follows is heavier, more thoughtful. The air feels denser around them, the wind rustling through the chain-link fence behind the bleachers.

Craig breaks the quiet. “Tweek’s leaving for Rhode Island.”

“I know.”

“I don’t know how this will work with… what comes next.”

“You still can still talk about it. Relationships aren’t puzzles to solve or routines to maintain. They require you to talk about the hard stuff too.”

Craig crushes out the butt of his cigarette. “I don’t know where I fit anymore.”

Tolkien turns back to him, resolute. “Well, it’s definitely not here. You’ve always been more than this town, Craig. You don’t have to stay small just because it’s what you’re used to.” 

Craig doesn’t respond. But he also doesn’t reach for another cigarette.

They sit in stillness as the bell rings - metallic and far-off, echoing across the field like a reminder.

Craig stands slowly.

He doesn’t speak and Tolkien doesn’t follow.

Craig slips back into the building just before the hallways flood with students changing classes. Classroom doors rattle open, laughter spills from lockers, sneakers squeak against tile - and Craig moves through it like a ghost.

He thinks about cutting the rest of the day. About slipping out the back and letting the day collapse behind him. But the thought passes. Barely.

Instead, when the bell rings again - sharper now, signaling the start of lunch - he veers toward the cafeteria.

The noise hits him immediately: the echo of dozens of conversations, the metallic scrape of chairs against linoleum, the chaotic shuffle of students flooding into the food line. 

He steps into the current of bodies and weaves toward the far side of the cafeteria, where their usual table sits pressed against the wall of long, high windows.

Tweek’s already there, slouched at one end of the bench with his sketchbook open and headphones looped around his neck. He’s wearing Craig’s hoodie even though it’s too hot for it inside. 

Craig takes the seat beside Tweek without speaking, his movements subdued.

The others drift in, filling up the bench in uneven clusters. Laughter, half-hearted arguments, and clinking water bottles mask the quiet tension between them.

Tweek doesn’t look up. He hasn’t said a word since Craig arrived. Craig stays just as silent.

Their friends carry the conversation forward, buoyant and loud enough to momentarily drown out the heavy stillness hanging between the two of them. 

“ - and then I’m just standing there, holding this dripping balloon like it’s a goddamn holy offering,” Clyde says through a mouthful of fries, “and Father Maxi is trying not to freak out because it looks like someone brought a used condom to the memorial service.”

“Oh my god,” Bebe chokes out, slapping her hand on the table. “You didn’t.”

“I didn’t!” Clyde protests. “It was Kenny! I’m telling you. He was behind it. He was lurking in the back like the grim reaper, smoking a cigarette.”

Jimmy giggles, his laugh coming out in short bursts like hiccups. “Kenny looked like the ghost of teen pregnancy in that hoodie. It was incredible.”

Wendy rolls her eyes from across the table, twisting the cap off her water bottle. “Why are you like this?”

Clyde shrugs. “I’m a giver. I provide levity in dark times.”

“You provide anxiety in broad daylight,” Kyle mutters, poking at his salad with a plastic fork like it personally wronged him. 

“Levity!” Clyde repeats, grinning, one hand held dramatically over his heart. “Also,” he adds, nodding toward Craig and Tweek, “these two are weirdly quiet today. Usually, they’re making out or holding hands under the table like the rest of us don’t exist.”

Craig rolls his eyes and doesn’t respond. 

Tweek doesn’t even look up to try and correct Clyde that We’re not into PDA like that, thank you. His fingers are busy re-sketching the same jagged line along the corner of the page, pressing harder with each stroke until the paper starts to tear.

Bebe leans forward, twirling a lock of hair around her finger. “Wait. You have been quiet. What’s going on over there? You two still in your post-prom love haze?”

Tweek snorts under his breath but doesn’t answer.

Craig glances at her, then looks away. “We’re just tired.”

“Tired?” Clyde gasps. “Bro. That sounds deeply unconvincing.”

Jimmy narrows his eyes. “W-wait. Wait. Did something happen?”

Wendy’s been watching this entire time, her attention shifting back and forth between Craig’s stiff posture and the tight way Tweek is curling in on himself. Her eyes narrow.

“Are you guys okay?” she asks, quieter than the rest.

Tweek finally looks up.

His expression is blank, pale and twitchy at the edges, like someone whose nerves have been sanded raw. Craig has noticed. Craig has said nothing.

“We’re fine,” Craig says.

Bebe raises a perfectly arched brow. “You say that like you’re being held hostage.”

Craig doesn’t flinch. “We’re fine.”

Kyle chews his salad slower, eyes flicking between the two of them. “Y’know, if you’re fighting, that’s normal. Nobody expects you to be perfect.”

“We’re not fighting,” Tweek says. It comes out too quickly. Too sharp.

Wendy leans forward a little. “Then why do look like you are?”

Tweek opens his mouth to answer, but his voice fails him. He presses his lips together and shrugs.

Craig feels the entire weight of the table shift onto him, like it’s personally his fault for Tweek’s behavior. And, well. They’re not wrong, are they?

“We’re just,” he starts, then stops. He exhales, runs a hand down his face. “It’s not your business. Can’t you respect our privacy?”

“No one’s judging,” Bebe says gently. “We just care. You guys are usually glued at the hip and now it’s like… somethings wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Craig lies.

Another silence.

Then Stan clears his throat and nudges Kyle. “Hey. Yearbook photo thing.”

“Right,” Kyle says, exchanging glances with Stan. He stands and shoves the rest of his salad into his mouth. “Totally forgot. We gotta go.”

“I think I left my charger in the m-m-media room,” Jimmy says quickly, already getting up. “C-catch you guys later.”

Bebe stares at Craig for a second longer, then sighs, raising her hands in defeat. “Okay. Message received.” She rises, brushing off her thighs, then glances at Tweek. “If you need a break from this table, come eat with me and Wendy tomorrow,” she says while pulling a protesting Clyde with her.

Tweek nods, once. The movement is stiff, mechanical. Wendy lingers as the others scatter. She crouches slightly beside Tweek’s side of the bench and lowers her voice.

“Call me later, okay?”

Tweek doesn’t say anything, and Craig feels like she just punched him in the gut. Wendy squeezes Tweek’s arm, then follows the rest out of the cafeteria.

Now it’s just them.

Tweek’s voice breaks the silence. Quiet. Frayed at the edges.

“You could’ve just said we’re not okay.”

Craig doesn’t move. His eyes stay on the table, fixed on a carving someone made two years ago - FUCK MATH with the U crossed out and replaced three times.

“Didn’t feel like saying it out loud.”

Tweek picks at his sleeve. “You think not saying it makes it less true?”

Craig finally turns to look at him. Not directly. Just enough to see the tension in Tweek’s jaw, the way his eyes are dtrained like he’s been fighting something back ever since their talk in the hallway. The way the light hits his face makes him look even more breakable.

Craig wants to say I don’t want to lose you. He wants to say I don’t know how to stop sliding. He wants to say I wish I were enough.

But all he manages is: “No.”

Tweek breathes out. Quiet. Long. Like he’s been holding it since before lunch. His hands twist in the sleeves of Craig’s hoodie, pulling the fabric tighter over his knuckles like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

“You keep shutting me out,” Tweek says, not accusing - just tired. “Like if you act okay long enough, I’ll forget to ask what’s really going on. We need to talk about college, okay?”

Craig’s voice comes out low. “I’m not good at this.”

Tweek’s expression doesn’t shift, but something in his shoulders does - like part of him already knew that, but it still hurts to hear. “I know.”

The bell rings and neither of them moves.

Craig closes his eyes. “I don’t want to fuck this up.”

“Then stop trying to."

Lunch period ends and Tweek stands first. He doesn’t say anything more, just grabs his sketchbook and hesitates for a moment - like maybe he wants to say something more; to press further - but his shoulders just rise and fall with a breath he doesn’t release.

“I’ll see you after class,” he says before he walks off.

Craig doesn’t follow. He watches the spot where Tweek’s back disappeared through the double doors, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat.

Eventually, he rises and meanders through the cafeteria doors that lead to the courtyard, trailing along the outer path behind the gym, where the shadows cling longer and the air smells faintly of old rubber from the track field.

Behind the art building, near the janitor’s loading dock, a plume of smoke curls upward from a patch of shade, drifting with the sound of music.

Kenny’s there, slouched against the wall with one leg kicked out and the other bent. He’s got a cigarette pinched between two fingers, and his phone is on the ground playing Aerials by System Of A Down.   

“Hey, handsome. You look like shit,” Kenny says as he moves to press pause on the broken screen of his phone. He takes a drag and exhales, squinting at Craig through the smoke. “You skipping the rest of the day, or something? I swear I just saw you out here earlier.”

Craig shrugs, sliding down the wall to sit beside him. His knees pop as he folds them, arms resting limply over them.

“Guess so.”

Kenny offers the cigarette wordlessly. Craig takes it without thinking, the paper warm and slightly damp at the edge. He inhales and closes his eyes and rests his head back against the brick. He’s drained.

“You alright?” Kenny asks, lighting another cigarette with one hand cupped against the wind.

Craig doesn’t answer. He exhales slowly, watching the smoke drift upward into the overcast sky.

“You’ve lost some weight,” Kenny says, not looking at him. “You don’t eat anymore.”

Craig’s jaw tightens. “I’m not hungry.”

“You’re never hungry.”

There’s a long pause. The kind where you can hear your heartbeat if you’re quiet enough.

“You should talk to someone, man. Shit’s clearly fucking you up.”

Craig presses the heel of his palm into his eye. “I’m not being dramatic.”

“I didn’t say you were,” Kenny replies evenly with a brow raised. “I said you should talk to someone.”

Craig leans his head back against the brick without another word.

Kenny flicks the ash and mutters, “Lunch suck?”

Craig lets out a humorless huff. “Tweek’s mad at me.”

Kenny doesn’t look surprised. He tips his head back against the wall and stares at the clouds drifting by. “People like Tweek… they don’t close doors easy, man. But that don’t mean they’ll wait around forever, either.”

Craig rubs at the back of his neck. “I don’t know how to be what he wants.”

“You don’t have to be what he wants,” Kenny says quietly. “Just be yourself."

Craig swallows hard. He rests his head back against the bricks, feeling the heat seep into his scalp. “I think I’m fucking it up.”

Kenny bumps their knees together. “Then fuck it up honest,” he says. “He likes authenticity."

Craig exhales a slow stream of smoke, letting it curl upward into the heavy summer air, where it quickly vanishes into the pale, sun-washed sky. 

Somewhere behind them, the bell rings for fifth period - tinny, distant, unreal.

Craig doesn’t move.

Kenny leans beside him, shoulder to the wall, arms crossed. His own cigarette glows faintly in the shade, his eyes unreadable. 

The silence lingers.

Then -

The sun shifts. Lower. Cooler.

Autumn now. He remembers that color of light - the dusty amber hue, the sharp wind creeping under the hem of his jacket. Seventh grade. Maybe eighth. They were smaller then. Younger. But the weight was already there.

They had been crouched behind the old tool shed near the middle school playground, passing a flattened peanut butter sandwich Kenny pulled from his backpack.

Craig had just thrown up in the boys’ bathroom. He’d told everyone it was from the smell of tuna in the cafeteria. In truth, he was nauseous from pain - a bruised sternum courtesy of his dad.

Kenny didn’t ask for details back then either. Just handed him a warm bottle of water and walked outside with him like it’s part of the routine.

It kind of was.

Still is.

“Your face looks like shit,” Kenny had said, sitting cross-legged on the gravel. His sleeves hung past his hands, frayed at the cuffs. There was a fading bruise beneath his eye, maybe three days old. His baby blue eyes bore the kind of weary awareness no eighth grader should possess.

Craig had sniffed and looked away, his stomach still in knots, but at least he could sit upright without pain.

Kenny had leaned back on his palms to watch the clouds roll past. “My dad punched a hole in the drywall last night. Then tripped over the vacuum and blamed me for putting it there. We don’t even own a vacuum.”

Craig didn’t laugh, but the corner of his mouth had twitched.

“Your place bad again?”

Craig was wiping his fingers on his jeans, eyes fixed on his sneakers; one lace muddy and torn from kicking the fence earlier that morning. “Yeah. He keeps saying I look like her.”

“Your mom?”

Craig had nodded.

“Yeah, that’s what mine says about Karen. Like it’s our fault our moms left and took our little sisters with them.”

“You ever think about just... not going home?” Craig had asked.

“All the time,” Kenny had responded, like it was nothing. Like it was normal.

Craig had glanced over. Kenny was staring beyond the field, toward where the land slopes just enough to show the mountains. His expression was deeply tired. Like he’d already made peace with something Craig hadn’t - and still hasn’t.

“Sometimes I wish I lived with Mom and Tricia,” Craig recalls saying, voice low. “But they’re better off.” He rubs his thumb along his knuckle. “Plus, Tweek is here.”

Kenny had exhaled. “When my mom skipped she just said she needed space. Like we were furniture. I convinced her to take Karen. Figured she had a better shot with Mom than Dad.”

Back then, it was enough to sit shoulder to shoulder and talk and be seen.

But now -

Now, Craig flicks the burnt stub into the gravel, watching it hiss and blacken beside a candy wrapper.

Kenny’s still there, leaning against the wall, eyes closed. Arms folded. Waiting for Craig to speak without expecting it.

“Do you think it’s fucked up,” Craig mutters, “that sometimes I don’t even hate him? My dad, I mean.”

Kenny opens one eye. “No.”

“I know he’s shitty. But I still do what he says. I still try not to piss him off.”

Kenny flicks ash off his jeans. “That’s not fucked up. That’s just surviving a shitty ass situation.”

Craig stares at the dark patch on the ground. “Tweek doesn’t get it.”

Kenny nods. “No. But he wants to.”

And that’s what makes it harder.

Kenny leans back again, legs stretched out and gazing up toward the sky. The breeze has died down. The bricks behind them glow faintly with leftover sun.

“You ever think about what happens after all this?” Kenny asks.

Craig glances over. “After what?”

Kenny gestures loosely toward the school and beyond. “This. South Park. High school. All the bullshit. Like people keep pretending there’s a map, but no one knows how to read it.”

Craig doesn’t answer. He isn’t sure he knows.

Kenny keeps going, unfazed. “Like, I keep wondering who’s gonna actually make it outta here. Like, really out. Not just Boulder or Denver. I mean, all the way. Somewhere big. Somewhere you don’t end up seeing your old man’s face in every gas station window." His voice dips. “Like… Stan. Stan’s gonna follow Wendy wherever she goes. I give it two years after graduation before he breaks up with her and realizes he wants to be a ski bum or a weed dealer in Steamboat Springs.”

Craig snorts. “And Kyle?”

Kenny huffs a low laugh through his nose, flicking the ash from his cigarette with a casual snap. “Kyle’ll end up doing something impressive. Law, maybe. Or politics. Something with rules he can argue about. He’ll marry someone who challenges him at dinner and still lie awake every night pretending he’s not still in love with Stan.”

Craig doesn’t respond, but his lips twitch - barely. The smallest break in his otherwise motionless face. Kenny’s words always land like that: clean, sharp, merciless in their honesty. Not cruel - never cruel. Just… unfiltered.

There’s something about Kenny’s insight that unsettles him. The way he sees people - not just how they act, but who they are under the surface.

Kenny notices things no one else wants to admit, and he says them like he’s talking about the weather.

Craig glances over at him, at the loose way Kenny sits with his knees pulled up, shoulders curved in a kind of practiced ease. There’s a weight behind his quiet - a knowing that feels older than seventeen has any right to be. Tweek radiates warmth too, but Kenny’s burns slower. Deeper. Like something smoldering beneath ash.

Still warmth, yes.

But the kind that comes from lighting a match in the dark and holding your hand too close.

Kenny taps the cigarette against his boot and keeps going, like he’s been carrying this list in his head for a while.

“Wendy’ll burn out early. Not ‘cause she’s not smart - she’s probably the smartest one of us - but because she’s already carrying more than she should be. People keep treating her like she’s supposed to save everything. Fix everything. One day she’s gonna realize she’s the only one still trying.”

Craig glances at him, silent.

“Jimmy’ll be happy,” Kenny says next, surprising Craig a little. “Not flashy, but real. He gets it - how to laugh at the bullshit without becoming part of it. He’ll probably do stand-up or write for TV. Something weird. He’ll leave, but not to prove anything. Just because he can. Because he has the talent and the strength to pursue his dreams.”

Kenny skips a stone at the fence. It clinks and ricochets into the dirt. “Clyde’ll stay here. Marry someone loud. Probably cheat on her twice and cry about it both times.”

Craig’s eyebrows raise slightly, impressed. Kenny shrugs, like it’s not worth noting.

“And Tolkien…” Kenny trails off, drawing in a slow drag before continuing. “Tolkien’s already halfway out the door. He’s got his connections, money, his whole life mapped out. But he’s got a soft spot for people who don’t know what the fuck they’re doing. He won’t say it, but he’ll help them anyway. He’ll succeed. But he won’t forget who he had to leave behind to do it.”

“And Bebe?” Craig asks, surprised to hear himself playing along.

“Oh, Bebe’s getting out. She’ll chew this town up and spit it out like a chewed nail. She’ll be famous in no time. Or rich. Or both. Probably run a fashion agency or a media company. Maybe take over hell, I dunno.”

Craig hums quietly. “And you?”

Kenny doesn’t answer right away. There’s always been something heavy about Kenny’s calm. Something that makes Craig feel like he’s talking to someone who's already lived twice as long. The sky is starting to shift now, pale gold behind the trees, the first hints of evening crawling in at the corners. School’s been out for a while.

“I don’t know,” he says finally. “Sometimes I think I’ll figure it out. Other times I think I’ll just… vanish. Not like, in a bad way. Just like, quietly. Fade out. Get a job somewhere no one asks questions. Change my name. Disappear into normal.”

Kenny pauses.

“I don’t need much. Just not this.”

Craig nods, eyes still on the fence line. “Yeah.”

Kenny glances at him then, his gaze steady and unreadable. “You’re gonna leave, though.”

Craig furrows his brow. “What makes you think that?”

“Cause you’ve got that look,” Kenny says, tapping his temple. “That space-case thing. Like you’re already halfway to the moon.”

Craig shakes his head. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“You will,” Kenny replies simply. “Maybe not now. Maybe not for a while. But someday.” He stretches again, cracking his knuckles. “And when you do? Don’t pretend you owe this place anything.”

Craig doesn’t respond, but he remembers that. The way Kenny said it - not like advice. Like a warning.

“Jesus,” Craig mutters. “You think too much.”

Kenny just smirks, lazy and tired. “You don’t think enough.”

Then Kenny tips his head back against the brick wall, eyes sliding shut, his cigarette smoldering down to the filter like he’s already forgotten the conversation.

Like he hadn’t just read everyone they know like a stack of well-worn pages and handed Craig the truth without blinking.

But Craig’s still sitting in it.

Still hearing every word.

Because Kenny always does this - drops something heavy, then walks away like it didn’t just shift the ground beneath you.

He sees people in ways they don’t know how to see themselves. Without judgment. Without illusion. Just clear.

He’s been seeing Craig like that for years.

Don’t pretend you owe this place anything.

The words hang there. Still fresh. Still stinging.

Kenny stands slowly, brushing gravel dust from the back of his jeans, the movement casual but deliberate - like he’s already halfway back to whatever version of his day this was interrupting.

He looks down at Craig, expression unreadable beneath the messy fall of golden blond hair. Then, flatly:

“You gonna keep running from it?”

Craig tilts his head. “Running from what?”

“Whatever shits eating you alive, man,” Kenny says.

Craig looks down and doesn’t answer. Kenny exhales, then extends a hand.

“You don’t have to talk to me,” he says, softer this time. “But you gotta talk to someone, man. This isn’t healthy.”

Craig stares at the outstretched hand for a beat longer than he should. Then he takes it.

The contact is brief, steady. Kenny’s palm is warm, calloused, grounding - like grabbing a railing right before you fall. Or maybe right before you jump.

He pulls Craig up with one easy motion.

They walk back toward the fence at the end of the schoolyard, steps dragging, the sun growing low and warm above them, the path ahead narrow and hot. Craig squints against the light, shoulders hunched, jaw tight.

Kenny doesn’t look back.

Craig does.

Chapter Text

The hallway buzzes in the way all schools do right after the final the bell - too loud and too full of movement.

Tweek’s heart hasn’t stopped hammering in his chest since the words left his mouth: I got into RISD.

He doesn’t know what he expected Craig to say, but the way he just stood there, still as a statue, eyes unreadable - it left something cold and raw in Tweek’s stomach.

Now he’s outside, hunched over on the low brick wall that skirts the edge of the faculty parking lot, his knees pulled up and his arms resting limply over them. Behind him, the side entrance thumps open and shut with waves of students funneling out into the cool afternoon light.

Tweek’s sketchbook is balanced across his thighs, open to a blank page. The pencil between his fingers has smudged the side of his hand, but he hasn’t drawn a single line. His foot bounces intermittently. His heart is still going too fast and it hasn’t slowed since he dropped the news.

He’s been waiting for Craig for at least ten minutes, maybe a little longer. They always meet around the same time in the same area and walk home together. Craig’s absence is making Tweek’s nerves scream louder.

When Wendy appears, she doesn’t announce herself. She just slides into the edge of his awareness in all her ethereal beauty, her presence arriving like a cool breeze through an overheated room.

She leans her back against the brick and watches him carefully, like she already knows what’s wrong before he even says a word. She’s always been a highly perceptive and intuitive person.

“You told him, huh?” She says.

Tweek doesn’t look up. “Yeah.”

“How bad was it?” Wendy asks softly.

Tweek shrugs, the motion small and tight. “He didn’t yell or freak out or anything. J-just… shut down on me. Like I flicked a switch, and he completely checked out while I was still talking to him.”

Wendy exhales, slow and measured, crossing her arms like she’s bracing against something heavier than wind. “Well, that certainly does sound like Craig.”

“I thought - I dunno, man.” Tweek scrubs a hand through his hair, making it stand on end even more than usual. “I thought maybe if I said it out loud, it would make it more real. He’d tell me about MIT and we’d get all excited and stupid and start planning visits with each other. That we’d map it all out like it was some big, ridiculous road trip. It’s not like we haven’t talked in the past, y’know? It’s been a bit – I know Craig’s been dealing with some stuff… I just thought… ugh,” Tweek rubs at his forehead in distress.

“Did you think he’d say he’d figure out a way to come with you to the east coast, no matter what?” Wendy says it gently, like she already knows the answer.

Tweek doesn’t answer.

Wendy sits beside him. “You’re not doing anything wrong, honey. You got into your dream school, and you should be so, so proud of yourself.”

“I am,” he says, but it sounds like a question.

Wendy studies him. “Craig is just scared. You know that, right? He’s scared of change and of not being good enough for you when you go.”

Tweek’s jaw tightens. “But I never asked him to be anything more than what he already is. I’ve never pressured him.”

“That doesn’t mean he believes you.”

Silence stretches again. The wind picks up, rustling the pages of his sketchbook. One flips, revealing a messy charcoal portrait of Craig - unfinished, heavy with shadows.

Wendy sees it - the unfinished sketch, the way Craig’s eyes are half-rendered in charcoal, smudged at the corners like Tweek couldn’t bring himself to finish. She doesn’t say anything.

Tweek closes the book with more force than necessary, like the act might silence the ache in his chest.

“I don’t want to lose him, Wendy” he says, voice breaking. “But, I feel like I already am. Like… I said one true thing and it cracked something between us.”

Wendy doesn’t answer right away. Her gaze drifts across the school lawn, past the clusters of students and stray scraps of conversation, until it lands on Stan, standing with Kyle near the edge of the bleachers. Stan’s gesturing with his hands, animated, laughing. Kyle’s head is thrown back, sunlight catching in his curls. 

“You might lose him,” she says finally. “But that doesn’t mean it’s the end of the world, and it certainly doesn’t mean it’s your fault.”

Tweek doesn’t respond. He’s staring at the blank space in front of him like it might offer some kind of map.

Wendy shifts her weight and looks down at him. “You can’t sacrifice your own happiness just to keep him close,” she says gently. “That’s not love, honey."

Tweek’s throat tightens. He looks down at his hands, thumb tracing the edge of the sketchbook. “I thought he’d be happy for me.”

“He is – you know he is. Somewhere inside all that brooding and avoidance, he definitely is. But that doesn’t mean he knows how to show it in a proper, healthy way.”

“I keep telling myself that if I just wait… if I’m patient enough, he’ll catch up.”

"I get that, but you should be allowed to feel excited about this. You’re allowed to want more than what South Park has to offer.”

Tweek looks over, eyes tired from stress. “Even if it means leaving him behind?”

Wendy’s eyes stay on Stan. “Especially then.”

He doesn’t say anything. But the weight of it sits heavy in his chest.

She nudges his arm. “Go home, honey. Take a breath and try again tomorrow.”

Tweek watches her go, her silhouette folding into the afternoon crowd.

He follows her advice and makes the trek home, cutting through the park on his way. 

The air in Tweek’s house carries a distinct mix of coffee grounds and lemon-scented disinfectant - an aroma that has soaked into the floorboards, into the curtains, into the very rhythm of daily life. 

His mother hums a tuneless melody in the kitchen, a rhythm underscored by the muted clink of ceramic against stainless steel - she’s washing the mugs again, a task she repeats more often than necessary, as if scrubbing porcelain clean might also cleanse the quiet tension that hangs in the house.

Across the room, his father sits hunched over a spread of receipts at the dining room table, lips compressed, brows furrowed as if he’s bracing for the math to betray him. The calculator ticks, the paper roll whines, and the only time he looks up is when something goes wrong.

Tweek hovers at the edge of the living room, clutching his phone like it’s something fragile he might break with one wrong move. His steps loop small, anxious circles near the arm of the couch, a contained orbit around his own nervous energy. The floor creaks beneath his weight, a soft but insistent reminder that he’s here - present, visible, and restless.

“Did you eat?” his mom asks, voice raised just enough to travel over the faucet.

“I’m fine,” he replies quickly, too quickly, the words snapping out like a reflex.

“That’s not what I asked, Tweek, dear.”

He exhales and presses his thumb and forefinger into the bridge of his nose, already bracing for the follow-up questions. “I had lunch at school.”

Richard glances up. “You look pale.”

“I always look pale.”

“That’s not funny, son.”

“And I wasn’t joking.”

His father holds his gaze for a beat longer than necessary before returning to the calculations sprawled before him, as if they might yield more truth than his son’s face.

Tweek slips out the back door, letting the screen slam shut behind him with a finality that makes him wince. The breeze catches his hair, ruffling it into further chaos. He sits on the back step and pulls out his phone. A message from Wendy waits:

Wendy: Want to hop on a call later?

He stares at it before typing:

Tweek: I have therapy soon. thanks tho.

Another message flashes across the screen.

Bebe: Dinner tomorrow? Your place or mine. I’ll bring gossip.

He doesn’t respond. Instead, he scrolls to the thread with Craig, left dormant since earlier that morning.

Tweek: you okay?

Read. No reply.

His thumb hovers over the screen. Then he locks the phone with a snap, the sound too loud in the open air.

He doesn’t throw it, though the urge is sharp, almost physical, like a current crawling under his skin with nowhere to go.

Instead, he digs out his sketchbook and flips past page after page of finely rendered studies: graphite portraits shaded with care, delicate color washes, abstract forms held together by restraint. 

He snatches a charcoal stick from the pouch wedged inside the cover. The first stroke is harsh - defiant. Then another. And another. His hand moves on pure impulse, carving into the paper with the kind of raw pressure that leaves grooves. There’s no outline, no symmetry - only momentum and mess, fury and grief trapped in every jagged movement.

A face begins to form, vague but inevitable. The mouth is blurred, the eyes too hollow. The more he works, the more it starts to resemble someone he knows too well.

Not exactly Craig, but close enough to twist something deep in his chest.

He freezes, charcoal smearing down the side of his hand. His breath catches, fingers twitching.

Then, deliberately, he drags his palm across the page. Once. Twice. He presses harder with each pass, turning features into fog. Smudging lines into oblivion.

The sleeve of Craig’s old hoodie becomes part of the destruction - soot-gray streaks staining the cuff, climbing up his arms, grinding beneath his fingernails. It doesn’t stop there. He presses the heel of his palm into the paper again and again until it tears slightly at the center, until the paper curls under the violence.

By the time he stops, the drawing is obliterated. A stormcloud of black dust where a face used to be. A suggestion of a person erased by frustration and care.

He closes the sketchbook with trembling fingers.

Inside, the faucet clicks off. His mother calls his name again - softly this time, unsure.

He doesn’t answer.

He stays outside, staring at the worn planks of the porch, the charcoal on his skin, the tightness in his chest that refuses to ease.

Eventually, he places his palms on his knees.

Draws in a long, measured breath that tastes like heat and pencil dust.

Then opens to a blank page.

And begins again.

The house is too quiet when Craig walks in.

His dad isn’t home, he rarely is during daylight, and when he is, Craig doesn’t go through the front door.

He toes off his shoes by the entrance, leaves his backpack slumped sideways in the hallway, one strap caught in the closet door.

His room is still the way he left it. The curtains drawn. The fairy lights unplugged. His telescope sits untouched by the window, dust curling along the rim of the lens. The glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling have all but faded, just faint outlines now unless you really look.

He lies down without changing. Doesn’t pull the blanket back. Just collapses on top of it, face-down, the mattress sinking slightly under his weight.

Then his phone buzzes.

Once. Twice. Again.

He drags it from his pocket, thumb clumsy on the screen.

Tweek: hey

Tweek: are you okay?

Tweek: i waited for you after school. stan said you left. are you sick or something?

Then:

Wendy: Heard you bailed after lunch. Just checking in.

Kyle: You alright? Everyone was asking.

Clyde: bro?? u better b doin sumthn hot or imma b mad.

Tolkien: You missed the test in Environmental Science. Ms. Altman said you can make it up tomorrow but warned it’s your last shot.

Jimmy: I hope you’re okay. Call if you need anything.

Craig stares at the screen. The messages blur slightly, the backlight too sharp against the dimness of the room. A call comes in - Tweek, again. The photo is still one from sophomore year, blurry and warm, both of them in hoodies, grinning at the camera like idiots.

The phone buzzes in his hand.

He lets it ring.

He keeps his eyes closed. Keeps breathing slow and shallow, as if the air might not notice him if he makes himself small enough.

Another buzz.

He finally turns the phone over with the dull weight of resignation.

More unread messages. More names.

Bebe: What’s going on with you two? Call me.

Tweek: i’m really worried

Tweek: please just let me know you’re safe

Tweek: craig

The text field blurs. But the vibration comes one more time - short, single. A new message.

Craig stares at the name for a second before opening it.

Kenny: if something happens to you, i’m scared i’ll be the only one who saw it coming. everyone’s freaking out over you and tweek. you should at least reply to someone

It’s not dramatic. Not loud. Not even capitalized.

But it punches the air out of Craig’s lungs.

Because it’s not a joke. Not a guilt-trip. It’s not even a warning.

It’s a confession.

A quiet, helpless kind of grief from someone who sees more than they should - someone who’s been watching the cracks widen and is terrified they’ll be the only one left holding the pieces when it all gives way.

Someone who doesn’t want to be right.

Craig presses the phone to his chest. Not tightly. Just enough to feel the weight of it.

He still doesn’t reply.

But the ache in his throat now feels like something breaking open.

He puts his phone face-down on the nightstand. The light pulses once, then fades.

Craig lies back and lets gravity take him. No effort to get under the covers, no ritual of comfort. Just his body, heavy and cold at the core, sinking into the surface of the mattress like a stone into water.

It doesn’t feel like a bed. It feels like a hiding place. Like the softest kind of void - quiet and consuming, lined in fabric and the stale scent of detergent. The kind of space where the world can’t quite reach you, but your thoughts still can.

Tweek’s voice in the hallway, uncertain. The sterile stillness of the counselor’s office. The wordless discomfort at the lunch table.

Tolkien’s voice. Kenny’s eyes.

All of it lingering.

All of it.

Echoing through him in concentric circles, refusing to dissolve.

Life doesn’t stop. Not for this. Not for him.

His phone buzzes again.

He knows it’s Tweek.

Or maybe Kyle, doing his diligent check-in - because Kyle always follows through, always does what people expect him to.

Craig doesn’t move.

If he reaches for the phone, if he flips the screen back on, there will be messages. Notifications. Proof that someone out there still cares.

And that’s exactly why he doesn’t.

Because if he lets himself see it - if he sees that they’ve noticed; that they’re worried, that they’re still trying - then it becomes real. Then he becomes real. And Craig doesn’t know what to do with that kind of weight.

So, he turns his face to the wall. Stares into the grain of the drywall until it stops being texture and starts becoming fog and lets the edges of the room blur like a watercolor left out in the rain.

He’s not hiding. Not exactly.

He’s surviving by not existing.

Dr. Loren is sitting cross-legged, a worn notebook resting in her lap. She doesn’t smile in that forced way people do when trying to be non-threatening. She just nods.

“You made it,” she says.

Tweek nods back, voice caught in his throat. He's sitting on the overstuffed couch picking at a loose thread in the seam of his shirt.

Dr. Loren doesn’t push. Just lets the silence breathe between them for a while. Eventually: “You look tired.”

Tweek laughs, sharp and soft. “Yeah.”

“Is it the usual?” she asks.

He shakes his head. “No. I mean - yes. But also Craig.”

Her pen doesn’t move. “What about Craig?”

Tweek pauses, breath hitching in his throat. "We - uhh..." He fidgets uncomfortably. "We... slept together. For the first time, you know?"

Dr. Loren hums softly and nods once, remaining a neutral and calming force.

Tweek rubs his neck, tugging at a lock of blond hair at his nape. "I’ve never felt that close to him. No panic, no pressure... just us." He swallows. "But then it ended. And it’s like - I don’t know. He just… shut something off and closed the door in my face. Since that night, he’s been... colder. Distant. Like it meant something different to him. Jesus, or worse - like it meant nothing."

Dr. Loren’s expression is steady but kind. "That sounds incredibly painful. Especially after feeling so connected."

"Yeah," Tweek says quietly. "I thought we’d crossed into something new. But now I feel further away from him than ever."

Dr. Loren nods, her expression thoughtful. "When you felt that closeness, it sounds like it was something you hadn’t experienced with him before - something vulnerable and safe. And now that he’s pulled back, it feels like a rejection not just of the moment, but of you."

Tweek nods, his lips pressing into a tight line.

"It’s common," she continues gently, "for people who carry deep pain or trauma to retreat after intimacy. Especially if that intimacy touches something tender they don’t know how to name. That doesn’t mean what you shared wasn’t real. It might just mean it was overwhelming for him in ways he doesn’t understand yet."

Tweek exhales, eyes stinging. "But he won’t talk to me about any of it. He won’t even try. He’ll talk to Kenny, though, he always does." He clenches his jaw. "I’m supposed to be his boyfriend, but he talks to Kenny and not me. And I don’t know what I’m doing wrong."

Dr. Loren’s expression is calm, but something in her eyes sharpens-focused and alert. "You’re not doing anything wrong, Tweek. But the kind of trust Craig gives Kenny might not be about who’s more important - it might be about who feels safer to unravel around. Kenny might represent less risk in his mind. Less vulnerability. Less at stake." She pauses. "That doesn’t mean you’re any less loved. It means Craig may be trying to protect what he values most by keeping it at a distance."

Tweek’s mouth tightens. "Then why does it feel like I’m being punished for loving him the most?"

Dr. Loren’s expression deepens with quiet empathy. "Because love - when it isn’t met in the ways that are needed - can feel like rejection. And when you’re giving love that goes unseen, or unreciprocated, it starts to hurt in the same places where you meant it to heal."

She pauses, voice level but warm. "But you’re not being punished, Tweek. You’re experiencing the emotional cost of caring deeply for someone who doesn’t yet know how to receive that care. And when that care is met with distance, it leaves you feeling unseen. That isn’t a punishment - it’s grief. And grief is what happens when we keep trying to build connection where someone else is still surviving disconnection." She waits a beat. "None of that means you’re wrong for loving him. It just means you’re hurting from where love has no place to land."

Dr. Loren lets the silence linger for a beat, then speaks gently. "You’ve told me before that Craig’s experienced abuse. That he grew up in an environment where connection wasn’t safe - where it may have even been punished."

Tweek nods slowly, his throat tight.

"That kind of early pain doesn’t just go away, even when someone loves deeply," she continues. "For people like Craig, vulnerability can feel like exposure. Like danger. Even if there’s no threat. So, when something real happens - something good, something intimate - it might trigger all the parts of him that are still afraid." She pauses, voice low. "He may not understand it, but part of him could be reading love as a threat. And that’s not your fault. That’s the wiring abuse can leave behind."

Tweek swallows hard. "So... he’s not pulling away because he doesn’t care. He’s pulling away because it hurts to feel something that big?"

"Yes," Dr. Loren says. "Because love changes things. And for someone who’s spent years in an unsafe environment, change - even good change - can feel like danger."

Tweek blinks quickly, jaw clenched. "It still doesn’t make it hurt less."

Dr. Loren nods. "No, it doesn’t. And it doesn’t make it fair. But it might help you understand that his distance isn’t proof that you’re not enough. It’s proof that he’s still healing."

"Or refusing to," Tweek mutters.

"Maybe. But sometimes people don’t know how to start healing until the pain gets too heavy to ignore."

Tweek is quiet for a long time, eyes fixed on the tear in his jeans. Then, finally: "I just want to love him. That’s all I want. I want to hold his hand when we walk through the hall. I want to hug him when he’s tired or stressed. I want to be able to touch his face without him flinching,” he says, tears burning his eyes. “I want to love my boyfriend the way people are supposed to. Out loud and… without feeling like I’m stepping on glass."

Dr. Loren doesn’t speak right away. Her eyes stay steady on him, soft and present.

Tweek's voice lowers. "But most of the time, he doesn’t respond. I’ll reach for him and he’ll just... freeze. Like I’m a spotlight and he’s trying not to move. And when he does touch me back, it’s so careful it almost feels wrong. Like he’s mimicking the motion and not feeling it. Like he’s made of stone, or something."

He sniffles once and wipes at his cheek, frustrated with himself. "It makes me feel crazy. Like I’m asking for too much just by wanting closeness. And I know that’s not fair to me, but... it still feels that way."

Dr. Loren leans in slightly, her tone gentle but sharpened now by clarity. "Tweek, what you’re asking for isn’t too much. Love should feel natural and reciprocal. Your needs matter just as much as Craig’s. It’s okay to mourn what you’re not receiving - even if he’s hurting too." She pauses, eyes unwavering. "But there’s something I need you to hear - really hear, okay? You can love someone who is hurting, but you cannot carry their healing for them. That is Craig’s responsibility.”

Tweek’s breath catches. He doesn’t look up.

Dr. Loren continues, more firmly now. "You keep giving parts of yourself to Craig when he’s not in a place to receive it or return it, and that’s a deeply loving thing to do, but it’s also incredibly exhausting.”

A silence hums between them.

Tweek finally speaks again, his voice hoarse. "I told him... that I got into RISD. I thought maybe it would help with… everything else going on. I thought that he’d light up or say something about how we could figure it out together because he'll be close by at MIT. But he didn’t say any of that, and instead he just shut me out."

Dr. Loren tilts her head slightly, her voice steady and clinical, yet kind. "That sounds like a deeply invalidating experience, Tweek. You shared something meaningful with him and what you received in return was emotional withdrawal. That kind of disconnection can be extremely jarring." She rests her notebook on her knee, not writing. "For someone who associates change or separation with threat - especially if they’ve experienced abandonment or emotional neglect, like Craig has - good news can feel destabilizing. What should feel like joy may instead trigger uncertainty, or even grief."

Her gaze holds steady. "But the important thing here is this: his inability to respond or celebrate with you is not a reflection of the value of what you shared. It doesn’t mean you were wrong to bring it to him. It means he’s interpreting connection through a lens shaped by fear, not by the present moment."

Tweek nods mutely.

"You were offering him something hopeful, something about your future-both of your futures. But what he saw, maybe, was change. Distance, and maybe even abandonment. Not because that’s what you meant - but because that’s what his nervous system has been trained to anticipate." She lets the words settle before continuing. "That doesn't make it right, of course, but it helps us understand why someone might respond with retreat, when they’re being offered love and support."

Tweek closes his eyes. "I just wanted to talk about college with him."

"And you did," Dr. Loren says softly. "His inability to receive that joy isn’t a reflection of your worth. It’s a reflection of his fear."

Tweek’s voice is faint, almost like he’s ashamed to say it out loud. “He got into MIT and he’s not going.”

Dr. Loren straightens, her brows knitting together. “He got in… into MIT - and he’s choosing not to go?”

Tweek nods. “Yeah. He won’t talk about it. He just said he's not going, and it doesn't matter. Like it was already decided.”

Dr. Loren takes a breath, measured but alert. “Tweek... I can’t speak on Craig’s behalf, and I won’t assume to know everything that’s happening for him. But that decision, especially in the context of everything else you've shared, raises some very real concerns.” She rests her hands over her notebook. “When someone gives up something they worked hard for - something they’ve dreamed about - it can sometimes be a signal that they’re in a darker place than they’re able to articulate. Avoidance, self-sabotage, withdrawal… those are common when someone is overwhelmed or experiencing severe symptoms of depression.”

Tweek swallows, his chest tight.

“He might be hurting more than either of us realize,” she continues gently. “And I want to be honest with you about that. Because sometimes, love gets so entangled with caretaking that we can't identify when someone might actually be in crisis."

Tweek looks up at her slowly. "So, what am I supposed to do? What can I do for him?"

Dr. Loren doesn't answer immediately. She folds her hands and speaks carefully. "You can continue to show you love him, but Tweek, it’s you that we need to focus on. Every time we have our sessions and Craig is brought into discussion, you forgo all attempts at talking about yourself and your own feelings and instead use me as a lens to better decipher him. That’s not what I’m here for.” She lets that land, then adds, "What you can do - what’s within your control - is to take care of yourself in this process. To set boundaries where you need them. To preserve your own mental and emotional health, even while you’re in pain about his."

Tweek’s brow furrows. "But if I stop trying... what if he gives up? What if I walk away and he says 'good riddance' like I never mattered?"

Dr. Loren’s voice is gentle, but unwavering. "Tweek, those are painful thoughts, and I hear how much fear is sitting underneath them. Staying in a relationship out of fear of abandonment or collapse isn’t the same as being in a relationship based on mutual connection." She leans forward slightly. "When we start believing that our presence is the only thing keeping someone afloat, we begin living in crisis with them. That’s not love - it’s emotional enmeshment. And it’s dangerous - for both of you."

She lets the room breathe for a moment. "You matter, Tweek. You mattered long before Craig, and no matter how he responds - or fails to respond - your worth isn’t tied to his ability to receive you."A pause, then quieter: "You are not responsible for holding his life together. Not even out of love, and especially not out of fear."

Dr. Loren glances at the clock-subtle, not rushed. The session is winding down.

“Tweek,” she says softly, “I want you to carry this with you: your care for Craig is not wrong. However, care becomes self-harm when it eclipses your own stability. You’re allowed to need space to breathe, sometimes. You’re allowed to heal, too.”

Tweek nods slowly. His shoulders slump, and he sinks deeper into the couch like the tension is finally catching up to him. He doesn’t speak, but his face says enough.

Dr. Loren stands gently and walks to the corner table, pouring him a paper cup of water. She offers it with no pressure, just a solid presence.

“Next week?” she asks.

“Yeah,” Tweek says, voice low. “I’ll be here.”

“Good.”

The sky outside is tinted with the fading hues of early evening-pale blues and greys melting into one another like watercolor.

Craig is sprawled face-down on his bed, still wearing the oversized hoodie he pulled on that morning before deciding not to return to school. His bedroom is dim, its blinds closed tightly against the waning light. A desk lamp glows in one corner, casting a warm, golden hue over the disorder: notebooks in disarray, an unused telescope in the corner, a glass of water only half-finished, and an unopened MIT acceptance packet lying atop a stack of papers.

A knock breaks the stillness-two soft taps, tentative.

He doesn’t respond.

Another pause. Then, more gently:

"Craig?... It’s me."

Tweek’s voice, softened by the door, is quiet and careful.

Craig exhales a shallow breath. “It’s open.”

The door creaks as Tweek enters. He steps in slowly, giving his eyes time to adjust to the low lighting. For a moment, he says nothing, taking in the sight of Craig: unmoving, turned away, his entire body slack with exhaustion.

“You didn’t come back to class today,” Tweek says. It isn’t accusatory, merely observant.

Craig gives a dry breath of acknowledgment. “Noticed that, huh?”

“I waited for you after. You didn’t show.”

“I know.”

Tweek sets his bag down by the desk, pausing to glance at the envelope from MIT before looking back to Craig. His gaze is full of concern.

“Are you okay?” he asks quietly, approaching the bed.

Craig shifts just enough to turn his face toward the wall. “I’m fine.”

Tweek sighs, not with frustration, but resignation. “You always say that when you’re not.”

The mattress gives beneath new weight.

Tweek climbs onto the bed slowly after toeing off his shoes. He stretches out beside Craig on top of the covers, close enough to share warmth but not to crowd him. 

Craig turns to look over his shoulder at him. His eyes are rimmed with red from lack of sleep. 

"I'm sorry," Craig whispers into the quiet between him.

Tweek’s brow furrows slightly. “For what?”

Craig hesitates, his fingers curling slightly in the sheets before turning so his back is to Tweek once more. “For how I... reacted. When you told me about RISD." Craig curls his back a little, as if further into himself. “I’m proud of you, Tweek. I am. I just... I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Tweek watches him and feels his heart in his throat. He can hear Dr Loren's words in his mind, reminding him of what love, change, and vulnerability can feel like to someone with Craig's experiences.

Shaking his head, Tweek moves to slot himself against Craigs back, not asking for permission as he wraps his arm around Craig's middle and tugs him close.

A tight hug.

Craig doesn’t respond right away. He tenses up and freezes, but he doesn’t pull away. After a moment, his hand shifts just slightly, fingers brushing against Tweek’s forearm subtle, but deliberate, and Tweek can feel him slowly start to relax.

His fingers splay across Craig’s chest, feeling the slight tension there - like Craig is trying to hold everything in. Tweek presses in gently, not demanding closeness, just offering it.

Vulnerability, Dr. Loren said, isn't always something people run toward. For Craig, it's something he’s spent years running from.

Tweek exhales slowly. He wishes it were simpler - that the love he gives could be enough to melt through Craig’s silence, to undo whatever guilt or fear is keeping him walled off. But he knows now - it doesn’t work like that.

“I’m in love with you, Craig,” Tweek whispers into his hair. “We’re endgame, you and me.”

Craig still doesn’t speak, but the stillness between them changes. It softens and it holds strong. Tweek presses his forehead lightly against Craig’s shoulder blade, eyes fluttering shut.

Then Craig turns.

It’s a slow, careful movement - like shifting through water - until he’s lying on his side, facing Tweek fully. Their legs tangle slightly. Craig’s eyes find his; stripped of the usual armor. 

Tweek exhales shakily, heart thudding in his chest. Suddenly, he sees Craig with terrifying clarity.

The boy in front of him isn’t cold or uncaring.

He’s hurt. Failing.

But trying in the only ways he knows how.

He reaches up, barely brushing a lock of dark hair from Craig’s brow, fingertips trembling.

"Can I kiss you?" he whispers, voice nearly lost to the quiet.

Craig swallows, eyes flickering shut for a moment. Then he opens them again, raw and aching.

"Please," he says, the word cracking at the edges.

Tweek kisses him - just a soft press of lips meeting, tentative and warm with a breath shared between them.

Tweek’s hand rises to Craig’s jaw, his thumb tracing a delicate arc along the curve of his cheekbone. Craig leans into the contact instinctively, as if he’s been touch-starved and unsure how to ask for nourishment. They shift closer together, the blankets rustling quietly beneath them, fabric creasing around their limbs.

Tweek draws back just enough to see Craig’s face, to search his expression. "Are you with me?" 

Craig’s response is immediate. "Yeah."

Their kiss grows into something heated, tongues meeting with increasing urgency as their breaths quicken, each exhale blending into the other. Craig lets out a shocked, half-choked moan when Tweek trails his fingers from his jaw into the soft strands of hair at the nape of his neck, cradling him into the kiss with tenderness.

It’s grounding and overwhelming all at once. Every inch of Craig’s skin feels too tight for his body, hypersensitive beneath Tweek’s touch. His whole world narrows to the press of lips and the rasp of breath, the warmth curling in his belly, the way his spine bows when Tweek’s fingers scratch lightly along his scalp.

"Fuck - ah, Tweek," Craig hisses, voice rough and startled, arching his neck into the fingers tangled in his hair. There’s something involuntary about his reaction - like his body is answering before his mind catches up - and both of them pause for the briefest second, wide-eyed, breathless, surprised by how much it affects him.

Tweek can’t stifle the moan that slips from his throat; flames licking under his skin at the simple fact that he made Craig feel that good.

He leans in again, lips meeting Craig’s in a way that makes his spine light up. Then he shifts, pushing Craig down onto his back with heat building fast beneath the surface. The mattress creaks under their weight, the blankets twisting beneath them as Tweek climbs over him, one knee slipping between Craig's legs.

He holds Craig like he’s afraid he might vanish - palms running the length of his ribs, thumbs brushing the curve of his waist. His touch is possessive, desperate. Craig’s hands fly up immediately, gripping Tweek’s arms, shoulders, the fabric of his shirt - reaching for anything solid in the whirlwind of sensation as he grinds against Tweek thigh. 

Tweek kisses him like he means to leave a mark, like he's trying to carve something permanent into the moment. His mouth is hot and open, messy in a way that speaks more of emotion than precision. 

He licks into Craig’s mouth, coaxing him open, and Craig groans in response, his back arching into the heat. The way Tweek touches him is unrelenting, like he’s afraid this will slip through his fingers if he slows down. The touch is careful, as though trying to memorize Craig’s body in fragments: the sharp slope of his ribs, the dip just above his navel, the hitch in his breath when fingers graze sensitive skin. Craig feels laid bare - offered up not to be consumed, but to be known.

They’re panting now, every brush of skin, every shift of hips fanning the growing flame between them. Craig’s breath stutters when Tweek drags his hand slowly down his chest, over the hem of his shirt, and slides it up beneath the fabric, palm flat and warm. The sensation punches the air from his lungs. 

Unable to take the tension any longer, Craig yanks at Tweek’s shirt, tugging it up and over his head in one motion before quickly removing his own. The sudden exposure feels electric. He throws the clothing aside, then pulls Tweek back in with force, lips crashing together again, harder this time. Craig’s gasping between kisses now, voice caught in his throat.

Tweek shudders when Craig’s hand slips under his waistband, his breath catching as he dips forward, forehead resting against Craig’s. For a moment they stop, chests heaving, lips barely apart. Their skin slick with sweat, hearts hammering, they simply breathe in tandem.

The air between them is heavy with intensity, their bodies flush with emotion, sweat, and something that trembles just beneath the surface: the unspoken truth that this is more than lust. It’s every version of I miss you and I need you and I still love you burned into skin.

Tweek opens his eyes as their breaths mingle. He reaches down slowly, fingers wrapping around Craigs wrist and gently pulling his hand out of his waistband. Craig freezes - startled as if he did wrong, but Tweek offers him a smile as he moves down the length of Craigs body, fingers grabbing at Craig's sweatpants and pulling both them and his boxers down and off in one succession.

Tweek wastes no time - he presses open mouth kisses against Craigs stomach, watching the muscles jumps with sensitivity. Craigs cock rests hard against his navel, flushed and leaking precum. Tweek nips at the skin of his hip while he runs his hands along Craig's thighs, gently pushing them open enough that he can move between them.

"Tweek - " Craig starts, but his voice cracks on a hitched moan. Tweek leans in without warning and pulls Craig's cock into his mouth, tongue already working along the underside while he massages the base with a free hand. 

Craig arches and cries out like it hurts, both of his hands flying up to grip at his own hair - like it's too much, like he can't take it.

"Tweek - oh fuck - Tweek... Ah..."

Tweek hums in response, continuing to work Craig’s cock and swallow like he’s starved for it.

“Tweek,” Craig tries again, hand shooting down to smack at Tweeks bare shoulder. “I can’t – I’m gon… Tweek, no more, I can’t,” his voice is jarring to his own ears; a sharp whine unlike anything he’s ever heard himself emit.

Tweek pulls off, panting heavy as he looks up at Craig, lips red and skin flushed. Wordlessly, he climbs back up the length of Craig’s body, meeting him immediately into a messy, wet kiss that has them both groaning into each other’s mouths as their cocks brush. 

“Are you okay?” Tweek murmurs between open mouthed kisses.

“Yes – fuck, god,” Craig hisses back, bringing his legs up to cradle Tweeks waist. He pulls his head back just enough for them to meet eyes again, and Craig feels the knot loosen in his chest when he sees the beautiful green of Tweeks eyes reflected back at him.

“Wait,” Craig says, moving just slightly to the side. Tweek pulls back a little as Craig leans sideways towards the edge of the bed, reaching into the nightstand for a small, unmarked bottle of lube. Tweek's gaze follows before their eyes meet again. The tension grows under the weight of this new addition. Craig leans back on his elbows and moves to spread his legs slowly – intention loud and clear.

Without a word, Tweek takes the bottle and leans in, pressing Craig down into the mattress with a searing kiss. Craig moans low at the contact, his spine curling upward before he startles slightly at the cool slide of Tweek’s fingers near his hole. The prep is gentle, unhurried, and meticulous. He leans on one arm with his hand cradling Craig’s face while he kisses everywhere that he can reach.

Craig's breathing grows uneven as stimulation builds into ache. The want in his chest blooms wild, and Tweek watches every reaction - every shift, every gasp - like he is studying something holy.

"Tweek," Craig whispers, not sure what he is asking for, only that he needs.

Tweek answers without speaking, moving up his body to claim his mouth – scorching, deep, and seeking. His own heart is thundering in his chest as he slides a hand under Craig thigh, pushing it up an open, encouraging Craig to wrap his legs around him. Tweek aligns his cock and presses in slowly; the breath catching in both of their lungs as Tweek bottoms out.

Tweek grits his teeth, forehead dropping against Craig's collarbone as a shudder runs through him while Craig arches, hips rising to meet him, legs curling around Tweek's waist tight to keep him there. They steady themselves - too close, too fast - and find the rhythm of shared breath again. Tweek leans back slightly, just enough to look down at Craig. Their eyes meet briefly before Craig lets his flutter closed, exhaling through parted lips. There’s a flush in his pale skin, proof that this so-called apathetic boy has blood in his veins.

The motion between them grows into something slow and consuming. Their bodies rock together in a rhythm that is more grind than thrust, a push and pull that borders on desperation. Craig's fingers curl tightly against Tweek's shoulder blades, his palms flat against feverish skin. The air is humid and dense, the smell of sex thick between them.

"F-fuck... Tweek..." Craig gasps, head thrown back, throat exposed. The sensations scatter his thoughts and leave him unraveling with every movement with more life than Tweek has seen in him in days. "I can't - I... fuck... ah... ah…"

Tweek lowers himself on one forearm, free hand slipping between them. His fingers wrap around Craig's cock, and the response leaves him gasping against Craigs neck. Craig cries out loudly, body jolting with his nails digging into Tweek’s back.

The sound that leaves him is pitched and aching, and Tweek catches one of his hands in his own, lacing their fingers tightly. Their rhythm remains slow and deep, but the tension under it swells - every breath a tremor, every shift a wave of pleasure.

Craigs legs tighten around Tweeks waist as the heat curls in his core. He’s overwhelmed, lost, and drunk on physical sensations. His breathing turns erratic, his body moving in small, frantic motions against the sheets. The orgasm hits without warning - a white-hot surge that radiates under his skin and leaves him gasping, reaching back to grip at the pillow behind his head.

Tweek follows moments later with a desperate, choked sound. His hips stutter as he comes, pressing his face into Craig’s neck with a groan. His breath is hot against Craig’s skin and his entire body curls forward as if trying to stay wrapped around him forever.

His fingers, still shaky, brush damp strands of hair from Craig’s forehead. Hot breaths mingle as Tweek leans in to kiss – slowly, gently, while he moves to pulls out, an action that has them both casting soft whines into each other’s mouths.

Craig is pliant beneath him in ways that make Tweek’s heart ache.

Moving to lay side by side, they keep their limbs tangled beneath the sheets, bare legs pressed together, pulses still racing in echo of what just passed between them. The room is warm with body heat and neither one of them says anything for a long while.

With soft fingers, Tweek begins to trace idle patterns over Craig’s chest - circles, lines, meaningless shapes that leave behind ghost trails of touch. The yellowing bruise is still healing on Craigs ribs, looking a little more faded since prom night.

Craig breathes in the warmth of him, letting his eyes slip closed. There’s a contented hum at the edge of his smile, barely-there but real. He doesn’t speak, but he shifts slightly so their bodies fit even more snugly together, an unspoken way of asking Tweek to stay a little longer, to hold him a little closer.

This Craig is open, expressive, and responsive to affection.

Tweek’s voice breaks the silence, gentle and low. “You still with me?”

His lips brush Craig’s temple with the question, and Craig can feel the tremor of worry in the breath between each word.

Craig nods slowly, his voice a rasp. “Yeah. I’m here.”

Chapter Text

The scent of overripe bananas and vanilla extract clings to the air of the Home Economics room, sticky-sweet and faintly nauseating. The long counters are cluttered with flour-dusted bowls, crumpled recipe sheets, and half-used sticks of butter softening too fast in the heat.

Tweek stands at the far table, elbow-deep in batter that’s more glue than anything edible. His apron is smeared with cinnamon and frustration, his hair even more frazzled than usual, stray pieces sticking to his forehead with the dampness of exertion.

Normally, he’s good at this - baking is one of the few things that calms him, centers him, lets him feel like he has control. It’s his thing. It’s precision and warmth and chemistry and comfort all wrapped up in something you can hold in your hands.

But today, the measurements are off. The banana’s too ripe. The flour clumps. His hands won’t stop shaking and his muscles feel jumpy.

His mixing bowl looks like a disaster zone, and he can feel the weight of eyes glancing at him when they think he’s not paying attention. He’s trying to fold mashed bananas into the flour mixture, but the consistency is wrong and he knows it. It’s too dense. He’s overworked it. Still, he keeps going, jaw set, muscles stiff with determination. Each stir is too forceful, more like punishment than progress.

Wendy glances at him from across the table, her sleeves rolled up neatly as she measures sugar with the precision of a chemist. Her banana bread already looks picture perfect - batter poured into the pan, cinnamon dusted neatly across the top like she’s prepping for a magazine shoot. Her workspace is spotless, like something out of a lifestyle blog. "You want help with that?" she asks, nodding toward the mess in Tweek’s bowl.

"No, I - I'm good," Tweek mutters, stirring harder than necessary. A puff of flour explodes upward like a smoke bomb and settles in his hair.

"You’re gonna overmix it," Bebe says, nudging a spatula in his direction from the next station over. "Just fold it gently until it’s streaky. You want the lumps, remember? It’s banana bread, not sponge cake."

"I know," Tweek snaps, and then immediately flinches, face twisting in embarrassment. "Jesus - Sorry. I didn’t mean - "

"You're alright," Heidi says from the sink, rinsing out a measuring cup. Her voice is steady and nonchalant, like she’s used to storms rolling through and doesn’t feel the need to comment on the thunder. "Just take a breath."

"We’re supposed to have it done by the end of class," Wendy says, checking the clock above the whiteboard. "You’ve got like seven minutes, so either finish mixing or hand it over."

"You’re lucky you got paired with Tweek and not Clyde," Nichole says, sliding a tray onto the cooling rack behind them. "That boy put salt in his batter instead of sugar and still tried to argue it was a choice."

"Heidi was ready to stab him," Bebe adds casually, smirking.

Heidi doesn’t look up. "I had the knife out already."

That pulls a half-laugh from Tweek - crooked, tired, but real. A small release of pressure.

As if summoned, Clyde barrels in from the back pantry, carrying a cracked mixing bowl with banana puree sloshing over the sides like soup. He’s already covered in flour, his apron draped around his neck like a cape and streaked with what might be peanut butter. There’s a banana peel hanging out of his pocket.

"Okay, guys, what if we added, like, I don’t know… cinnamon Toast Crunch on top? Make it a crust? Revolutionary, right?" He says this like he’s discovered fire.

Nichole groans. "Clyde, this is banana bread, not stoner casserole."

"But think about it - " he starts, eyes alight with enthusiasm, but Wendy cuts him off mid-gesture.

"Please just get it in the pan before Mrs. Smith sees you and gives up on the curriculum entirely."

"I’m an innovator!" Clyde insists, grinning like he’s proud of himself as he shuffles back to his station.

"You’re a liability," Heidi mutters under her breath.

"Gordon Ramsay weeps," Bebe deadpans without even looking up.

"Hey," Clyde calls out from across the room. "I heard that!"

"We were hoping you would," Nichole calls back with a smirk.

"We should open a bakery," Wendy muses, reaching for the nonstick spray and coating a loaf pan in smooth, practiced motions. "We’d kill."

"We’d kill each other first," Bebe replies, tossing her whisk into the sink.

"Facts," Nichole agrees, bumping her hip into Heidi’s as she slides another tray down.

"I’d be head of marketing," Clyde announces proudly.

"You’d be head of food poisoning lawsuits," Heidi shoots back.

Clyde grins like he’s unbothered, still licking flour off his fingers.

Tweek doesn’t say anything more. He just folds the batter one last time - more gently this time - and carefully pours it into the pan. His arms are tight, controlled.

He hands it off to Heidi without a word and wipes his hands on his apron, watching the streaks of batter smear across the faded fabric. The motion is slow, methodical. Like scrubbing away something heavier than flour.

Around him, the chatter continues - light, teasing, familiar. The kind of background noise that feels like high school should feel. Laughter mixing with the clatter of bowls and the low rumble of conversation.

Someone yells across the room about a missing spatula. A timer goes off, and a girl from another table squeals that her bread has sunken in the middle.

And for a second, he lets it carry him. Just a little longer than he normally would.

Clyde shuffles back over with a finger coated in batter, waving it proudly. "Okay, real talk, this slaps. I think I cracked the banana code."

"Don’t eat raw batter, Clyde," Nichole says without looking up.

"Live a little," Clyde grins, licking the finger with absolutely no shame.

Bebe raises an eyebrow. "You’re going to get salmonella and die."

"Worth it," Clyde says through a mouthful.

"What’s your secret ingredient anyway?" Wendy asks, half amused.

"I added a splash of root beer."

Everyone turns to stare at him.

"You added what?" Heidi asks flatly.

"Just a splash! For moisture and pizzazz," Clyde says, like it's the most obvious decision in the world.

Tweek stares at him blankly. "That’s… not how pizzazz works."

"Trust the process," Clyde replies, tapping his temple.

Nichole groans again. "I’m switching partners next class."

"You say that every class," Clyde grins.

"And I always regret not doing it," she mutters.

And somehow, despite everything, Tweek finds himself laughing too - quietly, but real this time. It slips out like an accident, and he doesn’t try to take it back. It’s small, but it settles something in his chest. Just for a moment, things feel normal again.

Bebe nudges Tweek with her elbow and leans in slightly. "Hey, just so you know - you’re coming over Friday night," she says matter-of-factly, no room for argument. "Wendy, Heidi, Nichole and I are having a sleepover. Chick flicks, junk food, facemasks, the works. You’re coming. End of story."

Tweek blinks at her, caught off guard. "Wait - uh, seriously?"

"Yeah, seriously," Bebe says, already moving to rinse out her bowl. "You need a break. We all do. So you're coming over, and you're not allowed to flake. Pajamas mandatory."

"You forgot to mention me," Clyde calls from across the room, arms flailing as he waves a spatula. "Because obviously I’m coming too. I’m not missing Girls’ Night."

"You weren’t invited," Nichole says flatly.

"I invited myself," Clyde declares proudly.

"Of course you did," Wendy mutters.

"I’ll bring popcorn," Clyde says, unbothered. "And my charisma."

Tweek gives a quiet laugh and ducks his head, a smile blooming despite himself. For the first time all week, something feels like an anchor. Something warm, light, and real.

The rest of the class brings him a light feeling.

The bell rings sharp and final, cutting through the low chatter of the Home Economics classroom.

The banana bread is finally packed away in foil, dishes washed and drying awkwardly in wire racks along the counter. Tweek wipes his hands on a towel and glances over at Bebe, who’s halfway through a one-sided debate with Clyde about whether or not oat milk counts as a baking staple. Her voice is rising over the clatter of chairs scraping across the linoleum floor.

Heidi gathers her things with a cheery hum, while Wendy rolls her eyes fondly at Clyde’s antics and tosses her apron into the laundry bin near the door. The group begins to disband slowly, gathering backpacks and shoving crumpled recipe printouts into their folders. 

As they exit the classroom, the hallway outside is already crowded - lockers slamming shut in succession like dominoes, laughter echoing in bursts, sneakers squeaking against the polished linoleum floors. He passes Kenny leaning against a vending machine, laughing under his breath at something on his phone. Kenny looks up just long enough to nod at Tweek but they don’t speak. 

Stan and Kyle are already ahead of him, walking side by side. They’re deep in conversation - low voices, Kyle gesturing animatedly with one hand while Stan listens, occasionally chiming in with a subtle smile or shrug. Their shoulders brush when they turn the corner together. 

Tweek watches them go, heart tightening a little. There’s nothing romantic in the way he observes them - just a quiet recognition. A sense of knowing that intimacy when he sees it.

Communications class is already in a low state of disarray when he arrives. Chairs screech across tile as students settle half-heartedly into their groups. The teacher, Mr. Bundy, stands near the whiteboard with a loosely held marker, gesturing vaguely toward a rubric that no one is paying attention to. Today’s group assignment - a short presentation on nonverbal communication - is just enough structure to let the class dissolve into loosely organized chaos.

Tweek takes his seat at the far edge of his assigned table, slightly hunched, notebook open in front of him but turned to a page that has nothing to do with the assignment. The lined paper is already half-covered in soft graphite lines that twist and layer, forming a crow perched on a traffic light. Its wings are slightly raised, as if caught mid-stir. 

The worksheet they’re supposed to be working on - a list of nonverbal cues and examples - is pushed off to the side beneath a pink eraser and a chewed-up pencil. 

Across the table, Kyle and Stan are immersed in their own little world. Kyle has the textbook open in front of him, flipping pages with sharp, controlled gestures. His voice is clipped, focused. Stan lounges with one arm hooked over the back of his chair, expression relaxed but eyes alert, occasionally flicking toward Kyle’s face.

“It’s just - body language isn’t a hard concept,” Kyle says, tapping his pencil in a steady beat. “We could literally pick three examples and be done with it in five minutes.”

Stan shrugs, drawing out the moment. “Then pick three.”

“I’m trying,” Kyle says, voice rising slightly. “But every time I bring one up, you shoot it down.”

Stan quirks an eyebrow, smirking faintly. “I didn’t shoot anything down. I said the crossed arms thing is kinda obvious.”

“Because it is obvious,” Kyle mutters. “That’s why it’s useful. It’s basic for a reason.”

“Okay, what about avoiding eye contact?” Stan offers, leaning forward slightly. “That one works, right?”

Kyle huffs. “Yeah, that one’s fine. Everyone knows that means you’re uncomfortable.”

Stan tilts his head, eyes narrowing playfully. “Or shy. Or distracted. Depends on the context.”

“You’re overcomplicating it again,” Kyle says, crossing his arms. “We’re supposed to keep it simple. This isn’t a psych thesis.”

Tweek keeps his gaze on the paper, but he’s tuned in. Watching. Absorbing the quiet drama that plays out like a private theater production performed in whispers and sideways glances. Their voices don’t rise. They don’t argue. They orbit each other with the kind of friction that sparks but never burns.

“Fine,” Stan says at last, leaning back in his chair. “Crossed arms. Avoiding eye contact. Fidgeting. There. We’ve got three.”

Kyle exhales like he’s been holding his breath. “You’re impossible.”

Stan grins. “Love you, buddy.”

Kyle rolls his eyes and looks back at the textbook, but there’s a hint of color blooming across his cheeks.

“Seriously, though,” Kyle says after a beat, quieter this time. “Are we even gonna get this done, or are we just gonna keep messing around?”

Stan shrugs again, but there’s something softer in the movement. “You tell me.”

Tweek catches it all.

Their worksheet remains blank. No outline. No examples. Just a textbook, a few shared looks, and the quiet electricity between them.

Tweek shifts in his seat and presses harder into his drawing. The crow’s feathers grow darker, sharper. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t interrupt. He knows better than to wedge himself between two people who don’t even understand what they’re doing to each other.

He knows that longing. The kind that lingers just beneath the skin. The kind that waits in silence, hoping someone will say the thing that never gets said.

He’s been on both sides of it.

They haven’t noticed him. Not in the way he notices them. Tweek exists in the periphery, the quiet part of every group project where no one asks, and he volunteers anyway. He doesn’t mind. Observation is its own form of participation.

Tweek turns the page in his notebook and begins a new sketch: another bird, mid-flight this time. Wings wide, feathers trailing. Unfinished. In motion.

His pencil scratches against the paper. Around him, conversations blur into background noise.

Kyle nudges Stan’s leg beneath the table. Stan doesn’t move.

And Tweek keeps drawing.

He’s not sure if this bird will ever land.

But maybe it doesn’t need to.

The curtains hang slack over the windows, sun-bleached and uneven, their edges curling like weatherworn paper. They obscure the outside world almost completely, save for the occasional sweep of headlights gliding along the far wall - slow, spectral traces that drift across the plaster and vanish.

Craig lies curled on the mattress, positioned at the far edge like he’s afraid to intrude on the space. One arm tucks beneath his cheek, the other resting over his stomach like a placeholder for comfort. He’s still in the same hoodie from days ago. His stomach aches - not sharply, not from hunger. More like a dull echo. The ache of long-abandoned concern.

His phone rests face-up on the pillow beside him. The screen is black, inert - but he can still feel the phantom buzz from hours ago. 

He hasn’t picked it up. He already knows who it’s from.

The screen glows without warning, sensing his shift in breath or motion. A single flash of light. Craig blinks toward it.

There it is:

Tweek: how are you?

No punctuation. No follow-up.

Tweek never demands. He doesn’t flood the inbox with anxious reassurances or shallow platitudes. He doesn’t send articles on coping mechanisms or ask Craig to quantify his pain. He simply waits. Listens. Offers space.

Craig hasn’t learned that skill yet.

His gaze lingers on the screen, thumb hovering above the keyboard.

He types: fine

Backspaces. Re-writes it. Leaves it there, stranded.

Then adds: just need some time to think

He stares at the message. It doesn’t look like anything. Just digital artifacts. Weightless and insufficient.

He lowers the phone to his chest. Lets it settle there. For a second, he considers throwing it. Hurling it across the room, hearing it crack, making it stop speaking to him in expectations.

But instead, he holds it.

Because if Tweek is still sending messages - if he’s still there - then it means Craig hasn’t disappeared entirely.

The screen lights up again.

Tweek: okay take what you need

Tweek: i'll be here

Tweek: i love you

Three short messages. Sparse. Unwavering.

The words glow in the dark room, luminous against the quiet. They hang there - not like a demand, but like a promise. One that doesn’t ask to be returned. He presses the phone tighter to his chest. Not out of desperation, but to feel the imprint of those words.

The front door slams.

Craig freezes.

The refrigerator door creaks open with the exhausted groan of a hinge long past its prime. There’s a pause and then the sharp, metallic hiss of a beer can cracking breaks the stillness. The sound is followed almost immediately by the dull clatter of aluminum against laminate, louder than it needs to be in a house so void of life it absorbs noise like a sponge. 

Craig closes his eyes.

The air inside the house grows heavy.

“Craig!”

His name isn’t a question. It’s an accusation hurled through the hallway like a stone through a glass window. The voice is rough around the edges, laced with irritability and liquor, coated in the exhaustion of someone who’s been angry too long to remember why.

Craig's heard this enough to know exactly where it’s headed.

The footsteps approach. The hardwood under his father's boots creaks and pops with each step, like it resents bearing the weight of him. The sound of movement echoes through the narrow hallway, exaggerated by thin walls and years of insulation gone stale.

“You better not be lying around again,” his father yells from the hallway. “Every damn day, same goddamn thing. I’m not coming home to this anymore.”

Craig stares up at the ceiling, where a water stain has bloomed in the shape of a country he can’t name. He’s curled on his side, blanket pulled halfway over him, though he doesn’t feel cold. 

“I bust my ass out there - twelve hours in frozen concrete and wet steel - and I come back to this? Voicemails from your goddamn school? They act like I’m the problem! Like I’m supposed to fix your sorry ass?”

The hallway distorts his voice. Craig’s fingers clench tighter around the edge of his blanket. He pictures his sister in Denver - a warm home, fresh air, soft voices. He imagines his mother smoothing his hair back before kissing his forehead.

The bedroom door slams open, hitting the wall with a sickening crack.

Craig flinches.

Thomas stands in the doorway like a storm. His coat is open and wet around the edges, crusted with salt and soot. 

“You wanna tell me what this is?” he demands, his arm sweeping across the room. Clothes, trash, unopened mail, textbooks left out like a failed experiment. The remnants of effort. The absence of care.

Craig doesn’t answer. He rises slowly, vertebrae clicking as he shifts.

“I get calls every damn day,” his father spits, stepping closer. “From counselors, from principals. Asking how you're doing. Acting like I’m your fucking babysitter.”

“I already have enough credits,” Craig says.

“Credits?” Thomas barks. “You think I give a shit about credits? I'm sick of those people calling me about you."

Craig doesn’t blink. “You’re listed as my guardian. That’s why they call.”

“Then take me off,” Thomas scowls. “Take my name off. I didn’t ask for this.”

The beer can strikes the floor with a dull thud. It rolls idly under the dresser, swallowed by shadow, as forgotten as the moment it was opened.

“You know what I see when I walk into this room?” Thomas snarls, stopping only long enough to deliver the question like an insult. “A leech. A parasite. Someone who sucks the air out of the goddamn house.”

“I’m still graduating,” Craig replies. His voice is hoarse, barely rising above the suffocating atmosphere. He speaks not to defend himself but to fill the space between them. 

His father’s laugh is dry, corrosive. “Graduating,” he repeats, drawing the word out with venom. “Jesus Christ. Do you want a medal? Should I throw you a party? Hang a fucking banner? ‘Congratulations, Craig, you did the least amount of work possible and didn’t fail!’”

Craig slowly rises to his feet. His movements are stiff, heavy from the inertia of weeks spent submerged in depression. There’s a tremor in his limbs he doesn’t bother to hide. 

“I'm still graduating in the top 3% of my class,” he says.

The slap is instantaneous.

Craig’s head jerks violently to the side. His skin burns, and the iron taste of blood blooms inside his cheek. For a moment, the room spins. His ears ring. But he remains upright, grounded not by strength but by habit - by years of this same script. Then comes the shove. An open palm drives into his chest, propelling him backward into the dresser. A jolt of pain rips through his torso as the edge digs into his ribs. 

“You ungrateful little shit,” Thomas looming closer. “I break my back so you can sit in this damn room and rot?”

Craig coughs, a dry, rasping sound. “Maybe you just need someone to blame,” he murmurs. His voice is barely audible over the thundering in his ears.

A closed fist crashes into his side. The pain is instant, deep, and consuming. The impact steals his breath. He collapses to the floor, the fall graceless and inevitable. His knees buckle, and then his body folds inward to protect itself.

Then the kicking starts. One strike. Then another. His back arches involuntarily with each blow. Craig curls tighter, instinctively shielding his head. The pain is overwhelming, localized yet expansive, radiating with every labored breath. His ribs scream. His lungs seize.

“You’re nothing,” Thomas spits. “Just like your mother.”

Craig doesn’t speak. He can’t. His vision blurs, tears mingling with the blood pooling at the corner of his mouth. He tastes salt and iron and fear. Each breath feels like inhaling glass.

Another impact - this time it’s the drawer of the dresser, yanked and flung to the floor. Its contents explode outward - papers, pencils, old homework assignments. A book hits the floor and cracks open, spine broken.

And then - stillness. His father exhales sharply, like a machine powering down. The silence that follows is nearly as loud as the violence that preceded it. His footsteps retreat and the door clicks shut with a finality that doesn’t require force.

Craig remains motionless.

His body aches in places he can’t name. His cheek pulses and his ribs sting. The side of his mouth is torn. His breath comes in shallow, broken gasps. His blood stains the floor beneath him. His knuckles sting where they scraped the dresser on the way down.

He stares up at the ceiling, eyes fixating on the long, crooked crack that splits the plaster from corner to fan, and he thinks about dying.

Tweek sits cross-legged on his bed, his legs folded beneath him, spine curled slightly forward over the sketchbook balanced carefully on his lap. He's wearing an over-sized green t-shit - sun-faded and dotted with little bits of charcoal smudge - and a pair of worn plaid pajama pants.

Champagne Problems plays softly on his phone.   

The overhead light is off, allowing the space to dissolve into a warm half-darkness. Only the orange glow of his desk lamp cuts through the shadows, illuminating the corner of his bed and nightstand, making the graphite shimmer faintly on his page.

On his nightstand sits the still life he’s been sketching.

A chipped ceramic mug, its glaze worn dull and stained with years of steeped tea. Next to it is three prescription bottles: Zoloft, Gabapentin, and Propranolol. They're arranged neatly, facing forward like little sentinels. Amber plastic containers glowing like honey in the lamplight, white caps bright against their shadows. 

Tweek draws them exactly as they are. He doesn’t idealize or reshape. He sketches the labels curling at the edges, the scuff where the print has worn off from daily use. He captures the sharp line of the barcode, the way light hits the pill count numbers.

He doesn’t focus on Craig.

Craig lives in the margins of his thoughts, in the Polaroids pinned above his bed. He doesn’t think about college applications, or grades, or how everyone else seems to be moving forward while he struggles to keep pace. He doesn’t think about expectations.

He thinks about shapes. Lines. Light.

On the floor beside the bed, a well-worn drawing textbook lies open to a page on value contrast. There are sticky notes jammed into every other chapter, some curling from use. A color wheel is taped to the wall near his closet.

Above his desk, a corkboard overflows with evidence of his life. Bits of everything. An unfinished watercolor that still bleeds at the edges. A backstage pass from a local art exhibit. Torn edges of sketches and class schedules, a note from Wendy that reads “You got this, starboy!” in sharpie.

A Polaroid of him and Bebe where she’s kissing his cheek and he looks stunned.

Another with Craig, blurry, arms thrown around each other but looking away.

The walls around him tell the rest.

On one side, a large Taylor Swift poster from her Lover era glows like a pastel sunrise. To the left, a vintage-style print from Evita hangs in sharp red and gold.

Above the headboard, the Rocky Horror Picture Show poster claims its space - those iconic crimson lips framed in black. A pride flag sweeps across the opposite wall, held by tiny thumbtacks and a string of fairy lights that blink unevenly. Some have burned out. The rest still fight to shine.

Tweek glances back to his sketchbook, tilts it in the light, studies his work. He picks up a blending stump and smooths the graphite beneath the bottles, softening the edges, grounding the shapes in shadow.

This - this moment - is peace. Not perfect peace. Not the absence of fear or pain. But stillness. He smiles, small and real. Pushes his bangs out of his eyes. Leans back on his palms and lets the warmth of the room settle around him like a blanket.

The room stays calm.

Chapter Text

Craig's sixteen when he realizes Tweek has been in love with him for longer than either of them have known what love actually meant.

It’s late afternoon, and there’s music playing faintly from Tweek’s phone in the corner – a Taylor Swift song, of course it is - gentle and slow, just background noise to fill the silences neither of them mind.

Craig’s lying sprawled out on the floor, half on the rug, half on Tweek’s discarded hoodie. He’s flipping through one of Tweek’s sketchbooks, careful not to smudge the pages.  

Tweek’s curled up on the bed behind him, one leg draped over the edge, the other bent and tucked under himself. He’s chewing the end of a mechanical pencil, not out of anxiety for once, but because he’s so deep in thought he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. His current sketch is a soft, dreamy line drawing of Craig asleep, the pencil thickening eyelashes and that little dimple near his mouth when he’s relaxed.

“I look ridiculous,” Craig says, squinting at a page.

“You look beautiful,” Tweek replies without missing a beat. His voice is soft but sincere.

Craig scoffs. “You always draw me like I’m a model.”

Tweek glances up, eyes warm. “That’s how I see you.”

Craig offers no verbal response. Instead, he flips to the next page of the sketchbook, his eyes scanning the familiar pencil strokes. A faint twitch at the corner of his mouth suggests something unspoken - an acknowledgment, perhaps, or a distant affection. Craig, with a small exhale, sets the sketchbook gently on the carpet beside him. He shifts, stretching out on his back, arms folding behind his head as he fixes his gaze on the ceiling fan.

“You could’ve drawn anything,” he says. “But you always draw me.”

Tweek places his pencil on the nightstand. He unfolds himself and slides down to the floor to join Craig. Their shoulders touch.

“I draw what I love,” Tweek says simply.

Craig turns his head to look at him. He doesn’t smile, not exactly, but something behind his eyes softens. He looks at Tweek like he wants to say something - but the words hover behind his teeth, stubborn and not ready to be spoken.

He swallows and nods instead. Just once. Slow. Meaningful.

Tweek leans in and kisses him.

Not a quick kiss. Not one of those nervous pecks they’d shared before when no one else was looking.

This one is slow and soft and unhurried, but it burns.

It presses into Craig like a mark that won’t fade. There’s emotion in it - palpable and unspoken - something that swells in Craig’s chest and makes him forget how to breathe for a moment.

Tweek’s hand grazes his cheek and Craig doesn’t flinch.

When Tweek pulls back, Craig’s blue eyes are open; wide and unguarded, brimming with something raw and wordless - emotion not yet named but deeply felt. Vulnerability radiates from him in quiet waves, softening the lines of his face and leaving him exposed in a way Tweek rarely sees.

There’s no trace of sarcasm or distance; no armor held between them.

Just Craig, fully present, and for a fleeting moment, unafraid to be seen.

Tweek studies him - his pale skin flushed at the cheeks, lashes thick and unmoving, mouth slightly parted like he might speak but can’t find the words. The emotion in Craig’s eyes is all there, shimmering at the surface: longing, confusion, maybe even awe. .

Craig doesn’t say anything.

Instead, he reaches out, fingers threading through Tweek’s in the filtered hush of late afternoon sunlight.

They lie there for a long time after, listening to the music and the quiet, surrounded by drawings and dust motes and light.

In that moment, nothing else exists.

The air is still warm from the afternoon sun, but it’s cooling down fast. It’s Thursday and the boys settle into their usual spot near the edge of Stark’s Pond, half-hidden by cattails, trees, and the slope of the hill.

The school day is behind them, and no one’s in a rush to get home. Everything around them glows gold and soft, the way the world sometimes does when you’re eighteen and suspended between what you are and what you’re about to become.

Tolkien pulls a six-pack from his backpack and tosses a can to Stan, then another to Clyde, who catches it with both hands and a dramatic bow. The click-hiss of opening beers cuts through the quiet like a ritual.

Craig is already lighting up, the cigarette dangling from his lip as he flicks the lighter a few times until it catches. He doesn’t look at anyone. Just takes a drag and exhales smoke slow. He looks like he’s thinking about something he’ll never say out loud. Tweek is sitting next to him, cross-legged in the grass, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, eyes darting between everyone like he’s waiting for something to go wrong. His knee keeps bouncing, an unconscious rhythm that won’t settle.

Kenny pulls a crumpled plastic baggie from his coat pocket and shakes it with a smirk. “Compliments of Randy Marsh’s secret garden,” he says. He hands it to Stan, who rolls his eyes but starts packing a bowl anyway. The smell of weed cuts through the sharp scent of grass and damp soil. Someone coughs - maybe Jimmy - and the sound is followed by low laughter.

"This is what freedom looks like," Clyde declares, raising his beer toward the sky. "Public intoxication by a scenic body of water."

"You’re gonna be the first one arrested," Kyle mutters, cracking open his own can and taking a quick sip.

"Nah," Clyde says. "I’m too charming."

"You’re too dumb," Tolkien replies dryly. “There’s a difference.”

Stan chuckles, brushing grass off his jeans. He leans back on his elbows and tilts his head toward the fading sun. “We should come back here the night after graduation,” he says. “Do something. A fire or something.”

“Yeah,” Kenny says, nodding slowly. “One last burn before the world eats us alive.”

Tweek finally speaks. “We’d probably get caught.”

“Only if Clyde’s involved,” Kyle adds, glancing at him sideways.

“Hey!” Clyde says, feigning offense. “I’m an asset to this group.”

Jimmy raises his beer. “To our asset. May he ne-never fuck up too badly.”

Everyone laughs. Even Tweek, quiet and surprised by it. He glances at Craig, as if to check if he’s laughing too, but Craig just flicks his ash into the grass, eyes unreadable.

Kenny leans back and exhales a thick cloud of smoke, eyes half-lidded. “If we get caught, I’ll just say I’m doing a report on the impact of weed on teenage frogs. It’s for science.”

Kyle snorts. “You’d probably ace it.”

“Speaking of not getting caught,” Kyle says, shifting his gaze, “Craig, where the hell have you been? You haven’t been in school all week.”

Craig doesn’t look at him. He flicks ash off the tip of his cigarette, his voice flat. “I’m done.”

“Done?” Stan echoes, straightening slightly.

“Already set to graduate,” Craig mutters. “No point showing up. Just wasting time.”

“That’s depressing,” Clyde says, then shrugs. “Fair, but depressing.”

Tweek doesn’t say anything, but his hands tighten slightly around the hem of his shirt. His eyes drop to the ground. There’s a quietness to him now, different from the usual nervous energy. His whole body feels like static.

There’s a lull.

The scent of weed clings to the air, mixing with the earthy smells of waterlogged soil and grass that’s just begun to turn dry.

They’re all in various sprawls - legs stretched, bodies half-reclined, backs resting against backpacks or jackets bundled into makeshift cushions. The pond glimmers in the orange light, its surface broken only by drifting pollen and the occasional ripple from something unseen beneath. The quiet is a comfort, but also a tension. It holds something unspoken.

Before anyone can speak again, Clyde perks up, always the one to break tension without even trying. “Oh! Bebe’s girls’ night is tomorrow.”

Kyle makes a face, half-disgusted and half-curious. “Why are you talking about girls’ night?”

“Because I’m invited,” Clyde says proudly, leaning back on his elbows with his beer balanced on his knee like a trophy. He gives a smug little nod, pleased with himself.

“No you’re not,” Stan says, already smirking.

“I invited myself,” Clyde replies without missing a beat. “I’m one of the girls.”

“I feel like she’d let you stay,” Kenny says dryly, his voice raspy from smoke and amusement. His smile is small, crooked, like he’s in on the joke but watching it from a distance.

“She would,” Clyde nods with conviction. “I bring the energy. I’m like... the court jester. But hot.”

Tweek finally speaks up, his voice soft but audible. “I’m going.”

Craig’s gaze flicks toward him briefly. It’s fast, barely more than a glance, but it feels heavy. There’s a twitch in his jaw, something unreadable. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t react. He just turns back to the water like he never looked, dragging slowly on his cigarette. His posture doesn't shift, but something in his energy withdraws further.

“God,” Kyle says, snorting. “That party is going to be chaos.”

“Are you going to w-wear a wig, Clyde?” Jimmy asks, raising a brow with a mischievous grin. “I feel like you’d sl-slay in auburn.”

Clyde grins wider. “Don’t tempt me. I’ve got zero shame.”

“You’ve got negative shame,” Tolkien mutters.

Stan laughs and throws a pebble into the pond. It skips twice before sinking with a faint plop. “We used to come here all the time, didn’t we?” he says, looking around like the memory might still be clinging to the trees. “Even when the weather sucked.”

“Remember when we thought the pond was haunted?” he adds after a beat, his voice a little softer now. “Like, back in fourth grade?”

“Because of the bubbles,” Kyle nods, smiling faintly. “Everyone thought something lived under there. Like a ghost-fish or some swamp demon.”

“There was that one time Clyde said he saw a hand,” Kenny adds, shaking his head. “It was just a stick, man.”

“You weren’t there,” Clyde insists. “It moved.”

“It could’ve been a fish,” Stan says. “Or frogs. Or - y’know - Satan.”

“Probably Satan,” Kenny adds lazily, eyes half-lidded. “Just waiting for the final bell to drag us under.”

“Man,” Clyde says, with a dramatic shiver, “this is it, boys. We’re not making it to graduation.”

Craig finally speaks, voice low and gravel-thick. “That’d solve a few problems.”

There’s a beat of silence. A stillness that cuts straight through the lingering laughter and leftover warmth. Even the frogs seem to pause.

Tweek glances at him, frowning slightly. Something in his chest twists - not sharply, but deep, like pressure building behind a dam. He knows Craig jokes like this, speaks in shadows, but it lands wrong this time. It always lands wrong lately.

Kyle rolls his eyes. “Jesus, Craig. Way to kill the mood.”

Craig shrugs, not looking at him. “Didn’t know we were going for vibes.”

“Always with the cryptic sad boy shit,” Kyle mutters, irritated, draining the rest of his beer with a loud gulp. “It’s exhausting.”

“Leave it,” Stan says, gently, without looking at either of them. His voice is calm but tired, like he’s had to say it more than once this week. He tosses another pebble, but it doesn’t skip - it just sinks.

“Why?” Kyle snaps at Stan, too loud in the hush. He looks back to Craig. “You’ve got that face. Just say whatever’s pissing you off already.”

Craig doesn’t even blink. “Maybe don’t talk to me.”

Kyle scoffs, already rising in temperature. “Then stop glaring like we kicked your dog. Jesus.”

Craig’s voice cuts like glass. “You always have something to say, don’t you? Just waiting for someone to fuck up so you can jump on it.”

Kyle blinks, stunned for half a second. “What the hell is your problem?”

Kenny sits up straighter now, brow furrowed. “Craig, chill.”

“My problem,” Craig says, ignoring Kenny and enunciating like he’s choosing each word from a broken glass bowl, “is sitting here like everything's normal while you bark at people like you’ve got it all figured out. You don’t.”

Stan mutters, “Dude,” under his breath, already leaning forward to intervene.

Kyle stands, fists clenched. “You don’t get to be a dick just because you’re spiraling.”

Craig rises to meet him, slow and deliberate. “Spiraling? Is that your new psych term of the day? You get that one from Tweek?”

Tweek’s hands curl tighter into his sleeves. “Can we just - maybe not do this here?” he says, voice small but trying.

Kyle takes a step forward, Craig towers over him but Kyle doesn’t back down. “You wanna go?”

Craig laughs, a cold, bitter sound that doesn’t touch his eyes. “Go where? You gonna play hall monitor now? Acting like you’ve got the moral high ground when everyone knows your big romantic arc ends with a fist bump and a ‘bro’? Keep preaching, loverboy.”

Kyle flinches. Just slightly. And in that microsecond of reaction, Craig’s expression twists into something smug - satisfied in the worst way.

“Okay, enough,” Stan snaps, grabbing Kyle’s arm and pulling him back.

“Craig,” Tolkien says softly. There’s a warning in his voice.

“Alright,” Clyde says, pushing halfway to his feet. “Break it up, drama queens. Nobody’s throwing punches next to the pond. You’ll scare the frogs.”

The tension hovers, sharp and sour.

Kenny watches Craig with tight eyes, jaw locked, breathing measured. He looks like he wants to say something else - but whatever it is, he swallows it.

Craig exhales smoke through his nose and flicks the cigarette into the pond. The ember vanishes in a sharp hiss, curling steam into the air like a final exhale. He offers no parting words. No apology. No last glance. He walks away from the circle - shoulders drawn in, head low. The gravel crunches beneath his boots in a rhythm that sounds deliberate, almost punishing.

The silence that remains is not stunned, but familiar - one that settles over people who’ve run out of the right things to say.

Tweek stares at the pond like he’s watching something die. He stands up slowly, not quite looking at anyone. “I’m gonna go,” he says. His voice doesn’t shake, but it sounds like it could.

“You don’t have to,” Kenny offers, quieter now.

“I know.” Tweek doesn’t move for a long second. Then he turns and walks in the opposite direction from Craig.

The sky is a deep, inky purple by the time Craig gets home. The stars haven’t fully come out, but a few tentative constellations are beginning to emerge - soft pinpricks of cold light pricking through the veil of dusk. The air is damp with the kind of stillness that settles over a town like a shroud. It carries the scent of cut grass, wood smoke, and something faintly metallic, like distant rain.

Craig flicks on the porch light. 

He moves like a ghost through the back door and settles on the edge of the wooden steps, the grain rough beneath his palms. He digs into the pocket of his hoodie and pulls out a battered lighter, flicking it once, twice, until the flame catches. The cigarette glows red at the tip as he draws in a long inhale. He exhales slow and deliberate, like he’s purging something toxic from the inside out - smoke and silence venting from deep within him.

The door creaks softly behind him, and then Kenny’s there - shoulders hunched, hood up, eyes catching the ambient light as he steps into the threshold.

“Yo,” he says, stepping out into the cool air. “Didn’t think you’d come straight home.”

Craig doesn’t look at him. “Didn’t think you’d follow me.”

Kenny shrugs and joins him on the steps. “Someone had to.”

They sit like that for a while - Craig perched like a blade waiting to snap, Kenny planted like a steady weight trying to hold down a storm. The ambient hum of crickets fills the air, accompanied by the occasional rustle of leaves. The glow from the cigarette flares every so often in Craig’s hand, casting a faint, pulsing light across the sharp plane of his cheekbone.

“Everyone thinks you’re losing it,” Kenny says, not cruelly. Just honest.

Craig takes a drag and exhales smoke through his nose. “Maybe I am.”

“You gonna tell me why you lit up Kyle like that? Or is this your new thing – chain-smoking and picking fights until someone actually hits back?”

Craig’s shoulders tense. He doesn’t answer. The silence clings to him like a second skin.

Kenny watches him for a moment, then adds, “You know Tweek looked like he was gonna be sick, right? You hit a nerve.”

Craig finally turns his head, eyes sharp in the dim light. “You think I don’t know that?”

“Then why do it?”

Craig flicks ash onto the porch. The embers scatter like little stars before dying in the wood grain. “Because it’s easier than saying what I really want to say.”

Kenny nods slowly. “Yeah. I get that.”

Craig’s jaw tightens. “No, you don’t.”

“Try me.”

Craig stares straight ahead. His voice drops, low and bitter. “You don’t get it, Kenny. You’ve always had nothing. You don’t know what it’s like to lose everything.”

The silence that follows is so thick it hums - electric, painful.

Kenny doesn’t flinch or look away. He just breathes in once, deep and steady, grounding himself.

When he speaks, it’s measured. “That’s a hell of a thing to say.”

Craig squeezes his eyes shut, rubbing at this forehead. “I didn’t mean - ”

“Yeah, you did.” Kenny’s voice isn’t cold, but it’s heavy. "I'm not gonna return fire, dude, so quit aiming at me."

They fall into silence again, not quite comfortable, but not as broken either. The moment feels like it could collapse in on itself at any second, but it doesn’t. They’re holding the space between them together with nothing but shared damage and restraint.

After a while, headlights sweep across the side yard. A car door slams. Then another. Clyde and Tolkien’s voices carry around the corner, casual and oblivious.

Craig stubs out his cigarette against the step, grinding it down until the ember dies.

Kenny stands first, brushing his palms against his jeans. “I should go.”

Craig doesn’t stop him.

Kenny walks off the porch without another word. His footsteps fade into the dark, swallowed by the grass and gravel, and then he’s gone - like he was never there at all.

“Craaaaaaig,” Clyde calls, his tone light but uncertain, like he’s trying not to spook a wild animal. “You out here?”

Craig doesn’t respond. Just lets out a slow breath through his nose, eyes closing for a beat. He doesn’t move.

Tolkien’s voice follows, more measured. “We saw Kenny heading off. Thought we’d check in.”

The sound of their footsteps draws closer. A crunch of loose stone, a soft scuff on the wooden steps. Clyde climbs up first, hands shoved in his pockets.

“You're not looking good, buddy,” he says, but it’s not teasing. It’s soft. Tentative.

Craig doesn’t look up. “That seems to be the consensus tonight.”

Tolkien stays back, leaning against the porch railing beside him. He doesn’t speak right away. Just stands there, giving Craig space to say something, anything.

Clyde shifts awkwardly, then drops onto the porch beside him. “Okay, what the hell happened back there? You basically body-checked Kyle with your words. And not in the funny, kinda deserved way you usually do.”

Craig shrugs, eyes back on the ground. “Guess I was in the mood to fuck shit up.”

“That wasn’t just mood, dude,” Clyde says. “You were vicious.”

“He was poking,” Craig mutters.

Tolkien folds his arms. “He asked why you were glaring. That’s not poking, man. You’ve been acting like a landmine for days.”

Craig rubs his eyes with the heels of his palms. “I didn’t ask for a goddamn check-in.”

“No, you didn’t,” Tolkien replies. “But you’re getting one anyway.”

“Why?” Craig asks, flatly.

“Because we’re your friends,” Clyde says, like it’s obvious. “Or did you forget that part?”

Craig is quiet for a second too long. Then, “I didn’t forget.”

“You sure?” Tolkien presses. “Because you’ve been pushing everyone away like it’s your damn job. Tweek’s worried sick, Kenny’s pacing, and now Kyle’s out for blood.”

Craig snorts. “Kyle’s always out for blood.”

Clyde leans back on his hands. “Dude. Be serious for one second.”

Craig finally looks at both of them. There’s a weight in his gaze, the kind that makes people uneasy. “I am serious. I just don’t know what you want me to say.”

Tolkien meets his eyes. “We want to know what’s going on. You’ve been off ever since - hell, since before prom, even. Is this about school? About Tweek?”

Craig doesn’t answer. He lights another cigarette instead. Inhales. Exhales. “You ever feel like your brain’s trying to drown you and all anyone sees is that you’re not smiling enough?”

Clyde doesn’t have a response to that. He just sighs and rubs a hand through his hair.

“Yeah,” Tolkien says. “I think we all feel that sometimes. Difference is, most of us don’t go down swinging at everyone who gets too close.”

Craig glances down. “I know.”

Talking eases, words slowing down as the night comes to an end.

Tolkien gives Craig’s shoulder a squeeze before they leave, Cylde pressuring Tolkien to take them to Taco Bell. Their voices fade into the distance, swallowed by the stillness of the neighborhood.

Craig lingers on the porch for a minute, the night air clinging to his skin, cigarette smoke still woven into his clothes.

Eventually, he turns and goes inside.

The house is dark. Not the comforting dark of sleep or rest - but empty. Hollow. A kind of quiet that feels intentional, like the walls are holding their breath. It presses against the skin, creeping down the spine with every step. This isn't the darkness of bedtime - it’s the kind that fills an abandoned place long after the people are gone.

Craig shuts the door behind him with a soft click, like punctuation to a sentence he doesn’t remember writing. No lights come on. He doesn’t reach for the switch. He moves forward by muscle memory alone, letting the shadows wrap around him. There’s something almost reverent about it, like intruding in a forgotten cathedral.

The kitchen is the first place he passes through. His socked feet whisper across the tile, cold and cracked in places where the grout is thinning. 

He stands in the doorway for longer than he means to.

Then it hits him.

Memory blooms behind his eyes like a bruise - sharp and unrelenting.

There used to be flowers. Not fancy ones, never from a florist. Just whatever his mom picked up on her way home from work - sunflowers, daisies, forget-me-nots, sometimes those mismatched clearance bouquets wrapped in cellophane and optimism. They lived in a mason jar in the center of the table. 

He remembers the way she smelled - sweet and earthy, like lavender and old wood. Her voice humming a tune he never learned the name of. And his sister - her laugh ringing down the stairs, her drawings taped on the fridge, her sneakers kicked halfway across the living room. There was warmth. Movement. Noise.

Now there’s only fear and decay.

He exhales and steps into the hallway. His hand grazes the banister as he climbs the stairs, fingers trailing across the wood.

His bedroom greets him like a wound. The lamp still lies shattered on the carpet. Books are scattered like debris from an explosion. One of the shelves has collapsed, its contents spilled. The chair is tipped over. 

There’s a crack in the drywall by the closet - his doing. A raw, jagged fracture. He doesn’t look at it for long. He grabs his towel off the hook behind the door and walks to the bathroom without looking back.

He peels off his clothes and the mirror shows him what he already knew but didn’t want to see. His ribs look sharper. His collarbones cut against the skin. Bruises flower across his torso - purples, greens, yellows fading into blue. There’s one on his hip, one at the curve of his neck, like he’s been handled too roughly and didn’t stop it. Or didn’t care. Hickeys from Tweeks mouth on his chest, his stomach – another on his thigh.

He looks like something you’d want to touch but shouldn’t. A porcelain figure already fractured.

He steps into the shower and turns the water on full.

It starts cold - so cold it shocks his lungs into stillness. His breath catches, sticks like ice in his chest. But he doesn’t flinch. He just stands there, unmoving, hands slack at his sides, letting the water batter him like retribution. When the sting becomes numb, he leans forward, adjusts the handle further. The spray shifts - hot, blistering. It scorches his shoulders, sears down the curve of his spine, pours over his chest in a relentless torrent that should feel cleansing but doesn’t.

Steam billows up around him, thick and suffocating. It fogs the mirror, clings to the ceiling, settles into his lungs like he’s breathing in the remains of something that’s already burned. He closes his eyes and leans his forehead against the tile. The porcelain is cold. It bites into his skin and he welcomes it. It’s something real. Something not inside his head.

The water roars in his ears, but it can’t drown out the thoughts. They pierce through everything.

You ruin everything you touch.

You push away everyone who tries to care.

Tweek should’ve left you ages ago.

Kenny pities you.

Your friends don’t even like you. They’re scared of you.

You’re weak.

You’re pathetic.

You’re nothing.

The words echo against the walls of his mind, louder than the water, louder than anything. They loop endlessly, carved into the corners of his skull. They’re not new. 

His knees threaten to buckle, so he slides down the wall slowly, his back dragging along the tile until he’s curled in the tub, knees pulled to his chest, arms wrapped tight around his shins. Water crashes down onto him; each droplet like a drumbeat of judgment.

He stays like that. Long enough for the water to go cold again. Eventually, his fingers and toes begin to go numb. Only then does he reach up, sluggishly, and twist the handle. The spray sputters, then dies, leaving only the sound of dripping water and his uneven breath.

Everything feels far away.

The mirror is entirely fogged, a thick sheen of condensation clinging to the glass. He swipes a streak clear with his palm, and the image that stares back at him is blurred and broken.

But even through the distortion, he sees it - his face twisted with something sharp and unspeakable. There’s grief in his eyes, and rage, and shame. All layered and festering like rot. 

But underneath it all - he’s still beautiful.

Even like this. Even now.

His skin gleams under the low light like glass. His collarbones are stark and elegant, shadowed by angles that feel more sculpted than sick. His thick lashes clump with water, and a single beauty mark rests near his eye. His lips are full, parted, as he fights to breathe evenly. His eyes, vivid and blue, shine with unshed tears that cling to the edge of his lashes.

And then the tears come.

At first, it’s just a single drop. Then another. Then the flood.

His shoulders begin to shake with silent sobs. He braces himself against the counter, palms flat, jaw clenched hard enough to ache. He tries to hold it in. He fails. His whole frame trembles under the weight of it.

He sinks to his knees and folds in on himself, arms over his head. His back presses to the cabinet. His whole body shakes like a string pulled too tight.

Thoughts claw at him. Raw and feral.

Make it stop.

You don’t have to wake up tomorrow.

You don’t have to feel this anymore.

It would be easy. He knows how. He’s thought about it before. More than once. In chilling detail.

He knows what drawer the pills are in. He knows how many would do it. He knows how much blood loss it would take, how quickly the tub would fill, how long he could stay conscious if he just laid back and let it happen. There’s a blade under the sink. There’s a bottle of liquor in his closet. There are too many combinations and none of them feel foreign. Each one clicks into place like something rehearsed.

You could be done.

Just stop. Let go. End it.

No more pretending. No more apologizing. No more disappointing everyone who still sticks around like they owe him something. He thinks about who would find him. How long it would take. What it would look like. What they would say. Would they even be surprised?

Would they be angry?

Would they be relieved?

Would Tweek blame himself?

Would Kenny?

Would anyone cry?

The thought of Tweek’s face - his eyes wide, shaking, mouth parted in horror - makes Craig press his hands to his eyes until stars bloom behind the lids. He gasps. The sound claws its way up his throat but catches just behind his teeth. He wants to scream. He wants to shatter something. He wants to disappear.

He sees Kenny sitting on the back porch from earlier - wise, empathetic, and quiet. Craig can almost hear the way his voice sounds when he’s trying to comfort; all warmth and soft edges.

He imagines Clyde trying to make it lighter, saying something dumb and offbeat and clumsy, then trailing off when it doesn’t land.

And Tolkien - Craig doesn’t have to imagine him. He knows exactly how Tolkien would look. Not angry. Worse. Tired. Resigned. Disappointed in the way people only get when they’ve run out of patience with you but still care enough to stay.

He imagines the three of them standing over him. Not a body. Just a scene. Craig on the tile. Craig in the water. Craig as something that has already happened. He pictures their reactions - shocked silence, cold realization, grief that arrives like an avalanche with nowhere to go.

He doesn’t want them to see him like this. He doesn’t want anyone to see what’s left. He folds deeper into himself, forehead pressed to his knees, fingers dug so tightly into his hair his scalp burns. The pain doesn’t ground him. Nothing does.

The thoughts are still there, pounding in time with his pulse:

Do it.

It’s time.

End it before you disappoint anyone else.

The bathroom feels too big and too small all at once. The lights are too dim, the shadows too deep. But somewhere in the fog - through the weight of the air and the heaviness in his chest - something stirs. A flicker. A pulse. Not strength exactly, but motion. He uncurls, not because he wants to, but because staying here is beginning to feel more dangerous than leaving.

The world is a blur, but he dresses quickly; a pair of sweatpants and an old hoodie from Tweek. He doesn’t even look in the mirror again.

His shoes are still near the door. He shoves his feet into them without socks.

Then he runs.

He bolts out the front door, not bothering to lock it, not bothering to turn off any lights. The cool night air hits him like a slap, sharp and full of life. His lungs ache. His eyes sting.

He runs down the block. Past the quiet houses and the sleeping windows. He runs with no regard for his pace, for how his knees ache or how his chest burns. All that matters is where he’s going.

Tweek.

The name pounds in his head louder than his heartbeat.

It takes less time than it should. Or maybe more. He doesn’t know. But eventually, he finds himself standing at the edge of Tweek’s yard.

The porch light is off. But the upstairs window - the one he used to know like his own reflection - glows with soft, golden light. The blinds are half-tilted. That light shouldn’t be enough to make him feel anything, but it does. It stings.

He stops. The house is silent. The street behind him empty. The wind curls around his ankles.

He crouches, searching the flowerbed until his fingers close around a small, smooth stone. He weighs it in his palm. Turns it twice. Then tosses it up - just enough.

The click of it hitting glass is almost inaudible. And yet, a moment later, the curtain stirs.

The window creaks open, and there he is.

Tweek leans out, hair wild and sticking up, sleep-soft eyes blinking into the dark. He’s in an oversized shirt with something smudged on the collar. His posture is cautious, but awake now. Alert.

“Craig?” Tweek murmurs, his voice thick with sleep, a raw edge clinging to the sound like a fraying thread in the still, fractured quiet of the early morning.

“Yeah,” Craig replies.

Tweek leans farther out the window, blinking against the murky dark. His face is soft, slack with fatigue, hair sticking out in disarrayed tufts. “It’s two-thirty,” he says - not accusatory, more bewildered. As if trying to determine whether this is real or some residual echo from a half-finished dream.

“I know."

“Did something happen?”

“No," Craig lies. "I just… I needed to see you.”

Tweek’s gaze sharpens, the haze of sleep retreating. He studies Craig’s outline bathed in amber streetlamp light, half in shadow, half exposed. His expression doesn’t hold pain so much as the absence of anything else. Tweek knows that vacancy, has seen it before - on long nights when Craig would go quiet, unreachable, his emotions gone inward like a tide pulling far from shore.

“Wait there,” Tweek says. He disappears from the window, the pane sliding shut with a softened click. The outside world folds inward again. The wind picks up. Craig exhales slowly, shaky, and shifts his weight.

Then the porch light flicks on. The front door creaks open with a slice of warmth breaking the night.

Tweek appears, silhouetted by the glow of the hallway behind him. He’s barefoot, dressed in a soft, oversized green t-shirt and boxers patterned with cartoon cats. His hair is a chaotic halo, and he blinks into the darkness with the clarity of someone who’s willed themselves awake too fast. His arms are folded, but not closed. Not defensive.

Craig moves forward, careful and quiet. He doesn’t lift his eyes until he’s nearly at the porch. Tweek steps aside, holding the door open without a word. Craig slips inside. The warmth is immediate and sharp - a reminder of everything Craig has been without. The air smells like eucalyptus, faint detergent, and yesterday’s tea. The kind of smell that only exists in a house that is lived in, not merely occupied.

They move upstairs and the hallway is full of shadows softened by the muted glow spilling from Tweek's room. Tweek pushes the door open. Inside, the room is warm and chaotic and entirely him. Craig enters slowly, like he’s afraid the space might reject him. Tweek closes the door behind them, and watches him for a long moment.

"Did you run here?" he asks softly.

Craig gives a barely perceptible nod.

"You’re soaked through," Tweek says. "But you smell like you just showered."

Craig finally glances at him. His voice is hoarse. "I just needed... I don't know."

“You don’t have to know,” Tweek says. “I'm just glad to see you.”

Craig shifts, uncertain. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t.”

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

Tweek takes a slow breath, like he’s holding something fragile in his chest. There’s a pause. Craig looks away. His knuckles are white where they clutch at his sleeves.

“I didn’t think I deserved to come here,” Craig admits, voice barely audible. “Not after… the way I’ve been acting.”

Tweek steps closer. “You don’t have to earn a place with me, Craig. You never did.”He reaches out like he might touch him but doesn’t - not yet. Just lets the offer hang in the space between them.

Then, softer, “Come to bed,” Tweek whispers.

Craig stays in the middle of the room, sleeves tugged low, eyes avoiding contact. His body language is rigid, restrained, a coil pulled too tight.

Tweek watches him closely. “Craig,” he says, softly. “What happened?”

Craig doesn’t answer right away. His hands shake as he reaches for the hem of his shirt and pulls it over his head in one smooth motion. The air bites at his skin and there’s nothing performative in the gesture. Just exposure. Bare and deliberate.

Tweek’s breath catches.

A harsh bloom of color across Craig’s side, stark and brutal against the paleness of his skin. The bruises are deep - purples, blues, dark reds that pool like storm clouds. They crawl up his ribs and fade into the plane of his back, curling around bone. They aren’t old. They haven’t faded yet. 

There are scrapes too - thin, red, raw. Angry-looking, like they were made without caution. Like Craig hit something sharp or fell hard against rough asphalt. Some look accidental. Others deliberate.

Craig keeps his gaze low, eyes locked on the floor. His posture is too still, shoulders too tense. He holds his breath, waiting for judgment, for a reaction he doesn’t want but knows is coming.

Tweek’s breath leaves him.

“Jesus Christ.”

Craig won’t meet his eyes.

“I’m fine,” he says too fast. “It’s - I'm fine.”

“No, you’re not,” Tweek replies quietly. “None of that is fine, Craig.”

Craig closes his eyes for a second. Breathes in slow.

“Talk to me,” Tweek whispers as he steps forward.

Craig lets his eyes drift past Tweek - to the bed, still rumpled and warm from where Tweek had been curled beneath the blankets just minutes ago. The sheets are tangled, one pillow sunken and creased, the fabric marked by the soft shape of absence.

“Craig…” Tweek murmurs, the word half air.

Craig doesn’t look at him. He pushes his sweatpants down until he’s left standing in nothing but his boxers. His body is pale under the low lamplight, drawn and tense, chest rising and falling like he’s waiting to be rejected. Or touched. Or both.

He steps forward, hands catching Tweek’s shoulders; his grip is firm - too firm - and then he’s kissing him, mouth hard and warm and desperate. It’s not soft. It’s not gentle. It tastes like fear, like grief. Like someone trying to stitch themselves together with someone else’s breath. 

Tweek makes a soft, startled sound - caught between instinct and alarm. His hands fly to Craig’s waist, unsure if he should stop this or hold it tighter. Craig kisses like he’s trying to claw his way out of his own skin. 

“Craig - ” Tweek tries again, pulling back just enough to breathe, but Craig only shakes his head and presses forward, lips moving over his cheek, his jaw, his throat.

“Don’t,” Craig murmurs. “Please. Just - don’t.”

Tweek swallows the words that rise in his throat. He can feel the way Craig is shaking - his entire body wired with tension, like it’s bracing for collapse. But still, Tweek doesn’t push him away. He lets Craig kiss him again - slower, but no less frantic - his hands now fisting in the hem of Tweek’s t-shirt like it’s choking him.

Tweek lifts his arms wordlessly. Lets him take it off.

The shirt falls somewhere behind them.

Craig’s lips trail lower - along the curve of Tweek’s jaw, down the line of his throat. His breath is hot and uneven, catching with every exhale like he’s fighting something inside himself just to stay quiet. His hands roam, memorizing familiar skin like it might disappear. But he won’t meet Tweek’s eyes.

It’s then that Tweek notices: Craig has lost weight. The skin along his ribs is pulled taut over bone, and each breath lifts his chest in sharp relief, revealing more than it should – how long has he been like this? 

Craig pulls him down onto the bed; limbs tangling as they fall into the still-warm dent left by Tweek’s body. The mattress shifts beneath them, groaning softly under their weight. Craig’s movements are erratic - driven not by desire, but by some compulsive need to drown out the noise inside him.

Tweek reaches up slowly, fingers threading into Craig’s hair with gently. He tries to guide him upward, to meet his gaze. His thumb sweeps across Craig’s temple in a gesture meant to soothe, to call him back.

"Talk to me," Tweek breathes. His hand stills against Craig’s cheek. "Please."

Craig exhales hard but doesn’t lift his head. He kisses lower instead - across Tweek’s chest, over the flutter of his heartbeat. His hands shift downward, gripping Tweek’s hips tighter, fingers digging in like bruises.

“Craig,” Tweek says again, firmer now, as Craig’s mouth moves toward the sharp jut of his hip.

Tweek’s hand finds the back of Craig’s neck, trying again to lift his face. “Please - talk to me,” he murmurs. “Baby, just tell me what’s wrong."

Still, Craig doesn’t look up.

He runs the flat of his tongue along the hollow dip of Tweeks hip bone and kisses across the stretch of skin just above the waistband of his boxers. His movements are careful and purposeful. Like he’s slipping into muscle memory just to shut his brain off.

He palms the soft line of Tweek cock through the fabric of his boxers, head bowed, lashes shadowing his cheeks. His lips part just enough to breathe against the skin there; his thumbs hook under the waistband and he starts tugging it down. Tweek’s hand drifts into Craig’s hair and his fingers thread through the strands slowly, soothing, brushing the back of Craig’s scalp with careful, featherlight strokes. He can feel the tension vibrating in Craig’s body.

“Don’t do this if you’re not going to be here for it,” Tweek breathes, the words barely clearing the ache in his throat.

Craig doesn’t pause.

He leans in, runs his tongue flat along the underside of Tweek’s soft cock that’s slowly stiffening from stimulation, his breath hot and damp. He moves mechanically, but his eyes never lift. Still closed off. Still unreachable. Still pressing forward like this act might drown out whatever’s clawing at his insides.

Tweek closes his eyes briefly, electric zipping through his spine while he tries to regain control. His hand stays in Craig’s hair, thumb brushing slowly against the crown of his head. His other hand comes to rest gently on Craig’s shoulder, thumb sweeping across pale skin in slow circle, reminding him he’s still here - that they’re still here.

He wants to say more. Wants to pull Craig up, cup his face, ask: Why are you doing this? What are you running from? But he doesn’t.

Because Craig is trembling. Not visibly, not violently - but under Tweek’s hands, he can feel it. That quiet, deep vibration in his muscles. Like every part of him is fraying from the inside. So Tweek lets it happen. Not because he wants it like this. Not because it feels right. But because Craig needs something to hold onto - and right now, this is the only thing he’s willing to take.

Tweek shifts under him just enough to settle. He strokes his fingers through Craig’s hair again, slower this time. Soothing him.

“You’re okay,” Tweek whispers, so faint Craig might not even hear it. “It's okay.”

Craig doesn’t speak and he doesn’t stop. He keeps his head low, his focus on the shape of Tweek’s body, the movement of his tongue, the rhythm of something intimate turned distant. Craig wraps his fingers around the base of Tweeks cock while he mouths at the head, then swallows him back down.

Tweek’s chest tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt. His hand stays gentle at Craig’s nape, cradling. Reassuring. His breathing stays even, controlled, not for himself - but for Craig.

He needs to find a way to drift and focus on the pleasure – focus on an orgasm in order to get this to end. All he wants to do is hold Craig in his arms.

Craig gives a soft moan - the first real inclination of feeling and emotion. He pants against the side of Tweeks cock, catching his breath before resuming. It's like he’s trying to punish himself by taking Tweek as deeply into his throat as he can.

And for the first time, Tweek feels like he’s the one trying to be calm and collected because Craig can’t.

Tweek can’t help it.

One arm flings across his eyes as the feeling hits, sudden and uninvited. His throat tightens and he feels the heat curl low in his gut - sharp and hollow, a sad, detached orgasm building against the numb edge of his own restraint. It rolls through him not like pleasure, but like surrender. Like grief dressed up as release.

He exhales hard - one soft, breathless sound.

Craig doesn’t say a word.

The room stills.

Too quiet. Too heavy.

Craig’s breathing stays shallow, stuck somewhere between tension and aftermath, like he hasn’t quite come down.

Tweek doesn’t move either.

He lies against the weight of the blankets, arm still thrown over his face like he can’t bear to be seen - like he can’t bear to look and confirm what he already knows.

Then it happens.

A breath catches - sharp, involuntary - as Tweek forces down a hard swallow. At first, it’s subtle. Barely perceptible. A tremor in his jaw. A twitch at the corner of his mouth. But then it begins to build; a pressure swelling too quickly to suppress, too familiar to ignore. Instinctively, he turns his face deeper into the crook of his arm, as if obscuring himself from view will somehow protect him from the intensity of what’s coming. Tears come quickly now, breaching the dam with startling speed. They trace hot, uneven lines down his cheeks, soaking into the fabric beneath him. 

He is crying - not in a dramatic collapse, but in quiet surrender. And there is nothing he can do to stop it.

Craig hears it - barely, at first. Just the shift of air between them. The sound of something coming undone.

Then Tweek lowers his arm.

Their eyes meet in the faint, bruised glow of the bedside lamp, and something in Craig’s chest lurches. Sharp. Immediate. Awful.

Tweek’s face is streaked with tears, glistening in the low light - his lips parted on a shaky exhale, his eyes glassy and wide, shining with a grief. 

And Craig sees him. And he knows, without defense, that this is his doing. The weight of it hits him square in the chest, a sick, hollow impact that steals the breath straight from his lungs. Craig sits up fast, like he’s been burned, shoving the blanket away with one sudden jerk. His clothes are scattered across the floor but he finds them in seconds, tugging his hoodie over his head, stuffing his legs into his sweats with panicked, fumbling hands.

“Wait - Craig - ” Tweek hisses, sitting up too fast, wiping his face with the back of his hand. “Stop - please, just - don’t leave like this - ”

Craig doesn’t answer.

“J-just talk to me,” Tweek begs, voice cracking. “Don’t just - don’t run from this -"

Craig glances at him and the expression that flickers across his face is devastating in its quiet honesty. There’s no anger in it, no cruelty, no mask of detachment. Just the pale, aching weight of shame carved into every line of his features. His eyes don’t hold for long. They drop almost immediately, as if the sight of Tweek’s grief is too much to bear. He turns, movements muted and hollow, and slips into the hallway like a shadow pulled loose from its source.

Tweek stumbles after him, barefoot on the creaking floorboards, his voice a frantic whisper forced through the tightness in his throat. “Craig - please - don’t do this. Let’s talk in the kitchen, I swear, we’ll keep it quiet - just don’t leave, not like this - please, Craig - please - ”

But Craig doesn’t stop. His hand is already wrapped around the doorknob, knuckles pale with pressure. His back is turned, shoulders stiff, as if turning around would be too much - too real, too close to letting it matter.

Tweek reaches out, hand trembling, stopping just short of touching him. “You don’t have to run. We can talk about it. We can - just - look at me. Please, just look at me.”

Craig doesn’t. He pulls the door open and for one suspended second, he lingers - half in the house, half in the dark. Then he’s gone. The door shuts behind him with a soft click that might as well be a slam.

Tweek stands frozen in the entryway, chest rising and falling in uneven gasps, like his lungs don’t know what to do without Craig’s weight in the room. 

Silence folds around him slowly; heavy and absolute. He stares at the empty space where Craig had stood like it might still be warm. Like maybe if he stays still enough, Craig will return to him. But he doesn't.

The stairs creak under his feet when he finally climbs back up, alone. His body feels heavier with every movement, like he’s walking through water, like gravity is punishing him for letting go. When he reaches his room, it still smells like Craig - warmth clinging to the sheets, the ghost of sweat and skin and something bitter curling at the edges.

He crawls into the bed without turning off the light.

The blankets are still tangled, still shaped around where Craig had been.

Tweek curls into the hollow space left behind, presses his face into the pillow, and lets the silence break him open. No sobs, no noise - just tears that come hard and quiet, his body shivering under the weight of it. His hands clutch the edge of the sheet like they might hold him together if he holds tight enough.

But the bed doesn’t hold him the same way Craig did.

Chapter Text

The sidewalk is cracked and hot under Craig’s sneakers. The trees are full but the air hasn’t turned soft yet. The whole street smells like concrete dust, dry grass, and the faint tang of something rusted. Craig’s shirt clings to the back of his neck with sweat. He tugs at the collar, fingers damp, as he cuts across the last block toward Kenny’s.

It’s the summer before freshman year of high school. They’re supposed to meet at his place. Ditch for the afternoon. 

Craig doesn’t even remember who suggested it. Maybe Kenny – probably Kenny.

He just knows that lately, getting out of the house has felt like a necessity. The silence inside his own walls is unbearable. Worse than noise. He just wants to disappear for a while.

He rounds the corner onto Kenny’s street, dragging the heel of his sneaker across the curb as he turns. The McCormick house is at the very end - same as always. The paint is flaking like it’s trying to escape the siding. The screen door hangs slightly crooked. There's a dent in the gutter that no one has fixed for years. A busted tricycle lies overturned in the front yard next to a junked couch like it died in battle. The grass is patchy and brown. An empty beer can rests against a tire in the driveway, faded and forgotten.

And the front door’s open - that’s when he hears it.

“Don’t you walk away from me, goddammit!”

The voice - low, raw, and splintered by alcohol, drugs, and rage - erupts from the dim porch like a warning siren. It is unmistakably Kenny’s father, and his sound carries a primal, involuntary weight, the kind that bypasses logic and cognition to strike at the nervous system. The anger in his tone expands, echoes, spills down the block like sewage.

His outbursts fracture the stillness of the neighborhood. Each line is part obscenity, part grievance, smeared together in a slurry of resentment.

"You think you're better than me?" he snarls, the line repeated in escalating fury, hurled with the finality of a verdict. This is not a conversation - it is ritual violence, spoken into a silence that offers no reply.

Craig pauses on the sidewalk, one foot just off the curb, the other grounded in brittle grass. His breath catches. Something primal in his body responds before his mind can form a plan: adrenaline, vigilance, paralysis.

He’s intruding. He knows that.

But he also knows he can’t leave - not yet. The moment has gripped him.

He doesn’t want to hear any more. But the violence is not private; it has made itself public. The entire street has become a passive witness. Curtains don’t move. Doors remain closed. Still, the whole block listens.

Then - something breaks.

The air tenses. A heavy, nauseating thud reverberates outward. A sharp exhale. And then the crack - clean, brutal, unmistakable. A sound that sears into the bones, visceral and final. Craig recoils instinctively, his muscles twitching, breath tightening from a phantom hit that he’s been on the receiving end far too many times, now.

Kenny stumbles out onto the porch.

His frame is uneven, braced against the railing. One arm hangs defensively, as if too late to be of any use. His nose is bleeding freely, blood already streaking his upper lip, smudged beneath his chin. The zip-up hoodie he’s wearing darkens where the blood hits. His expression is calm in that too-familiar way. This is not a shock. This is routine.

Behind him, the doorway frames his father, flushed with intoxication and fury, chest heaving beneath a stained, clinging undershirt. His fists remain clenched, not just from impact, but from habit. Years of aggression molded into reflex.

“You think you can talk back to me like some kind of big shot?” the man yells again, stepping forward.

Before Kenny can respond - if he even intended to - a boot drives into his ribs.

The breath leaves Kenny with a wet gasp as his body folds inward, hitting the porch boards hard. The impact is dull and final. Then the door slams shut behind him, a punctuation mark to the violence, shaking the frame and rattling the loose windowpanes.

Then, quiet.

A different kind of silence falls, one thick with tension and helplessness.

Craig remains frozen, a few feet away, hands clenched into fists at his sides. The wind passes through dry hedges.

Kenny doesn’t move right away. He lies there on his side, one hand curled near his mouth, his ribs rising and falling in shallow bursts. Blood drips in lazy trails down his neck and into the collar of his shirt. His gaze tracks the sky, expression unreadable - somewhere between dissociation and resignation, as if the clouds above might offer a better explanation than anything on the ground.

Craig doesn’t move. He doesn’t shout, or rush over, or ask if Kenny’s okay.

Because this isn’t the first time.

It’s just the first time Craig’s seen it.

And then - like nothing happened - Kenny starts to sit up. He groans quietly, swipes at his face with the back of one hand, smearing blood across his cheek and into the corner of his mouth.

His lip is split. His knuckles are scraped. He looks like hell - but he grins anyways.

His eyes find Craig’s, and it’s like the curtains open - his expression goes easy. Not unfazed but a practiced one. Comfortable in the wrongness of it.

“Oh hey,” he says, like Craig just startled him awake from a nap.

Craig stands there, frozen on the sidewalk. He swallows hard. “Hey.”

Kenny spits blood into the grass and wipes his hand again on the leg of his jeans. “Y’all ready to go?”

Craig hesitates, the world tilting slightly in the back of his mind. He should say no. He should say something, anything. There’s a burning in his throat he doesn’t want to name.

He nods.

Kenny gets to his feet with a soft hiss of pain, favoring his right side. He limps a little as he comes closer, but he never loses the smirk.

“I think there’s that half-bottle of Kamchatka under the billboard where we left it last,” he says. “Might still be cold. Or, you know, room temp and spiritually toxic.”

Craig doesn’t laugh; he just walks beside him.

They don’t talk about it.

They never do.

But later that night, when they’re sitting in the abandoned lot - surrounded by broken pallets, chain-link fence, and old fast-food wrappers - Kenny leans back on the hood of the rusted out junker car, a cigarette dangling from his lips, and jokes his new scars are gonna make him more rugged and attractive to girls. “Kind of a win,” he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Craig laughs. Too hard. Too loud. He laughs until he coughs, until his chest aches from the sudden force of it. Then he lights his own cigarette, his fingers shaking just a little, and says nothing else for the rest of the night.

The smoke hangs between them, sharp and dry, catching in his lungs and in something else he can’t name.

He doesn’t forget the look in Kenny’s eyes. Not the grin - anyone can fake a grin.

But the way his shoulders tensed under it. The way he didn’t wince when the laughter hurt.

They never talk about that either.

The air outside hits Craig like a slap - sharp, cold, and alive in a way that makes his skin crawl. And then he’s running.

He doesn’t think. Doesn’t stop. The tears are already stinging his eyes before he realizes he’s crying, wind slicing them back across his cheeks like punishment. He runs harder.

Down cracked sidewalks, past dim porch lights and silent homes where families sleep soundly. Past the streets where the shadows stretch long beneath orange streetlamps, the kind of shadows that seem like they want to reach out and drag him under.

He sees Tweek’s face again - his wet lashes, the way he’d whispered Craig’s name. The way Tweek pleaded for him to talk - to open up. And how Craig couldn’t look at him.

What the fuck is wrong with me.

His fists tighten until his knuckles scream. He runs harder. Like he can outpace the shame rotting in his chest.

By the time he reaches Kenny’s house, his lungs are shuddering and his shirt clings damp to his spine. His legs buckle as he stumbles across the overgrown lawn, one hand slapping against the siding to hold himself up.

The world is too loud.

The pounding in his chest won’t stop.

He rounds to Kenny's window where he taps once - then twice, more frantic.

The dim light of a table lamp flicks on.

Pinned up sheets acting as a curtain are pulled aside. Kenny appears in the window, shirtless, his hair sticking up in every direction. There’s a new bruise blooming across the left side of his face, high on his cheekbone and still flushed with broken capillaries. It overtakes the old bruise under his eye.

There's visible marks and scars marring the rest of his exposed skin. A round, small, darkened wound sits on his chest. Fresh. Unmistakable. Evidence of a cigarette having been put out on his skin.

Craig falters, and Kenny blinks at him like he’s seeing a ghost.

“Fuck, dude,” Kenny mutters, voice muffled behind the glass. “What the hell happened?”

He unlocks the window and shoves it open with one hand.

Craig grips the window frame like it’s holding him up, breath heaving. His eyes are locked on Kenny’s face - on the bruise already darkening beneath one eye, on the raw red welt that circles his collarbone. Craig swallows hard, shaking his head.

“I need to go,” he mutters. “I need to get out of here. I need to go somewhere. Anywhere.”

Kenny blinks at him, then pulls the curtain further open. “You gonna tell me what happened?”

Craig shakes his head again, more forcefully this time. “No. I can’t. I just - I can’t stay here… I can’t… I can’t stay here, Kenny -  I can’t stay here.”

Kenny studies him for half a second longer, then disappears from the window. A moment later, the bedroom light clicks off. There’s the sound of a drawer sliding open, the rattle of something metallic, the creak of an old hinge. Then the window eases open wider from the inside.

Kenny climbs out, all ripped jeans and torn converse. He moves silent, like he’s done this a hundred times before. He lands in the grass with a soft thud, pulling on a thick flannel with one hand and clutching a bottle of whiskey in the other. The pack of cigarettes is tucked under his arm.

“No questions,” he says simply, stuffing the whiskey into the pocket of his flannel. “But I’m not letting you lose your shit alone.”

Craig looks at him and something inside him buckles.

Kenny nudges him with his shoulder. “You coming or not?”

Craig nods once, throat too tight for words.

Together, they head off into the night, the town stretching ahead like a shadow they can outrun.

Kenny leads the way with quiet certainty, cutting through the empty side streets and weaving around the corners of backyards and half-collapsed fences. 

Eventually, they arrive at the edge of a weed-choked lot just a few blocks from Kenny’s house. It’s a forgotten patch of land where grass grows knee-high and rusted-out appliances litter the edges like corpses of lives long moved on. In the middle of it sits a junker car, its body sun-bleached and stripped of its wheels, the hood dented and scarred with graffiti.

Kenny climbs onto it first, using the bumper and a bent fender to hoist himself up. The metal creaks under his weight. He offers a hand and Craig follows, each movement stiff, like his bones are moving through water. They stretch out side by side on the hood, the cold metal pressing into their backs.

Kenny lights two cigarettes and passes one to Craig.

Craig takes it with fingers that twitch at the tips, hands unsteady as he brings it to his mouth. He inhales too fast, too deep, like he’s hoping the smoke will crawl down his throat and take something with it. 

Kenny watches, says nothing, just unscrews the cap of the whiskey and takes a long, slow pull.

When it’s Craig’s turn, he reaches for the bottle with both hands - but the tremor is impossible to hide. The neck of the glass knocks against his teeth as he drinks, the sound small but sharp in the quiet. The burn hits his throat like gasoline, makes his eyes water, but he forces another gulp down like it might drown everything clawing inside him. 

Kenny’s eyes flick to Craig’s hands, still clutching the bottle like it’s the last thing keeping him tethered to the earth. The bottle tilts, sloshing whiskey dangerously close to the rim as Craig lifts it again - too soon, too fast. His grip is too tight. His knuckles pale beneath the strain.

Kenny watches him for a breath longer than necessary, then quietly reaches over.

He doesn’t speak. He just places one hand over Craig’s wrist, warm and firm, and gently eases the bottle down. Craig resists for half a second - tense, locked up - but then lets it go, lets his arm drop back against the cold metal hood with a dull thud.

Smoke spills from Kenny’s mouth in a slow stream, curling into the air like a tether between them.

Craig doesn’t speak. Kenny doesn’t ask.

Instead, Kenny fills the silence with his own voice - low, meandering.

“Can’t believe this shitbox is still here after all these years,” Kenny mutters, knocking his knuckles against the rusted hood. “Thought for sure someone would’ve scrapped it or burned it down by now.”

He lets out a low chuckle, then takes a drag from his cigarette. The smoke curls lazily between them, stretching out the quiet.

After a moment, he continues, voice softer. “You ever think about how cars are kinda like... living rooms? Like, whole families used to pile into one of these and just go. It didn’t even matter where - windows down, shitty music blasting, everyone yelling but still together. Like, real family shit. Not perfect, just... messy and loud and warm. The kind you see in movies. Or maybe just at other people’s houses. Never ours, of course.”

Craig exhales smoke without a word, the plume drifting from his lips in a shaky stream that dissipates too quickly. He brings the back of his hand to his mouth, fingers curled awkwardly around the cigarette like it’s an afterthought, like he forgot it was even there. His other hand trembles in his lap.

Kenny watches as Craig’s shoulders tighten - tighten like he’s bracing for impact. Then Craig presses his palm firmer to his mouth, eyes shut, jaw clenched, like he’s holding something inside that wants to tear its way out. A scream. A sob. Maybe both. His whole body trembles with the effort of keeping it in.

Kenny continues. “I always wondered what this thing saw,” he says, thumping his boot on the rusted hood. “Betcha it’s got like, a thousand stories burnt into the frame. Shit, maybe someone lost their virginity in the backseat. Maybe someone cried into the steering wheel. Maybe a dumbass kid learned how to drive and immediately nailed a mailbox.”

Craig exhales with a sound caught between a scoff and a sigh - almost a laugh, almost something else. The ghost of amusement lingers for half a second in the crease of his brow before vanishing again. His cigarette burns down to the filter between two fingers he doesn’t realize are trembling until he lifts it to flick the ash. The embers scatter like fireflies across the hood.

Kenny clocks the motion, says nothing, and stubs out his own before digging in his flannel for the pack again. He strikes a lighter with one hand, shielding the flame from the breeze, and lights two fresh cigarettes. He passes one over like a peace offering, quiet and automatic.

“Round two,” Kenny mutters, his voice soft, the curl of smoke already rising between them. “You’re not the only one who needs it, man.”

Craig blinks, slowly, like he’s just re-entering his body. He takes the fresh cigarette, the tip trembling as it meets his lips. There’s a flicker of gratitude in his expression - faint, buried beneath layers of exhaustion. 

Kenny nudges his boot against Craig’s. “You can feel shit here - just… memories."

A pause. Then, quieter:

“Sometimes it’s easier to talk when it’s not quiet. So, y’know… I’ll keep talking. You don’t have to say anything until you’re ready.”

The smoke rises into the stars. The cold presses in.

Craig stares up at the sky like it might have the answers.

Kenny taps ash off his cigarette, then inhales deeply, the cherry flaring bright in the dark. He gestures lazily to the rusted car beneath them. “Y’know, once I found a Polaroid wedged in the glovebox of an old junker behind the Citywok - just a blurry shot of someone’s knees on a dashboard and a fast food bag. Nothing special, but… it felt like a moment. Like someone was just driving around trying to escape for a bit.”

He exhales and nudges Craig lightly with his elbow. “Kinda like us right now, huh?” Kenny chuckles softly under his breath, tapping the ash from his cigarette before taking a long pull from the whiskey bottle. “You remember that one time we all piled into Clyde’s mom’s minivan after she left it running in the driveway? You, me, Tweek, Stan, Kyle - hell, even Tolkien was there. We cranked the radio, screamed along to some awful punk cover of ‘Barbie Girl,’ and Kyle kept yelling at Clyde to slow down even though we weren’t moving.” He exhales a long stream of smoke, the memory wrapping around his words like warmth. “It was stupid. Totally meaningless. But I think about shit like that all the time.”

Craig doesn’t respond right away, but the sharp line of his jaw softens when Kenny hands him the whiskey bottle. His fingers brush Kenny’s as he takes it - small, fleeting contact, but grounding. He stares at the bottle for a long beat, the amber liquid catching glints of starlight as it swirls in the glass. His grip isn’t trembling anymore, but it’s tight, controlled, like he’s afraid to lose hold of the only steady thing in his hands. When he finally raises it to his lips, the sip he takes is small, deliberate - more about the ritual than the relief. 

“And Kyle,” Kenny goes on, grinning faintly. “That stupid asshole isn't immune to dumb ideas. He once tried to build a rocket in eighth grade and used one of his old inhalers for a pressure valve. Almost took his own eyebrow off.”

The corner of Craig’s mouth twitches.

Kenny lets the silence breathe, but not too long. “Bebe made us dig a grave for a dead bird when we were ten. Made a whole fucking eulogy for it, wore black. We were out there with a shoebox and a Popsicle-stick cross like it was a state funeral. It all felt so real, so tragic.”

He exhales another breath of smoke and stares up with him. “Everyone thinks they know what the hell’s going on. Like we’re all these... polished, full versions of ourselves walking around. But most people don’t know shit. They don’t see anything.”

Craig takes another careful sip, slower this time, the burn less punishing than before. The bottle lingers in his grip afterward, as if he’s unsure whether to let it go or hold it until his fingers go numb. Finally, he passes it back to Kenny without a word.

Kenny takes it without hesitation and tips it back for a longer pull, his throat bobbing with the swallow. The whiskey glints in the starlight between them. He stretches his arms back behind his head, his flannel crinkling against the rusted metal of the hood, and stares up at the sky. His brow is drawn, eyes narrowed slightly like he’s counting constellations no one else can see.

Beside him, Craig lies still, limbs heavy and slow. The alcohol begins to work its way through his body, dulling the sharp corners inside him. Warmth crawls through his chest, settles into his bones like low embers, and starts to untangle some of the knots in his spine. He exhales, long and quiet, the tension leaking from his shoulders in small, invisible threads.

“I see things,” Kenny says, softer now. “I see when people stop eating. When someone can’t look in mirrors anymore. When they walk slower to class ‘cause they don’t have the energy to pretend they want to be there.”

Craig’s head turns slightly, just barely.

Kenny flicks ash again, voice quieter. “I see that because I’ve done all of it. I still do, sometimes.” He taps the side of his temple. “My brain’s a fuckin’ haunted house, man. You don’t wanna know what kind of shit echoes in there.”

Craig’s chest rises, slow and shallow.

Kenny keeps going, not out of pity - just honesty. “You know how long it took me to realize my dad wasn’t normal? That not everyone had to time their exits around rage levels? That it’s not standard to flinch when someone raises a voice?” He chuckles, but there’s no real humor in it. “I thought that was just... life. Like gravity or taxes. I thought everybody knew how to listen for footsteps. How to count the seconds between a slammed door and the first scream.”

Kenny shifts slightly, one knee drawing up as he flicks ash from the edge of his cigarette. “He once broke a broom handle across my back ‘cause I left the fridge open too long. I was twelve. He said it was my fault for ‘testing him.’ I apologized while I couldn’t breathe right.”

Craig doesn’t move, but the hand resting closest to Kenny curls slightly.

“Mom pretended not to hear. Karen would cry, and I’d tell her it wasn’t that bad, that I deserved it, just so she’d stop being scared. I told her bruises just meant I was tough. I didn’t even know I was lying until I was fifteen... But I’m still here. You are too,” he says, finally glancing over at Craig. “So, we must be doing something right. Or at least not doing it completely wrong.”

Craig doesn’t speak yet. But he’s listening.

Kenny shifts again on the hood, letting his head tilt just enough that their shoulders brush. It’s subtle, almost accidental, but Craig doesn’t move away.

The bottle rests now between them, mostly forgotten, its weight no longer a thing to cling to but something simply present. Kenny draws in a slow drag from his cigarette and blows the smoke out through his nose, eyes fixed on the sky.

“You don’t have to talk tonight,” Kenny says after a long pause, his voice quieter now, more intimate. “But when you do… you don’t have to make it poetic or brave or clean. You just gotta let it be what it is, man. Before it kills you.”

Craig’s throat tightens at that. He doesn’t respond, but he flicks ash off the end of his cigarette and lets it dangle between his fingers, his gaze fixed somewhere far past the stars. The comment lands in him like a slow-falling stone - quiet, but heavy.

Craig’s gaze drifts unfocused toward the night sky, eyes glassy with intoxication, searching the wide mouth of darkness for something steady. The almost-empty bottle resting between his legs rocks slightly with each shift in his posture. His head lolls to one side, shoulders sagging under the weight of exhaustion and alcohol. When he finally speaks, his words unravel slowly, as if long-caged and made sluggish on his tongue.

"When I was twelve," he begins slowly, hoarse and low and heavily slurred, "one of my dad’s friends assaulted me."

Kenny stiffens beside him, the cigarette between his fingers frozen in place. The glow at its tip flares, illuminating the sharp contours of his cheekbone before dimming again. 

Craig continues, voice slurring and cracking around the edges. "He was over watching some game. Some stupid… sports game. My moms - mom was in the basement… doing laundry. Dad was at the grill. I was in my room, watching Red Racer. The guy came in, and he – he locked the door… sat next to me.”

He trails off, bringing the cigarette to his lips. The ember flares too bright as he inhales too long, coughing lightly on the exhale. "He kept calling me pretty. Like it was this... thing. Like he was fucking complimenting me. Over n’ over, like it meant something I should be proud of. I was in the bathroom… for like an hour after. Couldn’t get the bleeding to stop. I was too afraid to - to say anything, right then."

Kenny remains silent, listening in the way only someone who knows the terrain of trauma can. The bottle sways gently between them, catching the moonlight.

"Eventually, I told my parents," Craig says after a long agonizing pause. "I didn’t say he did something to me… but I said he was talking to me in-inapprop – propriety? My mom… she - she believed me. My dad said I was making it up. Said I just… being dramatic. It made them fight more."

Craig’s hand clenches into a fist, knuckles white. "Two weeks later, my mom packed up…packed up Ruby and moved to Denver. She wanted - me to go with her. Begged me. But I stayed – and… and I stayed for Tweek. He asked me to stay… and I did. Tweek didn’t – didn’t know what happened." He drops the cigarette, watches the glow fade into ash. His voice is tight, holding back emotion. "My dad told me I split the family up. All because I said something."

Craig presses his palms to his eyes. No tears fall, but the gesture is sharp with exhaustion. "I wasn’t lying. I didn’t make it up. I didn’t ruin anything."

Kenny exhales slowly. “You didn’t.”

Craig doesn’t respond, just takes a deep drink from the whiskey.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” Kenny repeats, firmer now.

Craig coughs with the burn of alcohol, but the tension in his face loosens, jaw unclenching.

"I’ve never said this to anyone," Craig whispers, and his voice cracks. “I figured if I ever said it out loud, it would prove there was something wrong with me. Like I’d lose the last bit of control I had left."

Kenny’s cigarette trembles slightly in his fingers. He draws from it, holding the smoke before speaking. "There was something wrong," he says, voice thick. "But not with you."

Kenny looks away for a second, flicks ash off the tip of the cigarette and exhales. “Shit like that... it makes you think everything’s your fault. Like you let it happen, or didn’t stop it fast enough. But that’s not how it works. That’s not how any of this works.”

Craig stays quiet, breathing shallow.

“You were a kid, man,” Kenny says, quieter now. “You didn't deserve what happened to you.”

Craig lets out a hollow laugh, bitter and thin. “Doesn't feel like that some days.”

“Yeah. I know the feeling,” Kenny replies, tone softer. “But you didn't deserve it, and you sure as hell didn’t destroy your family. Your dad did. You were just the one who spoke up.”

Craig stares at his hands, now resting in his lap. “Tweek doesn’t know anything about what happened and I think… I think I’m scared he won’t look at me the same if I tell him.”

Kenny draws in a breath, flicks his ash again. “He might not. But not ‘cause he’d see you as less. He’d just finally understand the weight you’ve been carrying.”

Craig looks over, unsure. Kenny shrugs slightly. “And yeah, maybe he’ll be hurt you didn’t tell him sooner. But he’ll get over it, because he loves you, man. That boy looks at you like you hung the moon."

Craig stares at his lap, swallowing thickly against the lump in his throat. "I feel like it marked me. I’ve felt it ever since. Like people can see it in me - something that shouldn’t be there. Like I’m stained."

“That fucker wanted you to think that,” Kenny replies. "That’s how it works, man. He wanted to make you think you invited it. That your body asked for it. That you wanted it even when you didn’t know what it was."

Craig swallows. “After that, I started feeling like a problem. Something unfixable. And when my dad looked at me like I had done something to him - I just… shut everything down."

Kenny doesn’t speak at first. He doesn’t need to. The silence hangs between them - not heavy, but like they’re both letting the weight of Craig’s words settle. Finally, he says, “You’re still here, dude. You didn’t give up. You’re stronger than you think.”

Craig exhales like he’s been punched in the ribs. “I don’t know what the fuck to do with that,” he mutters. “With the fact that I’m still alive. That I didn’t say anything. That I let him walk away like nothing happened. That I just... kept breathing like it didn’t matter.”

Kenny leans back on his hands, eyes steady. “You didn’t let him win. You survived, man. That shit takes guts most people don’t have.”

Craig draws his knees up to his chest, curling slightly.

The whiskey in his system dulls the edges, but not enough to make it hurt less.

“I’ve been thinking about killing myself,” Craig says. “I almost did tonight. I was right there. I was so close - but then..." He swallows hard and his voice shakes. “I ran. I don’t even remember deciding to. I just… ran. Straight to Tweek’s, like it would fix something.”

Kenny doesn't recoil. His eyes stay on Craig’s, steady and open. No judgment, no panic - just that calm, terrible understanding.

“I’ve been there,” Kenny says eventually, voice low but steady. “You think it’s just a bad day at first. Then it’s two. Then it’s a week. Then suddenly you’re on the edge of doing something real, and you’re like - shit, when did it get this bad?”

Craig nods slowly, his breath shaky. “It’s not just thoughts. It’s like this… weight. All the time. And tonight, I really thought… that if I just fucking died, it would be easier.”

“Easier for who?” Kenny asks. His tone isn’t accusing - it’s gentle. Honest. “Not for me. Not for Tweek. Not for Tolkien, or Clyde. You really think we would be happier without you?”

Craig looks down, unable to hold Kenny’s gaze as he takes another drink. His voice is small. “I didn’t think I mattered that much.”

“You matter to me,” Kenny says without hesitation. “Even when you’re a being an asshole. Even when you pick fights and don’t answer your phone. You’ve always mattered.”

There’s silence. Craig presses his face into his hands, an attempt at self-comfort.

“I’ve thought about suicide a lot, too,” Kenny admits, voice lower now. “Still do. But I’ve learned not to trust those thoughts. They’re not me - they’re the tired part. The part that wants out, not because it hates life - but because it’s worn down to the bone with all the shit I’ve been through.”

Craig looks at him, and for a second, something in his chest eases.

“I feel tired all the time,” he says quietly.

“Yeah,” Kenny replies. “Me too. It’s like breathing underwater sometimes. But at least we’re still breathing.”

Craig lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“I just want it to stop,” Craig murmurs. “The pressure. The emptiness. The noise inside my head. I don’t want to hurt anyone - I just want to disappear for a while. Like... fade out. Quietly.”

Kenny nods, slow and thoughtful. The glow from the streetlamp hits half his face, leaving the other in shadow. “Yeah. I get that. I really do. But dying doesn’t erase the pain, man. It just hands it off to the people who love you. And they carry it forever. And they don’t get a say.”

Craig’s voice drops even further, barely audible now. “I didn’t think anyone… actually did. Love me.”

Kenny shakes his head, emphatic but gentle. “Well, you’re wrong,” he says. “You’re so fucking wrong, Craig. You have no idea.”

For once, Craig doesn’t look away. He meets Kenny’s gaze, and something in him stays still.

No flinching. No jokes. Just the raw weight of being seen.

After a moment, his voice returns - hoarse, fragile, like it’s working through gravel. “I think I ruined everything with Tweek. I didn’t mean to. I just…” He falters, jaw tightening. “I don’t even know how to start fixing it. Every time I open my mouth, it’s like I’m already fucking it all up.”

Kenny exhales, long and slow, his shoulders lowering like he’s dropping weight too. “Let’s just get through the night, alright dude? One step and all.”

Craig’s breath shakes. “I don’t even know if I can do that, right now.”

“You can,” Kenny says simply. His voice has a steady rhythm to it, like he’s said this before - to himself, maybe. “I’ll be with you the whole time.”

Craig glances at him. His eyes are bloodshot and wet, but he’s listening. “You’re not gonna leave?”

Kenny snorts softly, a half-laugh with no real humor behind it. “Nah. I’ve got nowhere better to be. Plus, you think I’m gonna leave you out here like this? Get real, dude.” He pauses, the corners of his mouth lifting in a tired, crooked smile. “You don’t scare me, Craig. Not with this.”

Craig inhales, a breath shallow but deliberate. The ache is still there, still deep - but now it’s not so isolating. Kenny is beside him. Not judging. Not lecturing. Just there. Someone who understands the terrain. Someone who didn’t flinch.

“You really think I’m worth being around?” Craig asks, tentative. “Even like this? Even when I’m a fucking mess?”

Kenny meets his eyes without missing a beat. “Every time,” he says. His voice is rough, laced with smoke and honesty. “Especially now.”

Craig lets the silence come again. This time it doesn’t claw at him. It wraps around them like a shared blanket, heavy but not suffocating. He stares at the gravel under their shoes, the way the moonlight cuts across Kenny’s shoulder, and wonders how the world can be so quiet when his insides feel so loud.

Craig bites his lip, and his voice breaks as he says, “I don’t know how I got like this.”

Kenny glances at him, more serious now. “Nobody wakes up and just ends up like this overnight, dude. It’s a slow grind. You carry it for so long, it starts to feel normal. Starts to feel like... like maybe it’s just who you are now. But it’s not.”

Craig laughs, but it’s hollow. His face twists as a hot tear slides down his cheek. “I didn’t think I’d still be here. I didn’t think it’d matter if I wasn’t.”

“It does,” Kenny says. “You do.”

“I love him so much it hurts,” Craig chokes, scrubbing tears off his cheeks with the back of his hand. “It's like I'm always standing outside the house, looking in through the window. But then I - …  I'm the one who went outside and chose to stay there. Tweek keeps asking me to come in, but I'm so fucking afraid to.”

Kenny’s voice lowers. “Then you tell him that, when you’re ready. Right now, man, let’s just focus on staying alive. Hang with me here for a bit and stay alive.”

Craig closes his eyes. The weight of exhaustion pulls him forward until his shoulder brushes Kenny’s, and then, slowly, his head comes to rest there too. The hoodie Kenny’s wearing smells faintly of smoke and cologne - sharp, but not unpleasant.

It’s a scent Craig remembers from years of standing beside him, of shared cigarettes and long walks home in the cold. It’s grounding.

Kenny doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t tense or shift away. He just adjusts, quiet and easy, angling his body ever so slightly to make room.

There’s no grand gesture, no awkward acknowledgment. Just this quiet allowance, like leaning on each other is something they’ve always done. 

Like Kenny’s holding him together in the only way he knows how - by being there, solid and strong, saying nothing but meaning everything.

Chapter Text

Tweek Bros. Coffeehouse rests in a lull, suspended in that transitional hour where late afternoon begins its slow descent into evening.

Sunlight slants in through the wide windows, casting honeyed streaks across the worn hardwood floors. It’s quiet in a way that feels curated - intentional - even as the occasional chime from the door punctuates the air. Clinking dishes, the low drone of indie music and the occasional hiss of steamed milk.

Most of the patrons are familiar faces now: students clicking away at keyboards, professionals murmuring into phones, a few readers nursing their drinks with slow, absent sips. The steady hiss and sigh of the espresso machine offers a kind of rhythm, a gentle undercurrent that gives the space its pulse.

Tweek is tucked into a corner booth, partially shielded by the tall backrest and a shelf of potted ivy. He’s folded into himself - one leg drawn up, knee pressing against his chest as he hunches over the clutter of his laptop and sketchbook. 

His pencil is poised against his mouth, tapping lightly in time with the persistent bounce of his leg. The cursor blinks on his screen, an impatient metronome against the silence of his stalled focus.

In this pocket of golden stillness, Tweek is anything but calm - his mind a rapid-fire circuit, burning through thoughts faster than he can catch them.

He doesn’t notice the footsteps at first.

"H-hey, Tweek?"

The voice is gentle, but Tweek’s head jerks up, startled.

Butters stands at the edge of the booth, apron a little wrinkled, hair soft and slightly unkempt from his after-school shift. He carries a ceramic mug and a small dessert plate with a muffin resting neatly at its center. There’s nothing rushed about him - his every motion is deliberate, as if the pace of the café’s quiet had seeped into his bones.

Tweek blinks, confused. “What - ?”

Butters sets the mug down next to the laptop with precise care. “Chamomile,” he says simply. “Just brewed it fresh.”

He places the muffin beside it - a blueberry one, still warm, with coarse sugar glittering faintly across the cracked dome.

“You looked like you could use something,” Butters adds, voice pitched low, as though not to disturb whatever fragile thing might be holding Tweek upright.

Tweek glances between the tea and the muffin, then back to Butters. His brow furrows. “I - I didn’t order anything.”

“I know,” Butters replies. His voice is easy, undemanding. “It’s on me. Don’t worry about it.”

Tweek swallows. He’s not used to this kind of attention, not when it arrives without obligation or expectation. It unsettles him more than it should.

But Butters doesn’t linger. He offers another small smile - gentle, without intrusion - and begins to turn away.

“Thank you,” Tweek blurts, voice catching in the middle.

Butters glances back. “Of course.”

Tweek looks down at the tea, watching the steam curl upward in delicate, ephemeral threads.

“Seriously,” he adds, softer now. “That’s... really kind of you.”

Butters nods once, sincere. “I’ll be at the counter if you need anything.”

And then he’s gone - no performance, no need to hover. Just a quiet act of care, left behind like a folded note.

Tweek doesn’t move right away. His eyes remain fixed on the mug, watching the way the rising heat warps the light. His throat feels tight. There’s no rational reason for the emotion welling in his chest - but maybe that’s the point. Maybe it’s not about logic at all.

Maybe it’s the fact that someone is offering him comfort without needing a reason.

Tweek picks up the mug, cupping it in both hands. The ceramic is warm, grounding - solid in a way that feels oddly reassuring. When he takes the first sip, the chamomile is faintly sweet and calming, and something within his chest begins to release.

He takes a slow bite of the muffin. It’s warm, soft in the center, the sugar on top crisp against his tongue. He chews slowly, watching Butters from across the café, his focus lingering in a way that’s more observational than curious.

Butters is wiping down the pastry case in soft, concentric circles, humming quietly to himself - something upbeat, vaguely familiar. There’s an ease to him, a rhythm that feels foreign and enviable.

Tweek wonders what it would be like to move through the world like that - without tension curled into every joint, without your own thoughts clawing at the inside of your skull.

His mind drifts.

To Craig. To the way his voice cracked last night, low and shaking. To the way his hands gripped Tweek’s hips like he was clinging to something slipping from his grasp. To how cold he looked afterward - how withdrawn.

He thinks about college, too. RISD is waiting, deadlines and flights and housing paperwork folded into emails he keeps flagging but never opening.

Everything feels like it’s coming too fast, and also not fast enough. Like he’s standing in place while the world breaks apart around him.

He’s already spiraling before he knows it.

Butters hums again. A lyric slips out under his breath - something from the radio.

Tweek watches him, and blinks back to the present.

The tea continues to steam beside him, soft curls of warmth rising and dissipating into the afternoon air. The muffin remains half-eaten on the napkin, forgotten but not dismissed. His pencil lies idle on the table. Tweek’s mind is loud in contrast. Which is why his own voice, when it emerges, cuts through the quiet like a sudden breeze.

"Butters?"

The boy looks up immediately from behind the counter. "Yeah?"

Tweek looks away nervously, avoiding eye contact. "Um. You can join me. If you want. For - for a minute.”

Butters blinks, caught off guard. "Oh. Sure! Yeah. If it’s okay."

Tweek nods, too fast. He gestures at the chair across from him.

Butters glances around - no customers at the register, no pending orders, no shouts from the back kitchen. He unties his apron and moves carefully, as though mindful of the stillness surrounding them. He slides into the seat with quiet grace, like someone who’s well-practiced in taking up minimal space.

They sit in a comfortable hush for a moment, the low hum of the café filling the quiet between them.

Butters eventually offers a small, easy smile, unforced and without expectation. “You’re always drawin’. What’re you workin’ on?”

Tweek shrugs, his fingers threading through his disheveled blond hair. “Sketches. Nothing specific. I’m just practicing... trying to get better.”

Butters leans forward slightly, resting his arms on the table, his posture open and sincere. “I betcha you’ll be the best in your freshman class at that college o’ yours.”

Tweek huffs a breath, something between a laugh and a sigh - more deflection than amusement. “I doubt it. Most of the people going there are probably already brilliant. I’ll be lucky just to keep up.”

“Well,” Butters replies, his voice strong with quiet conviction, “you got in too. That means you’re talented enough to belong there.”

There’s no hint of flattery in his tone. No exaggerated reassurance. Just a simple statement of belief, delivered with the kind of confidence that feels earned rather than forced.

“You doing anything after graduation?” Tweek asks, the question casual but sincere.

Butters nods. “Yeah. I’m going to community college first - just tacklin’ the general education requirements first - English, math, the usual suspects. After that, I’ll transfer to a four-year. I haven’t decided where yet, but I’m lookin’ at Metro or CU Denver.”

Tweek looks up, his expression attentive. “That’s smart.”

Butters offers a modest shrug, clearly unconcerned with impressing anyone. “Money’s tight. This way just makes more sense. I don’t mind takin’ the long way ‘round.”

Tweek nods slowly. After a beat, his voice lowers. “Good for you.”

Butters just nods. He doesn’t push the conversation forward or force a response. He just stays where he is, composed and quiet, allowing the silence to linger without needing to fix or fill it.

And then -

“Butters? Could you take out the trash?”

The call slices through the air from the back room, unmistakably Tweek’s father.

In one smooth motion, Butters rises from his seat, already tying his apron back around his waist. “Sorry. I should head back.”

Tweek nods, his tone easy. “Yeah. No worries.”

Butters turns, then pauses. He glances back with a small, unassuming smile.

“I’m glad you liked the tea.”

Tweek doesn’t answer right away. His smile is slight but genuine, the kind that lingers long after someone walks away.

When Butters disappears behind the counter, the quiet returns.

Tweek glances down at the half-eaten muffin, the cooling tea, and the sketchbook laid open before him like a blank space waiting to be filled.

And for the first time in hours - he draws.

The room spins.

Not in a violent way. Just slow and sickly, like the gravity’s been tampered with. Like everything’s leaning a few degrees too far to the left. Craig stares at the ceiling without blinking, his breath thick in his throat, stale with whiskey and dread.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep.

He doesn’t even remember getting home, let alone crawling into bed.

But he remembers talking to Kenny.

He remembers it too well.

He shoves the blanket off, rolling to his side too fast. His stomach lurches and he chokes on the acid that creeps up his throat. The taste of whiskey still coats the back of his tongue. 

The ceiling is a pale blur. The window is dim. Late afternoon maybe? Early morning? Evening? The air is thick and unmoving, and the silence in the room doesn’t feel peaceful.

Craig swings his legs over the side of the bed, bare feet hitting the carpet with a soft thud. The floor tilts under him. He braces his forearm against the wall, steadies his breath, and shuffles down the hall to the bathroom, still a little drunk despite the sleep.

The mirror meets him like a punch.

He looks like hell.

Eyes red, lashes damp, skin gray with a film of sweat. His lips are dry. The inside of his mouth feels like cotton. He grips the edge of the sink until the porcelain squeaks under his fingers.

Talking to Kenny - he actually told him. Craig said it aloud. The memory clings like a film he can’t scrub off, lodged in the back of his throat.

Sitting on the hood of that rusted out fucking junker car. Downing whiskey like it’s water – burning through cigarettes.

Twelve years old. Sitting cross-legged on his bed, the TV playing Red Racer in flickering static colors. A blanket twisted around his waist, a half-finished bowl of cereal slowly congealing on the nightstand beside him.

He said Craig looked pretty.

Craig feels it again now, like a fist clenched in his gut. He lurches toward the sink, turns the tap with shaking fingers, and throws cold water onto his face. The shock is immediate - jolting, almost painful. He gasps, his skin tight, jaw clenched.

And Kenny.

Craig sags forward, gripping the edge of the sink like it might keep him from slipping under. His other hand covers his mouth, fingers shaking. It’s not just the memory. It’s not even just the pain.

It’s the confession.

The raw, suffocating humiliation of saying it aloud.

Of Kenny knowing.

Now, everything feels fundamentally disordered - his body, his voice, even the texture of his own skin. The air in the room seems to press down on him, too dense and too sharp all at once, as if the atmosphere itself has turned adversarial.

He stumbles back into his bedroom, moving on autopilot, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. Wrapping himself tightly in the nearest blanket, he retreats to the corner of the bed. The fabric is rough against his skin, but he clings to it like armor, like the thin barrier might render him invisible or impervious.

He closes his eyes - not to sleep, but to shield himself from the overwhelming stimuli pressing in from every direction. His breathing remains shallow, unsteady, and sleep doesn’t come. It never does in moments like this.

He just waits. Suspended in a stillness that feels like it could stretch on indefinitely.

Then -

His phone vibrates once against the nightstand. The sound is muted but distinct.

It buzzes again.

And again.

Each notification slices through the silence like a dropped pin in a cathedral, drawing his awareness back to the present, whether he wants it or not.

Kenny: you up?

Kenny: we gotta talk about last night

Kenny: i mean it. don’t ignore me.

Kenny: i’m not going anywhere, dude. not after all that.

The last message sits unread for a long, tense four minutes.

Then, finally, it’s marked read.

Still, Craig doesn’t reply.

Moments later, his phone lights up with an incoming call. Kenny’s contact photo fills the screen - an old image of him mid-laugh, middle finger raised, frozen in time like some dumb, sacred relic. Craig just stares at it, breath shallow, and lets it ring until it clicks over to voicemail. Then, with more force than he means, he flips the phone face-down onto the floor. It lands beside his bed with a soft clack, the screen dimming like it, too, is giving up.

The knock comes less than an hour later. Just three solid thuds against the aging wood.

Craig doesn’t move.

The front door opens anyway. The groan of its frame is softened by practiced hands - someone who knows exactly how much pressure to use to keep the hinges from squealing too loud. Then come the footsteps: heavy but even, a slow ascent up the stairs.

"Craig."

The voice cuts through the stillness.

Kenny.

A few seconds pass before the bedroom door swings inward. Another creak. Another unspoken understanding: Kenny knows this space too well to knock.

Kenny steps inside like he has every right to be there. And maybe, in some ways, he does.

He carries a plastic gas station bag and nearly empty bottle of whiskey from the night before. His hoodie hangs open and wrinkled, and he looks exhausted in a way that means he hasn’t slept since they parted ways because he’s been thinking, not because he couldn’t.

“Hair of the dog,” Kenny mutters, raising the bottle in a languid arc, his voice coarse with fatigue. There’s a heaviness to his presence, the kind that doesn’t come from just a hangover. “And maybe something to keep your hands from shaking before we talk about what the hell happened last night.”

Craig doesn’t respond. He’s slouched against the headboard, eyes bloodshot, face closed off. 

From the crumpled gas station bag, Kenny pulls out a bottle of Pedialyte and a small bag of pretzels. He sets the whiskey down on the nightstand with exaggerated gentleness, as if the sound might rupture whatever fragile equilibrium Craig is clinging to.

Then he sinks onto the edge of the bed without ceremony. No scanning the room. No anxious tapping. He angles himself slightly away, allowing Craig space.

“You told me something last night,” Kenny says, his tone weighted. “Something real. And now you’re gonna pretend like you didn’t.”

Craig finally speaks, his voice thin and raw, like something fraying from the inside out. “You weren’t supposed to hear it.”

Kenny stays still, posture unshaken. He doesn’t meet Craig’s eyes.

“Yeah,” he replies after a beat. His tone is soft, not dismissive - measured, almost resigned. “I figured.”

Craig swallows hard. “I didn’t want anyone to see me like that.”

Kenny’s voice softens. “I’m not judging you, Craig.”

Craig turns to face him, his eyes dull. “I don’t know how to be around you now. It changes everything.”

“It doesn’t change me,” Kenny says gently.

Craig stares at his own hands. “It changes me.”

They sit in silence, the kind that doesn’t demand to be filled - thick with history and held breath.

Kenny is the one who finally speaks, his voice quiet and measured, like he’s unearthing something long buried. “You remember last summer?”

Craig’s expression tightens slightly, a shallow crease appearing between his brows. “When you left South Park for three months?”

Kenny nods slowly, his eyes unfocused, as if tracking the shape of the memory in the distance. “Told everyone I was helping my cousins move up to Boulder. You bought it.”

There’s no accusation in his tone. Just the weight of what went unsaid.

“I did.”

“I didn’t want anyone asking questions,” Kenny says.

Craig’s voice is quiet. “Why?”

Kenny draws in a breath, slow and deliberate, as though bracing himself against the memory. “Because I ran away from home. I didn’t want anyone to know that… things got to that point for me.”

He rubs his hands together, grounding himself. “I was sleeping outside and just… hungry in a way that makes everything else feel unimportant. Then this guy shows up. Just some guy. Asks me how old I am… says he’ll give me money.”

Craig freezes, the air stilling around him like the room itself is holding its breath.

Kenny hesitates, eyes locked on the floor like he can’t stand to see Craig’s face. His fingers dig into the seams of his jeans, knuckles pale from pressure.

“He says he’ll pay me if I just...” His voice falters. Kenny can’t finish the sentence.

Craig’s breath goes shallow.

“I said yes,” Kenny continues, clearing his throat. “I didn’t want to. Shit, man, I’m not even gay… Not that that even matters for that kind of situation… I just - I didn’t want to die. I was so fucking hungry,” his voice wavers. “I did it two more times. Just enough to buy a bus ticket back to South Park.”

Craig looks at him for a long, aching moment, eyes saturated with something beyond judgment - something more like sorrow.

“Why are you telling me this?”

Kenny lifts his gaze. “Because we’ve always understood each other - we never had to spell it out. You mention your dad, and shit, man, I know. I say something vague about mine, and you just… you get it.”

He draws in a breath.

“But this? What you told me last night, and what I just said now? That’s deeper. That’s some shit that sits in your chest and rots if you keep it to yourself. And I don’t want you thinking you’re the only one walking around with something like that. I don’t want you to die, man.”

Craig nods once, the movement slow and stiff, his expression unreadable.

"I saw the way you looked last night. Like you were ready to die. Like you wanted someone to end it for you. And I know that feeling, Craig. I know it way too well. I needed you to know I’ve been there too. I needed you to know you’re not broken in some way I haven’t already seen in myself.”

Craig heart plummets when he looks up to see Kenny’s eyes are wet. Kenny just wipes a hand over his face and grins, wiping away tears before they can fully form.

He tries to laugh with his usual deflection. “I guess now we’re even.” He smiles, or something like it - an upward twitch of his mouth that never makes it near his eyes. “So yeah... technically, we’ve both had encounters with shitty old men. Yours was horrifying. Mine was just plain capitalism, baby.”

Craig turns toward him. “Kenny.”

Kenny lifts a hand, still grasping for humor, for distance. “What?” he shrugs, voice light in the wrong way. “I accidentally launched a freelance business. That’s gotta count for something, right?”

But Craig doesn’t indulge him. He holds Kenny in a quiet, unnerving stillness, his voice flat and unwavering. “Just because you agreed doesn’t mean it was consensual.”

Kenny’s smirk falters, collapses. Craig watches him and Kenny can’t make eye contact.

“That’s not how shit works,” Craig says, low but certain. “You didn’t choose it. You were just trying not to starve.”

Kenny’s jaw clenches. A beat passes - long, suffocating. He swallows hard, and when he nods, the movement is slow, almost reluctant, like the admission costs something.

“Yeah,” he says finally, voice quiet. “Okay. Point taken.”

They both stare ahead, unmoving. Caught in separate but parallel spirals of thought. The air between them isn’t hostile - it’s heavy with the understanding that comes from shared, unspoken history.

After what feels like an eternity measured in heartbeats, Kenny exhales a sigh. His voice emerges with a faint smirk behind it, too quiet to break the stillness entirely. “Well... we’ve both got tragic origin stories. Pretty sure that makes us soulmates.”

Craig blinks, disarmed.Then - unexpectedly - a soft, strained laugh pushes its way out of his chest. It isn’t joyful, but it’s genuine.

“Shut up,” he says, shaking his head. Still, the smallest trace of a smile lingers at the edge of his mouth.

Kenny smiles back, and for the first time in hours - maybe days - it isn’t a deflection or a joke at his own expense.

Bebe’s living room is covered in pillows, magazine pages, glitter gel pens, and open palettes of highlighter and blush. There’s a disco ball night light plugged into the wall casting soft pink strobe speckles across the ceiling, and Hands Clean by Alanis Morissette plays from Bebe’s hot pink Bluetooth speaker.

Heidi is curled upside-down on the couch with her legs over the back, scrolling through astrology memes like it’s a full-time job and reporting her findings.

“Okay but Gemini moons are emotional terrorists,” she announces.

“Facts,” Wendy deadpans, filing her nails. “I dated one when Stan and I were on a break. He cried during Superbad and then ghosted me.”

Tweek sits cross-legged near the foot of the couch with his hands held out, blue nail polish drying. His sleeves are pushed up past his elbows, revealing faint ink smudges and fading paint flecks from earlier. His hair is freshly washed but wild, pushed back with a pale pink headband Bebe stuck there without asking.

The weight of it feels silly and sweet, like something holding his skull together.

Bebe is on the floor holding up a mirror, cross-legged in a tank top and biker shorts, applying liquid eyeliner with terrifying precision. “I need everyone to tell me their summer skin goals in three words or less,” she says without looking up. “Mine are dewy, clean, and transcendent.”

“Flushed, hydrated, and slutty,” Nichole calls from the lounge chair.

“Glass skinned panic,” Tweek offers under his breath.

“Valid,” Wendy says immediately. “That’s how you always look.”

Bebe glances back and points a manicured finger at him. “You have beautiful skin. You’re not allowed to have insecurities.”

“I don’t think insecurities work that way,” Tweek mutters, but he smiles anyway.

Clyde barrels in with a triumphant yell after his visit to the bathroom. He’s still in his jeans and hoodie from earlier, but over it he’s pulled one of Bebe’s camisoles in periwinkle blue - badly stretched across his shoulders. He has a puffy scrunchie in his hair like a victory crown and two sparkly butterfly clips above each ear.

“CLAUDIA HAS ARRIVED,” he shouts. “GENDER IS A CAGE AND I AM A FREE LITTLE FOREST NYMPH.”

“Oh my god,” Heidi says, cracking up. “Why are you like this?”

“Is that my top?” Bebe asks but immediately goes ignored.

“I contain multitudes,” Clyde says, striking a sultry pose against the closet door. “Get you a man who can do both – carry heavy stuff and slay in baby blue.”

“You’re a menace,” Nichole groans, tossing a pillow at him.

Clyde deflects it with flair. “You invited me, remember?”

“No, we didn’t,” Wendy replies dryly.

Bebe waves a mascara wand at him. “He showed up first with chips and sparkling cider and said ‘My feminine energy is peaking.’ What was I supposed to do?”

“He did bring five flavors of Pringles,” Heidi offers.

Tweek laughs - actually laughs, full and real - when Clyde does an exaggerated catwalk across the room, almost tripping on a pair of Bebe’s boots. But beneath it, his chest still feels tight. That soft, invisible squeeze that never quite leaves.

His phone is tucked under his thigh.

He hasn’t looked at it in over an hour.

Not because he forgot.

Because he’s too scared of what he won’t find.

“Alright, face masks or tarot?” Bebe asks, finally capping her eyeliner. “You have five seconds to decide.”

"TAROT," Clyde and Heidi exclaim in unison, their voices rising with dramatic flair.

Bebe rolls her eyes with a fond sigh and reaches for a well-worn deck of tarot cards resting on an end table. The edges are frayed, the illustrations slightly faded from use. “Alright, Tweek, you’re up first. You need this more than the rest of us.”

Tweek startles slightly, his eyebrows lifting. “Wait, what? Why me?”

Heidi leans in, her tone soft but serious. “You’re radiating break-up energy. No offense.”

Tweek opens his mouth, his response immediate and defensive. “We didn’t break up.” The words come too quickly, the edge in his voice betraying a discomfort he can’t quite hide.

“I said energy,” Heidi emphasizes, offering a small, sympathetic shrug as if to say it’s out of her hands.

With a theatrical flourish, Bebe pats the floor in front of her crossed legs. Her expression is indulgent but sincere. “Come on, sit. Let’s see what the universe has in store for you. Maybe it’s time to recalibrate your fate.”

He shifts forward and sits in front of her, cross-legged on the rug. The lights glitter across their skin. Everything smells like vanilla and peppermint tea. There’s so much warmth here, and he feels like he’s floating just above it. Not quite touching.

“Close your eyes,” Bebe instructs. “Think about what you need to know.”

Tweek closes his eyes.

He thinks about Craig’s hands shaking against his skin, bruises blooming like half-formed confessions, kisses that tasted more like panic than passion. He remembers how Craig couldn’t look at him, how he clung like someone begging to be undone. So afraid of what he felt, so desperate to silence it.

He thinks: I need to know if he’s coming back. I need to know if I can survive if he doesn’t.

Bebe draws a card with slow deliberation, her polished nails glinting beneath the colorful lights.

"The Tower," she announces, flipping it over with a fluid motion.

A wave of discomfort rolls across the group, subtle but palpable.

"Oof," Nichole mutters, leaning forward. "Brutal."

A beat passes. Even Clyde, draped dramatically across a pile of pillows, quiets.

Bebe arches a brow, lips pressed into something between sympathy and warning. "You know what this one means, don’t you?"

Tweek’s voice emerges softly, like muscle memory. “It means everything’s about to collapse. Without warning. And it’s gonna hurt.”

His hands are still in his lap, knuckles white around the hem of his sleep shirt. He doesn’t look up.

Bebe nods, and her voice shifts lower. "But it’s not all destruction, honey. It clears the debris. You can’t rebuild without tearing something down first."

Wendy adds from where she’s curled near the corner, “Sometimes things have to break before they can transform.”

He looks at the card.

The illustration seems to pulse under his gaze: a tower ripped apart by lightning, flames unraveling from its roof as two figures tumble through the sky - faceless, weightless, caught in a freefall that has no promise of landing.

His stomach turns. The room feels too warm.

He swallows hard, the corners of his vision dimming just slightly.

He can’t quite breathe.

“That tracks,” he says after a moment, his voice scraping out of his throat, dry and flat.

But what he means is: It already has.

He doesn’t say Craig’s name. He doesn’t need to.

No one presses further. The card remains face-up between them, burning like an omen.

Clyde flops dramatically into the nest of pillows and announces, “I’m next. And I swear to god if you give me The Hermit again, I’m starting an OnlyFans.”

The room explodes with laughter again. Tweek feels it settle in his chest, feels the noise press against the hollow places inside him like warmth soaking into frostbitten skin. He doesn’t join in vocally, but he smiles - genuinely, instinctively - because for once, the moment doesn’t demand anything from him.

Bebe arches a perfectly sculpted brow as she leans over to reshuffle the deck. “Oh, we’re doing this, huh?”

Clyde smirks. “I am spiritually and emotionally prepared to receive my fate. Gaze into the void, witch queen,” he says as he saddles up next to Tweek like it’s something they do all the time.

“You smell like Axe body spray,” Tweek says with disgust as he leans away from him with a look.

“Thank you,” Clyde says, solemnly. “It’s called a scent profile. Now hush up and let me ground myself through your gentle, artistic aura.”

Bebe fans the tarot deck dramatically, rings catching the light. “Alright, dumbass. Pick with intention.”

Clyde closes his eyes, draws a card with over-the-top flair, then slaps it onto the rug like he’s winning Uno.

Bebe flips it.

“The Lovers.”

A scandalized gasp rolls through the room like thunder.

“OH MY GOD,” Heidi howls, nearly knocking her LaCroix over. “Clyde, who are you in love with?!”

“I KNEW IT,” Nichole screams, grabbing a pillow and slamming it against the floor. “I knew you were harboring secret feelings. Is it someone in this room?! It’s someone in this room, isn’t it?”

Clyde flings his arm across his forehead dramatically. “I will never reveal my secrets. A gentleman keeps his affairs locked in the sacred vault of his heart!”

“You kissed Wendy in seventh grade during spin the bottle,” Tweek reminds him, deadpan.

“AND I HAVE NEVER KNOWN PEACE SINCE,” Clyde declares.

“I literally told you it was fine,” Wendy says, sipping her tea with regal indifference. “You apologized four times.”

Clyde rolls onto his back, shuffling until his head in Tweek’s lap, who looks at him with disdain. “That was my villain origin story.”

“You don’t have a villain arc,” Bebe says, shuffling the deck again. “You have a sitcom arc. You’re the quirky roommate who eats all the cereal and dates the weird neighbor who owns six ferrets.”

“That’s very specific,” Clyde murmurs, and Tweek pushes him away.

“I saw it in a dream,” she replies.

Bebe shuffles the cards. “Okay, Heidi, your turn. Let’s see what the cosmos have in store for our emotional Scorpio gremlin.”

“Give me chaos,” Heidi murmurs, eyes glinting with anticipation. “I want blood in the water.”

Bebe draws a card from the deck, her movements deliberate, almost ceremonial. She turns it over.

“The Moon.”

The room stills.

“Oh fuck,” Wendy breathes, her posture tightening subtly.

“Oh no,” Nichole echoes, her fingers curling into the hem of her sweatshirt.

Heidi leans in, transfixed by the image on the card. A wolf and a dog howling beneath a moonlit sky. A path winding through shadows. Her smile blooms slowly, unnervingly wide. “Yes. Yes. Lies. Secrets. Repressed emotion. DREAM LOGIC. Let the unraveling begin.”

“You are so scary,” Clyde mutters from the floor, his voice half-amused, half-wary as he clutches a throw pillow like armor.

“I love this game,” Heidi announces, her voice light but undercut with something sharper - genuine delight in the strange and unknown.

“Of course you do,” Wendy replies dryly, but there’s fondness behind her words. A roll of her eyes. A half-smile.

Nichole leans forward, practically bouncing on the pile of throw pillows. “Okay, my turn. Give me something epic.”

Bebe shuffles with a flick of her wrist, eyes narrowed in faux scrutiny. “Let’s see what the cosmos thinks of you tonight.” She pulls a card from the center of the deck and places it between them.

“Strength.”

Nichole lets out a gasp, then immediately beams. “Oh my god, yes. That’s the Leo card, right?”

“Big Leo energy,” Heidi confirms with a dry smile, sipping from her LaCroix.

Bebe grins. “It’s all about resilience, inner courage, quiet power. Taming the beast with compassion, not force.”

Nichole looks down at the lion on the card, the woman holding its jaws open with unshaken calm. Her voice softens. “Spot on.”

Bebe reclaims the tarot deck with a theatrical flourish.

"Alright," she declares, voice lilting with mock ceremony. "Enough stalling. The high priestess reads for herself."

“Bold,” Wendy says, swirling the last of her tea. “You sure you want to open that door?”

Bebe scoffs, her laugh light but edged with confidence. "Please. The universe wishes it could rattle me."

She fans the cards in front of her like a blackjack dealer, eyes closed, lashes dusted in shimmer.

Tweek watches her, momentarily mesmerized by her ease - how comfortable she is in her own skin, how commandingly she holds the moment. When she finally selects a card with a deliberate flick, it feels less like chance and more like inevitability.

She turns it over, lips already curling into a knowing smirk.

“Queen of Wands.”

“Obviously,” Nichole says.

“I’m not even mad,” Heidi says, sitting cross-legged in admiration. “That’s just... correct.”

Bebe beams, tossing her hair over one shoulder. “Charismatic. Ambitious. Fearless. Likes attention. Commands fire. Will hex your ex if you deserve it.”

“And you definitely hexed Kyle’s last girlfriend,” Wendy adds.

“She cheated on him,” Bebe says flatly. “Someone had to.”

Clyde leans up on one elbow, lips pursed. “Are you telling me this deck just confirmed you’re a glamor witch queen with vengeance-based hot girl energy?”

Bebe gives him a glitter-laced wink. “It’s not confirmation. It’s affirmation.”

Tweek grins faintly as he watches them, warm with affection.

“Alright,” Bebe says, reshuffling the deck with practiced ease. “Last one. The oracle herself.”

All eyes shift to Wendy.

"Alright," she says, her voice carrying the calm authority of someone who rarely shies away from scrutiny. "Hit me with fate."

Bebe spreads the cards and the room holds its breath. Wendy reaches forward and plucks a single card from the spread, a clean motion devoid of theatrics.

Bebe flips it over and studies it, then announces with a raised brow, "Justice."

The card lies face-up between them - a robed figure with scales in one hand and a sword in the other, eyes focused and unflinching. A symbol of consequence, integrity, and the unavoidable mirror of cause and effect.

Wendy’s smirk deepens, and she tilts her head as if the universe had simply confirmed something she already knew.

“Oh shit,” Clyde whispers, dramatically clutching his imaginary pearls.

Tweek tilts his head. “That one’s... intense, right?”

“It’s the Wendy card,” Nichole says. “Balance. Clarity. Consequences. Slicing through bullshit.”

Wendy eyes the card without blinking. “Equal parts order and wrath.”

Bebe hums in approval. “You’re the person people want on their side - until they realize you’ll call them out too.”

Wendy smiles, soft but sharp. “Good. Keeps things honest.”

Tweek leans down slightly. “I think mine’s still the worst, though.”

“No,” Bebe says, suddenly serious in the way only she can be after giggling about soulmates and ferrets. “It just means change is coming. Tower stuff sucks - but it clears the ground. It’s like the universe knocking over your blocks so you can rebuild something better.”

Tweek stares at the cards. “...Cool,” he says, too dry to be convincing.

Clyde taps his chest like a melodramatic pledge. “If your life crumbles, I’ll help you pick up the bricks. I will arrive in a bedazzled cape and rebuild your emotional foundation with sparkle glue and sarcasm.”

“That’s not comforting,” Wendy says.

“It’s comforting to me,” Clyde replies, tossing his butterfly clips at her. “Why do you all have cool destiny cards and I got romantic crisis energy?”

“Because you are romantic crisis energy,” Bebe says.

“You still have that mixtape you made for me in 5^th grade,” Heidi adds.

“I was vulnerable!” Clyde protests, pressing the sleep mask over his eyes again.

Tweek observes the room with a gentle stillness, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Around him, their tarot cards lie strewn like symbolic remnants of something sensitive and intimate.

Justice.

The Queen.

The Moon.

Strength.

The Lovers.

The Tower.

He lets it wash over him. The warmth. The ordinariness. The rare, quiet miracle of feeling entirely at ease in his own skin. This - this moment - isn’t extraordinary. But it feels like safety made tangible.

Bebe claps her hands. “Okay! Who wants glitter roots?”

“I do!” Nichole says immediately, springing up.

“You are a woman of taste and style,” Bebe says. “Tweek, you’re next.”

“I already have glitter in my hair,” he says, gesturing vaguely.

“Then you need more. You deserve to be shiny.”

He lets her tug him forward again, eyes fluttering shut as she runs fingers through his messy blond spikes, layering in sticky gel and silver glitter. It’s warm and chaotic and just this side of ridiculous.

The bright glare of the living room light turning on makes them all flinch.

“It’s me,” Bebe’s mom calls from the hallway, her voice light with good-natured authority. She hovers near the light switch, her silhouette backlit by the hallway glow. “It’s midnight, kids. Wind it down or take it to the basement.”

Clyde releases a dramatic groan from where he’s sprawled across the floor, arms flung out like a martyr. “We’ve been banished.”

“Justice has been served,” Wendy mutters.

“I’ll grab the blankets,” Nichole says, hopping up.

Bebe surveys the room, taking in the aftermath of laughter, snacks, and scattered tarot cards. The remnants of a night well spent. She plants her hands on her hips. “Alright, witches. Pack it up. We’re migrating.”

Everyone rises in a slow, shimmering tumble - blankets gathered, soda cans tossed, limbs brushing and giggling continuing in pockets. They move to the cool air of the basement, already working on tossing down pillows and blankets. Heidi plugs in a projector light and the basement floods with a dark blue night sky that’s smattered with stars.

The ceiling pulses gently with slow-turning constellations, little specks of soft light drifting across the walls. The room quiets naturally, voices dipping into that late-night hush - where words come easier but feel heavier, too.

Nichole is the first to speak, curled into a nest of pillows beside Wendy. “Do you ever think about what your life will actually look like five years from now? Like, not just the fantasy, but really?”

Wendy hums. “All the time. And I still have no idea. It’s like - I can plan, but none of it feels real until it’s already behind me.”

Clyde groans softly from the far side of the room, where he’s cocooned under a weighted blanket. “I just hope I have a job that doesn’t make me want to walk into traffic.”

Laughter flickers again, soft but sincere.

Bebe sits cross-legged, brushing her hair out. “I don’t even care if I’m rich. I just want to be somewhere warm with people I like and an espresso machine that works.”

Clyde snorts from his pile of pillows. “You? Without drama? I give it two weeks before you start a passive-aggressive turf war with your barista.”

“Please,” Bebe says, rolling her eyes. “I’d own the café. And I’d still win.”

Nichole hums in agreement. “That’s true. You’d unionize just to fire someone legally.”

Tweek lies on his back, tucked between Heidi and Bebe, eyes locked on the projected sky. The stars swirl slowly across the ceiling, orbiting patterns that never quite settle. His chest tightens.

“Y’all are ridiculous,” Heidi says, yawning. “I just want a dog and a garden. Maybe a cute partner who doesn’t suck.”

“You gonna live on a farm or something?” Wendy teases.

“Hell yeah,” Heidi replies. “Grow lavender, sell honey, hex my enemies.”

He listens, distantly, to the others as they move from dreams to fears, to love and futures and where they might end up. Their voices become echoes - familiar and warm but fading behind the thick glass of his thoughts.

All he can think about is Craig.

Not in words. Not in specific memories. Just the sensation of him, like a melody that never fully leaves your mind - gentle, persistent, aching.

The way Craig used to glance over when no one else was looking, how his hand would find Tweek’s like it belonged there. The quiet gravity of him, pulling Tweek in even now, even across silence and time.

The ache of having once been completely known. And now, not.

“I don’t even know what I want yet,” Nichole murmurs. “It’s like... everyone keeps asking, and I just don’t have an answer.”

“That’s fine,” Wendy says, her voice calm and certain. “You don’t need to have one. Not yet.”

He watches the stars shift, imagines Craig’s hand in his, imagines a different version of this night where they’re side by side in the quiet, sharing space like they used to.

Where Craig would say nothing, but somehow Tweek would understand everything anyway.

“You think it ever gets easier?” someone asks. Tweek isn’t sure who.

“It has to,” Bebe says. “Otherwise, what’s the point?”

Tweek blinks up at the ceiling, and his eyes sting.

The group’s laughter softens to murmurs, then to the kind of hush that settles over people who’ve finally run out of things to say but aren’t quite ready for sleep.

In the corner, a box fan hums with steady rhythm, stirring the cool basement air. Clyde’s snoring starts up like clockwork - soft and oddly comforting in the dimness.

Tweek lies nestled between two blankets, his body warm but his mind wide awake. He’s not listening to the conversations anymore. They’ve thinned out into occasional whispers and muffled laughter, but his thoughts are elsewhere - entangled in memories and quiet ache.

Craig’s absence has never been louder.

He closes his eyes and sees Craig anyway. The pale slope of his shoulder. The curve of his lips when he was finally, briefly, happy. His dark lashes brushing against flushed skin. The way he always held Tweek’s hand with care, like he knew he was fragile but never treated him as less.

The safety in his silence. When looked at Tweek - really looked - there was no mistaking the way he felt. It lived in the small things. In the way Craig would linger a beat longer at the door. The way he’d trace lazy circles on Tweek’s knee under the table. The way his entire body relaxed when they were alone.

Tweek stares at the ceiling, where faint constellations spin lazily overhead from the nightlight projector, dimmed to allow for sleep.

The stars blur as his vision waters, though no tears fall. He feels full and empty all at once. Cracked open.

Craig had never said I love you - not out loud. But he didn’t need to. Tweek had known. In every silence, in every gentle touch, in every trembling exhale, it had been there.

And now, that silence feels heavier.

Tweek shifts onto his side, drawing the blanket tighter around his shoulders. The rustle stirs Bebe beside him; still half-asleep, she lifts a hand and gently threads her fingers through his hair in a soothing gesture, murmuring something too quiet to catch before sinking back into stillness.

He watches her for a moment, something tender and aching rising in his throat. Then he presses a hand against his chest, as though he could physically contain the weight building beneath his ribs - pressure, not sharp, but persistent. The ache of missing someone who feels like part of your own anatomy.

Eventually, when the room is thick with sleep and the only sounds are the soft whir of the fan and the rhythmic breathing of his friends, Tweek slowly extracts himself from the tangle of blankets. He moves carefully, barefoot and quiet as he pads toward the stairs.

The basement door opens with a familiar creak, and he winces, pausing until it shuts softly behind him. In the kitchen, he flicks on only the dim light above the stove, casting the room in amber shadows. He opens cabinets with quiet hands, rummaging until he finds a glass and fills it at the tap.

The water is cool against his palms, grounding in a way that makes his throat tighten.

He lowers himself onto a barstool at the counter. The silence up here is different - less crowded, less comforting. It hums with everything unspoken.

He doesn’t cry, but the effort not to shows in the way his shoulders hunch, in the white-knuckled grip of his hand around the glass, in the breath he holds too long before finally letting it go.

He misses Craig with a kind of precision that hurts. Not just the person, but the intimacy - the language they once shared in glances, the quiet tether between them, the sense of being understood without needing to explain.

The sound of soft footsteps breaks the hush, and Tweek doesn’t have to look up to know who it is. Bebe’s presence is gentle, unobtrusive, but grounding.

“Couldn’t sleep?” she asks, voice low, the kind reserved for shadowed kitchens and vulnerable hours.

Tweek blinks, his throat tight. “Yeah,” he lies, then shakes his head. “No. I don’t know.”

She crosses the room and leans against the counter beside him, arms folded, watching him carefully. Her gaze is steady - not prying, just present.

“Are you okay, honey?” she asks after a moment.

Tweek opens his mouth, but the answer doesn’t come. He nods instinctively, then stops himself. “I don’t know how to say yes without lying.”

Bebe’s expression softens. She pulls out the stool beside him and sits, close enough that their shoulders nearly touch. “Then don’t,” she says.

A shaky breath escapes him, and when he looks down at the counter, a few tears fall soundlessly onto the sleeve of his nightshirt.

“I miss him,” Tweek whispers, like it’s a confession. “I saw him yesterday, and it was... awful.”

Bebe doesn’t interrupt. She lets the words come in pieces, lets the silence stretch where it needs to.

“I keep thinking about that card,” he adds. “The Tower.”

Her eyes flick to him, but she doesn’t laugh or roll her eyes. Instead, she nods. “Big change. Destruction. Upheaval.”

He looks at her then, eyes rimmed red, voice trembling. “What if it means it’s really over? What if that was it?”

Bebe doesn’t answer right away. She leans forward on the counter, elbows resting against the cool surface, her brows furrowing slightly in thought.

“The Tower doesn’t only mean endings,” she says softly. “It means you’ve been standing on something unstable for a long time - and now it’s collapsing. Not to ruin you, but to give you a chance to rebuild. With stronger bones.”

Tweek’s voice is barely audible. “But what if what we had was really it?”

She meets his gaze without flinching. “Real things can still break. And sometimes they have to - so they can be put back together the right way. Or... let go, if that’s what’s needed.”

His breath catches, a quiet, broken sound escaping his throat. She sees it before he even moves - his whole posture caving inward, the grief starting to spill over.

Without hesitation, Bebe rises and closes the space between them. She wraps her arms around him, pulling him in tight. For a moment, he stays rigid, like he’s forgotten how to accept comfort. But then he exhales shakily and folds into her, face pressed into her shoulder, hands gripping the back of her shirt.

The tears come slowly, not a flood but a surrender. Small, quiet sobs that shake his ribs and dampen her shirt.

She rubs his back, saying nothing, holding him steady as he falls apart in the safety of her arms.

Chapter Text

Tweek is fourteen when Craig first appears at his bedroom window.

It’s after midnight, and the world feels suspended in a quiet liminality. Everything familiar takes on a strange, softened edge, like a memory blurred by time or viewed through frosted glass.

The moment begins with a sound - small but deliberate. The sharp ping of a pebble hitting the windowpane slices through the stillness of the night.

Tweek bolts upright in bed, adrenaline firing through him. His breath stumbles in his throat, and the room, thick with sleep, feels too still. Darkness pools in the corners. His sheets are tangled around his legs, skin flushed with residual warmth from dreams already fading.

For a few seconds, he thinks he might’ve imagined it - just the echo of some half-formed thought clawing its way out of sleep.

Then it comes again. Another pebble. And then a third - quieter, more tentative, like the thrower has lost conviction, or is second-guessing their intent.

He throws back his covers and clambers toward the window, feet hitting the floor with a muted thud. His heartbeat kicks up, half from the abrupt movement, half from something deeper - an ache just behind his ribs he hasn’t been able to name.

Something deep inside him already knows who it will be.

Tweek's fingers clumsily grasp the curtain, pulling it aside with a breath that stutters from somewhere too deep in his chest. His eyes take a moment to adjust to the dim light outside, the sudden exposure like stepping between one world and another.

Below the window, bathed in the sodium glow of a distant streetlamp, stands a solitary figure. Still. Composed in a way that feels too intentional to be casual. Craig.

His posture is tense, almost defensive - shoulders slightly hunched, limbs taut as though he’s folded inward, trying to render himself invisible to the night. His face remains obscured beneath the hood, the angles of his jaw lost to shadows, but Tweek would know that silhouette anywhere. The tilt of his head. The precise stillness. One arm is raised mid-motion, a small pebble suspended between his fingers, hesitation carved into the pause.

Before he can release it, Tweek unlatches the window and swings it open with an abruptness that betrays his restraint. The cold air rushes in at once, immediate and cutting, threading over his bare arms like static. It smells faintly of frost and the dust of old pine.

Neither of them speaks yet. The night fills the silence with wind and distant traffic.

Then, finally, Craig lowers his hand.

"Can I come up?” Craig asks, his voice low and worn.

Tweek hesitates, blinking hard, the question taking a moment to settle in his mind. It feels surreal, like something conjured from a half-dream.

“Yeah,” he says finally, voice rough with sleep. “Climb the trellis.” He gestures vaguely toward the side of the house, the motion automatic, like muscle memory taking over before thought can catch up.

The trellis is a skeletal frame of aged wood, warped by years of snowmelt and sun exposure. Its lattice is crooked, some slats cracked and softened with time, but it’s familiar - marked by the silent record of past climbs, of scraped shoes and whispered arrivals.

They’ve both used it before. Late nights, early mornings. In silence and in secret. It’s always been their quiet, precarious escape route, and somehow, it always held.

Craig doesn’t hesitate. The pebble falls unnoticed into the grass. With the fluidity of someone who has done this too many times, he scales the trellis. His hands wrap around the worn wood, fingers finding old grooves, his shoes pressing into notches like they’re muscle memory. There’s no recklessness in the way he moves - only urgency. He’s not running to something. He’s running from something else.

Tweek leans out the window as Craig nears, half-extending a hand out of reflex - but Craig doesn’t take it. He swings one leg over the sill, then the other, and drops into the room with a soft thud against the carpet.

He doesn’t say anything.

He walks past Tweek without a glance, each footstep quiet but heavy with something that has no name. The weight in his body, the way his shoulders hang - it's not exhaustion. It’s something else. Something worn thin.

And then, wordlessly, as if this were the only thing left that made sense, Craig begins to undress.

Shoes are discarded in the corner, the laces still knotted from earlier. Craig peels off his hoodie with deliberate slowness, as though each inch of fabric carries the weight of something unspeakable. Next come his jeans, folded precisely and placed on the desk chair like a ritual. He’s left in just a t-shirt and boxers, posture rigid, hands slack at his sides. He isn’t exposed in the traditional sense, but there is something disarmingly vulnerable about him. Each breath seems calculated, not automatic - an act of endurance rather than necessity.

He doesn’t look at Tweek. No explanation leaves his mouth. But he doesn’t need to speak - the silence itself feels confessional.

Craig sits down on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, his head bowed low. His hands hang useless between his legs, heavy, inert. His breathing is labored, the kind that hints at invisible bruises. Slowly, he rakes one hand through his hair, then lets it fall, spent.

Tweek lingers by the window for a moment longer, watching Craig’s silhouette against the dim light. Then he gently closes the window and draws the curtain shut. The room darkens, the outside world closed out entirely. He crosses the room and lowers himself onto the mattress beside Craig. They sit together without speaking, bodies near but not touching. The quiet between them isn’t empty - it’s dense, vibrating with everything they’ve never said aloud.

Eventually, Craig shifts.

He slides fully onto the bed and turns away, curling into himself with the blanket pulled up tight. Though he faces the wall, there’s no ambiguity in the act. His body language speaks plainly: I’m not leaving.

Tweek watches him for a moment, his figure blurred in the low light. "You wanna sleep over?" he asks softly, voice hoarse from disuse. It’s not really a question - it’s an olive branch. The most tender form of acceptance he can offer in the moment.

Craig gives a small nod. Bone-deep exhaustion, layered beneath months of restraint.

Tweek rises, circles to the other side of the bed, and slips beneath the covers. He turns onto his side to face Craig’s back. There’s only a few inches between them now - a sliver of space that feels both vast and delicate. Tweek listens. To the breath catching in Craig’s chest. To the heater humming. To his own heart as it hammers.

Then, slowly, Craig turns.

He shifts with intention, like someone preparing for impact. Their eyes lock, and for the first time in what feels like forever, Craig doesn’t look away. His gaze is bare - stripped of irony or defense. Blue, luminous in the dimness. Tweek feels it like a blow to the chest.

There is grief in Craig’s expression. But more than that, there is an aching openness.

A kind of trust.

The kind of look someone gives when they don’t know how to say, please love me.

Tweek says his name - barely audible, but brimming. Just one syllable, cracked open with everything they haven’t said.

Craig doesn’t offer an explanation. He leans forward and folds into Tweek’s chest, burying his face against the warm hollow where Tweek’s shoulder meets his collarbone.

For a moment, Tweek just blinks, startled by the sudden closeness, the weight of Craig pressing in. But then instinct overtakes hesitation. He draws his arms around Craig and holds him gently. Craig exhales - a shuddering, uneven breath that ghosts across Tweek’s skin - and clutches a fistful of Tweek’s shirt like he’s afraid of being pushed away.

Tweek feels a faint dampness just below his collarbone. Craig’s tears. Silent. Unannounced.

He doesn’t comment. Instead, he lowers his head and presses a slow, deliberate kiss into Craig’s hair. His hand moves to rub slowly across Craig’s back, a barely perceptible gesture of comfort, as if afraid to startle him. 

Craig falls asleep like that.

Tweek stays awake long after Craig’s breathing evens out. He lies still, eyes tracing invisible patterns across the ceiling, heart quietly unraveling. He listens to the subtle way Craig shifts, almost imperceptibly, like he’s afraid of losing contact. Fingers twitch in sleep, occasionally tightening in the fabric of Tweek’s shirt.

Tweek doesn’t know what brought Craig here tonight. Doesn’t know what battle drove him to this moment. But he knows this: Craig chose him. When he needed something - someone - he came here. To him.

As dawn edges in, soft and gold against the lingering indigo of early morning, it spills across the room in fractured light.

Tweek wakes to it slowly, blinking against the quiet. The warmth beside him is still there.

Craig is asleep, laying on his stomach with an arm tucked under his head, blanket half-slid down his back. His hair is an unkempt mess, and his face relaxed and vulnerable in a way rarely seen. No signs of stress or anger.

He looks so young like this. Not in years, but in unburdening - like someone who has, for once, put the weight down.

It’s late afternoon when Craig knocks on the door.

Tweek answers in pajama pants and an oversized hoodie, the sleeves uneven - one shoved up his forearm, the other dangling over his knuckles. His blond hair is tousled in a way that suggests he’s been tugging at it for hours. There’s a sharp flicker of emotion in his eyes when he sees who’s standing there - relief laced with hesitation.

"C-Craig," he says, startled. His voice cracks slightly, the syllables catching in his throat. He doesn’t sound surprised, exactly - just unprepared. 

Craig stands still on the porch, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his worn jeans. He offers no greeting. Just a single nod - barely perceptible - and eyes that don’t quite meet Tweek’s, as if anticipating rejection. The skin beneath those eyes is dark and shadowed, his posture brittle with tension. 

The silence stretches. Craig’s gaze flits once toward the street, then comes back to rest on Tweek. Waiting.

Tweek shifts his weight, as though pulled by invisible strings. Then, without saying anything else, he opens the door a little wider and steps aside.

"Come in," he says quietly. "I guess."

Craig steps inside, tentative. He doesn’t say a word. Instead, he stands in the entryway, soaking in the familiar details that now feel distant: the soft, warm lighting; the faint scent of incense and a recently extinguished candle - vanilla with a cedar undercurrent.

It smells like Tweek’s calm-down rituals.

His eyes land on the framed photo by the door. A snapshot from the fall festival last year - both of them smiling, cheeks pink with cold, fingers intertwined.

The frame hangs slightly askew now. He stares at it for a beat too long.

Craig’s throat tightens, but he doesn’t speak. Everything in the house feels warm and lived-in, unlike Craig’s home.

A soft synth track murmurs from a speaker nestled among books and tangled cords, its dark and ambient tones curling through the air like smoke. Tweek gently taps at his phone to disconnect and turn off the speaker.

The living room is quietly chaotic - couch cushions slumped into themselves, sketchbooks splayed open with graphite dust smudging their pages, blankets half-draped over the furniture like forgotten thoughts. There are mugs with dried tea rings on the coffee table, scattered tubes of paint, and the unmistakable residue of a life in motion.

It’s a life Craig no longer recognizes himself within - but still aches for.

Craig lingers in the entryway like he’s afraid to breathe. He watches Tweek return to what was clearly his previously abandoned nest on the couch. There’s an intimacy here, a lived-in comfort he doesn’t know if he’s still allowed to touch.

A blanket is pooled near the armrest, a sketchbook cracked open with a charcoal smudge blooming across one page. Tweek doesn’t meet his eyes but gestures vaguely for him to sit. Slowly, Craig lowers himself onto the cushion, tense and rigid. He sits at an angle - like he’s not sure how much space he’s allowed to take up anymore.

Neither of them moves to close the distance.

The space between them isn’t vast in distance, but in feeling, it stretches like an old wound reopened. Tweek leans away - not dramatically, not with malice - but enough to make the distance known. A silent gesture that says: I’m not happy with you.

The last time they saw each other, Tweek had cried in this very room – begging Craig to stay, to talk it out with him.

When Craig finally speaks, his voice is soft, like he’s testing the water before diving in.

"Your nails are blue," he murmurs, nudging Tweek’s hand with the back of his fingers.

He gently turns Tweek’s hand over slowly, cradling it in his palm, inspecting the polish under the soft golden light of the lamp beside the couch. The polish is chipped slightly at the edges, but the color is still vibrant - a deep, dreamy cobalt. It catches the light like glass.

"When did that happen?"

Tweek snorts, brushing his bangs from his face with his free hand. His eyes are red-rimmed with lack of sleep and stress. "Last night. Y’know… the sleepover at Bebe's."

Craig lifts an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth curling faintly - not quite a smile, more like the shadow of one. There’s too much sorrow in his eyes for it to be anything more.

"I forgot about that," he murmurs, gaze fixed on Tweek’s hand. His thumb grazes the knuckles with a slow, intentional motion, as if memorizing the shape of familiarity. "It suits you. The blue."

Tweek’s eyes soften, then shift down. He stares at where their hands are joined in a delicate hold. His fingers twitch slightly, not from discomfort, but from overwhelm. 

After a pause, he gently pulls his hand away.

It’s not cruel. It’s not cold. But it stings all the same. The warmth fades from Craig’s hand almost instantly.

"Thanks," Tweek says quietly, his voice tucked behind his teeth. "Wendy thought it was a… She thought you would like it."

Craig nods, trying not to let his face fall. He presses his hands together between his knees and leans forward, resting his elbows there like the weight of the moment is suddenly too much to sit up straight through. He wants to say something - to bridge the space again - but everything between them feels brittle. 

Tweek doesn’t look at him. His gaze stays fixed on the coffee table, on the chipped mug he’d forgotten to take to the sink, on the sketchbook with its unfinished lines.

"I thought you were ignoring me," Tweek says eventually. His voice doesn’t accuse. His fingers still pick absently at the fabric bunched in his lap. He doesn’t lift his head.

Craig breathes in, then lets it out through his nose. His shoulders stay hunched. "I was," he says softly. "I didn’t know what to say."

Tweek’s fingers tug at the hem of his shirt, knuckles going pale from the pressure. "You never do," he replies, not cruelly, but growing with annoyance. "That’s the thing, Craig - You could’ve said anything. Even if it was stupid. Even if it didn’t fix it. You set everything on fire, and then act surprised when I tell you I’m burned."

Craig opens his mouth, faltering. "Tweek, I - "

But Tweek barrels forward, cutting him off with a tremor in his voice.

His pain won’t wait. 

"You’re not the only one who gets scared," Tweek says, low and stern. "But when I’m scared, I talk to you. Or I try to. And you just… you just won’t tell me anything! You never tell me anything! Jesus - you act like I’m something you can put on a shelf until you’re ready to feel again. What about my feelings?!"

Craig turns to look at him, eyes wide with something between guilt and defensiveness. "I don’t mean to - "

"But you do! You do it anyway," Tweek cuts in, sharper now. His voice rises, just slightly, before it catches in his throat. "You push and pull like it’s some kind of fucking test, and I keep putting up with it because I love you. But loving you doesn’t mean I’m supposed to let you bulldoze over my feelings."

Craig flinches. "I wasn’t trying to hurt you."

"What about the last time we saw each other?" Tweek asks, his voice quieter now, but still trembling with restraint. "Because that hurt, Craig. It really. Fucking. Hurt. You looked right at me like I didn’t matter. You didn’t give a shit how I was feeling. And then? After all that? You just left me."

Craig grips his chest like it’s being crushed. "I know. I know I - "

"You used me instead, Craig. You made me feel used. That night I… I - I kept hoping the whole time… that maybe if I just held on a little tighter, you'd come back to yourself. But you didn’t. You kept going and you weren’t even there for it."

Craig opens his mouth. No words come. He looks like he’s sinking. Drowning in the memory.

“I told you, ‘Don’t do this if you’re not going to be here for it,’” Tweek says, his voice cracking under the weight of emotion. Tears cling to his lashes, threatening to spill. “I saw how messed up you were. I knew something wasn’t right. But I let it happen anyway because I thought maybe I could be your anchor. Maybe if I just held on tight enough, you’d find your way back. That we – we could get through it together, like we always do. That I could help you.”

Craig’s jaw tightens. The words hit hard - worse because they’re true. He doesn’t try to defend himself. He doesn’t argue. 

“I didn’t know how to talk without making it worse,” Craig says quietly. The words scrape out, torn from somewhere deep. “Everything already felt too far gone.”

Tweek stares at him. His eyes are rimmed red - not just from the tears now, but the ones he’s already cried, maybe earlier that day. Maybe every day. “So what?!” he demands. “You thought pushing me away was better?! You thought letting me sit here alone in the fallout would be easier for me?” His voice rises with soul-crushing hurt. “How the hell was that okay? Why the fuck would you think that was something I deserved?”

Craig opens his mouth, then closes it. No answer comes. His hands are clenched between his knees, knuckles white. He’s trying not to fall apart.

"Do you even get how scared I was that night? When I was begging you to stay and talk to me? Do you know how long I sat in this exact spot thinking I’d done something wrong? I was replaying every second in my head, wondering if I was in the wrong for what happened."

"You weren’t,” Craig says thickly.

"I know that now," Tweek says, his voice shaking just slightly as he brushes away stubborn tears from his lashes. "But I kept trying to make sense of it, of you. I kept thinking if I replayed our last moments enough times I’d find the second where I pushed too hard, or said too much, or - "

"You didn’t," Craig says again, firmer this time. He looks up to meet Tweek’s eyes. "It wasn’t you. I was - I was drowning, Tweek. I was - ... and I thought if I dragged you into it with me, it’d ruin everything. That you’d look at me and realize I wasn’t worth all this bullshit."

Tweek breathes through his nose, jaw tightening. A fresh set of tears start to well in his green eyes and he’s quiet for a beat. Then, "So instead of talking to me… you let me think I wasn’t worth the explanation."

Craig’s shoulders cave inward. "I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m – I’m so sorry. Fuck- I know… I know that’s what it felt like. I swear that’s not what I meant."

"Well that's how it felt," Tweek says, but he doesn’t raise his voice. He sounds gutted more than anything. "You can’t keep pushing people away and calling it protection, you know. Sometimes that's just abandonment."

Craig looks away, ashamed.

"I get it," Tweek continues. "I do. I know what your house is like. I know what kind of person your dad is. I know the way you flinch when someone raises their voice. I’ve seen what that place does to you, Craig. But the pain you carry doesn’t give you permission to drop it on the people who love you, and then just walk away to let them deal with the baggage alone."

Tweek pauses and his jaw clenches. His voice is softer now, but no less firm. "I am not your painkiller. I’m not a drug you can use to forget how bad it hurts. I’m not here to be your escape route. I’m here because I love you. But you can’t keep loving me with one foot out the door. You can’t keep reaching for me when you're drowning and then disappearing when you catch your breath."

Craig is quiet for a beat. Then he shifts forward on the couch, elbows on his knees, eyes on the floor.

"You're right," Craig says. "You're right about all of it. I used you. I always thought I was sparing you the worst of me by not talking about it. But all I was doing was making you feel alone. I just - I see that now."

Tweek’s throat tightens. His hands have stilled.

"I don’t want to be a burden," Craig continues, his voice rough. "But maybe I already have been. And maybe I just need to admit that instead of pretending keeping shit to myself is noble... I’m sorry. Honey, I’m so fucking sorry."

Tweek blinks fast, trying to hold back fresh tears.

Craig leans back into the couch, dragging a hand down his face in a slow, tired motion. He doesn't speak right away - the silence stretches, not uncomfortable now, just heavy with everything that’s been said. 

When his hand drops to his lap, his gaze drifts to Tweek, eyes rimmed with grief so dense it looks like it might swallow him whole. A few tears slip free, silent, cutting paths down his cheeks. Craig exhales shakily, like he's only just remembered how to breathe.

"Do you still love me?" he asks, barely above a whisper.

Tweek lets out a small, bitter laugh, brushing away his own tears with the back of his hand. "Craig. Of course I do. That’s never been the problem."

"What is the problem?" Craig asks, leaning in a little, desperation edging into his tone. "I mean - aside from the obvious."

"Baby," Tweek says gently, "loving you doesn’t erase the hurt. It doesn’t mean I forget how it felt to be left twisting in the wind. It doesn’t undo the nights I sat in my bed wondering if you even cared anymore."

Craig closes his eyes and nods, slow and deliberate. "I’ve always cared."

Tweek exhales, the edge softening in his voice. "Then tell me that. You never tell me... You never say what you’re feeling."

Craig’s eyes open again, lashes damp, blinking against a quiet pressure behind them. "I’m saying it now."

Tweek presses the heels of his palms against his eyes, rubbing hard like he’s trying to ground himself. When he lowers his hands, the exhaustion on his face is unmistakable.

Craig lets the silence stretch for a moment, unsure if it's permission to keep going or just a pause. He studies Tweek’s face like he’s trying to memorize every detail - the set of his jaw, the wet shine in his green eyes, the twitch of his mouth when he's holding too much.

"I was scared," Craig says, quieter now. "That night… I didn’t even recognize myself. I... I needed to escape - and I used you, I know that. I know... And after, I thought... I thought maybe if I just shut everything down, you'd be better off. Like if I cut the cord, I’d stop poisoning everything."

Tweek exhales hard through his nose. "I don't need you to protect me from you. I just need you to be honest with me about your feelings. Even if it's messy. Even if it hurts."

Craig shakes his head slowly. "I didn’t think I could be. Every time I tried, it felt like I was just... choking on it."

"Then choke," Tweek says, more forceful now, his voice suddenly cracking open with urgency. "Then say it anyway. Jesus, Craig - do you even realize how lonely it’s been loving someone who never shares how they feel? Who never lets me in?"

Craig blinks like he’s been slapped.

"You think I want some polished perfect version of you?!" Tweek continues, wiping angrily at one eye. "You think I haven’t seen you hollow and wrecked, cruel and destructive and still wanted to wrap my arms around you? You think I don’t know how much you hate yourself sometimes? I see you, Craig. I always have. But you keep acting like I’m going to reject you if I look too close, and that fucking kills me."

Craig says nothing. His jaw tightens, but he won’t meet Tweek’s eyes.

"You’re not even really talking to me now," Tweek says, quieter but more cutting. "You’re sitting here, letting me say all of this, and I don’t even know what you’re thinking. I have no idea what’s going on in your head anymore. Do you even want this? Do you even want me?"

Still, Craig stays quiet. He swallows thickly and his eyes are wet.

"You’ve been spiraling," Tweek says, leaning forward now, his voice thin and tremulous. "Chain-smoking, drinking too much, skipping school. Everyone’s noticed - and when anyone tries to check in on you, you just shut down and push them away."

Craig’s shoulders lift in a shallow shrug. "I didn’t ask anyone to worry," he mumbles, eyes locked somewhere near the floor.

"You don’t have to ask," Tweek presses, disbelieving. "People who love you just do. And I’m so fucking exhausted from trying to figure out whether I’m even allowed to care about you. I’ve been tiptoeing around your moods for weeks, Craig. I don’t know which version of you I’m going to get anymore."

Tweek leans back against the couch, fingers threading roughly through his hair. "I don’t even know what this is - us. I feel like I’ve been in a relationship with someone who hasn't been there for a long time. You sleep beside me and you say you care, but you keep me locked out like I’m a stranger."

Craig’s throat moves like he’s trying to swallow words he hasn’t yet formed.

"Say something," Tweek pleads, voice breaking. "If you're in this, say it. But if you're not, stop letting me drag the fucking ghost of us around like it’s going to suddenly breathe again."

The silence stretches until it becomes unbearable. And then, Craig speaks - softly, haltingly. "I’m still in it. I never left. I just... didn’t know how to come back in a way that wouldn’t make things worse."

Tweek’s inhale is sharp, rattling. "Then why didn’t you say that? Why did you let me sit with this alone?"

"Because I was ashamed," Craig whispers. "Because every time I opened my mouth, I felt like I was going to say something wrong. And because... you deserve better than someone who can’t even hold their shit together."

Tweek’s expression folds in on itself - tenderness laced with frustration. "I'm not asking you to hold your shit together. You don't need to be perfect for me - I just want you to be honest. I need to know when you’re hurting instead of being forced to guess."

Craig finally lifts his gaze to meet Tweek’s. "I’m hurting," he says softly. "I’ve been hurting for a long time. And I know that’s not fair to you. But... I didn’t want to cause more damage. I didn’t want you to carry that weight."

Tweek’s voice quiets. "Craig... what you’ve been doing? The silence, the detachment? That is hurting me. I need you to understand that."

Craig’s face crumples. Shame, regret, and helplessness war on his features. "I’m so sorry," he says, the words escaping like a breath he’s been holding for weeks.

"Sorry doesn’t mean anything if you won’t let me see you," Tweek says, softer now, but resolute. "I'll tell you this again: I’m asking you to be honest with me. To give me something real."

Craig looks at him - and this time, he really looks. His eyes scan every detail: Tweek’s trembling fingers, the pale stretch of his throat, the way his hoodie sleeve is unraveling at the cuff. Every piece of him is familiar. Every piece of him is tethered to something Craig has always called home.

"Tweek," Craig starts, his voice rasping.

Tweek turns to him, slowly, eyes searching.

Craig swallows, emotion thick in his throat. "I’m in love with you," he says - not as a grand revelation, but as a truth pulled from someplace fragile. 

Tweek doesn’t respond right away. He watches Craig, blinking through the tears that haven’t yet fallen. His expression is open but guarded.

Finally, he says, "I know. I’ve always known. But I need to believe you’re not just saying this because you’re afraid I’ll walk away tonight."

Craig shakes his head slowly, breathing through the knot in his chest. "I’m afraid every night. Not just tonight. I’m scared I’ve already broken this beyond repair. But I swear to you - I never stopped loving you. Even in the silence. Even when I was selfish. I still love you."

Tweek closes his eyes briefly, grounding himself. "Then love me better. Stop pushing me out of your goddamn life. From now on, don’t just say you love me - fucking show it. I need actions. I need something I can hold."

Craig nods slowly, like he’s making a vow. His voice is barely audible. "Okay. I - … Okay,” he says again. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like I pushed you out.”

"You didn’t just push me out," Tweek murmurs. "You locked the door behind me."

Craig’s mouth opens, then closes, as though he’s momentarily forgotten how to articulate the intricacies of his own emotions. He swallows hard, the muscles in his throat tightening visibly - like each unspoken thought is a stone he’s been holding in his chest, sharp and suffocating. 

"You want me to be honest? Fine," Craig says, not bitter, but desperate - his voice brittle with urgency. "I love the way your voice sounds when you're half-asleep and mumbling into my chest. I love how your hands shake when you paint but you never stop - because getting it out matters more than being perfect. I love how obsessed with music you are. I love how you hum under your breath when you're overwhelmed, like you’re trying to give yourself something to hold on to when the world’s spinning too fast."

Tweek doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, but something in his expression shifts - something tight unspooling, like a thread tugged loose.

Craig's throat tightens, but he forces the words forward. "I love how you curl into me at night, like you're trying to fuse your body with mine. I love that you give a damn about people even when you’re exhausted - when there’s nothing left in you to give, you still find a way to care. Even when I’ve done everything to make you feel like I don’t deserve any of it."

Tweek still doesn’t speak, but Craig sees the tension shift in his fingers, sees the way his shoulders rise just a little higher with every word.

Craig presses his palms down against his knees like he’s grounding himself through sheer force of will. "I love that you make people feel safe, even when you're coming apart inside. That you believed in me when I couldn’t even stand to look at myself in the mirror. And I hate - God, I hate - that I made you question that."

He finally meets Tweek's eyes again. "I know I made you doubt everything. But there hasn’t been a single day I didn’t love you. Even when I was fucking everything up. I still loved you. I still love you." He smiles, soft and small – a tender thing. “You said we’re endgame, remember?”

Tweek’s lips part like he wants to respond, but nothing comes. His chest lifts in a shallow, uneven breath, and his eyes - already red around the rims - fill completely, brimming with the kind of tears that come only when everything hurts at once

"You don’t have to say anything," Craig adds, quieter now. "I just needed you to know. Not guess or assume. Know."

Tweek blinks, and a tear slips down his cheek. He doesn’t brush it away.

He looks at Craig with a gaze that’s cautious but full of recognition, like he’s seeing a long-lost version of him that’s only just now returned. Like he's looking at someone who disappeared behind a wall of silence and grief - and is finally clawing their way back into the light.

"Craig," Tweek breathes. It’s not a question. It’s everything - fear, relief, love, and devastation coiled into the shape of his name.

Craig meets his gaze, and in his eyes is the kind of vulnerability that strips a person bare. There’s no anger in his expression, no defense - just something raw and trembling, something that has waited far too long to be seen.

The space between them collapses in a breath.

Tweek’s hands shake. Craig’s lashes are damp.

The movement isn’t planned; it just happens - an instinctive, aching lunge forward as if pulled by something beyond reason.

Their mouths meet in a kiss that isn’t perfect or polished - it’s jagged and aching, a breathless collision of lips and salt and longing.

It’s everything they haven’t said, spoken in the language of touch. Their lips part and reconnect, soft and trembling, their breath stuttering in shared exhales.

Tears spill freely - some caught in the corners of mouths, some slipping down flushed cheeks - but neither pulls away. Instead, they press in harder, leaning into the weight of it all: the grief, the forgiveness, the ache that had nowhere else to go. Their mouths move like they’re remembering each other from scratch, rediscovering the shape of longing in soft collisions.

Tweek lets out a sound that’s half-laugh, half-sob, his chest hitching with the strange relief of it all. Craig answers with a broken exhale, his mouth brushing Tweek’s in a series of tiny, desperate kisses, like he’s trying to say everything at once.

One hand holds Tweek’s jaw gently, thumb stroking beneath his eye, while the other curls around his back. It deepens - not with urgency, but with devotion. 

They hold onto each other like it’s the only thing that makes sense, like letting go might mean forgetting how to find each other again. The kiss deepens - slow, shuddering, weighted with the ache of forgiveness neither of them has yet put into words.

Craig pulls back only to let out a small, shaky breath that turns into a laugh - helpless and overwhelmed. Tweek laughs, too, but it’s broken with tears.

They don’t retreat. They stay close, foreheads pressed together, breath shared in the charged space between them. 

Tweek lets out another teary laugh, wiping his cheek but not bothering to stop the rest from falling. Craig mirrors it with a breathless, quirked smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes but tries to.

"I love you so much," Craig murmurs.

Tweek lets out a stuttering exhale, his laughter unraveling into another sob as he presses his face to Craig’s shoulder. His hands grip tighter, desperate. "I don’t even care that we’re crying," he says, voice cracked and muffled. "I just - I missed you. I missed you. Jesus, Craig - I've missed you so much. I've missed feeling like you're really here with me."

"I know," Craig whispers, and his hand moves slowly to press over Tweek’s chest, feeling the frantic rhythm of his heartbeat through the fabric. 

They don’t speak for a while. Instead, they remain wrapped in each other, trading slow kisses and softer exhales. Craig presses his lips to Tweek’s temple, then the corner of his mouth, then again to his cheekbone, as if mapping a constellation of memories on skin he’s memorized a hundred times and still doesn’t know enough.

Tweek eventually leans back, just far enough to see Craig’s face clearly. His blue eyes are stripped bare with raw emotion and suspended with disbelief. His mouth parts, the words caught on the edge of his tongue. Tweek reaches out with both hands and touches Craig’s face - thumbs brushing along his cheekbones gently, like he’s checking to make sure this isn’t a dream.

Without a word, they shift together, bodies folding into one another naturally. Tweek settles atop Craig on the couch, his head resting over Craig’s chest, his hands curled gently beneath his chin. Craig's arms wrap around him, one hand smoothing slowly over Tweek’s spine.

Their legs tangle. Their breathing slows.

Outside, the sunlight begins to fade, slanting gold and amber through the windowpanes, spilling warmth across the living room in quiet strips. The glow softens everything - the outlines of their faces, the mess still scattered around them, the ache that lingers in the air. Craig closes his eyes, and Tweek does the same, their chests rising and falling in sync.

There’s no rush to move. No words to force.

Just the comfort of closeness, the safety of skin on skin, breath to breath. Tweek presses a small kiss to Craig’s collarbone, barely more than a brush of lips, and lets himself settle. Craig sighs softly, fingertips resting just below Tweek’s shoulder blades.

Eventually, Tweek stirs.

"I should clean this up," he murmurs, eyes flitting to the coffee table strewn with the remnants of their long and emotionally tangled afternoon. A pair of half-drunk mugs sit cold and forgotten, beside a crumpled heap of tissues, an open sketchpad slightly warped from being knocked askew. Pens and loose scraps of paper cling to the edges.

Craig tightens his arms around him for just a second longer, reluctant to let him go. "You don’t have to right now. It can wait."

Tweek shifts slightly but doesn’t move away yet. "I know," he replies, his voice soft, the words edged with something heavier. "But my parents will be home by ten. After the shop closes they go out to dinner. They’ll come back and... yeah. I just need to make it look like I’m a functioning human being. Or else they'll want to talk about it."

Craig doesn’t argue. He just nods slowly, understanding all too well the impulse to restore order to the chaos, even if it’s just the illusion of stability.

He watches as Tweek rises and begins moving through the living room. There’s something careful about the way he goes about it - collecting the used tissues and smoothing the sketchpad’s pages like an apology. He straightens the books stacked on the floor, aligns the coasters, and wipes down the table. Each movement is slow but certain, methodical. Like he’s putting himself back together piece by piece in the process.

Craig stays where he is on the couch, knees drawn up slightly, arms resting over his shins, chin tucked loosely into the crook of his elbow. He just watches, quietly, as Tweek makes the space livable again.

When he finishes, Tweek turns back, his expression unreadable for a moment. His hands rub at the back of his neck as he lingers near the doorway that leads toward the stairs. Then, with a breath that’s more of an exhale than a decision, he meets Craig’s eyes.

"Do you want to shower with me?" he asks, his voice low and unguarded.

Craig lifts his head, blinking. The question is simple. Uncomplicated. It’s not laced with suggestion or expectation.

Craig nods. "Yeah," he says quietly. "I do."

Tweek’s lips twitch into something that isn’t quite a smile but carries the same warmth. He holds out his hand.

Craig rises slowly and takes it.

They climb the stairs together and the air between them is tender, not tense, shaped by all they’ve said and everything they’re still afraid to voice. At the top of the landing, Tweek flicks on the hallway light, casting a warm glow against the walls. Neither of them speaks as they step into the bathroom, the door clicking softly shut behind them.

They undress in silence - not rushed, not shy, just careful. Craig avoids the mirror entirely. He keeps his eyes low, shoulders tense, every movement purposeful to avoid his own reflection.

Tweek notices. He notices everything. 

As Craig peels off his shirt, Tweek’s breath catches audibly. His gaze sweeps across Craig’s torso, and it lingers on the bruising - deep and discolored, a sickly bloom of purple and yellow spread beneath Craig’s ribs. More marks trail along his sides and arms, each one faint and haunting.

He's seen these marks only in the dim shadows of his bedroom, never under florescent lights that show just how bad the damage truly is.

Tweek doesn’t speak. Instead, he steps forward slowly, his hand lifting, hesitant and trembling. His fingertips graze the edge of the largest bruise, the contact featherlight.

Craig flinches - just barely. But he doesn’t pull away. His eyes find Tweek’s, and something passes between them. His mouth opens like he wants to explain, to excuse, to say anything at all - but nothing comes. His eyes are full of it: the shame, the exhaustion, the helplessness of being seen and not knowing how to survive it.

Tweek just nods once. Then, carefully he presses his whole palm over the bruise, holding him like he might fall apart if he doesn’t. A wordless I see you.

They step into the shower together, the heat enveloping them immediately. Steam rises and curls around their skin as the water cascades down, a warm rush that softens everything.They face each other under the stream, still quiet, still tentative. 

Then Tweek reaches out. He takes Craig’s hand and places it gently against his own chest, over his heart. Craig blinks, startled - not by the gesture, but by how much it means. His fingers splay out slightly, like he's trying to memorize the beat beneath his palm.

They don’t talk. They don’t need to. Their bodies speak for them in small, deliberate movements: fingers sliding over shoulders, palms smoothing down arms, touches that ask permission and never take. Each gesture is a slow reintroduction, a fragile reconstruction of trust.

Craig leans in until their foreheads meet beneath the water, eyes closed, breath slow and deep. Tweek closes his eyes too, and they stand like that for a long time - water slipping between them, warming the space their grief left cold. 

It's the quiet intimacy that comes from bearing ones heart fully and truly. 

Eventually, Tweek reaches for the shampoo. He lathers it into Craig’s hair, his hands moving in slow, rhythmic circles, massaging gently at the scalp. Craig exhales with a sound close to a sigh, his shoulders releasing their tension as he melts into the touch. When it’s Tweek’s turn, Craig mirrors the care - gentle fingers through wild blond hair, careful not to tangle or tug. He cups the back of Tweek’s head as he rinses, thumb brushing lightly behind his ear.

They take turns washing each other and by the time they finish, the steam clings to the walls, fogging the mirror and softening every edge. Tweek turns off the water, and they step out together.

They move slowly as they dry off, passing the towel between them, dabbing at shoulders and necks, knees and elbows. When they’re finally dry, they linger for a moment in the soft light, glancing occasionally at one another, as if searching for something in each other’s expressions. And even though nothing is said, everything is understood.

By the time they step out of the bathroom, towels wrapped around their waists and steam curling through the hallway, something inside both of them feels lighter - fragile, but less fractured. The silence between them is no longer laced with tension or uncertainty; it feels earned now, like the quiet that follows a storm when all that’s left to do is rest.

Tweek leads Craig down the hall into his bedroom. He opens a drawer and rummages through a stack of soft, worn clothes, pulling out a pair of plaid boxers and a faded band t-shirt with a cracked Joy Division logo.

"Here," he says, offering them to Craig. "They might be a little tight."

Craig accepts the clothes without a word. When he slips the shirt over his head, it hangs off his frame, loose and shapeless. The boxers ride low on his hips, unfamiliar in how much space they give him now. Tweek watches him with a quiet stillness, heart catching in his throat.

This isn’t how Craig used to look. 

He opens his mouth to speak - maybe to ask, maybe to comfort - but nothing comes. 

Craig catches the look. His posture stiffens, and he tugs the shirt lower, as if trying to vanish beneath the fabric. "I haven’t been hungry lately," he mutters, not quite looking at Tweek. The words are too casual, like he’s repeating an excuse he’s already used on himself.

Tweek’s first instinct is to press, to dig into the why, to beg him to take care of himself. Instead, he just nods, slow and cautious, like one wrong word might break the fragile reconnection between them.

He wants to scream that this isn't okay. That he’s scared.

That Craig doesn’t look like Craig anymore. But the silence wins.

They change in tandem, slow and subdued. Craig drapes his towel over the chair while Tweek folds his own and dims the lights. He moves through the room in practiced steps - pulling the blinds shut, adjusting the blanket on the bed, tidying what little disorder remains. Outside, the world shifts from violet to deep blue, then darker still.

When they finally climb into bed, there's no hesitation. Tweek pulls Craig close as if instinctually, and Craig lets it happen, curling toward him like he’s finally found somewhere warm to land. Under the blankets, their bodies mold together naturally. Craig’s arm wraps around Tweek’s waist, and Tweek’s hand settles over Craig’s chest, fingers splayed above his heart. 

It’s quiet for a long beat, the kind of silence that feels a little too tight, like they’re both bracing for something to happen.

Craig breaks it, finally - his hand, still warm from the shower, reaching out and gently skimming the curve of Tweek’s back, just above the waistband of his boxers. It’s a small gesture, affectionate and soft enough to say I’m still here without the pressure of actual words.

"Were you listening to Drab Majesty earlier?" Craig’s voice is low, almost a whisper in the dark.

Tweek hums, the sound soft against Craig’s skin. "Yeah. It was on one of my playlists. I put it on for some background noise. Why?"

Craig shifts a little, his breath warm against Tweek’s temple. "I’m just used to you playing that hippie indie stuff. Or Taylor. Not... whatever goth dirge vibe you were going for."

"It’s not goth dirge," Tweek says, nudging him lightly. "It’s darkwave. Synth-heavy. Your music, not mine."

Craig’s lips quirk. "Exactly. That’s why it caught me off guard. I always figured you couldn’t stand it."

"Usually I can’t," Tweek admits. His voice grows quieter. "But tonight... I don’t know. It just felt like the only thing that matched my head."

Craig doesn’t say anything right away. His fingers trace gentle lines along Tweek’s spine. "Yeah. That makes sense. You could’ve just played Phoebe Bridgers."

Tweek huffs a laugh, tired but real. "She was actually on the playlist too."

"And what playlist was that, exactly? 'Gay Sadboy Songs To Cry To'?"

"Close," Tweek says. "It’s called ‘Lo-fi Panic and Hi-fi Feelings.’"

Craig laughs under his breath. "That sounds aggressively accurate."

Tweek stretches his leg out slightly, toes brushing Craig’s shin. "It was curated recently."

"Oh yeah?" Craig shifts just enough to glance down at him, his tone playfully skeptical but gentler than before.

"Yeah." Tweek’s voice carries a teasing lilt, but his eyes don’t quite meet Craig’s. "I needed something to listen to while my boyfriend behaved like a complete asshat."

Craig grimaces, but there's no defensiveness in it - only the dull pang of regret. "That was deserved."

Tweek shrugs. "I didn’t want to make a playlist called 'Songs to Cry to While My Relationship Implodes,' but you kind of inspired the mood."

Craig sighs through his nose, quiet and self-deprecating, throat working around the weight of that. "Yeah. I’m sorry. For all of it."

"I know," Tweek murmurs, and nudges their legs together again, just barely. 

"I miss hearing you hum," Craig admits, voice soft and almost hesitant. "When you’d be sketching, or making coffee, or just... existing. You always did it without thinking. Like your brain just needed an outlet, and sound came out. It made everything feel warmer. I miss that. I miss the music too. The piano. The guitar. You used to just sit down and drift into it, like it was where you belonged."

Tweek’s fingers flex slightly against Craig’s chest, a subtle tension. He exhales slowly. "I haven’t really felt like playing," he says, quieter now. "Every time I sit down, I forget what to do. Like the notes are hiding from me. And the guitar - " he lets out a small, tired laugh, " - it's probably out of tune by now."

"I know you’ve been putting all your energy into drawing," Craig says eventually. Tweek shifts slightly, his brow furrowed. Craig continues, his voice low. "But I think... you’re happier when you’re making music. When you used to sit at the piano, or mess around on your guitar, or even when you were just... humming without thinking - you were less stressed."

Tweek turns his face slightly, pressing his cheek into Craig’s shoulder, as if trying to absorb the weight of those words without letting them slip past him. "I don’t know if that’s true anymore."

Craig’s gaze softens. "Whenever you talk about music - even just now, with your playlists... you're just... lighter. Happier. Like something in you had space to breathe."

Tweek closes his eyes. His voice is barely above a whisper. "It just feels harder now."

Craig nods faintly. "I even miss hearing you play 'Love Story' on the piano for the millionth goddamn time."

Tweek laughs, muffling his face in the fabric of Craig’s shirt. “Don’t bring Taylor into this.”

Craig chuckles. “Too late. She’s already here. Still got 'Blank Space' in your top five, don’t you?”

Tweek lifts his head just enough to give Craig a flat, exaggerated look. “Excuse me for having taste, man.”

Craig raises a skeptical eyebrow, lips quirking. “Taste that cries to breakup ballads in the bathtub.”

Snorting, Tweek smirks. “At least I cry with style.”

“You sobbed the first time you heard ‘All Too Well.’ Not the ten-minute version. The original.”

“And you should’ve, too,” Tweek says, jabbing him in the ribs just hard enough to elicit a flinch. “That bridge is catastrophic. Like, rewrite-the-literary-canon level tragic. It wrecked me, Craig. I had to lie down for an hour.”

Craig grins, eyes softening with fondness. “You said it should be part of the school’s music curriculum.”

Tweek nods solemnly. “It should! That song is a character study. A lyrical epic. It’s Shakespeare with eyeliner.”

Craig snorts. “You going to write your senior thesis on her now?”

“Don’t tempt me,” Tweek says, poking Craig in the chest. “I’ve got a folder started already."

“Of course you do,” Craig mutters, but his voice is soft with affection.

Tweek’s eyes roll, but his smile betrays him. The tension between them has thinned, the air easier to breathe. “Don’t act like you’re not into it, man. I saw you add her to your playlist.”

Craig shrugs, deadpan. “It was an accident.”

“Sure. Just like you ‘accidentally’ know every lyric to ‘Karma.’”

“It’s catchy,” Craig admits, almost defensively. “And vaguely threatening.”

Tweek lights up, eyes bright. “That’s the point!”

Craig smirks and nudges him with a shoulder. “You’re like a walking contradiction. Your playlists are part bubblegum breakdowns, part stoner indie shit, part brooding ambient darkwave. It’s chaos.”

“Balance,” Tweek says. “Mystery. Keeps people guessing, man.”

Craig leans back a little to get a better look at him. “You’re about as mysterious as a diary covered in scented gel pen confessions.”

“Rude,” Tweek snorts. “And what about ‘Anti-Hero’? You hummed that the other week when we were doing homework.”

Craig groans and covers his face with one hand. “You played it for three days straight. I couldn’t think. Just - ‘It’s me, hi, I’m the problem, it’s me’ - on repeat. It was psychological warfare.”

Tweek shrugs unapologetically. “That song is my personal mantra. Repeating that in my head during meditation has saved me from many panic attacks.”

Craig scoffs lightly, but there’s affection in his tone. “Taylor Swift: diagnosing an entire generation since 2006.”

Tweek laughs quietly and burrows a little closer. His limbs fold into Craig’s like muscle memory, tension unwinding in the warmth between them. “Exactly. So don’t bash my girl.”

“Never,” Craig murmurs, letting his fingers drift lazily through Tweek’s hair, each touch gentle and grounding. 

Their laughter lingers in the air for a moment before softening, dissolving into a silence that feels earned. The hush that settles around them wraps the room in stillness, intentional and warm, like a blanket stitched from all the moments they’ve chosen to stay. 

“I missed this,” Tweek murmurs, almost like a confession. “You and me, just… being dumb together.”

Craig lets out a breath that could be mistaken for a laugh. “Yeah. Me too.”

They settle deeper into bed, limbs entwined, the hum of a pedestal fan fading into background noise. The warmth between them is no longer just physical.

Tweek’s eyes begin to flutter, lids growing heavier as he nestles into Craig’s chest. His breath slows, syncing with Craig’s as though their bodies remember what it means to rest together.

“Goodnight,” Tweek mumbles sleepily, his voice a hushed rasp, soft against Craig’s collarbone. There’s a pause, and then, almost shyly, like it still catches on the edges of his throat, he adds, “I love you.”

Craig’s arms tighten around him without hesitation, enveloping him in a tender, grounding embrace.

“I love you too,” Craig says, the words thick but certain. “So much.”

Chapter Text

Tweek stirs gradually, emerging from sleep as though resurfacing from beneath still, deep water. The morning light diffuses gently across the bedroom, climbing the pale blue walls and falling in loose, golden threads across the bedspread. It glints off strands of blond hair that tumble into his eyes as he blinks awake and turns his head.

Craig lies beside him, still fast asleep.

There is a stillness in Craig's posture: lying halfway on his stomach, facing Tweek, one arm tucked loosely under his head. The blanket has fallen to his waist, exposing a sliver of pale skin at his lower back and the subtle contours of his spine beneath the soft cotton of his shirt.

He looks truly at peace.

Not just resting, but entirely unburdened - as though some invisible weight has lifted in sleep. The usual tension that haunts his features has melted away, replaced by something achingly gentle. His mouth is slack, curved slightly downward in a way that makes him seem younger.

To Tweek, it feels like he's seeing a secret version of Craig, one that is rarely glimpsed and even more rarely understood.

He watches the slow rise and fall of Craig’s breathing, the slight part of his lips, the way his lashes cast faint shadows on his cheekbones. There is something so soft and unguarded that it tugs at Tweek’s chest with a longing he doesn’t know how to name.

And god is Craig beautiful.

Striking, undeniably. The kind of beauty that turns heads - the kind of effortless allure that made people stare at him in hallways. But that isn’t the beauty Tweek sees now. Not here. Not like this.

This - this is the real thing.

This is Craig without the posture, without the ice armor, sarcastic remarks, or ironic detachment.

This is beauty softened by sleep and stripped of performance. It’s in the way his long lashes brush his cheeks, in the natural curve of his mouth, slightly open. In the way his body curls inward without thinking - subconsciously bracing, like he’s learned to protect himself even in unconsciousness.

Like someone who knows people want to look at him but can’t fathom anyone wanting to stay.

Tweek feels a tight pull in his chest. There’s an ache in it - an emotional gravity he’s known for years but never learned to ignore.

Because he loves Craig. He has for what feels like forever.

And loving him means knowing all the quiet ways in which he breaks.

Craig is funny in that dry, incisive way that most people miss unless they know where to look. He delivers sarcasm so seamlessly that it passes for apathy, but Tweek knows better.

Craig pays attention to things. He listens. He remembers the smallest details and hoards them like they matter. When he looks at Tweek - really looks - it feels like something divine is happening. Like the world narrows down to a single point of focus, and that focus is him.

When Craig looks at him with softness - the kind he would never admit to feeling - it is the most extraordinary thing in the world.

But lately, he hasn't looked at him like that. Not really.

Craig has been closed off. He’s been pessimistic and bitter. He’s been losing weight.

Tweek has noticed it gradually - the collar of his shirt gaping more, his jeans hanging lower on his hips, the sharp edge of his jawline growing more pronounced. This morning, with nothing to distract him, the signs are unmistakable. 

Craig isn’t okay.

Yesterday, for the first time in what felt like months, Craig finally talked.

Tweek remembers every word. The way Craig had stared at the floor, every sentence dragged out like it hurt to say. The fear in his voice. The anger. The honesty. The way he kept blinking too fast, like his body couldn’t decide if it was going to fall apart or hold itself together.

“And I thought if I dragged you into it with me, it’d ruin everything. That you’d look at me and realize I wasn’t worth all this bullshit."

Those words haven’t stopped echoing.

Tweek remembers the sharp swell of grief that rose in him when Craig said that. Grief and love and rage all tangled together. Because how could Craig not know? How could he still not see what Tweek sees?

That Craig is everything.

Tweek loves him so much it feels like it might tear him open.

He wants to hold all the broken pieces of Craig and keep them safe, but he knows he can’t. Not really. Craig has to want to be held. And sometimes, Tweek isn’t sure he does. 

Even so, Tweek reaches out slowly, gently brushing a strand of hair from Craig’s face. His fingertips barely graze his temple. The contact is soft and gentle.

Craig doesn’t stir.

Tweek tries to etch it into permanence: the calm rise and fall of Craig's chest, the way his fingers twitch unconsciously beneath the pillow, the rare stillness in his features. Part of him hopes, against all logic, that this rare, tranquil version of Craig might stay a while longer.

But it’s just past six when Craig begins to stir.

Tweek stays propped on one elbow, gaze soft and searching. He notices the change before Craig even opens his eyes - the subtle shift in breath, the faint furrow returning to his brow, the way his body stiffens slightly as he drifts closer to consciousness. There's something in the way Craig resists waking up that makes Tweek want to protect him more fiercely than anything else.

A low groan escapes Craig’s throat - a sound somewhere between irritation and exhaustion. He buries his face deeper into the pillow and mutters, voice rough with sleep, "Too early, babe. Tell the sun to shut the fuck up."

Tweek snorts quietly. “I’ll send it a very strongly worded letter.”

Craig makes a faint noise that could be a laugh. “Make it certified mail. Include something about violating my right to fucking suffer in peace.”

“Consider it done, sleepyhead.” Tweek replies.

Silence returns, this time companionable and unhurried.

Tweek lets his fingers trace lazy patterns across the fabric of Craig's shirt, moving slowly over the gentle curve of his shoulder, memorizing the warmth and the steady rise and fall beneath his touch. He catches himself smiling without meaning to.

He cards his fingers into the back of Craig’s hair, gently petting. Craig gives a soft noise in response, rubbing his cheek on the pillow while keeping his eyes closed.

Downstairs, the muffled signs of life stir: the clink of mugs, the rhythmic hiss of the coffee pot, soft voices exchanging routine words. Tweek’s parents are preparing for their day. He knows their schedule by heart - coffee, toast, small talk about the weather, a mention of the front window display. They’ll be gone by 6:30 to open the shop, keys jingling behind them, leaving the house quiet again.

Craig shifts onto his back with a deeper groan, dragging a hand across his face before squinting one eye open. His gaze lands on Tweek and lingers there, unreadable for a beat. Then his lips twitch into something small - a sleep-drenched approximation of a smile.

“You’re staring,” he murmurs.

Tweek shrugs, relaxed beneath the covers. The light filtering through the blinds casts golden spirals across his unkempt hair. “You looked so peaceful and cute. I didn’t want to wake you.”

Craig huffs, not unkindly, and throws an arm over his eyes. “First mistake of the day.”

Tweek leans in and presses a featherlight kiss to Craig’s throat, just beneath his jawline. The skin is warm, pulse slow and steady. Craig flinches faintly but doesn’t pull away. His breath falters for a moment before leveling out.

“You’re always like this in the morning,” Tweek teases, affection layered in his tone.

Craig makes a sound of resigned agreement. “I’m like this all the time. Mornings just make it obvious.”

“If you say so,” Tweek says, smile pulling wider.

They fall quiet again, an Tweek shifts slightly, resting his cheek on Craig’s shoulder, and listens to the way Craig breathes. He knows the world outside this room will keep turning, that soon there will be words and weight and choices that neither of them are ready to make.

Craig cracks one eye open and catches Tweek looking. 

“Still staring,” he mutters. “Creep.”

Tweek shrugs, playing it cool even as warmth creeps into his cheeks. “Still not sorry.”

Craig exhales slowly, his hand reaching out from under the covers, fingers brushing against Tweek’s wrist before catching hold. He laces their fingers together without a word.

Outside, a car door slams. There’s the jingle of keys. The front door shuts with a soft finality, and the house falls quiet again. It’s a different kind of quiet now - deeper, stiller. They’re alone.

Tweek rolls onto his back beside Craig and lets out a slow breath. “They’re gone,” he says softly.

Craig doesn’t respond right away. His eyes are closed again, his face tipped toward the ceiling like he’s chasing whatever scraps of sleep still linger behind his eyelids. But his fingers tighten slightly in Tweek’s.

Tweek turns his head and studies him.

Craig's eyes remain closed but his brow knits together, a crease between them that deepens ever so slightly - he’s is starting to tense, like the weight of being awake is already beginning to settle into his bones.

They eventually extract themselves from the tangle of sheets, moving with the lethargy of bodies reluctant to leave warmth behind.

Tweek pushes a hand through his disheveled hair, attempting to blink the residual heaviness of sleep from his eyes.

Craig bends over, retrieves his crumpled jeans from the floor, and pulls a battered pack of cigarettes from the front pocket. He stretches his arms overhead with a low, noncommittal groan, his joints popping like warning signs.

Tweek yawns, rubbing at one temple as he shuffles toward the bedroom door, trying not to notice the way Craig pulls on his hoodie, as if needing another layer to hide himself under.

Downstairs, the creaky floorboards beneath their bare feet greet them with the same complaints they always have. On the fridge, a handwritten note is held in place by a sunflower magnet Tweek has had since he was nine: "Gone to open shop. Have a good morning."

Tweek reads it without comment and turns toward the coffee maker. He fills the carafe, measures out the grounds without looking, pours water into the reservoir, and hits the brew button.

Craig doesn’t wait. He veers toward the back door without a glance, and steps out into the early chill.

Outside, the world is awash in soft gold. The sun is just beginning its climb, casting a muted pink across the undersides of clouds and streaking the sky with quiet defiance. Craig tucks his hands deeper into the sleeves of his hoodie as he moves to sit on the steps of the deck.

He retrieves a cigarette, lights it and draws in a slow breath. Smoke curls from his lips and dissolves into the cool air. 

Tweek eventually joins him, balancing two mismatched mugs in his hands. Steam coils from both, twisting gently in the breeze. He steps down onto the back stoop barefoot and hands one mug to Craig.

Craig nods. “Thanks,” he mutters.

Tweek sinks down onto the back steps with a soft grunt, cradling his mug between both hands. The wood is cool beneath his thighs, the porch still damp with leftover night.

Craig draws one knee up, resting his arm loosely over it, cigarette perched between two fingers. He glances over, watching Tweek bit his lip, a tell he’s never managed to lose. Craig knows that gesture too well: it means there are questions piling up behind his teeth, questions that won’t ask themselves until they’re forced out.

“You don’t have to pretend nothing happened,” Craig says softly before he takes a sip of the coffee. “We’ve been fighting and… not on the same wavelength.”

Tweek meets his eyes. His hesitation is subtle, but present, like a breath held in his chest. “I’m not pretending. I just… I don’t know how to be in the middle of it either. I don’t want to push you.”

Craig exhales smoke sharply through his nose, not quite a sigh. “I get that. I really do.”

The smoke drifts lazily between them, catching the morning light like it’s dancing. Tweek squints toward the horizon, where the sky is turning pale gold, soft blush curling under slow-moving clouds.

Craig takes another long, deliberate drag, then flicks ash off the edge of the step. His face is blank in that practiced way of his - not angry, not withdrawn, just far away.

Tweek sips his coffee slowly. His hands are still cold, but the mug helps. They sit together in the kind of quiet that says more than words could, but not enough to keep the looming weight of everything unsaid at bay.

Eventually, Tweek breaks it. His voice still rough from sleep. “Are you hungry?”

Craig doesn’t look at him. His gaze stays fixed across the yard, cigarette burning slow between his fingers. “Not really.”

Tweek frowns into his mug. “I am. Didn’t eat dinner last night.”

“Yeah,” Craig mutters, almost to himself. “I guess I forgot too.”

Tweek glances over, eyes narrowing slightly. “Forgot or just didn’t want to?”

Craig snorts faintly, a breath more than a laugh. “Same thing.”

There’s no venom in it. No sharpness. Just flat honesty. That almost hurts more.

Tweek leans into his knees, elbows on his thighs, coffee balanced precariously in his palms. “I can make something,” he offers, but the words are careful.

Craig finally glances his way. His mouth tugs, but it’s not quite a smile. “You shouldn’t be making shit for me after last night.”

“I was gonna make it for me,” Tweek says with a half-hearted shrug. “I’m starving. But I guess if you’re offering…”

"Fine. I’ll make breakfast.”

Tweek raises an eyebrow, amused. “You sure?”

“Yeah.” Craig leans over and stubs the cigarette out in the chipped ceramic ashtray beside the step. “I can scramble eggs. Don’t get used to it.”

Tweek grins. “God forbid.”

They sit a little longer, sipping their coffee while the sun climbs higher. The world is starting to wake up now. Tweek leans against Craig gently, their shoulders brushing. It’s not a statement, not a plea. Just closeness. Craig doesn’t move away.

They drift back inside slowly. 

Craig moves wordlessly toward the stove, setting his mug down with a quiet clink. He grabs a pan, starts rummaging in the fridge.

Tweek lingers near the table, leaning against the counter with both hands wrapped around his coffee. His eyes follow Craig, quiet and soft.

There’s something about watching Craig like this - shoulders slouched, hair still a mess, sleeves pushed to his elbows as he cracks eggs one-handed - that feels almost intimate. Like a private showing of a version of Craig that no one else ever gets to see.

The one who’s real and disarmingly domestic.

Craig drops a couple slices of bread in the toaster. He doesn’t look over. “You want cheese in the eggs?”

Tweek blinks. “Uh, sure. If we have any.”

“You do.” He sounds faintly amused, like Tweek should know better. “I saw the orange crime against dairy in your fridge.”

“Don’t insult my Kraft slices, man,” Tweek mutters into his mug.

Craig doesn’t reply, but the corner of his mouth twitches.

Toast pops. Eggs sizzle. Craig plates the food without flourish and slides it across the table to Tweek, then turns and grabs a slice of toast for himself. No eggs. Just dry toast, which he tears in half and picks at like it’s a task.

“Thanks,” Tweek says quietly, eyes on the breakfast in front of him as he starts to dig in.

Craig, on the other hand, eats like it’s an obligation, not a comfort. Every bite looks practiced, unthinking.

It hits Tweek in a place he doesn’t have a name for. He sets his fork down and watches Craig for a few more seconds, caught between concern and restraint.

“Hey,” he says, gently.

Craig doesn’t lift his eyes. “Yeah?”

Tweek shifts slightly in his chair, leaning forward. “Thanks. For breakfast.”

Craig glances over at him. “Don’t make it a thing.”

“I’m not,” Tweek says, offering a small smile. “Just… thank you. It means something.”

Craig shrugs, but it’s the kind that dodges rather than dismisses. “You needed food. I made some.”

“You didn’t eat dinner last night either.”

Craig looks down at the crust of toast in his hand, as though only now noticing it’s there. “Wasn’t hungry.”

“You’re still not,” Tweek says, his voice soft. There’s no accusation in it - just a statement of fact, weighted with quiet concern.

Craig shrugs again, sharper this time. “Don’t start.”

Tweek lets it drop. He doesn’t want to push, but the room feels heavier now. The gentle clinks of forks and mugs and shifting chair legs continue, but underneath, there’s a current of something else - something more brittle.

The silence between them isn’t comfortable anymore. It’s anticipatory. Tense.

Craig doesn’t finish his toast. He just tears it into small pieces, lets them sit on the edge of his plate, untouched. His coffee cools. His eyes stay low. Tweek watches all of it, quietly cataloging each motion, each lack of motion. 

After a long few minutes, Tweek pushes his plate slightly away and wipes his hands on a napkin. “So... what do you want to do today?”

Craig shrugs again, more a twitch than a gesture. “Don’t know.”

Tweek nudges the table leg with his knee, a tiny, hopeful attempt at lightness. “We could drive around. Or go to the park. Or just stay in. Watch a movie?”

Craig doesn’t answer right away. He picks up his mug and drinks, even though it’s probably cold by now. 

“You okay?” Tweek asks. The words are almost a breath. He hates how small they sound.

Craig looks up, just for a second. Their eyes meet, and Tweek sees it - all of it. The tiredness. The guilt. The distance. It flashes like a warning before Craig looks down again.

“Just tired,” Craig says.

Tweek nods, but his throat tightens. Because he knows that’s not the whole story. It hasn’t been for a while. He takes a breath, then slowly rises to his feet, gathering the dishes out of habit. 

At the sink, Tweek rinses the plates with unnecessary precision. The water runs too hot. He listens to it, hoping the noise might cover the way his heart is sinking.

It’s not a lie, but it’s not the whole truth either. Tweek can tell. There’s something guarded in the set of his jaw,

“Wanna hang out on the couch for a bit?” Tweek asks, voice deliberately casual, but not quite masking the careful way it lands. “We could throw on a movie. Something dumb. Just relax for a while.”

Craig finally lifts his gaze from the coffee cup cradled in his palms. His eyes meet Tweek’s, and for the briefest moment, there’s a flicker - an almost imperceptible thaw. 

“Yeah,” he says, low and dry. “Okay.”

It’s not enthusiastic. It’s not warm. But it’s something. It’s agreement, however half-hearted.

Tweek offers a small smile. “Cool,” he says, maybe a little too brightly. “You pick what we watch.”

Craig gives a short, almost imperceptible nod. He rises from the table slowly, coffee still clutched in one hand like a tether. He doesn’t make eye contact again as he turns and heads out of the kitchen.

Tweek stands still for a moment, eyes fixed on the space Craig just vacate.That faint flicker from earlier - the tenderness, the comfort, the warmth that had lingered between them like a fragile thread - feels like it’s vanished. 

There had been something real in that earlier moment, something simple and raw. The kind of closeness that asks for nothing and means everything. Now it’s gone.

Tweek doesn’t know how to name it. Doesn’t know how to hold it in place, or coax it back. He just knows he misses it.

He washes each dish slowly, deliberately. Like if he just keeps his hands busy, he won’t have to think too hard. But his mind doesn’t let go. It keeps drifting back to Craig - the way his shoulders looked under that hoodie, the tension wound through his spine, the blankness in his voice.

He knows that look. He’s seen it before.

It’s the look Craig wears when the walls are back up.

And the worst part is, they’d just started to come down.

Something is shifting again. Tweek can feel it in his bones. Not dramatic, not sudden. Just a slow crawl - like the light dimming gradually in a room, leaving shadows in its wake.

He doesn’t know if they’re heading toward another fight or another silence.

He just knows it’s close.

He places the final dish in the drying rack with a quiet clink, then leans into the counter, palms pressed flat against its cool surface. His head bows forward slightly, strands of hair falling into his eyes. For a long moment, he just breathes.

Something is coming.

And Tweek has no idea whether either of them is prepared for it.

His socked footsteps are near silent as he moves into the hallway. The transition from linoleum to carpet barely registers. He rounds the corner to the living room and sees Craig already on the couch, sitting low into the cushions. A blanket is draped over his lap. The TV screen is paused on a movie menu, the cheerful score looping faintly in the background. 

Tweek moves across the room and sinks into the couch beside him, the cushion dipping under his weight. The blanket is warm from Craig’s body heat. When Tweek tugs on the edge to bring it over his own legs, Craig lifts his arm, an unspoken invitation. Tweek slides in close.

Craig picks up the remote and hits play.

The movie is already off the rails by the fifteen-minute mark - a flaming motorcycle chase through a jungle inexplicably filled with vending machines, robotic birds, and a soundtrack that sounds suspiciously like it was made on a Casio keyboard. Explosions bloom in the background with no real cause. Dialogue is shouted with the kind of urgency that implies deep emotion, though none is ever fully explained.

Tweek snorts into his coffee, nearly spilling it down his shirt, eyes wide in disbelief as a velociraptor power-slides across a runway. “This is art,” he declares, completely serious.

Craig raises an eyebrow. “This is irreparable brain damage.”

“No, shut up - look at the lighting. That shadow composition? That’s deliberate, man. That’s intentional filmmaking, Craig.”

Craig tilts his head just enough to look up at him. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Tweek grins, leaning over and burying his nose in Craig’s messy hair. “Say that again. C’mon. Say it like you mean it.”

“God, honey, don’t make me repeat it. I’ll combust.”

“Nope. You started it. You called me cute. Locked into the record.”

“I regret everything that’s brought me to this moment.”

Tweek laughs and sets his mug down on the side table, then shifts so he can thread his fingers into Craig’s hair. He does it gently, slow and rhythmic, tracing along the grain with a kind of focused tenderness. His nails graze Craig’s scalp in deliberate, soothing circles.

Craig exhales like he’s been holding his breath all morning. His eyes flutter half-shut, his shoulders dropping a little. “You like that,” Tweek murmurs, voice soft and teasing.

Craig hums noncommittally. “No comment.”

“You’re purring.”

“I will bite you.”

“You won’t.”

“Watch me.”

But the threat dies out in a sigh as Tweek’s fingers begin scratching lightly at his scalp again. The tension in Craig’s posture softens further until he’s practically liquid against the cushions, spine curved and body warm beneath the blanket they’ve pulled over themselves.

The muted chaos of the movie drones on in the background - a ridiculous villain monologue is being delivered by a man holding a crystal skull and wearing rollerblades - but neither of them is paying it much attention anymore.

Tweek leans in again, pressing a kiss just behind Craig’s ear. Craig tips his head slightly, granting access without a word.

“I like mornings with you,” Tweek murmurs into his skin.

Craig doesn’t open his eyes. “Me too.”

Craig curls his arms around him, one hand settling on the small of Tweek’s back, the other tucked beneath the blanket. Tweek exhales, slow and long, like it’s the first time he’s really allowed himself to breathe all morning.

He tilts his chin up, brushing his nose along the line of Craig’s jaw. Craig’s eyes flutter open, hazy and half-lidded, before they close again as Tweek leans up to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. It’s slow - unhurried and full of intention. 

Craig responds just as gently, shifting his head slightly so their mouths meet again, soft and lingering. There’s no urgency, no edge. Just warmth, just presence. Craig’s hand moves up Tweek’s back, fingertips grazing the edge of his shoulder blade.

Tweek’s hand settles over Craig’s heart, feeling the calm beat beneath his palm. He leans up to kiss Craig again - softly at first, then again, slower this time, letting it linger. Craig responds with a quiet hum and tilts his head, lips brushing against Tweek’s in a slow rhythm. His hand traces up along Tweek’s spine, fingertips following the ridges of bone.

As Tweek shifts slightly to settle in more comfortably, his elbow inadvertently presses into Craig’s side. Craig’s breath catches - sharp, involuntary - and he lets out a muted hiss of pain that slices through the room.

Tweek immediately lifts his head, concern overtaking the ease they’d just shared. “Shit - Craig, Jesus, what - did I hurt you?”

Craig doesn’t respond at first. Instead, he reaches out and eases Tweek off of him. By the time they’re both seated upright again, the warmth from earlier has drained away.

Tweek repositions himself beside Craig. He watches as Craig doesn’t look at him.

“It’s nothing,” Craig says at last. His tone is composed, but distant. “I’m fine.”

Tweek narrows his eyes slightly, trying to read Craig’s expression, though all he sees is the curve of Craig’s jaw, set tight. “You didn’t seem fine. It really looked like I hurt you.”

“You didn’t hurt me,” Craig repeats, sharper this time. Still no eye contact. “Just leave it alone.”

“You don’t have to shut down,” Tweek says after a pause. “I only asked because I care.”

Craig’s shoulders tense. “I know you care." He glances at Tweek briefly, almost flinching at the contact, then turns away again. “But I said I’m fine.”

Tweek starts to speak again, then stops himself. He exhales slowly through his nose and focuses on the way his fingers bunch the fabric in his lap. 

Craig sits hunched in on himself, smaller somehow. His arm closest to Tweek has shifted protectively toward his torso, shielding the sore spot without drawing attention to it. But Tweek notices. 

And that's when it registers - the bruising on Craig's side.

"Craig,” Tweek says gently. His eyes are fixed on Craig’s face, green and searching, craving something more than silence. “Please. Talk to me.”

Craig tenses before the words even finish leaving Tweek’s mouth. 

“About what?”

“Whatever this is,” Tweek replies, gesturing vaguely between them. “Whatever’s been building up inside you. You carry it like it’s welded to your bones. And I feel it too, Craig. Even when you’re trying to pretend everything’s fine.”

Craig’s throat bobs as he swallows. He shrugs, but the movement is hollow. “I don’t know what you want me to say.” 

“I want you to let me in,” Tweek says. “I want to understand what’s happening inside your head. Because I know you’re not okay.”

Craig draws in a breath, his jaw working. “I don’t even understand it myself,” he mutters, barely audible. “How am I supposed to explain it to anyone else?”

“You don’t have to get it right,” Tweek replies, softer now. “Just try. That’s all I’m asking. To meet me halfway. I can’t keep doing this alone - being the only one reaching. You disappear inside yourself and I’m left out here, guessing.”

Craig’s brow furrows. “It’s not that easy,” he says. “If it were, don’t you think I’d already be doing it?”

“I’m not saying it’s easy,” Tweek replies. “But it has to start somewhere.” He hesitates, then presses on. “I’ve stood in front of this wall for years, hoping one day you’d open the door. But every time I think we’re getting somewhere, it slams shut again. And I’m exhausted, Craig. I’m so tired.”

Craig finally looks at him. His eyes are shadowed, guarded, but there’s something behind them - something wounded and real. “I'm sorry. I'm not trying to make you feel like that.”

“I know,” Tweek says, voice low. “But that doesn’t make it any less true.” His fingers tighten on the blanket. “You’ve been different. Not just this week. Not just after prom. For months. You don’t sleep. You don’t talk. You’re here, but you’re not here.”

Craig stares down at his hands. His knuckles are bloodless, his grip tight around nothing.

“I’m not trying to corner you,” Tweek adds. “But you stopped talking about the future. You stopped acting like you even had one.” He pauses, then says it - carefully, like it might break them. “And I think it’s because you don’t see yourself in it anymore.”

Craig opens his mouth, but the words stall out before they form. He closes it again.

“And that terrifies me,” Tweek continues, voice cracking just slightly. “Because I do. I still see you in my future. I want you there. I picture us living somewhere quiet, somewhere warm, sharing space, sharing time - doing something that feels like life together. But I can’t do that if you’re already planning to give up."

He pauses, gives Craig a chance to speak, but the silence stretches between them.

Tweek’s voice softens, but the urgency in it is unmistakable. “We need to talk. About college. About what comes next. About us. Because it’s all happening, whether we want it to or not, and I need to know if you still see yourself in any of it - with me.”

Craig shakes his head as though trying to rattle free the pressure building behind his eyes. “I just - I can’t, okay?” His voice is sharp around the edges, layered with frustration and exhaustion. “I can’t think about all of that right now.”

Tweek’s brow creases. “Why not?”

Craig’s voice rises, too fast, too brittle. “Because it’s too much.” Then, catching himself, he reins it in. “It’s too much, Tweek. Everything already feels like it’s unraveling. And now you want me to map out the rest of my life like I’m supposed to be ready for that?”

“I’m not asking you for a five-year plan,” Tweek replies, calm but insistent. “I’m asking you to stop pretending like none of it matters.”

“I’m not pretending.” Craig scrubs at his face with the heels of his hands. “I’m just trying to make it through the goddamn day without everything collapsing around me.”

Tweek’s voice tightens. “You think I’m not doing that too? You think I haven’t been pushing through the same weight? But I’m still trying, Craig.”

Craig’s jaw tightens, his gaze darting to the floor. “Tweek…” He drags a hand down his face. “I just… don’t want to deal with that right now.”

“Well, you kind of have to.” Tweek’s voice tightens despite himself. “We’re graduating next week. I’m leaving for Rhode Island in two months.”

Craig flinches at that. Barely. But Tweek sees it - how his eyes shutter, how his shoulders curl in like he’s trying to physically make himself smaller.

Tweek leans forward, voice lowering but not softening. “MIT was your dream. Since we were, like, thirteen. You talked about space and stars and... fucking orbital mechanics like they were your bible. You made me watch every stupid rocket launch and hours of rover footage. You got in, Craig. Into MIT. One of the hardest schools in the country. And now you’re just… what? Dropping it? Do you hear how insane that is?!”

Craig shifts again, posture folding inward. “I don’t know if I want it anymore.”

"Why not?"

Craig keeps his eyes on the floor. "I just don’t."

“That’s not an answer,” Tweek says, sharper now.

Craig lifts his gaze briefly before muttering, “Well, it’s the only one that I’ve fucking got.” The moment the words leave his mouth, he curses quietly. “Fuck, I didn’t mean to say it like that.”

“You worked so hard,” Tweek says, the emotion rising in his voice. “You sacrificed everything to get those grades. I watched you pace around and freak out for months over that MIT application. You wouldn’t even let me read the final draft because you kept rewriting it. You wanted this, Craig.”

Craig’s voice is quieter now. “I thought I did.”

“And now you just don’t?” Tweek shakes his head, incredulous. “That’s it? One day you wake up and change your mind?”

Craig’s hands clench together in his lap, fingers knotting into the fabric of his jeans. “Things changed.”

Tweek stares at him. “Is that supposed to mean something to me? Is that supposed to make it okay that you’re throwing everything away?”

Craig’s voice cracks as it rises. “Maybe I can’t make it make sense! Maybe I don’t even know how to explain it because everything feels - ” He cuts off, biting the inside of his cheek.

“Of course everything feels different,” Tweek says, leaning toward him. “We’re growing up and that’s scary. But it’s also the point. We’re supposed to change. That doesn’t mean you get to just… give up.”

“I’m not giving up.”

“Then what are you doing?” Tweek’s voice breaks now too, his breath starting to shake. “Because from here, it looks like you’re waiting for your future to dissolve on its own. Like if you ignore it long enough, you won’t have to face it.”

Craig exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face. “I don’t know what you want me to say. It’s just not that simple.”

“Explain it to me!” Tweek explodes. “Because I am trying, Craig. I am standing here trying to understand you, trying to fight for this, and you won’t even meet me halfway.”

Craig’s shoulders tense. He opens his mouth, hesitates, then says, “Every time I think about college, all I can see is you leaving.”

Tweek freezes.

Craig’s voice drops. “Maybe I don’t want to talk about the future because when I imagine it, it’s always you on a plane, heading east, and I’m still here. Alone. Watching it happen like I don’t belong in any of it.”

There’s a long pause. Tweek’s voice is softer now. “Then come with me.”

Craig looks at him, surprised. “What?”

“Come to Rhode Island,” Tweek says. “Even if you don’t know what comes next - come with me. We’ll figure it out together.”

Craig shakes his head almost instantly. “I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I can’t go just for you,” Craig says, the words thick in his throat. “And I don’t have anything else.”

The weight of that admission knocks the breath from Tweek’s lungs. It isn’t cruel. It’s worse - it’s honest.

“Then what happens when I leave?” Tweek asks quietly.

Craig doesn’t respond.

“Do you stay in that house?” Tweek continues, voice trembling. “Do you keep waiting for something to change on its own? Because that’s not living, Craig. That’s hiding.”

Craig’s voice is barely audible. “I don’t know. I really don’t know.”

Tweek swallows hard. “And that’s what terrifies me. Because I’ve loved you for so long, and I’ve done everything I can to hold on. But if you can’t even want something - if you can’t even want me enough to try - then I don’t know what’s left.”

Craig recoils at that. When he speaks, it’s defensive, laced with disbelief. “So that’s it? You’re giving me an ultimatum now?”

Tweek shakes his head, frustration growing. “It’s not an ultimatum, Craig. It’s an option. One of many you keep refusing to take. You have options. You could go to MIT. You could come to Rhode Island. You could take a gap year, or move somewhere else entirely, or even just talk to someone - get help. There are a dozen different paths in front of you, and you’re just standing still. Refusing all of them!"

Craig cuts in, voice rising, “Yeah, well, maybe I was just being fucking naive, okay?”

"No, you weren’t!” Tweek snaps, his voice sharp with disbelief. “You were the smartest person I knew. You still are. You used to light up talking about space and satellites and star charts - don’t stand there and tell me that wasn’t real just because you’re scared of the future!”

Craig’s expression twists, jaw clenched. “You don’t understand.”

“I do!” Tweek yells back, voice cracking under the strain. “I know what it feels like to be terrified! I’ve had panic attacks in class. I’ve spiraled in front of our friends. But I didn’t let that stop me - I didn’t pretend none of it mattered just because I was hurting.”

Craig stands abruptly, fists curled at his sides. “Don’t treat me like I’m weak.”

“I’m not,” Tweek retorts, standing too. They’re facing off now, the distance between them charged. “I’m talking to you like someone who’s been fighting for you - for months, for years. And now that I’m leaving, you’re acting like it’s all over. Like the only thing left is to stay here and disappear.”

“You don’t know what that’s like - ” Craig starts.

“Yes, I do!” Tweek cuts him off, stepping closer. “You think you’re the only one dealing with this? I’ve clawed my way through every panic attack, every therapy session, every episode where I couldn’t even breathe, just to stay functional. I’m on more meds than I can count and I still wake up every day choosing to move forward.”

Craig turns away, shoulders tight. His voice comes out low and bitter. “You always had your shit together better than me.”

Tweek lets out a dry, pained laugh. “No, I didn’t. Why do you think I need medication? Why do you think I go to therapy? You think I’m not scared shitless of moving across the country by myself? You think I don’t wake up in the middle of the night wondering how the fuck I’m supposed to survive without you?”

Craig says nothing. His expression closes off, eyes flattening with that familiar, unreachable distance.

“And you know what hurts the most?” Tweek says, his voice lower now, but more intense. “It’s not that you’re scared. It’s that you’re quitting. You’re not even trying anymore. You’re letting yourself quit everything - like you’ve already decided you don’t belong in this life.”

That lands with brutal clarity. Craig flinches - barely, just a flicker - but Tweek catches it instantly.

“You stopped going to school,” Tweek says, voice trembling but insistent. “You only eat when someone puts food in front of you. You’ve isolated yourself from everyone. You’re decaying in that house with your dad, even though your mom offered you a way out.”

Craig’s hands tighten into fists, his jaw clenching as if he’s physically restraining the urge to shout.

“And now, after everything,” Tweek continues, the edge of his voice fraying with emotion, “you’re angry with me because I’m moving forward. Because I have to. Because I’m trying. Because I still believe in something. And you don’t. But don’t you dare make that my fucking fault.”

His words reverberate through the space between them like a snapped thread under tension.

Tweek draws in a breath, shaky and thin, heart pounding. “You act like life just happened to you, like you’ve been buried under an avalanche and never had a chance to dig out. But that’s not true. You chose this. You choose, every single day, to do nothing. You choose to stay in that house. You choose not to ask for help. You refuse to take any step forward - not even the smallest one.”

Craig tenses, shoulders curling inward, but Tweek keeps going. His voice spills out, breathless and fierce.

“I know you’re in pain. I know it’s not easy. But you’re not the only one who's afraid. I’ve been terrified for years - of leaving, of failing, of waking up alone. But I’m still moving. I’m still pushing myself forward. And you? You’re just standing still, like you’re waiting for everything to fall apart so you don’t have to be the one to break it.”

Craig takes a shaky step back, as if physically retreating. His eyes ignite, something sharp and bitter slicing through the silence between them. His voice drops, low and trembling with anger.

“You think I’m just giving up?” he hisses. “That I’m some burnout waiting to collapse? You want the truth, Tweek? I stayed in this town for you.”

Tweek’s breath catches. He goes utterly still.

Craig steps forward now, the words escalating with every syllable. “I could’ve gone to Denver with my mom. I could’ve gotten out of that house. I could’ve left him. You think I didn’t want that? You think I don’t wake up every fucking day wishing I had?”

Tweek doesn’t respond. He’s frozen in place, stunned.

“But I didn’t,” Craig seethes. “I stayed. I stayed in that fucking house because you said you wanted me to stay. Because I believed we’d make it. Because I thought if I just held on long enough, we’d find a way to survive it together.”

The air turns cold, the space between them heavy with implication. The floor feels like it might fall away at any second.

Tweek’s voice shatters the silence, thin and cracked. “So this is my fault now?”

Craig’s mouth opens - then shuts. His jaw clenches like he’s bracing against his own thoughts.

Tweek’s face twists in disbelief. “You think I asked you to do that? You think I wanted you to keep living like that, suffering in silence just to be closer to me?”

“That’s not what I said,” Craig mutters, suddenly unsure, voice stripped of its earlier force.

“No, that’s exactly what you said,” Tweek snaps, chest rising fast. “You just threw it in my face like I’m the reason your life’s falling apart. Like your homelife is because of me. Like me making plans for college is some kind of betrayal.”

Craig flinches, the weight of her accusation hitting like a slap. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Then what did you mean?” Tweek’s voice is cracking now, torn between fury and grief. “Because all I heard was ‘I gave everything up for you, and look what it got me.’”

Craig’s lips part, but no sound comes. Just the heavy, stunned silence of someone who knows he went too far but doesn’t know how to fix it.

Tweek’s hands shake as he points at him, raw emotion surging. “You think I haven’t felt guilty enough already? That I haven’t been lying awake every night thinking about how I’m leaving you here - thinking about whether you’ll even be okay when I go?”

Craig’s face is stricken, his posture defensive and closed-off, like he’s already retreating inside himself again.

“And then you go and throw that at me?” Tweek’s voice breaks, cracking on every syllable. “Like all of this is on me? Like I’m the reason for all your problems?”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Craig says again, but it’s softer now. Weaker. Like he’s no longer sure what he means.

Tweek laughs - bitter and hurt. “Yeah? Well that’s how it sounded.”

And neither of them can look at the other.

Tweek is trembling now - not just from anger, but from the sheer weight of it all. His breath is ragged, his hands clenched so tight at his sides his knuckles have gone white.

“You think staying in South Park was some kind of sacrifice?” he spits, voice rising with every word. “That it somehow makes you a fucking martyr? No one asked you to stay, Craig! You chose to! And now you’re acting like I should feel guilty for wanting to leave!”

Craig’s arms are crossed tight, jaw clenched, but his voice is still sharp. “I’m not saying you should feel guilty.”

“You’re saying everything but,” Tweek snarls. “You’re blaming me without saying the words. You think I don’t hear it? You think I’m too stupid or too emotional to notice when you twist things just enough to make it feel like this is my fault?”

“That’s not fair - ”

“Fair?” Tweek laughs bitterly. “You want to talk about fair? You’ve been treating your future like a ticking bomb for months, and every time I try to talk to you about it, you shut down. You say 'later,' or you disappear, or you say something that makes me feel like I’m the bad guy just for hoping you’ll try.”

Craig winces. “I didn’t mean - ”

“Stop saying that!” Tweek shouts, tears stinging his eyes now. “You keep saying you didn’t mean it, but you said it, Craig! You treat me like I’m the reason you’re miserable. Like being close to me is why you gave up on yourself.”

Craig looks away, jaw tightening further, but Tweek doesn’t let up.

“I have bent over backwards trying to help you,” he says, voice shaking. “I’ve been patient. I’ve stayed up late with you when you couldn’t sleep, I’ve watched you fall apart in silence because you refuse to let anyone help you. And it feels like you don’t even want to be helped. Like you’d rather collapse than take a step forward.”

“I didn’t ask you to do any of that!” Craig barks suddenly. “You decided to take care of me, and now you’re mad that I’m not better fast enough for you.” He takes a step closer, his voice dropping low. “This is my hell, Tweek. Not yours. So why the fuck are you so desperate to see it? What’s the obsession? So you can feel like a savior? So you can tell yourself you’re the only one who ever gave a damn?”

Tweek reels, like the words hit him across the face. His fists clench, his entire body tensing. His voice drops to a razor-thin whisper. “Say that again,” he growls. “I fucking dare you.”

There’s a long, gaping silence. Craig’s breathing hard and so is Tweek. Their eyes meet and the pain is visceral.

Tweek inhales slowly, as though steadying himself before he tries again. "Is that really what you think?"

Craig hesitates, just long enough to fracture the moment. "I - "

"No. Fuck you." Tweek's voice is flat now - low, stripped of theatrics, but filled with finality. "You think I wanted to save you? That all of this was about fixing you, making you better, playing some fucked-up martyr? I didn’t want you to be some perfect version of yourself - I wanted you to be okay. I wanted us to be okay. But every time I reach out, you shove me away. You’d rather blow everything to hell than be vulnerable for one fucking second."

Craig’s swallows thickly, eyes wet. “Tweek - ”

“No.” Tweek cuts him off, voice trembling but resolute. His eyes are bright now - not from fury, but from everything holding back the collapse. “You don’t get to rewrite this. You don’t get to cast me as the antagonist in your personal tragedy. I’ve been here, Craig. Every damn time. And I’m exhausted.”

Craig’s mouth opens, but no words follow. His chest rises and falls too quickly.

“I’m so fucking tired,” Tweek says, voice fraying. “Tired of loving someone who treats me like this. Who won’t move forward in life.”

Craig drops his gaze, jaw clenched, voice low with shame. “I don’t want to hold you back.”

Tweek looks at him, really looks - like he’s memorizing the face of someone he doesn’t recognize anymore. His voice is hoarse when it returns. “Then come with me. Don’t make me choose between moving forward and staying chained to this. Come with me.”

Craig scoffs - wounded and defensive. “You don’t get it, Tweek. I wouldn’t be going with you. I’d be following you around like some lost dog, crashing on your couch, living off whatever scraps of time you could spare between studio classes and lectures. I’d be dead weight.”

Tweek shakes his head like the words hit something already cracked. “Jesus, Craig. You really think that little of yourself?”

“No,” Craig snaps. “I think that little of what I am right now.”

Tweek’s voice breaks open, bitter and furious. “Then do something about it! Stop standing still and do something! God, you act like you're helpless, like you’ve got no agency in your own fucking life, but that’s bullshit. You’re not trapped, Craig - you’re just scared.”

Craig throws his arms out, his own voice rising. “Of course I’m fucking scared! You think I haven’t been trying to hold myself together with tape and spit while watching everyone else figure their shit out? I’m not you, Tweek - I don’t thrive under pressure. I crack.”

Tweek laughs, sharp and cruel. “You’ve already cracked, Craig. You’re just pretending you haven’t. You haven’t eaten properly in weeks. You sleep like shit. You’ve been drinking more than you admit and instigating fights with everyone who cares about you - ”

Craig snaps, stepping forward, voice like a whip: “Shut up.”

“No,” Tweek growls, stepping up to meet him. “I’ve shut up for months. I let you push me away and mope and spiral and self-sabotage while I waited for you to snap out of it, and I’m done! You want to ruin your life? Fine! But don’t expect me to sit here and watch!”

“Then go!” Craig shouts. “Go live your perfect fucking college life and stop pretending like you give a shit if I come or not!”

Tweek’s mouth drops open, horror flashing through him. “Are you kidding me?! You think I don’t care?”

Craig throws his hands up. “You say you do, but all I hear is how I’m not trying hard enough. How I’m fucking everything up. How I’m dragging you down.”

“You’re not hearing me!” Tweek screams, eyes brimming. “I’ve been begging you to fight for this. For us. I gave you everything I had, and you threw it back at me like it wasn’t enough!”

Craig’s voice slices, raw and trembling with desperation. “You think I wanted it to end like this?!”

Tweek’s eyes flash, frustration and heartbreak bleeding into every syllable. His hands fling out before he can stop them - sharp, distressed. “Then what the fuck are you doing?!”

Craig flinches. Not subtly. Not emotionally. Physically.

His body snaps backward like a rubber band pulled too tight. One arm lifts - fast, automatic, protective - shielding his face from a blow that never comes. It’s not fear on his face. It’s recognition. An old defense mechanism flaring to life, summoned not by the moment but by everything that’s ever come before it.

The silence that falls between them is immediate, absolute, and shattering.

Tweek’s chest rises and falls in a frantic rhythm, his expression contorting as the reality of what just happened lands hard.

“Oh my god, Craig,” he breathes, voice cracking. “I wasn’t - I would never - ”

“I know!” Craig shouts, cutting him off with a sudden, wounded fury. “I know, okay?! I know. Just - stop! Stop it, Tweek. Just fucking stop!”

Craig turns sharply and paces away, like he’s trying to escape the very room he’s trapped inside.

“Just leave me the fuck alone, okay? Leave me alone, for fuck’s sake. Goddammit! FUCK!” Craig’s voice cracks through the air like a whip, sudden and final, reverberating with a force that leaves the room breathless.

Tweek doesn’t move. He remains frozen in place, the heat of their fight solidifying into something cold, heavy, and irrevocable. His eyes stay fixed on Craig’s back - shoulders tight, muscles taut with restrained emotion, the whole of him trembling with the effort it takes not to fall apart.

He won’t look at Tweek. Can’t. Facing him would mean acknowledging all of it: the fight, the silence, the mounting years of things unsaid. Instead, he stares at the wall like it might offer him escape, refuge, or at least a delay.

Tweek steps back, not in fear but in painful realization. The space he creates isn’t a retreat; it’s a resignation. But what shifts between them in that moment isn’t physical - it’s fundamental. 

The ground beneath their relationship tilts.

Tweek’s fury doesn’t dissolve so much as it crystallizes into something sharper, more precise.

“You never talk about it,” he says. His voice is low, the kind of quiet that cuts deeper than shouting. “Not your dad. Not the house. Not the way it’s been eating you alive.”

Craig doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t speak.

“You let Kenny in,” Tweek continues, voice gaining shape and weight. “You talk to him. You trust him with the things you pretend don’t exist when I’m around. You show him the parts of yourself that I’ve spent years trying to find.”

He waits. The silence that answers him is an indictment.

“I have tried,” Tweek says, louder now, his words trembling at the edges. “God, I’ve tried. I’ve been trying to help you - be safe enough for you. And you - you let me carry your weight just far enough that I can’t set it down, but never close enough to feel like I actually matter.”

Craig remains still. Every second of his silence is deafening.

Tweek’s breath hitches, but when he speaks again, it’s with cool, practiced clarity. “You want to be alone?”

The question hangs like a challenge.

“Then be alone.”

He gives the words a beat to settle. Just one. A breath of hesitation - not weakness, but mourning.

“This is it, Craig. I can’t keep begging for scraps of intimacy. I can’t keep chasing the version of you that only shows up when it’s convenient. I’m done clawing at the walls you built just to keep me on the outside.”

Craig shifts - barely. It isn’t enough. Not nearly.

“If you want to come to Rhode Island,” Tweek says, quieter now but unwavering, “then come. No explanations. No apologies. Just show up. I’ll open the door.”

He swallows hard. The words catch in his throat, and for a moment it seems like he might say more - but he doesn’t. Instead, he stands still, letting the weight of his words settle between them like dust in a long-abandoned room.

“But if you stay here - if you keep choosing silence, fear, and this version of yourself that lets everything good rot away - then that’s it. We’re finished.”

The silence that follows is brittle, aching. Then Craig lets out a soft, scoffing noise - humorless, hollow. A bitter sound that barely qualifies as a laugh. He shakes his head slowly, not turning around, not facing him. His hand moves up to swipe across his face, hiding the unmistakable wetness gathering beneath his eyes. He sniffs once, sharp and broken, then turns and walks toward the stairs with slow, deliberate steps.

Tweek doesn’t follow. He stays rooted to the spot, chest tight, hands limp at his sides. Watching. Waiting for something that doesn’t come.

Upstairs, there's the distant sound of movement - drawers opening, the creak of floorboards, the dull thunk of a zipper being yanked too hard. A long minute passes before Craig appears again at the top of the stairs, fully dressed. He moves like someone assembling armor - sleeves tugged, fingers fumbling with the zipper of his hoodie. His hands tremble.

“Craig - ” Tweek tries, voice faltering.

But it dies on his tongue. There’s nothing left to say.

Craig’s eyes flick toward Tweek - just for a second. And in that second, there’s a flicker of something deeper than anger: a fracture in his composure, a tremor of pain he can’t fully hide. But it vanishes almost as quickly as it appears, masked by the rigid, calculated coldness settling across his features. Whatever vulnerability might have surfaced is gone, buried beneath years of self-defense and emotional detachment.

“Go fuck yourself,” Craig says, low and cutting, the words precise as a scalpel and just as cruel. It’s not a reaction - it’s a weapon. A statement designed to sever, not provoke.

He doesn’t wait for a reply. He turns on his heel, movements stiff with fury, and heads for the door. His footsteps strike the floor with an intentional finality. And when the door slams shut behind him, it doesn’t just end the conversation - it reverberates through the entire house like a rupture, a break in the air itself. The frame shudders. The walls groan.

And then - nothing.

That aching, vacant silence that follows something irrevocable.

Tweek doesn’t move at first. His brain catches up slower than his body, still suspended in disbelief. Then - instinct. He starts forward, one foot stepping toward the door, toward Craig, toward the collapsing edge of whatever they still had.

But he doesn’t make it far.

His knees give before he reaches the entryway, like his body has lost the will to stand. He drops, crumpling under the sudden weight in his chest, a weight too massive to bear. One hand claws at his shirt, nails digging into the fabric over his sternum, as if he might be able to tear the hurt out of himself physically. His spine curls inward. His head dips low. And the first sob escapes him - quiet but jagged, a rupture of sound in a room that feels vacuum-sealed.

There’s no one left to hear him. 

Just the echo of Craig’s departure and the hollow that remains.

Chapter Text

Kyle's cross-legged on the floor, hunched forward slightly, elbows balanced on his knees, controller gripped like it might sprout wings and fly away. His brow is furrowed in that all-too-familiar way - intent, brooding, overthinking while pretending not to be.

Stan's slouched sideways on the beanbag next to him, one sock halfway off his foot, soda can teetering dangerously on his stomach.

"Rematch?" Kyle asks, his voice nonchalant, but his fingers are already navigating the game menus like he’s trying to avoid something.

"You only want one so I can humiliate you again," Stan replies, yawning.

Kyle snorts, side-eying him. "You won because I was looking at a text from my mom and you slid past me on the last corner. That’s not a win. That’s theft."

Stan takes a noisy handful of chips from the open bag between them. "Texting during competition is poor sportsmanship. I’m not responsible for your lack of mental agility."

Kyle narrows his eyes. "You’re going to choke on a Dorito one day and I won’t do shit to stop it."

They load into the next race. Engines roar in the background. Kyle picks the sleek black coupe again, loyal to a fault. Stan - predictably - chooses the violently neon-pink muscle car with glitter decals.

"The volcano track again?" Kyle groans. "You’re a sadist."

"Gotta keep you humble," Stan replies, already leaning into his game-face.

The countdown beeps. They lurch into action. Fingers twitch, controllers clack, the screen a blur of turns and explosions.

Stan cuts Kyle off at the second turn. Kyle curses, launching off the wrong ramp and straight into digital lava.

"Jesus, you drive like a goat on ketamine," Kyle mutters.

Stan laughs, genuine and warm. "That’s rich coming from the guy who just committed vehicular suicide."

"It was a shortcut," Kyle insists.

"To death?"

They both laugh, harder than necessary. Stan tosses his head back against the beanbag, letting the sound ring out with something a little too sharp around the edges. Kyle snickers until he has to wipe at the corner of his eye, and for those few seconds, it’s like nothing is about to change.

For a few moments, it’s easy. It's just them - without expectations, without the looming weight of choices waiting outside this basement. There are no applications to check, no deadlines to count down to, no goodbyes rehearsed in the shower.

Just the rhythm of fingers on controllers, of banter thrown back and forth like muscle memory.

They don’t have to think about Stan’s packed boxes stacked in the corner of his bedroom. Or the acceptance letter from Rutgers pinned crookedly to the fridge.

They’re here, in the soft half-dark, in the way their laughter syncs and bounces off the walls they grew up in. The years feel layered in the walls. It’s like being wrapped in something that’s been theirs since fourth grade.

Like always.

Even though they both know it won’t be like this much longer. Even though every second that feels timeless is, actually, ticking.

Kyle’s voice softens. "Remember when we thought this game looked real? Like, cutting-edge realism? The graphics blew our minds. The lava looked like actual danger and the fake crowd sounded like a real stadium."

Stan grins. "You said the driver looked like that skateboarder from that movie we watched, like, a hundred times. The one with the terrible acting but really good abs and the dramatic slow-mo shots."

Kyle laughs. "No, no. That was you. You were, like, obsessed. You rewound the slow-mo fall scene three times. You said, and I quote, ‘this is cinema.’"

"That was for the stunt work!" Stan insists as he grabs a pillow and hurls it half-heartedly at Kyle. "The commitment to the role."

Kyle bats the pillow away. "Right, and the part where you said he had 'very kissable eyebrows'? That was for the stunt work too?"

Stan groans and drops his head into his hands. "Jesus. I need a brain scrub and probably a time machine. Sophomore year me was unhinged."

Kyle grins. "Sophomore year you ate Spaghettios with a plastic spoon because you said the metal ones made your gums feel weird."

"Okay, that’s valid. Metal spoons are aggressive when you're high."

Kyle shakes his head, smiling. "You’re so dumb sometimes."

"And yet you still hang out with me."

"Tragic, isn’t it?"

The race ends. Kyle wins by a sliver and sets the controller down like it’s no big deal. Stan catches the corner of a grin he tries to hide.

He watches him a beat too long - long enough that Kyle must feel it, but he doesn’t turn his head. Just keeps his eyes on the screen like it’s got something new to show him.

"You’ve been a little weird lately," Stan says, aiming for casual, but it comes out thinner than he wants. He tosses a chip into his mouth to cover the crack in his tone.

Kyle doesn’t look over. "Just a lot of things going on. Senior year things. Change."

Stan nods, but something nags at him - like an itch he can’t reach. "About leaving?"

Kyle exhales through his nose. It’s not quite a sigh. "Yeah."

The TV hums quietly behind the frozen race screen, casting a soft blue light over the cluttered basement. Dust floats lazily through the air like even it can’t decide where it’s going.

"I’m not going far," Kyle adds. His voice is light, but there’s a tightness behind it. "Denver’s basically a long commute. As long as you don’t mind screaming at people who don’t use turn signals."

Stan stretches his legs out until his socked foot nudges Kyle’s knee. "Rutgers is a whole-ass plane ride. Different time zone. Different weather. Might as well be Neptune."

Kyle’s mouth twitches. "You’ll be near Wendy, though. That’s... good. Right?"

"Yeah," Stan says, but the word sticks like peanut butter to the roof of his mouth. It tastes like obligation, not confidence. It hangs in the air between them too long.

Kyle finally turns to look at him. His expression is unreadable - carefully neutral in a way that makes Stan uneasy. Like he’s calculating the weight of Stan’s answer and trying not to show it. "Is it?"

Stan fidgets with the torn label on his soda, thumb worrying the damp edge until it starts to fray. "I don’t know. Rutgers is... huge. Big name. Big lectures. I got in for football, not grades. Sometimes I feel like I’m just there to get tackled for their highlight reel and look pretty for recruitment posters."

Kyle’s response comes too fast. Too sharp. "You’re smart, Stan."

Stan raises an eyebrow at him, skeptical.

"You are," Kyle says again, voice steadier now but tight at the edges. "You don’t act like a textbook, but you don’t need to. You’re quick. You think in pictures. You get people. That’s not dumb."

Stan gives him a lazy smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "That’s a very Kyle way of saying I wing it and make it look convincing."

Kyle smirks, but it’s faint. "Fine. Be modest. Doesn’t make it less true."

Stan goes quiet. His eyes track the floor, the scattered soda can, the half-crushed chip bag. "You could’ve gone anywhere. You had professors writing you letters. Actual letters. You were a scholarship machine."

Kyle shrugs, but there’s a weight in his shoulders. "I wanted to be close to my family. My mom’s been tired lately. Ike’s still got a few years left in high school. I didn’t want to leave them behind."

Stan exhales long and low. His voice is quieter now, the kind that tries not to tremble. "You ever think about how long we’ve been doing this? You and me. Sitting here. Talking around things. Never really saying anything."

Kyle doesn’t look over at him. Just nods faintly, like he’s been carrying that thought around too. "Since we were nine," he murmurs. "When everything felt like it was going to last forever."

"And now it’s just... ending," Stan says, not bitter, just bewildered. Like he still hasn’t caught up with the reality of it.

Kyle shifts on the floor, his fingers curling around the edge of the beanbag. He glances at the paused screen, then at the door like something might be waiting on the other side. "Feels like it already has."

Stan doesn’t say anything. The silence that opens up between them is expansive - like a chasm neither of them knows how to cross. It’s not uncomfortable, but it’s full to bursting. Like both of them are standing at the edge of a sentence no one’s brave enough to finish.

"You think we’ll keep talking?" Kyle asks. He says it softly, like it’s a question he already knows the answer to. Like it hurts to ask out loud.

Stan hesitates. For a moment, he doesn’t speak, and Kyle almost fills in the silence himself. Then Stan says, "Yeah. I do."

But the way he says it is soft. Unsure. 

Kyle shifts suddenly, rubbing the back of his neck like it’s burning. The air between them has thickened with frustration that’s been building for too long. He bites the inside of his cheek.

"You know what? I should go," Kyle says, too quickly. He’s already reaching for his backpack, movements a little too sharp to be casual. "I promised my mom I’d help with dinner."

Stan blinks like he’s been slapped out of a daze. "Oh. Uh. Okay."

Kyle tries to keep his tone even, his face neutral, but there’s a tremor underneath. He forces a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "We’ll, uh. Hang out later. Right?"

Stan nods. "Yeah. Totally."

"Cool. Goodnight."

"’Night, dude."

Kyle heads up the basement steps, footsteps a little too fast, like he’s trying to outrun the heat crawling up his throat. His hand catches the railing halfway up, grip too tight, and his breath stutters like he might say something - might stop and turn back - but he doesn’t. He just keeps going.

Stan watches the stairwell long after he’s gone, the soft creak of the closing door echoing like the end of something neither of them will name.

The silence after feels cavernous. Not just quiet, but hollow. Like a room that’s been emptied out. Like the air’s been sucked away.

Stan stays seated for a while longer, legs pulled up close, controller slack in his lap. The TV glows with artificial cheer, casting pale light over the basement like a thin curtain. The game menu music loops again and again, a low, synthetic lullaby that starts to feel like a taunt. It’s too cheerful. Too repetitive. Too stuck.

Eventually, he stirs. Slow. Like it takes more effort than it should.

He pushes himself upright and walks across the room to the linen cupboard near the far wall. He opens it carefully, like he’s worried someone upstairs might hear - someone who’d ask questions he doesn’t want to answer.

His hand slides past stacks of old towels and sun-bleached sheets, reaching to the very back where the bottle waits.

Jameson. Half-empty. Hidden there like a secret, but not one he’s unfamiliar with.

He unscrews the cap and lifts it to his lips with the ease of someone who’s done it a hundred times before - because he has.

He takes a long swallow, then another, then another, the whiskey burning a path down his throat that he barely registers. No flinch. No shudder. Just that slow, familiar heat pooling in his chest like a sedative. A routine carved into muscle memory. A coping mechanism he no longer bothers pretending isn’t exactly that.

He exhales slowly, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and makes his way back to the beanbag, dropping into the seat. The bottle dangles loosely from his fingers, swinging once before he sets it down beside him.

Then he pulls out his phone.

He opens Facebook.

Finds Kyle’s profile. His thumb hovers.

He doesn’t like any posts. Doesn’t comment. Just scrolls.

Photo of Kyle and Ike on a hiking trail - Kyle grinning, sunlight in his curls. Kyle laughing mid-sentence at a protest downtown, sign raised in one hand. Kyle playing chess with his dad on a rainy Sunday.

Stan stares. His thumb lingers on a photo from last summer - Kyle in a lake, water up to his chest, giving the camera a middle finger and laughing like he didn’t have a single worry in the world.

Stan doesn’t know what he’s looking for.

The last week of school arrives like a fever dream.

South Park High blooms with noise and energy. Lockers clatter open and shut with unnecessary force. People are scribbling yearbook messages in sharpie and glitter pen, doodling hearts and inside jokes in margins, leaving behind signatures like loose threads.

The faculty have given up pretending to care.

Most classrooms are graveyards of half-graded papers and muted YouTube videos posing as documentaries. It’s all jokes, countdowns, shared snacks, and the giddy electricity of something ending.

Tweek shows up every day.

He’s not skipping like some of the others. He needs the structure. Needs something to hold onto. He walks the halls with his earbuds in, hoodie sleeves pulled down over his hands, a thermos of coffee clasped tight between anxious fingers. He’s not twitching as much anymore - just quiet.

He doesn’t talk about Craig. No one does.

Craig’s desk in English stays empty, the surface still bearing the faint outline of a drawing Craig once carved there - C.T. in jagged lines beneath a half-peeled sticker that reads, "Saturn’s Cool, Actually." 

The absence is loud, but the noise of the week buries it quickly.

By Wednesday night, the air is sticky with leftover heat. The streets are mostly quiet, and the sun has long since dipped below the mountains.

Tweek climbs onto the roof of the coffeehouse alone.

The inside is still, locked up and waiting for morning. The espresso machines are wiped down, the chairs flipped on the tables. The faint scent of old coffee, vanilla syrup, and burnt sugar hangs in the air, soaked into the beams and tiles like the building is still trying to remember all the mornings it survived.

Up on the roof, it’s cooler. The wind lifts the edge of Tweek’s hoodie as he lies back against the concrete. His earbuds are in, playing soft acoustics with haunting melodies. The kind of music that sounds like being underwater. Like floating.

He stares up at the stars.

They’re faint tonight. The light pollution turns the sky into a bruised smear, but a few constellations flicker through the haze. Not enough to navigate by. Just enough to hurt.

He doesn’t cry. He doesn’t think he can anymore. He’s wrung dry.

What’s left is ache.

That slow, constant twisting in his chest. That emptiness where something warm used to be. He curls his fingers into the fabric of his hoodie and watches the stars shimmer like ghosts.

He misses Craig.

Not the Craig everyone else knows. Not the cold, sardonic one. Not the eye-rolls or the dry sarcasm.

He misses his Craig.

The one who used to drag him up here on nights like this with a thermos of hot chocolate and a blanket folded under his arm.

The one who would lie on his back with one arm curled under Tweek’s shoulders, the other pointing up at the stars like they were old friends.

The one who would talk for hours about black holes and planetary rings, tracing shapes in the sky with long fingers and that quiet smile he never showed anyone else.

"You used to light up,” Tweek whispers to the stars. “You used to love this.”

He presses the heel of his palm to his forehead, eyes squeezed shut. He remembers it too clearly. The heat of Craig’s body beside him. The rustle of the blanket. The gentle cadence of his voice, spilling facts about stardust and dwarf stars and things too far away to touch but close enough to believe in.

There was a time when Craig was soft, caring, and gentle with him.

But something changed.

At first it was subtle - missed texts, shorter replies, less eye contact. But it snowballed. He stopped wanting to talk. Stopped looking at Tweek the way he used to - as if he saw something important.

And Tweek had to learn how to survive with that.

He opens his eyes again, glassy and shining with tears. His breathing slows as a lump forms in his throat; a choking pressure he can’t diminish. The stars above him are cold and distant. The night stretches on like a wound.

He presses the edge of his sleeve to his face to wipe tears that slip past his lashes unchecked.

The world feels too wide. The air too still.

The stars don’t care.

And Craig is gone.

There’s a faint sound behind him - shoes scuffing the drainpipe, the creak of the edge where the latter meet metal - and Tweek startles, jerking upright.

A figure pulls into view over the roof’s edge, climbing with easy familiarity.

“Jesus - Kenny,” Tweek breathes, heart in his throat.

“Sorry,” Kenny says with a grin, breathless but unapologetic. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you, buddy. I usually knock like a gentleman, but roofs don’t have doors.”

Tweek exhales sharply, hand pressed to his chest. “Jesus – you, you scared the shit out of me.”

Kenny plops down beside him like it’s the most natural thing in the world, legs outstretched, palms braced behind him. His hoodie is half-zipped, the wind tugging lightly at the ends of his dark blond hair.

Kenny doesn’t look tense. He looks soft around the edges - tired, maybe, but in that contented way people get when they’ve stopped pretending.

Tweek glances sideways at him. “How did you… know I was up here?”

Kenny shrugs, unbothered. “Butters told me.”

Tweek’s brow furrows as he pockets his ear buds. “Butters?”

“Yeah. He said you were up here when I walked him home.”

“You walked him home?”

Kenny flashes a toothy grin, stretching out on his elbows now, as if the rooftop were made for lounging. “Sometimes. When he works after school. I just walk him home to make sure no one bothers him.”

Tweek blinks, unsure how to respond to that. There’s something unexpectedly soft about it - Kenny, self-proclaimed delinquent of South Park, protector of the weird and weary. Just doing quiet, kind things without ever asking for credit.

“Oh,” is all Tweek manages, the word slipping out small and thin, barely a breath above the rooftop wind.

Kenny tips his head toward the sky, his eyes scanning the stars like he’s seeing something personal written up there. “Figured I’d say hi. Didn’t wanna interrupt your pensive rooftop vibes, though.” His tone is light, teasing, but there’s a warmth under it - something careful and knowing, like he understands exactly what kind of silence Tweek had been sitting in. “Speaking of which, what were you listening to?”

Tweek glances back at the stars. “Werewolf by Cat Power.”

Kenny’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise and he lets out a low whistle. “Alright, damn. That bad huh?”

Tweek snorts, a dry, brittle sound that barely qualifies as humor. “Well. What do you think?”

“I think you need to pull out all stops if we’re gonna be feeling our feelings tonight.” He nudges Tweek lightly with his shoulder. “You got a sad playlist queued up or are we just freeballing heartbreak tonight?”

Tweek gives him a sideways glance. “You know what’s worse? That was the first song. I didn’t even build up to it.”

Kenny laughs, full-bodied and bright, the sound crackling into the night like it belongs there, like it was invited. He leans back farther on his hands, letting the breeze catch the edge of his hoodie.

“Jesus. Straight into the abyss. You didn’t even flirt with misery - you made out with it behind a dumpster,” he says, grinning over at Tweek with an ease that almost makes it feel like the world isn’t crumbling at all.

Tweek gives a small smile at that; it’s hard not to. Kenny’s warmth is contagious.

Kenny sits close enough that Tweek can feel his presence, like a grounding weight beside him. The night air carries the hum of distant traffic and the occasional bark of a dog, but mostly it’s just them and the sky.

Tweek watches him from the corner of his eye. Kenny doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t ask what Tweek’s doing up here.

Doesn’t mention Craig.

And that might be the kindest thing of all.

After a few more seconds of quiet, Tweek shifts, pulling his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. His voice is low when he finally speaks. "Why’d you come up here, Kenny? Like - what do you want from me?"

Kenny doesn’t flinch. His smile is still there, soft around the edges. He shrugs one shoulder, gaze still lazily fixed on the sky. "I don’t want anything from you, man. I just wanted to check in on you. I’ve been worried about you. Thought maybe you could use a friend."

Tweek glances at him, caught off guard. His brows draw together, suspicion flickering just beneath the surface of his tired expression. "You’ve been worried about me?"

Kenny turns his head slightly, enough to look at Tweek without any kind of judgment in his eyes. "Yeah, dude. I know things aren’t… good between you and Carig, right now. And I know what it looks like when someone’s about one more bad day away from full-on crash out. I just... wanted to make sure you were doing okay."

Tweek doesn’t respond right away. He turns his face back to the sky, jaw tight. The stars are just as cold and distant as they were before. The air feels thick around them, full of all the things left unsaid.

Kenny lets the silence linger, not out of discomfort, but respect. Then he speaks again, gently prodding with a voice that’s low and open. "Talk to me, man. For real. How are you doing? No filters. No bullshit. This is a one-way street, and I won’t repeat shit to anyone."

Tweek exhales, long and shaky. He closes his eyes for a moment, as if willing himself to find the words. "I don’t know. I’m… not great."

Kenny hums softly, nodding like he expected that answer and accepts it. "Okay. That’s fair."

Tweek’s voice starts hesitant, but once the dam cracks, the water rushes. "It’s like - I wake up, and everything already feels wrong. Heavy. There’s this weight in my chest before I even get out of bed. Everything feels like too much and – and I feel like I’m always panicking inside. Like… the way it used to be. And I pretend I don’t feel it, but it never goes away."

He pauses to steady his breath. "I go through the day, I show up, I smile, I laugh when I’m supposed to - but inside I’m just… screaming, all the damn time. And no one hears it. Or maybe they do and they just don’t care enough to ask."

Kenny doesn’t interrupt. His expression is still and soft, the kind of listening that doesn’t demand anything in return.

"I keep thinking if I just keep moving, if I stay busy, if I fake it hard enough, I’ll stop feeling like this. But it doesn’t work. It just sits under everything like a bad taste. I feel brittle. Like if someone looks at me wrong, I’ll snap and shatter and never get back together again. I feel like I’m in fight or flight all the time."

He presses his sleeve against his eyes. "And I just… I miss him. And I’m pissed at him. And I miss him anyway. And I feel so fucking stupid for it. He left. He left me for real this time. He didn’t say goodbye. He didn’t explain. He didn’t fight for me. He just - he just left me, and now I’m the one stuck with all the leftover pieces."

Kenny leans forward slightly, hands draped loosely over his knees. "It’s not stupid to miss someone you love. Even if they hurt you. That doesn’t make you weak, man, and it doesn’t make what you guys had any less real."

Tweek shakes his head, voice cracking. "But I feel like an idiot. Like I’m the only one still carrying it around, clutching at memories that clearly meant more to me than to him. Like I was always the one holding on tighter. And now I’m left with this hole in my chest, and he’s - what? Off somewhere not giving a shit?"

"I doubt that," Kenny says softly. "Craig’s not wired like that. He feels strongly - he just doesn’t always know how to show it. “

Tweek wipes at his face with a sharp sniff, frustrated tears building again despite everything. "I just want to be okay. I want to stop thinking about him every time I see a fucking star. I want to stop remembering every little thing. His voice. The way he used to hold my hand. I want to sleep through the night without dreaming about the version of him that I loved, the one I don’t even know if I ever really had."

Kenny’s voice is gentle, patient. "I get that. I do. And I know it sounds like a bullshit cliche, but it won’t always hurt like this, Tweek. It makes sense that it hurts, I mean hell; It’d be weird if it didn’t. You’re allowed to feel all of it… even the ugly stuff. You don’t have to pretend to be okay, man."

Tweek finally turns his head to look at him. His expression is raw - like something fragile and unguarded just beneath the surface. Like a boy trying so hard not to fall apart in front of someone who might actually see him.

Kenny meets his gaze with that same quiet steadiness, eyes open and kind. "I don’t like seeing people in pain. Especially people like you. You care so much, and you have that kind of heart that should be held and protected, you know?"

Tweek swallows hard, throat bobbing. His voice wobbles. "God. You’re - kind of annoyingly good at this."

Kenny smiles gently, the corners of his mouth softening. "It’s the trauma. Gives me emotional superpowers."

Tweek huffs a laugh, shaky but real. "You’re kind of impossible not to talk to."

"That’s the goal, man," Kenny says, nudging his shoulder with quiet affection. "I’m here for you, dude. No matter how messy it gets. Even if it means just sitting on rooftops getting high with the local delinquent."

He shifts, digging into the pocket of his ripped jeans until he pulls out a battered little pouch of rolling papers and a short pack of smokes. He fishes out a hand-rolled cigarette and holds it up between two fingers with a grin.

"Didn’t bring a six pack - figured that might be a dick move with the meds you’re on," he says casually. "So I brought this instead."

He sparks a lighter, and the flame flickers against the curve of his palm. When the end flares to life, the smell is unmistakable.

Tweek blinks. "Is that - ?"

"Oh, it’s absolutely weed," Kenny replies, taking a slow drag before offering it out. "Graduation present, thank you Randy and Stan Marsh."

Tweek stares for a moment before wiping the last of his tears with a small laugh.  He takes the joint with shaking fingers but the way he inhales - easy, practiced, smooth - tells another story. No cough. No flinch. Just smoke curling from his lips like muscle memory.

Kenny watches, impressed. "Okay, shit, dude."

Tweek exhales through his nose, eyes narrowing just slightly. "Weed’s the only thing I can do, thanks to my delightful cocktail of psychiatric conditions and mood-altering medications."

Kenny laughs, the sound warm and easy. "Honestly? I feel that. This rooftop is now officially a trauma-safe zone."

Tweek passes the joint back, and for the first time in days, there’s the faintest ghost of a smile on his face.

They lay back flat on the roof, shoulder to shoulder, staring up at the hazy stars. The joint trades hands lazily between them, the smoke curling up and away into the warm night air. Their arms occasionally brush, but neither pulls away.

Tweek exhales, long and slow. "I forgot how nice getting high feels. No freaking out or feeling like I’m about to have a panic attack."

Kenny lets out a half-laugh. "Yeah. It’s pretty rare we get to shut our brains off without imploding. Most nights I feel like I’ve got a whole-ass boxing match in my head."

"Dude, yes," Tweek mutters. "It’s like... someone left the TV on in there. All static and screaming."

Kenny nods, passing the joint back. "Exactly. Just a never-ending playlist of doom."

Tweek takes another hit and exhales slowly, watching the smoke drift. "Tonight’s different, though. Like, my body’s not clenched like a fist for once."

"That’s the weed, dude," Kenny says with a smirk.

Tweek snorts. "God bless it."

Kenny stretches his legs out a little further, letting out a lazy, pleased sound as he stares at the stars overhead. "Hey, by the way - I heard you got into RISD? That’s pretty fucking cool."

Tweek blinks at him, a little dazed. "Oh. Uh. Yeah. I did."

"Dude," Kenny says, propping himself up on one elbow, his voice slower now, softened by the high, "that’s, like… elite-level art nerd shit. You’re gonna be surrounded by weirdos in the best way."

Tweek laughs, short and surprised. "I mean, it’s not that impressive. I barely got through the portfolio process without a complete breakdown."

Kenny shrugs, taking a slow drag before handing the joint back. "Still counts… You’ve always been good at that creative stuff - art, music. You make weird shit that makes people feel stuff. That’s so damn rare. I’ve always thought that was cool."

Tweek stares at him for a second, lips parted like he’s trying to figure out if he imagined that. Then: "You’ve… seriously thought that?"

Kenny nods, exhaling slow and easy. "Yeah. Always. And honestly? I admire the way you are with your feelings, man. You say shit I wouldn’t dare say out loud. You see the world like… it’s turned inside out and you’re not afraid to look at it. That’s gutsy."

Tweek’s mouth opens, closes. His face goes a little pink, pupils blown wide under the rooftop glow. "Wow. Uh. Thanks. That… actually means a lot."

Kenny smiles, soft and lopsided. “Just speaking facts."

They go quiet for a beat, the joint passed back and forth like a secret. The stars are brighter now - or maybe the high just makes them seem that way. Everything feels a little softer, a little more fluid.

Tweek turns his head slightly, studying Kenny in the dim light. And suddenly, he really sees him - not just the messy blond hair or the torn jeans, but the full picture.

Kenny’s skin is golden, sun-warmed and tanned from a life spent outside. His eyes are a baby blue, bright and deceptively gentle, and there’s a scatter of freckles across his nose and cheeks like dust left behind by summer. His jawline is sharp, a little rugged, softened only by his grin; dimples and all.

He’s handsome. Not in the soft way Craig is - ivory skin, steely blue eyes and elegant, almost delicate features. Kenny is handsome in a way that feels real. Solid. Lived-in. Where Craig had cold, unreachable beauty, Kenny is warmth and rough edges.

Charismatic in a way Tweek never paid attention to before.

The realization hits hard and sudden.

Tweek groans and presses the heel of his palm to his face, laughing into it. "Oh Jesus. What the hell."

Kenny blinks, startled, then starts laughing too - just because Tweek is. "What?"

"Apparently," Tweek mutters through his fingers, "I’m so goddamn lonely and upset that I just had a whole thought spiral about how handsome you are."

Kenny lets out a bark of laughter, then grins, exaggeratedly smug. "Aw, shucks. Should I be flattered or worried?"

"Both," Tweek says, peeking at him from between his fingers. "It was, like, a real moment. Full-on pining montage playing in my head."

"Damn. I didn't even do anything but pass you a joint."

Tweek groans again and drops his hand, red-faced but smiling. "I hate this. Weed’s supposed to chill me out, not give me a romantic crisis."

Kenny chuckles and elbows him lightly. "Don’t worry about it, dude. It’s the weed - and the heartbreak. That combo’ll make a mailbox look flirtable."

"You calling yourself a mailbox?"

"No, I’m saying you could do worse," Kenny grins. "I’m at least a mailbox with decent bone structure."

Tweek stares at him for a beat, then bursts out laughing again. "Jesus, you’re such a shit."

Kenny shrugs, smug and unbothered. "You’re the one fantasizing about me, man. I’m just sitting here in my hoodie, minding my business and you’re over there making wedding plans."

Tweek tosses a lazy elbow into his side, grinning despite himself. He lets out a breath, watching the smoke trail into the air. The high has settled into his limbs like warm syrup, making everything feel just a little softer, a little slower.

He hesitates, then says, "I don’t know. This feels... weirdly good. Like… comfortable."

Kenny raises an eyebrow, turning his head slightly. "Yeah?"

Tweek nods, more to himself than to Kenny. "Yeah. Being up here with you feels... easy. Like we’ve done this a hundred times."

"Dude, you are so high,” Kenny laughs, shaking his head.

“I’m serious, man!” Tweek insists.

“It’s probably just all the trauma and long-term psychological damage." Kenny says with a soft laugh. "You think your brain is chaos? Mine’s like... a carnival ride that broke down in 2008 and never got fixed."

Tweek stares at him. "That’s the most relatable thing I’ve ever heard." He takes another hit, eyes glassy now, and lets the smoke drift out slowly through his nose. "We’ve never really talked like this before. Not just jokes or party stuff. Like... real talking."

Kenny glances over at him. "Yeah. Kinda dumb that we didn’t sooner. We’re not exactly running in different circles."

"I think we just never got tossed into the same pit until now."

Kenny laughs. "Trauma pit."

"Deluxe edition," Tweek adds, grinning through the high.

"With extra guilt and insomnia," Kenny says, flicking ash off the edge of the roof.

Tweek’s smile softens, his body finally relaxing fully into the roof. "Turns out we’ve got a lot in common."

"Mostly anxiety and shit," Kenny grins. "Oh - and questionable coping mechanisms."

Tweek goes quiet for a second, passing the joint back. "I didn’t even know you had anxiety. You always seem so... together."

Kenny turns his head toward him, mock offended. "Seriously, bro? Do I not scream unstable? I get drunk or high like… every other day. That’s textbook."

Tweek glances over. "Uhhh no? You actually seem like the most stable person in South Park."

There’s a pause.

And then they both burst out laughing.

Not just a chuckle, but real, full-on cackling - Tweek wheezing and covering his face, Kenny wiping tears from his cheeks.

"Jesus Christ," Kenny gasps, still giggling. "We’re so fucked."

"Completely," Tweek agrees, beaming now, high and warm and light. "But like, in sync fucked. That counts for something, right?"

"Hell yeah it does," Kenny says, passing the joint back. "Best kind of fucked there is."

They fall into a quiet rhythm again, passing the last of the joint between them until it’s burned down and out. The air around them is hazy, still, carrying that soft hum of a shared high and the kind of silence that only comes when there’s nothing left to prove.

Tweek leans his head back, eyes half-lidded, soaking in the buzz under his skin. His limbs feel loose and weightless, like gravity’s taken a break.

Kenny breaks the quiet, his voice softer now, more reflective. "You know… I really think you’re gonna do great, man. In life, I mean. You’ve got something."

Tweek blinks, turning his head slowly to look at him. He looks genuinely surprised. "What?"

Kenny doesn’t look at him. He’s staring up at the stars, eyes a little glassy but steady. "I mean it. You’re a good person, Tweek. Really fucking good... The kind who gives a shit even when it hurts, and that’s so damn rare. Doesn’t matter where you end up - Rhode Island, Canada, Mars - you’re gonna do something great with your life. I can feel it."

Tweek sits up slowly, breath catching in his throat. His eyes are stinging again, sudden and sharp. "Jesus," he mutters, swiping at them. "Why’d you have to say it like that."

Kenny sits up too, alarmed. "Shit - did I say something wrong?"

Tweek shakes his head, laughing through the tears. "No. No, it’s just - That’s what I wanted to hear. From Craig. That kind of support. And he just… he never really gave it."

Kenny’s face falls. "Man… I’m sorry. That fucking sucks."

Tweek wipes his eyes again, quiet and small. The tears don’t stop, not right away. He doesn’t sob, but the crying is raw and exhausted.

Without a word, Kenny shifts closer and wraps his arms around him, pulling him into a warm, solid hug. He exhales slowly, resting his chin lightly on Tweek’s shoulder.

That’s when the dam inside Tweek breaks. The tension he’s been holding in his chest, his jaw, his spine - every part of him - snaps like a frayed wire. He sobs, loud and sudden, clinging to Kenny’s hoodie like it’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely.

"Why did he leave me?" he chokes out between breaths, voice breaking. "What did I do wrong?"

Kenny holds him tighter, one hand coming up to gently cradle the back of Tweek’s head in a secure, comforting motion. "You didn’t do anything wrong, dude. None of this is your fault."

Tweek keeps crying, breaths quick and hitched against Kenny’s shoulder.

"Craig’s got a lot of problems," Kenny says gently, voice low in the quiet night. "He doesn’t know how to deal with any of them. So he runs away from them. It’s not about you, man. It never was."

Tweek shakes his head against him, fingers still curled tight into the fabric at Kenny’s side. But he doesn’t argue. He just cries harder, letting it out - the grief, the confusion, the heartbreak he’s tried to keep quiet.

Eventually, the sobs taper off, leaving him hollowed out and trembling. He pulls back, sniffling, his eyes red and wet. Kenny doesn’t say anything - just ruffles Tweek’s hair in a soft, fond way.

Tweek huffs a laugh through the mess of his breathing, swiping his sleeve across his face. "Fuck it," he mutters. "You got more weed?"

Kenny grins, the glint back in his eyes. "'Course I do. Who do you think I am?"

"A self-proclaimed delinquent that feeds stray animals and walks people home so they don't get bullied."

"Mysterion, at your service," Kenny says, already pulling out another joint hidden in the crumpled cigarette pack. Then he digs out his phone and taps out a quick text. "I told Stan to come pick us up. He owes me anyway."

Tweek just nods, still dazed but okay with the plan. "Okay."

They make their way down from the rooftop carefully. The quiet of the night presses around them, the streets still and dim, lit only by streetlamps and distant porch lights.

Kenny lights the new joint as they walk, shielding the flame with his hand. Once it catches, he takes a long drag, exhales into the still night air, and then passes it to Tweek.

After a few more quiet moments, Tweek glances over. "Can I tell you something kind of shitty?"

Kenny raises an eyebrow. "Literally always."

Tweek takes a breath. "I was jealous of you."

Kenny blinks. "Of me?" He laughs, not mocking - just confused. "Tweek, I live in a house with a hole in the bathroom floor."

Tweek shakes his head. "Not like that. I was jealous because… Craig talked to you. He always talked to you about the things he’d never say to me. And… I hated it. Not you. Just - how easy it was for him with you."

Kenny quiets, his playful smile fading into something softer, more serious. "Oh."

Tweek doesn’t stop. "I used to think there was something wrong with me. Like, maybe I was too much, or not enough, or just not the right kind of person for him to be honest with. But he could go to you, and you’d just… get it. And I didn’t know how to compete with that."

Kenny lets the words settle. Then he says, gently, "Craig isn’t good at being vulnerable with people he actually needs. It’s easier for him to break down around someone he doesn’t feel like he’s disappointing. With me, it’s safe, because I’m not you."

Tweek frowns. "That doesn’t make it better."

"No," Kenny admits. "But it’s not about you being unworthy or not enough. If anything, it’s the opposite. He's scared of breaking something that matters."

Tweek exhales, long and low. The stars look a little dimmer tonight, or maybe it’s just the blur in his eyes.

"Thanks," he says finally. "For telling me that."

Kenny shrugs. "Least I can do. You deserved to hear it a long time ago."

They lapse into a moment of quiet. Then the sound of tires rolling slow over pavement cuts through the still night. Headlights bloom in the distance, casting long shadows that stretch down the empty street. The SUV flashes its brights once, then again - playful, familiar.

Kenny squints into the light. "There’s Stan."

The black SUV does a lazy U-turn in the middle of the road before pulling up alongside them. The window rolls down and Stan leans out, grinning.

"Get in, losers, we’re going shopping," he deadpans, quoting Mean Girls with all the enthusiasm of someone who’s probably said it ten times before.

Kenny bursts out laughing, the sound loud and bright under the streetlights. Tweek snickers too, warmth blooming in his chest despite the night’s chill.

Kenny leans in with a grin, elbowing him gently. "What’s it gonna be, boss? Front or back?"

Tweek tilts his head, pretending to consider it. "Back seat’s calling my name."

"Coward," Kenny teases, already making a beeline for the passenger side. "Guess I’ll ride up front and babysit DJ Regina George."

Tweek opens the back door, the warm scent of weed and asphalt clinging to his clothes as he slides in. The door shuts with a satisfying thunk, and for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t feel completely alone.

Stan’s got the radio turned up - something loud and chaotic, guitars screaming under layered vocals. It fills the SUV like static energy, buzzing through the air. The windows are down just enough to let the wind sweep in and twist the smoke from Kenny’s hoodie and the scent of summer night into a heady, wild mix.

Kenny and Stan are already mid-conversation, loud and animated, tossing banter back and forth like a tennis match.

"I swear to God, dude, if you spill weed in my car again, I’m making you lick it out of the cup holder," Stan says, eyes on the road but one hand flailing dramatically.

"Please," Kenny scoffs. "You say that like it’s a threat."

"You’re disgusting," Stan fires back.

"And you’re still giving me rides," Kenny smirks, legs propped up on the dash.

"Get your nasty-ass boots off my dashboard," Stan groans.

"No," Kenny says simply, and flips him off while taking a long hit of the joint pinched between his fingers.

"Gimme that," Stan demands, leaning over toward Kenny with one hand still on the wheel, eyes on the road.

Kenny raises an eyebrow but obliges, holding the joint up to Stan's mouth like he's feeding grapes to a Roman emperor. Stan takes a deep pull, eyes narrowing slightly as he inhales.

He holds it for a second, trying to look unbothered - then launches into a coughing fit, nearly swerving the car as he doubles over.

"Jesus Christ," Kenny laughs, snatching the joint back. "You live on a weed farm. How can you still not handle this shit?"

Stan, red-faced and choking, flips him off blindly. "Whatever, man. I can drink you under the table in a heartbeat."

"Yeah, and then cry about baby turtles crawling towards the ocean after they're born," Kenny fires back.

"Fuck you," Stan wheezes. "That was one time."

Tweek watches them from the back seat, his chin propped on his hand, a smile slowly stretching across his face. He doesn’t say much, just lets their energy fill the space.

The easy banter, the wild energy, the kind of dumb joy that comes from being eighteen and stoned and invincible.

A song comes on the radio - something moody and slow - and Kenny groans. "Nope. Too depressing," he says, already unlocking his phone like it’s his car. He immediately connects to the Bluetooth without hesitation.

"Don’t touch my shit - " Stan starts, but Kenny cuts him off by cranking the volume and queuing up “Young Lust” by Pink Floyd.

The opening riff hits and Stan lights up instantly. "Ohhh hell yes," he yells, slamming the heel of his hand against the steering wheel like a drum.

Up front, the two of them are jamming - shoulders moving in rhythm, yelling along to the lyrics like they’re performing for a crowd. The bassline thuds through the car and Kenny leans his head back, grinning like a madman.

Tweek watches, amused and relaxed, caught in their current. He leans further into the corner of the back seat, the weed still buzzing in his system as the car vibrates with chaotic joy.

When the chorus rolls in, Kenny twists halfway around in his seat, holding up an invisible microphone like he’s on stage. "Ohhhh I need a dirty woman!" he belts, gesturing dramatically at Tweek. "Ohhhh I need a dirty girl!"

Stan loses it, laughing so hard he nearly swerves. Tweek starts laughing too, burying his face in his hands.

"You’re so dumb," Tweek wheezes.

"Will some woman in this desert land," Kenny grins, continuing his performance, "Make me feel like a real man? Take this rock-n-roll refugee -- ohhhh, baby, SET ME FREE!!" He yells in unison with Stan, turning back around and air-drumming with wild abandon.

The wind dances through Tweek’s hair as he leans against the window, eyes tracing the blur of darkened houses and streetlights sliding past. Everything looks soft out here, colors dulled and stretched under the glow of street lamps and stars.

They’re heading out toward Tegridy Farms, the lights of town thinning behind them. Kenny, not yet done with his DJ duties, flips the song over to another Pink Floyd track - “Have a Cigar” - and he and Stan launch into the next round of their chaotic duet like they’ve rehearsed it their whole lives.

Stan’s slapping the steering wheel in rhythm, head thrown back as he belts out the chorus. Kenny’s got one leg up on the dash and is doing exaggerated guitar solos with his hands.

Tweek closes his eyes and lets the music envelop him completely. The deep, distorted guitar licks and rich, echoing vocals wrap around him like smoke. He’s really feeling it now - his whole body is slow and fluid, like he’s drifting underwater in warm, glowing sound.

The vibrations of the bass ripple up through the floorboards and into his spine. His fingers twitch and move against his thighs, mimicking notes on a keyboard, playing along without a sound. It’s unconscious, rhythmic - muscle memory from years at the piano.

Everything feels far away and close at the same time.

He’s not thinking about Craig.

He’s not thinking about anything.

Just the music, the laughter up front, the night sky beyond the windows.

All of it pulsing in time with the beat in his chest.

For the first time in what feels like forever, Tweek just is.

The air outside gets quieter, heavier, stretched wide with fields and open space. And in that rolling quiet, under the riot of laughter and music in the car, Tweek feels something loosen inside his chest.

Stan veers off and pulls into the long gravel driveway that leads to his house.

The SUV crunches to a stop out front, and the three boys tumble out in a blur of laughter.

Inside, the house is quiet and dark. They keep their voices low as they head downstairs to the basement, navigating half from memory.

The L-shaped couch is calling to them like a siren. All three of them collapse onto it in a heap of limbs and half-laughed curses.

Kenny and Stan can’t seem to keep their hands to themselves - they’re rough-housing like kids, pushing and shoving, wrestling over who gets more space. Tweek just watches from his corner of the couch, half-curled and grinning, letting their chaos wash over him.

Eventually the two boys settle down, sprawled across the cushions like they’ve melted into them. Kenny lights what’s left of the joint and passes it around again. The room fills with soft clouds of smoke, the low glow of a lamp casting amber across their faces. They’re getting absolutely blasted - fully limp, relaxed beyond compare.

Stan lets out a long sigh and slurs through a smile, "You going to school tomorrow, Tweek?"

Tweek blinks slowly, eyes half-lidded. "I dunno," he murmurs. "Maybe. Probably not, after all this."

It’s past midnight. His body is heavy, the kind of exhaustion that feels good. Like he’s finally letting go.

Kenny, more used to this state than either of them, pushes himself up with a groan and stumbles over to the linen cupboard near the basement stairs. He pulls it open and grabs a few extra blankets, arms full of soft flannel.

As he’s turning, something catches his eye in the back corner of the cupboard - glass. A bottle of Jameson. Then another behind it. And a third.

Kenny pauses, blinking. He looks back over his shoulder.

Stan is stretched out on the couch, head tipped back, eyes closed, a lazy half-smile still playing on his lips.

Kenny shifts, uses one of the blankets to cover the bottles, tucking them away. He closes the cupboard slowly, quietly.

Then he pads back across the room, tossing a blanket over Tweek, then another over Stan. He drops into the loveseat with his own and pulls it up over his chest, curling into the cushions.

The room is warm, safe and full of nostalgia.

One by one, they drift off to sleep - stoned, tangled in blankets, and wrapped in a rare kind of peace.

The house is dark when Craig stumbles up the driveway, the sky above him low and heavy, like it’s waiting for him to break. His footsteps are uneven, shoes dragging slightly on the cracked pavement. A nearly empty bottle of vodka is held loosely in his fingers.

His keys jangle obnoxiously in his hand as he fights with the lock, missing the keyhole twice before he finally jams it in and twists. "Come on," he mutters, slurring, cursing under his breath until the door finally gives way.

He stumbles inside, the door slamming behind him with a reverberating crack that echoes through the still house. The force rattles the picture frames in the hallway and shakes dust from the ceiling.

Craig doesn't bother to take off his shoes or jacket. He shoulders forward, uncoordinated and barely standing upright, and lurches through the narrow hallway into the living room. 

As he moves, he knocks over a chair with the back of his arm, the wooden legs scraping loudly against the floor before tipping completely. He drinks the last of the vodka with a cough. A lamp crashes down with a sharp shatter of glass, but he doesn’t even glance down at the wreckage. He drops the bottle to join the mess, but the glass is too thick to crack or shatter.

He shoves his way up the staircase, bumping against the banister with each step, catching himself on the wall as he goes. His shoulder hits the edge of a framed photo - his family, from years ago - and it clatters to the floor behind him, face down.

When he reaches his bedroom, he slams the door open too hard and it ricochets against the wall with a loud, hollow bang. His room is just how he left it - a museum of expectations and memories. It makes his skin crawl.

The destruction begins immediately.

He yanks open dresser drawers and flings the contents across the floor - shirts, jeans, socks flying like debris from an explosion. He kicks over his desk chair, slamming it so hard against the wall that one of the legs cracks. He grabs the small table near the window and hurls it sideways, watching it bounce once before hitting the ground with a loud, splintering crash. A stack of books topples in the chaos, one landing with a heavy, spine-snapping thud.

He’s breathing harder now, mouth open, sweat starting to form at his temples. His hands shake.

And then his eyes fall on the desk.

The MIT acceptance packet is still there, just as it’s been for weeks - taunting him. The gold foil seal glinting faintly in the dim light, a silent monument to everything he’s supposed to be. Next to it, the deferral paperwork. Waiting for him to decide. Like everything else in his life.

Craig stares at it, swaying slightly, his expression unreadable. His mouth moves around words he doesn't speak aloud.

Then, with no warning, he lunges forward and grabs both. The packet rips easily in his hands, the thick paper splitting with a satisfying, horrible sound. He tears through the pages like they’ve insulted him, like they’re the reason he’s falling apart. The deferral form goes next, ripped into pieces so small they flutter to the floor like snow.

Craig throws the shredded paper across the room and then drags his arm across the surface of the desk, sweeping books, pens, and photo frames to the ground.

Breathing hard, he stumbles back, chest heaving, his face pale and blotchy. There’s a buzzing in his ears now. His throat is dry. His stomach turns with alcohol. He braces himself on the edge of his bed, then lets his knees buckle.

He sinks to the floor, surrounded by torn paper, broken glass, splintered wood, and the wreckage of all the futures he’s decided he doesn’t deserve.

His hands tremble in his lap, bloodied knuckles resting against the splinters of what used to be his desk. The silence in the room is loud - so loud it buzzes in his ears.

Then, the front door slams downstairs. A violent crack through the silence.

Craig doesn’t move.

There’s a long pause - tense, coiled - then footsteps. Heavy, fast. Angry. His father’s voice cuts through the quiet like a blade: "CRAIG!"

Craig flinches at the sound. But still, he doesn’t rise. His head is swimming with heavy intoxication, and his limbs feel like wet cement. His body is soaked in exhaustion and liquor, his mind barely tethered to reality.

The footsteps pound up the stairs like a warning. The bedroom door bursts open with an angry shove, slamming into the wall with a sharp bang. His dad steps in and takes one look at the chaos - the torn books, the destroyed furniture, the shredded college acceptance letter - and the fury ignites instantly.

"What the fuck did you do?!"

Craig doesn’t respond. He just glares from where he’s slouched on the floor, eyes glassy, lip curled in something between defiance and despair.

"Get the fuck up," Thomas snaps.

"Fuck you," Craig slurs, dragging himself upright with effort. He sways dangerously, one hand braced against the broken edge of the desk. "Go crawl back into the bar you came from."

His father’s face turns red, jaw tightening. "You ungrateful little shit. You think you can just destroy my house? This isn’t your space, Craig. This is my house. I pay the bills. I put the roof over your head. And you just think you can tear it all to hell because you're having a bad night?"

Craig’s eyes blaze. He staggers forward. "You care more about your furniture than your own fucking son. You don’t give a shit about me, you never have. You’re a fucking coward."

His father explodes.

He lunges forward, grabbing Craig by the collar and slamming him into the wall with such force that the drywall cracks behind his shoulder. A shelf rattles and falls, books thudding to the floor like dead weight. Craig yells and shoves back, throwing fists in blind fury.

"Get the fuck off me!" he screams, swinging wildly.

One of his punches connects with his father’s cheek, snapping his head to the side. For a second, Craig thinks he might have landed something solid.

"You don’t fucking touch me!" Craig bellows, stumbling forward again, aiming another hit.

But it only enrages Thomas further.

"You little shit - "

Thomas grabs him by the shirt and throws him back. Craig stumbles, crashes into his dresser, knocking it sideways with a loud bang. Drawers spill out onto the floor. Craig scrambles to his feet, face flushed with fury and desperation.

"You think you’re so fucking tough now? Come on then! HIT ME AGAIN!" Craig shouts, his voice cracking with the force of it. Tears are in his eyes, but he doesn’t back down. He lunges forward, throwing everything he has into another swing.

Thomas blocks it and counters hard - fist connecting with Craig’s stomach so hard he folds over with a choked cry. Before Craig can recover, another blow lands across his jaw. Then another. He’s shoved again, slamming into the corner of the bedframe.

Craig’s vision flashes white. He can’t tell where the pain ends or begins. But still, he claws his way upright, swaying, broken but furious.

Thomas responds with a final, brutal punch to the side of his head.

Craig crumples.

He doesn’t even register hitting the ground.

His vision flickers. The world grays at the edges. Sounds muffle. The taste of blood blooms in his mouth. He feels the next blows more than he hears them - the slam of fists, the stomp of a boot to his side, again and again.

Something cracks inside him. Maybe a rib. Maybe something worse.

Then it stops.

His father doesn’t wait for a reaction. Just turns and storms out, boots pounding against the wood like war drums. The door slams behind him with a deafening crack, as if the house itself flinches. Craig hears each creak of the stairs as his father stomps down - one, two, three, then nothing.

Not even the murmur of the TV. Not the low hum of the fridge. No pipes, no heater, no wind. Just a silence so thick it wraps around Craig’s body like a shroud.

Craig stays where he is, breath catching sharp in his throat, trembling through gritted teeth. Heavy intoxication makes his body feel leaden. His face is pressed halfway to the floor, one cheek raw against the wood, the other side blooming red already.

There’s a sharp, metallic taste on his tongue. Blood - thick and coppery and constant. He spits once, and the red stains the floor beside him.

And scattered all around him are the shredded pieces of his MIT acceptance letter, like confetti at a funeral.

Chapter Text

Kenny started drinking with Stan back in eighth grade.

It began as stolen sips of beer from Stan’s dad’s fridge - half-warm bottles passed between them on cold nights when they were supposed to be doing homework.

Back then, it felt like rebellion: something reckless, secret, and exciting, a little ritual that bound them together.

They laughed too loud, hid the empties under the porch, and wore the memory like a badge the next day. It was just fun, stupid kid stuff, the kind of thing that felt huge at the time but harmless in hindsight.

By sophomore year, though, Kenny had already noticed the change.

The drinks stopped being an occasional thrill. They crept into the middle of the week, into the middle of the day. Beer on the porch after school turned into whiskey during late-night movies, then into cheap vodka passed back and forth while they talked about nothing in particular.

It wasn’t just about getting a buzz anymore - it was about maintaining one.

And eventually, at some point, drinking stopped being a thing they did together and became a thing Stan was always doing, often times alone.

Kenny saw the signs stacking up.

The faint, sour scent of alcohol on Stan’s breath before noon, even in the middle of class. The way his hands sometimes shook in the mornings.

Once, leaning in close to hear him over the chaos of the hallway, Kenny caught the sharp, chemical tang in Stan’s sweat - ethanol, unmistakable. His eyes would glaze over sometimes, not in the lazy way from being tired, but with a dull heaviness that said the day was already too much to face sober.

Kenny didn’t call it out. He tucked the knowledge away with all the other quiet truths he carried about his friends.

He’s no saint - he smokes constantly, drinks plenty, and gets high whenever the opportunity shows itself.

He’s the last person who’s going to give a lecture on substance abuse. But there’s a difference between indulging and orbiting a bottle, and Stan’s orbit was tightening until Kenny could almost feel the pull himself.

Instead, Kenny kept his support quiet.

Sitting on the porch with him and lighting a cigarette when the mood dipped, matching him drink for drink so it didn’t feel like Stan was doing it alone.

Picking up the empties when Stan wasn’t paying attention. Steering the conversation somewhere lighter when it started drifting into dark waters. Letting Stan talk when he wanted to, or not talk at all. Little things, small guardrails, even if they didn’t change the road he was on.

He tells himself it’s not his place to intervene.

That they’re both just coping in their own ways, stumbling through storms with different vices. And maybe that’s true.

Maybe all he can do is make sure Stan doesn’t go through it without someone nearby.

But in the quiet moments, Kenny knows better.

This isn’t just a bad habit.

It’s a slow, creeping burn, and Stan’s been standing far too close to the fire for years.

Long enough that Kenny can smell the smoke even when Stan swears there’s nothing wrong, long enough that Kenny sometimes wonders if the smoke has started to stick to him too.

The basement is dim, washed in a cold blue haze from the faint light of early dawn bleeding through the narrow windows. Shadows stretch long and soft across the cluttered floor  -  over the stray sock near the beanbag, the half-crushed bag of chips, the tangle of game controllers left in a heap.

Tweek stirs beneath the blanket draped over him, blinking slowly into the stillness. His limbs are stiff. His throat tastes like sleep and yesterday’s coffee. For a moment, he forgets where he is  -  then the scent of old smoke and wood paneling hits, and it clicks into place.

Stan’s basement.

He shifts slowly, trying not to make noise. The digital clock on the nearby shelf reads 4:57 a.m. in dull red numbers. Too early. Too quiet.

Except… not entirely.

There’s a thin trail of smoke curling near the far wall  -  silver in the shadows, rising in lazy spirals from where Kenny sits crouched by the basement’s small propped-open window. One leg is bent, elbow resting on his knee, the cigarette burning between two fingers. The morning light paints his face in muted grays and pale golds, catching the edge of his jawline, the dark sweep under his eyes.

He looks like he’s been up for hours.

Tweek watches him for a moment  -  quiet, still. Kenny doesn’t look tired, exactly. Just distant. Somewhere else. His gaze is fixed on the slice of sky beyond the window, expression unreadable; serious, pensive, like he’s having a conversation in his head that won’t end. Like he’s looking for something out there he can’t name.

He wonders how often Kenny looks like this - if it’s only when he thinks no one’s watching. Does Kenny’s mind ever slow down, or is he wired the same way Tweek is, always running too hot for too long, unable to find real rest?

Kenny glances over, like he felt the stare.

Their eyes meet.

His face softens instantly  -  like the tension evaporates all at once  -  and he offers Tweek a crooked, sleepy smile. “Morning.”

Tweek blinks slowly, returning it with a small one of his own. “Morning.”

Kenny flicks his cigarette into a crumpled can near the wall and rises to his feet, stretching his arms over his head with a groan that’s more breath than sound. He walks over and, without a word, claps a gentle hand to Tweek’s shoulder  -  not heavy, not lingering. Just enough to ground him.

“I’m gonna start coffee,” Kenny says quietly, voice rough with smoke and early hour. “Doze off if you want. I’ll bring you a cup when it’s ready.”

Tweek hums in agreement, sinking deeper into the cushions, the warmth of the blanket wrapping around him like armor. He lets his eyes fall shut again, letting the sounds of the basement settle into the background.

Kenny crosses the room toward the small kitchenette tucked into the far corner  -  barely a counter, a dented mini fridge, and a coffee pot that’s seen better decades. He moves quietly, familiar with every squeaky floorboard, every cupboard hinge that groans too loud.

The sound of water filling the reservoir, the soft click of the power switch, and the beginning gurgle of brewing coffee fills the quiet space like a lullaby.

Tweek closes his eyes again, not quite asleep but softer around the edges.

Yesterday drifts to the surface of his mind - the easy rhythm of Stan and Kenny sparring with words, volleying jokes back and forth so fast it was like they’d been workshopping the act for years. The timing, the smirks, the way their laughter overlapped - it had been chaotic, but in a way that pulled the tension right out of him.

It was effortless for them, and all Tweek had to do was sit there and let it wash over him. For a while, it made him feel lighter, like maybe he belonged exactly where he was.

A ghost of a smile tugs at his mouth.

Then, like a shadow cutting across the sun, Craig’s face pushes into his thoughts.

No. Stop it. Don’t go there.

He forces his mind to pivot, grabbing hold of a different image - last night on the rooftop with Kenny.

The two of them stretched out side by side on the cold concrete, passing a joint between them as their breath fogged in the night air. The sting of the wind bit at his cheeks, the city’s glow spilling out beneath them, and the faint hum of distant traffic rose like a lullaby.

Kenny hadn’t just been a physical warmth beside him - though his shoulder was solid and steady - he’d been a deeper kind of heat, warming something in Tweek’s chest with the quiet way he offered such sincere support.

Kenny had wrapped an arm around him when the tears started, holding him without a word until the shudder in his breath eased. Every so often, he’d murmur something low and dry that somehow pulled a startled, breathless laugh from Tweek, a laugh that felt almost like relief.

He clings to that rooftop memory like a lifeline, lets the sound of Kenny’s voice and the haze of smoke wrap around him, and refuses to let his thoughts stray anywhere else.

From the far end of the room, a muffled groan.

Stan rolls over, blanket tangled around his legs, hair a wreck. He lifts his head, squinting toward the kitchenette like a man stranded in the desert.

“Kennyyyyy…” he whines, voice cracked and hoarse. “Pleaseeeeee. I’ll love you forever. Pleaseeeee bring me coffee. I’m dying.”

Kenny doesn’t even look back. “You don’t even love me now.”

“Kennyyyyyy - ” Stan’s voice is muffled under his blanket, long and drawn-out like a dying animal.

“I’m gonna start charging for emotional manipulation,” Kenny mutters, cracking open a cabinet for mugs. His voice is still rough with the early hour, but the sarcasm lands sharp enough.

“I’m emotionally fragile,” Stan groans, dragging a hand out from under the blanket to clutch his chest like he’s making a case in court. “You should nurture me.”

“You’re about to get nurtured with scalding hot coffee to the face,” Kenny deadpans, leaning on the counter as he waits for the pot to finish.

“I’ll take it.”

Tweek snorts quietly into his pillow, the sound buried in the fabric but carrying just enough warmth to make it clear he’s enjoying the back-and-forth. His eyes stay closed, though, letting the sound of their banter filter through the fog of his thoughts.

Stan shifts under his blanket with exaggerated drama, the kind of slow movement that says look at me suffering. When he finally sits up, he rubs at his eyes like the light is personally offending him.

Up close, the act doesn’t hide the truth - he looks a little rough this morning. There’s a sallow tint to his skin, dark half-moons under his eyes, and a faint wince every time he moves his head. 

“Ugh… I’ve got such a headache,” Stan mumbles, pressing the heel of his palm to his forehead.

Without looking away from the counter, Kenny reaches over to where a small bottle of aspirin sits near the toaster - something he must have grabbed from the kitchenette earlier - and tosses it underhand across the room. Stan catches it against his chest with a dull thump, startled enough to look down at it like it might vanish.

“You’re a saint,” Stan mutters, already twisting the cap.

“I’m just keeping you alive,” Kenny replies, finally pulling open the cabinet all the way. Inside: three mismatched mugs. One chipped on the lip. One with a fading “#1 Dad” slogan. One with a cartoon moose grinning too wide. He pulls them all down in one hand, setting them on the counter with a quiet clink before reaching for the pot, steam curling up into the cool basement air.

Kenny’s delivers Tweek’s cup first, moves on to Stan, then reclaims his spot on the loveseat.

The coffee is hot, bitter, and perfect for cutting through the slow drag of morning. The steam curls lazily into the air, mingling with the faint scent of Kenny’s cigarette from earlier, and for a moment the basement feels insulated from the rest of the world.

Stan cradles his mug, takes a long sip, and exhales like it’s the first good thing to happen to him all week. “So,” he says, eyeing Kenny over the rim, “we skipping school today or what?”

Kenny leans back, one arm draped over the side of the loveseat, smirking like the answer is already obvious. “It’s the day before graduation. What are they gonna do? Fail us? Make us repeat senior year for one absence?”

Stan tilts his head, pretending to consider it with exaggerated seriousness. “I’ve had nearly perfect attendance all year. I think I’m allowed a day off. Besides, Rutgers already scouted me. I’m recruited. Feels like I’ve earned a little slacking.”

Kenny’s grins, slow and wicked. “Rutgers, huh? More like Slutgers - home of the Walks of Shame.”

Stan almost sprays his coffee back into the mug, coughing through a laugh. “Don’t let Wendy hear you say that.”

“Please, Wendy would agree with me,” Kenny says, unbothered. “She’d just write an angry op-ed about it afterward.”

Stan shakes his head, chuckling under his breath. “Guess I can’t argue with that.”

From his spot on the couch, Tweek wraps his hands tighter around his own mug, feeling the heat soak into his fingers. He takes a sip, letting the coffee’s bitterness ground him, and hides a smile in the curl of steam.

Watching them like this - their easy rhythm, the way they volley jokes without missing a beat - feels like stumbling into the middle of a story that’s been running for years, only to realize you already know the lines.

Tweek sits quietly, soaking it in, feeling something he hasn’t felt in days: ease. No pressure to perform. No expectations. Just the low hum of belonging wrapping around him like a blanket.

Stan takes another sip of coffee, savoring it like a lifeline, before glancing over at him. “You going to school today?”

Tweek freezes with his mug halfway to his mouth, weighing the question. There’s the part of him that still clings to routine, that whispers about responsibility and not screwing up this close to the finish line.

But then he pictures the day - drifting through empty lessons, pretending to care about assignments that don’t matter anymore, watching the clock crawl - and the thought sours instantly.

“Nah,” he says finally, lowering the mug. “Think I’m gonna go home, shower, change… maybe just hang out and relax. It’s been a long week, man.”

Stan raises his eyebrows, leaning back. “Yeah, dude, I get that. Senior week’s supposed to be chill, but… it never really is, huh?”

Tweek huffs a humorless laugh. “Guess not.”

Stan’s expression shifts, the edge of sarcasm fading into something softer. “Yeah, man. Shit sucks.” He pauses long enough to take another drink, then sets his mug down on his knee. “I’m sorry Craig’s such an asshole.”

The words hit with the quiet weight of sincerity. Tweek looks down into his coffee, watching the steam curl upward until it blurs the edges of the mug. He breathes it in, the heat brushing against his face, and lets it give him a few extra seconds before answering.

“Thanks,” he says finally, voice low. “Me too.”

Kenny shifts on the loveseat, the faint clink of his mug against the table breaking the stillness.

The smell of coffee lingers in the air, rich and grounding, holding the three of them here just a little longer before the day inevitably pulls them apart.

The hum of the classroom feels louder when half the people you expect to see aren’t there.

Kyle sits at his desk, absently clicking his pen, his gaze flicking again and again to the row of empty seats where Stan, Kenny, and Tweek should be. Their absence feels heavy, like a gap in the air that everyone notices but no one mentions.

He keeps glancing over out of habit, as if maybe they’ll appear mid-period, grinning like they’ve just gotten away with something. But the seats stay empty.

Stan had texted him that morning to say they were all skipping. Kenny, Tweek, even him. And Craig apparently isn’t coming back at all.

Kyle tries not to think too much about that last part. He already knows what he thinks about Craig’s recent behavior, and none of it’s charitable.

The scrape of a chair leg pulls him back. Clyde leans across the aisle, lowering his voice in a way that still somehow carries. “So, uh… you heard Tweek and Craig broke up, right?”

“Yeah,” Bebe chimes in from behind, leaning forward over her desk so she can join without the teacher catching on. “Apparently it was bad. Like, capital B bad.”

Kyle exhales slowly through his nose, keeping his eyes on the doodle he’s been aimlessly sketching in the margin of his notes. “Yeah, I heard.”

“Poor Tweek,” Bebe says, her tone softening. “He been so down this week.”

Clyde nods, resting his chin on his palm. “Craig’s being a total dick about it. Not that he isn’t always, but… you know. Worse.”

Kyle’s jaw tightens, the pen clip flicking up and down in a steady, nervous rhythm. He wants to say he’s worried about Tweek - and he is - but the truth is, his thoughts keep sliding back to Stan like water finding the same crack in the pavement every time.

The teacher’s voice drones on at the front of the room, some lecture about the Cold War, but it’s all just noise.

Kyle’s gaze drifts to the clock, watching the second hand crawl, but he’s not counting the minutes until the bell.

Instead, his mind replays fragments: Stan’s million-watt smile, the roughness of his hands from years of football, the way he deflects anything serious because looking too closely at himself might hurt.

Kyle catches himself wondering what Stan’s doing right now. If he’s laughing. If he’s crying.

If he’s thinking about Kyle at all.

Tweek steps into the house and calls out, his voice carrying thinly through the rooms, echoing off the walls like a pebble dropped into still water.

“Mom? …Dad?”

Silence answers back.

Only the low hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen and the faint, steady tick of the wall clock over the stairwell mark that the house is still alive. The air hangs untouched, stale from a day without movement. Even the sunlight spilling through the front windows feels muted, like it’s been filtered through dust. He lingers in the entryway, one hand curling and uncurling on the strap of his backpack, waiting a moment longer before accepting what he already knows.

They’re at the shop. Of course they are.

He exhales through his nose, not irritated so much as hollow. It’s a familiar emptiness, one that has lived in this house longer than he has. He toes off his shoes and leaves them skewed near the door, the way a dropped thought might be left unfinished, then drifts down the hall, his fingertips brushing the wall as he passes.

Outside the study, he stops.

The door stands slightly ajar, as though someone had been there earlier and left without fully closing it. Thin light slips through the blinds, laying pale stripes across the hardwood floor like a code he can’t quite read.

He eases the door open.

Lemon polish and a layer of dust hang in the air. The room is orderly to the point of sterility. Books line the shelves in perfect alphabetical order, still arranged from the last time his mother swept through here with her quarterly compulsion to reset things. The carpet wears precise vacuum lines, frozen in place like pressed memories. A single mug, long since rinsed and dried, sits perfectly centered on a coaster by the far chair.

Under the window sits the baby grand.

The black lacquer skin catches the filtered light and holds it like water. The lid is shut, the keys hidden, the silence between them long and unbroken, as if the instrument has been waiting for someone to remember it.

He doesn’t think about it.

He just goes to it.

The bench complains quietly under his weight when he sits. The quiet here is heavier than in the hall, the kind that makes you aware of your own breathing. He lifts the lid enough to see the keys, ivory and shadow, each one reflecting the thin light like teeth.

His fingers hover  -  jittering at first, but steadying when they find their place. His leg bounces, that nervous metronome he can’t turn off.

One note. Another.

A chord.

Then the start of a melody, tentative but growing, smoothing out as old muscle memory wakes up. He follows the pull of sound without thinking, falling into a minor key progression that feels half-remembered, half-invented. The sound swells in the small room, brushing against the books, pooling under the window.

His eyes fall closed. The music continues, but doubt curls through his gut like smoke.

Is this really the right choice?

Art school is set in stone  -  acceptance letters, scholarships, glowing feedback from professors who praised his portfolio. Yet… when was the last time painting felt good? When did opening his sketchbook start to feel like work instead of release? Why does this  -  this forgotten piano in a quiet room  -  feel more alive than anything he’s drawn in months?

A wrong chord jars him. He flinches.

The melody stutters, slows. He swallows hard, eyes on the keys, seeing the faint smudges from years past where his fingers used to land.

What if Craig was right?

He lets the last note bleed out into the room. It hangs there, fading, until it’s gone.

All that remains is the quiet.

The doubt.

And the steady tick of his heartbeat, marking time like the metronome he never set.

The train tracks are quiet at this hour, laid out like long, rusted veins beneath the moonlight. The metal rails catch a faint silver sheen, stretching off into the dark until they vanish between shadowed trees. Somewhere in the distance, the low murmur of the town fades under the thick hush of summer night.

Grass grows tall along the edges, brushing against the wooden ties and whispering when the breeze pushes through. The air smells of dust and pine - an earthy midsummer blend that hints at heat even in the cool night, thick with the faint sweetness of sap and the tang of old iron from the rails.

Butters stands squarely in the middle of the tracks, one foot balanced on a rail like a tightrope walker, the other planted for balance. He clutches a stick nearly as tall as he is, holding it aloft like a knight awaiting a duel. His stance wobbles occasionally, but his face holds all the seriousness of a seasoned warrior.

His breath comes quick, cheeks flushed pink, and his long-sleeved shirt bears fresh smudges of dirt at both elbows. His eyes are wide and shining, alive with the glow of make-believe - a kid lost entirely in the moment, every muscle buzzing with playful adrenaline.

“You dare return to these sacred grounds, Mysterion?” Butters calls, raising the stick high overhead so the pale light catches on its rough bark. “Prepare to taste the wrath of my Blade of Infinite Doom!”

Kenny laughs from across the tracks, gripping his own stick with exaggerated weight, shoulders squaring in mock intimidation. His flannel jacket flutters in the night breeze, hanging open over a faded t-shirt that’s seen better days. His blond hair is a little mussed from running, and his cheeks are still tinged from the cool air, but his eyes are warm and bright - completely in it, completely here.

“You’ll never win, Chaos,” Kenny growls, dropping his voice into a deep, gravelly tone that carries across the rails. “I’ve crossed time and death itself to stop you.”

Butters gasps, clutching his stick like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. “Time and death?!”

“I’ve come back stronger. Wiser. With vengeance in my soul.”

With a gasp that breaks into laughter, Butters spins in a half-circle, the hem of his shirt flaring, and swings with every ounce of strength he has. “We’ll see about that!”

Their sticks meet with a sharp crack - once, twice, three times - wood splintering faintly with each blow. Laughter bounces off the quiet night, mingling with the rhythmic crunch of gravel beneath their sneakers.

“Ha! Yield, Chaos!” Kenny shouts, advancing with a grand swing.

“Never! Evil will triumph!” Butters counters, swinging wide and missing by inches, his voice breaking into giggles.

Butters spins again and nearly topples off the rail, windmilling his arms before regaining balance. “Whoa! You almost got me there, Mysterion!”

Kenny answers with an exaggerated stumble of his own, dropping to one knee like he’s been mortally wounded. “Gah! You fight well… for a villain.” He springs back into the fray, their sticks clashing again.

They duel like kids who’ve forgotten the world beyond this moment exists - trading blows, tossing out ridiculous one-liners, and milking each reaction for all it’s worth. Splinters catch the moonlight as they swing, the air sharp with the sound of their play. Somewhere beyond the tracks, a lone dog barks, but it barely registers.

For Kenny, everything else fades into nothing.

The corners of his mouth ache from grinning, the muscles in his cheeks tired from a happiness he hasn’t let himself feel in too long.

Butters’ joy is like a pulse - bright, steady, infectious - spilling into Kenny’s chest and loosening something he hadn’t realized was wound tight.

In this silly, breathless game, there’s no weight, no history, no ache - just the clang of sticks, the echo of their banter, and the clean, unbroken thread of laughter stretching into the night.

For a moment, it’s perfect.

For a moment, Kenny forgets everything.

Then Butters freezes mid-swing, his stick hovering in the air as if someone hit pause.

“Kenny?” His voice is high, small, edged with a tremor Kenny isn’t used to hearing from him. Uneasy.

Kenny straightens slowly, his own stick lowering. The smile fades from his face, replaced by alert focus. “What’s wrong?”

Butters doesn’t answer at first. His eyes stay locked past Kenny, wide and unblinking, fixed on something down the far stretch of track swallowed in shadow. The night air seems to thicken between them, muting the breeze.

Kenny turns, following his gaze.

A figure limps toward them from the dark. At first, it’s only a silhouette - shoulders hunched forward, one arm clutched tight against his side, unsteady steps dragging through the gravel with a faint, uneven scrape.

As he passes beneath the amber halo of a distant streetlamp, the details sharpen like a photograph coming into focus, and Kenny’s chest tightens with recognition.

Craig.

Blood snakes from one nostril to his chin, dried in some streaks, fresh and tacky in others, pooling dark in the corner of his mouth.

“Oh gosh,” Butters breathes, the words escaping in a rush. His stick slips from his fingers and hits the rail with a hollow clatter. “Kenny - he’s hurt - he’s bleeding - he’s really bleeding - what do we do? Should we call someone? Should we - should we get help right now?”

Kenny’s own stick drops from his hand with a dull thud against the gravel.

He doesn’t answer immediately. His eyes stay locked on Craig, narrowing slightly, his jaw tightening as the easy warmth of play burns away into something steady and razor-focused. The night feels quieter somehow, the cool air still around them.

Finally, evenly: “Butters. Go home.”

“What?” Butters’ head jerks toward him, panic bubbling up and twisting his voice. “No - he needs help - Kenny - he’s - ”

“I know,” Kenny cuts in, firm but not unkind. His voice is calm in a way that makes it hard to argue. “That’s why you need to go.”

“But I - shouldn’t I stay? What if something’s really wrong - what if he - ”

Kenny steps forward, closing the gap between them, and rests a hand lightly on Butters’ arm. The touch is gentle but unshakable. “You already helped. You saw him first. It’s alright now. I’ve got it.”

Butters hesitates, torn between instinct to stay and the trust Kenny’s voice pulls from him. His eyes flick to Craig and then back to Kenny, searching his face for any sign of doubt.

“You sure?” he asks at last, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I’m sure,” Kenny says, softer now, the edge in his tone fading. “I promise.” He holds Butters’ gaze for a heartbeat longer, enough to make it clear he means it.

Butters swallows, nods - once, then again - and backs away. His sneakers scuff against the gravel, the sound small and hesitant. He doesn’t look away until he’s almost off the tracks, his wide eyes still darting between Kenny and Craig.

Then, with a final glance, he turns and runs, his footsteps fading unevenly into the night, swallowed by the whisper of wind through the grass.

Kenny exhales slowly, the warmth from earlier already replaced by a steady, coiled focus.

He turns toward Craig, the crunch of gravel shifting under his boots as he closes the distance. The air between them is sharp and cool, tinged with the metallic tang of blood and the faint must of dirt clinging to Craig’s torn shirt.

“Craig,” Kenny says quietly, stopping a few feet away. The name is both a greeting and a question. “It’s me.”

Craig’s head tips slightly at the sound. His knees buckle, his weight swaying forward as though gravity is pulling harder on him than it should. He tries another step but falters hard, his boot scraping against the rail.

Kenny moves without thinking, closing the gap in two strides and catching him before he can crumble. His arm slides firmly around Craig’s waist, the other bracing against his back to keep him upright. Craig’s body feels lighter than Kenny expects, the thinness beneath the fabric of his shirt unsettling.

“Easy,” Kenny murmurs, adjusting his grip so Craig’s weight rests against him. “You’re okay, dude. I’ve got you.”

Craig reeks of alcohol, the smell cutting through the cooler night air and mixing with the metallic scent of blood. His breath shudders hot against Kenny’s neck, shallow and uneven. His fingers curl weakly into the fabric of Kenny’s sleeve, holding on as though it’s the only strength he has left.

Kenny doesn’t need to ask what happened.

The sight - and the smell - already say enough: purple bruising blooming around Craig’s jaw, the split in his lip, the exhausted sag in his shoulders.

There’s no point in questions right now.

He just turns toward home and starts walking, one slow, deliberate step at a time.

The faint sound of Butters’ earlier laughter lingering like an echo in Kenny’s head.

The streets are hushed, lined with darkened houses, every window blind and still.

Kenny keeps his grip firm, steadying Craig whenever his steps falter, adjusting their pace so they move together. Overhead, the moonlight follows like a watchful eye, tracing their slow progress through the sleeping neighborhood, until home is finally within sight.

When they finally reach the chipped, leaning front steps, Kenny shifts his hold to guide Craig through the door. The hinges creak faintly as they step inside. The familiar stale mix of cigarette smoke, cheap beer, and dirt his fast and hard.

In the dim glow from the flickering TV, his dad is sprawled across the couch, head tilted back, mouth open in a shallow snore. The TV mutters some late-night infomercial, its colors washing over the room in dull pulses. Kenny doesn’t slow, doesn’t bother waking him or explaining - this kind of scene is nothing new.

They move past without care, the floorboards groaning under their steps as they head for the narrow hallway. The house feels even smaller with Craig leaning heavily on him, every shadow stretching too long along the peeling wallpaper.

Kenny nudges open the bathroom door with his foot, the stale, cold air brushing against them. The overhead light hums faintly when he flips the switch, illuminating the small, worn space.

There’s no shower curtain on the rust-ringed tub, a jagged crack runs across the bottom corner of the mirror, and a draft slips in from the busted window.

Guiding Craig to the closed lid of the toilet, Kenny eases him down carefully until he’s sitting. Craig slumps forward slightly, elbows on his knees, the bathroom light catching the bruises and dried blood in sharper, unforgiving detail. His head tips just enough for Kenny to see the pin-point of his pupils - he’s drunk, more than just buzzed, and wrecked in ways that aren’t only physical.

Kenny doesn’t say anything.

He just crouches, grips the hem of Craig’s shirt, and works it up over his head. The fabric sticks in places where blood has dried, peeling away to reveal more damage - purple and yellow blooms across his ribs, thin scrapes along his side. Kenny doesn’t react outwardly. He’s got his own scars, his own bruises. They’re two of a kind in ways most people wouldn’t understand.

Turning to the sink, Kenny wets a washcloth under the cold tap, wrings it out, and starts working the blood from Craig’s face and neck in slow, careful motions. The cloth comes away red, and every time he wrings it out, the water swirls pink before vanishing down the drain. Craig sits still and lets him do it, eyes closing, swaying faintly with the motion.

Then Craig’s voice cuts through the quiet - slurred, rough, and edged with something meant to wound. “Why the fuck are you always helping me?” he slurs, the words stumbling out jagged and bitter. “Don’t think I’m gonna pay you like those johns did when you were out turning tricks.”

Kenny pauses, the washcloth dripping between his fingers. He stares at the sink for a long beat, jaw tightening as the words land heavier than he’d like to admit. He tells himself not to take offense, but it still stings, the memory Craig’s dredging up leaving a faint burn in his chest.

Finally, he exhales slowly through his nose, keeping his voice calm and steady as he turns back. “You’re my friend, Craig,” Kenny says quietly. “And I’m not going to take the bait.” He presses the cloth gently to Craig’s cheek again, resuming the slow work of wiping away the blood as though nothing had been said at all.

Craig leans back against the wall behind the toilet, his shoulders pressing into the peeling paint. His head tilts up slightly, eyes locking on Kenny. They hold the gaze for a long moment - silent, tense, but not hostile. Kenny eventually glances away, focusing back on the task, dipping the cloth into the sink again and wringing out another swirl of pink water.

Craig keeps staring, his eyes a little glassy but steady. After a pause, his voice comes low and quiet, the sharpness gone.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that.”

Kenny doesn’t look up right away. He rinses the cloth again, wrings it out, and speaks with a steady, even tone. “Yeah, you do. You’re hurt, you’re drunk, and you want to push people away before they can get close enough to hurt you back. I get it. But it doesn’t make it okay.”

He resumes cleaning Craig’s face, slow and deliberate, making sure to wipe away every trace of dried blood. When that’s done, he grabs the small first aid kit from under the sink and works on bandaging the worst of it - split lip, shallow cuts, and deeper bruising and scrapes scattered across his torso. He tapes gauze over a few spots where the skin has split, his hands gentle but efficient, the kind of care that doesn’t ask for thanks.

Once he’s finished, Kenny tosses the bloodied cloth into the hamper and straightens up. “Alright,” he murmurs. “Let’s get you lying down.”

He ducks under Craig’s arm, looping it over his own shoulders, and braces his hand at Craig’s waist to lift him. Craig grunts softly but doesn’t resist, letting Kenny guide him up.

They move slowly out of the cramped bathroom, down the narrow, dimly lit hall, and into Kenny’s bedroom. The mattress low to the ground, the sheets thin and a little worn - but it’s warm, the kind of warmth that comes from a closed space holding onto the day’s heat. 

Kenny eases Craig down onto the bed, steadying him with a hand until he’s certain he won’t tip forward. Craig lets out a low groan as his weight sinks into the mattress.

Kenny turns toward his dresser, pulling open a drawer and rummaging for an old t-shirt soft enough for sleeping. Behind him, Craig’s gaze slides lazily toward the nightstand. The bottle of whiskey sitting there catches the lamplight, amber liquid gleaming through the glass. His eyes linger on it for a beat before his hand shoots out, quick despite his sluggishness.

By the time Kenny turns back, Craig has the bottle tipped to his mouth, gulping down a significant portion.

“Whoa, whoa, okay,” Kenny says, crossing the space fast, his voice low but urgent. He grips the bottle and eases it away, but Craig shoves at him, bitterness flaring.

“Oh, fuck off, Kenny. Like you’re some... fucking boy scout.”

The words hang between them for half a second, sharp enough to sting. Kenny’s patience frays, the tension of the night finally snapping. He plants a firm hand on Craig’s shoulder and pushes him back onto the mattress, abandoning the shirt entirely. Craig falls back with a grunt, limbs heavy, the alcohol stealing any coordination he has left. His head lolls to one side, eyes slipping shut for a second before fluttering open again.

Kenny kneels to unlace Craig’s shoes, tugging them off one by one and tossing them toward the corner. Craig mumbles something incoherent, his arm curling protectively toward his stomach. Kenny grabs a blanket from the foot of the bed, shaking it out before throwing it over him. The weight of it seems to make Craig curl tighter, shifting into the fetal position. A low, miserable sound slips out of him as the room spins, the vertigo settling in.

“Just sleep it off,” Kenny says quietly, his tone softer now, almost weary. “It’ll be alright.”

He moves to grab a spare blanket from his closet, along with one of his hoodies. The hoodie is folded into a makeshift pillow as he stretches out on the floor beside the bed.

He lies on his back for a moment, listening to Craig’s uneven breathing, the occasional restless shift beneath the blanket. The whiskey bottle still sits on the nightstand, the glass catching the light, but Kenny keeps his eyes on the ceiling until his own start to close.

Then he hears it - a muffled, broken sound. At first, he thinks Craig’s just groaning again, but it builds into something softer, wetter. Craig is crying. Quiet, drunken sobs that spill out without warning, incoherent words tangled between shaky breaths. Kenny can’t make out what he’s saying, if he’s even saying anything at all.

Kenny sighs, pushing himself up off the floor. He crosses the short distance to the bed and sits down on the edge, the mattress dipping under his weight. Craig is curled tight, arms wrapped around himself, face buried so deep in the blanket it’s hard to tell if he’s trying to hide or just hold himself together.

For a moment, Kenny doesn’t speak. He just sits there, listening to the uneven rhythm of Craig’s breathing and the faint, wet sniffles muffled by the fabric. He rests a hand lightly on Craig’s shoulder, not pushing, just letting him know he’s there.

Craig shifts slightly, his voice breaking as it slips out between shallow breaths.

“I want to die, Kenny. I want to fucking die.”

The words are raw and heavy, thick with alcohol and something darker, trembling in the air between them.

Kenny’s chest tightens, but he keeps his voice steady.

“I know, man,” he says softly. “I know.” He stays there, hand still on Craig’s shoulder, grounding him. “You’re not going anywhere tonight, though.”

Craig doesn’t answer at first, but his shoulders shake under Kenny’s hand, another muffled sob escaping into the blanket.

Then, voice cracked and uneven, he starts mumbling, “Tweek… God, I screwed it all up… he’s fucking leaving… he’s leaving… he’s fucking leaving…” The words slur together, some drowned out by the fabric he’s burying his face in, but the regret in them is unmistakable.

“I know,” Kenny says quietly, letting him get it out. His tone stays calm, steady, the way you’d talk to someone on the edge of sleep. “I know you miss him. I know it hurts.”

Craig keeps crying, the sound rough and wet, his breath hitching between broken sobs. It comes in waves - softening, then swelling again - until finally, exhaustion starts to win out. His body goes slack, the tension easing from his shoulders as his breathing steadies into the uneven rhythm of sleep.

Kenny stays seated on the edge of the bed, watching him for a long moment. The dim light catches on the bruises still visible beneath the edges of the blanket, on the dried tear tracks marking Craig’s flushed face.

Kenny’s chest feels heavy.

He can’t shake the thought that all of his friends are falling apart - crumbling in different ways, and nothing he does can stop it.

The truth is, he doesn’t feel stable either. He’s just better at hiding it, better at pushing it down long enough to patch someone else up.

He tries to be there for everyone - Stan, Craig, now Tweek - but no one really tries to be there for him.

Not in the same way.

He exhales slowly, rubbing at the back of his neck, before finally shifting to the floor again. The hoodie becomes his pillow once more, the blanket tugged over him as he lies down beside the bed.

His eyes stay open for a while, listening to Craig’s breathing in the dark.

Chapter Text

They’re fifteen the first time they kiss.

The night is all laughter and noise, one of those unplanned hangouts that begins with a few texts and ends with a half-dozen friends crammed into Stan’s basement like they have nowhere better to be.

The air is thick with the tang of cheap beer they’ve somehow managed to get their hands on. Empty cans, crumpled chip bags, and half-finished bottles sprawl across the coffee table, leaving little room for the tangled mess of video game controllers.

On the TV, a paused game screen glows faint blue, washing the walls and their faces in soft light. From upstairs, the muffled thump of footsteps from Stan’s parents moves in a lazy rhythm, a reminder that the regular world is still turning even as theirs has condensed into this dim little room.

Stan is slouched against the couch in his usual, lazy sprawl, knees bent and feet flat on the carpet. His hair sticks up in odd tufts from running his hands through it during the game, and his wrinkled T-shirt hangs a little loose on his frame.

His cheeks are flushed - not just from the heat of the basement, but from the slow, steady burn of the beer in his system.

Kyle sits cross-legged beside him, close enough that their knees knock occasionally, neither of them shifting away. He’s laughing so hard at something dumb Stan’s just said that his voice cracks, one hand gripping the hem of his shirt while the other balances a half-empty beer that sloshes dangerously every time his shoulders shake.

It happens without thought or plan. The laughter that had been bouncing between them stutters to a stop, leaving a pause that feels longer than it is, heavy and unbroken, the kind of silence that hums with possibility.

They’re both catching their breath, warmth from the alcohol curling lazily through their veins, blurring the edges of the night. But there’s something else too - something sharper, quieter, threading its way into the space between them.

A pull neither of them is naming.

Stan’s gaze flickers - quick, almost guilty - to Kyle’s mouth, and for a beat too long, it stays there. Kyle’s eyes follow the same path in return, the air tightening between them, every shift of breath suddenly noticeable.

Then they’re leaning in, like it’s inevitable, like the choice had been sitting there for hours, waiting for someone to be brave enough to claim it.

There’s no rush, just the slow tilt forward until the gap disappears.

Their lips meet for only a few seconds, but those seconds feel stretched and amplified.

Stan tastes the faint bitterness of beer clinging to Kyle’s lips, and underneath it, the faint salt from the snacks they’d been sharing earlier. He feels the smallest twitch in his fingers as they brush against Kyle’s knee, a restless, unthinking urge to pull him closer.

His body betrays him before he pulls back.

Kyle notices the warmth still clinging to Stan’s face, the nearness that hasn’t quite faded even as space opens between them, the sound of Stan’s slightly quickened breathing matching his own.

They retreat too quickly, almost in sync, each scrambling for neutral ground - Stan’s gaze locking onto the flicker of the TV, Kyle’s darting to the cluttered table.

Neither seems to know what to do with their hands, both pretending to be interested in anything but the fact that, for a fleeting moment, they crossed a line neither can take back.

The air between them is different now - charged, fragile, and filled with all the words they won’t say.

“Uh. That was - ” Stan starts, his voice uncertain.

“Alcohol,” Kyle cuts in, too quickly, the word clipped like it’s meant to end the conversation.

They both laugh, but the sound is thinner, edges fraying, their shoulders shifting as though they can physically shake off the weight in the air.

The basement feels warmer, with an undercurrent of tension.

They never bring it up again, but the memory doesn’t fade - it settles between them like a ghost, invisible but impossible to ignore.

They try to pretend it didn’t happen.

But, it doesn’t work.

When they’re sixteen, it happens a second time.

It’s one of those endless summer nights at Stark’s Pond where the air feels thick enough to hold onto.

The moon hangs low over the water, a pale, weightless coin in the sky, its silver light scattering over ripples that break and reform with each lazy breeze. The air is warm and heavy, scented with damp earth, fresh-cut grass from the park, and the faint metallic tang of cheap beer that clings to their breath and skin.

They’ve been out here for hours - just the two of them now - after their other friends wandered off into the dark. They’ve filled the time with skipping rocks, trying to one-up each other’s terrible impressions, swapping half-serious stories that taper into fits of laughter, and passing the bottle back and forth in slow, sloppy turns.

They’re sprawled out on the weathered dock, the old boards beneath them creaking and shifting with every small movement.

Their shoulders brush often, a casual, constant point of contact that neither acknowledges but both register. The bottle is slick with condensation, cool and heavy in their hands as it changes owners.

Fireflies drift lazily along the tree line, their soft glow pulsing in rhythm with the low, throaty croak of frogs echoing across the pond. The occasional splash of a fish breaking the surface punctuates the otherwise still water. Somewhere far off, a dog barks, its sound softened by distance, and is answered by another.

Here, it feels like the entire world has narrowed to the length of the dock.

Kyle mutters an exaggerated, slurred version of a song lyric, stretching each syllable until the words are ridiculous.

Stan tips his head back and laughs - really laughs - the sound spilling out in uneven bursts that echo across the open water. His chest rises and falls, breath hitching from the effort, and when he looks back at Kyle, the laughter lingers faintly at the edges of his smile.

Their faces are close - too close.

 Inches apart now, the air between them taut, thick with something that’s been simmering quietly all night.

This time, there’s no hesitation, no drunken excuse to mask the choice.

They lean in, the motion deliberate - tinged with urgency, almost hungry, the air between them charged and thin.

Kyle’s hands come up to Stan’s shoulders, his grip light at first before tightening, grounding himself in the heat of the moment.

Stan’s hand rises in turn, fingers sliding into the messy curls at the back of Kyle’s head, his touch gentle despite the undercurrent of want in his movements. The pads of his fingers graze warm skin, feeling the slight dampness from the night air.

The first press of their lips is steady, almost tentative, the contact warm and electric, before deepening with an unspoken agreement that thrums between them like a pulse.

Their mouths part, breaths mingling hot and uneven, the sharp tang of beer threading their senses, undercut with the faint salt of skin and the warmth of shared air.

The kiss builds quickly - longer, surer than the first - but still marked by that unrefined messiness of wanting something without knowing exactly how to take it.

The press of lips shifts to a slow, testing pull, then a firmer meeting, and the heat spreads between them.

Stan can feel the subtle shift of Kyle’s jaw beneath his palm, the faint scrape of stubble against his skin, the slick heat of Kyle’s mouth moving with his, and the uneven stutter of his breathing.

There’s the faint brush of tongues, the ghost of teeth catching on a lower lip, the gentle drag and release that leaves a lingering tingle, tiny details that send a low thrum down his spine and make his grip in Kyle’s hair tighten instinctively.

The dock, the pond, the night - everything falls away until there’s nothing but the taste, the heat, and the push and pull holding them locked in place.

Time stretches, feels unfamiliar, until they finally pull back, the sudden space between them letting in the coolness of the night air.

Stan’s heart hammers, each beat drumming in his ears, mismatched from the low, steady buzz of alcohol in his blood.

Kyle leans back slightly, gaze dropping to the bottle, and takes another swig without looking up.

“Guess that’s the alcohol again,” he mutters, his mouth twisting into a smirk that never quite makes it to his eyes.

“Yeah,” Stan says, quiet but weighted.

They both know it’s not the truth - not all of it - but neither is willing to open that door tonight.

They sit in the soft quiet for another few minutes, listening to the gentle lap of water against the dock and the faint rustle of leaves at the shoreline.

Eventually, they stand, the dock groaning beneath them, and start up the dirt path toward home.

The night folds in close around them, the memory of this kiss tucking itself away alongside the first - unspoken in words, but lodged deep enough that it will never be forgotten.

The last bell of senior year rings without ceremony, just the same shrill tone it’s always been - yet somehow it lands different.

The hallways are already a mess of voices, lockers slamming like punctuation, the squeak of sneakers on linoleum. Flyers for the graduation ceremony flap against bulletin boards in the rush of air as people push past each other.

By the time Tweek steps outside, the sky has that washed-out, early-summer brightness that makes the pavement glare. He pauses at the bottom of the steps, watching clusters of people spill across the parking lot - laughing, hugging, posing for pictures they’ll probably never frame.

Stan’s leaning against his black SUV, tossing his keys up and catching them, sunglasses hiding whatever expression he’s wearing. He’s alone for the moment, hands loose in his pockets between tosses, scanning the crowd like he’s waiting for someone - or maybe just passing time.

From where Tweek stands, it’s impossible to tell.

Kyle’s nearby, walking with Heidi, their conversation easy and unhurried. Across the lot, Wendy and Bebe are leaning against a car, talking and laughing together. Kyle says something that makes Heidi grin before waving her a casual goodbye, then starts making his way toward Stan.

Somewhere in the hum of it all, there’s a shift in the air. That sense of the next thing looming, the unspoken countdown between now and when the lights will blur, music will pound through the walls, and the last real night of high school will ignite.

Stan catches Tweek’s eye from across the lot and jerks his chin toward the SUV in that unspoken you coming? way. Tweek starts walking, the smell of cut grass and exhaust mingling in the warm air.

When he reaches the SUV, Tweek slips into the back seat, taking his familiar spot directly behind Stan. Kyle is already in the passenger seat, one foot braced against the dash, grinning as he and Stan chatter back and forth, their voices overlapping with the easy cadence of people who know each other down to the bone.

“So, I heard Jimmy’s bringing that insane cooler his cousin built - like, actually welded out of a shopping cart,” Stan says as he turns the key, the engine rumbling to life.

Kyle bursts out laughing. “Oh yeah, the one with cup holders and a Bluetooth speaker? That thing’s a hazard, man. Perfect for us. Bet it could double as a weapon if things get wild.”

Stan smirks. “We’re dumping jungle juice in it and letting fate sort it out. If it survives that, it’s indestructible.”

Kyle shakes his head, still grinning. “Fate’s gonna be puking in Bebe’s bushes by ten, dude. Then blaming it on bad pizza or something.”

“And I’m telling you, we’re starting truth or dare before midnight,” Stan insists, pulling out of the lot. “Real dares, not that weak crap.”

“Only if you swear you won’t dare me to do shots with Kenny again,” Kyle says. “Last time I thought my stomach was trying to quit my body, man. My liver’s still mad at me.”

“That was hilarious, though,” Stan fires back. “You turned the color of guac and kept asking if your tongue was swelling.”

Tweek leans back into the seat, letting their voices roll over him. He watches the way they move when they talk, the casual flick of Stan’s hand off the steering wheel to emphasize a point, Kyle turning in his seat without hesitation, knees tucked up, fully open to him.

There’s a comfort there - close movement without thought, sentences finished for each other - that feels as natural as breathing.

“Twenty bucks says Clyde’s the first to do something completely stupid,” Kyle says.

Stan snorts. “Ten says he does it twice, bro. Bonus points if he drags someone else into it.”

“Okay, but who’s spilling something on Bebe’s rug first?” Kyle asks.

“Oh man, money’s on Red,” Stan says without hesitation. “She’ll have a drink in her hand before she’s even through the door, and zero awareness of her elbows.”

“Also, you know Tolkien’s gonna roll in late just to make an entrance,” Kyle adds.

“Yeah, with some ridiculous snack no one asked for,” Stan replies. “Like, artisan cheese or weird imported crackers that cost like a hundred dollars a pack.”

“Hey, I’m not complaining if it’s free, dude,” Kyle says with a grin. “I’ll demolish half the cheese board before anyone else gets near it.”

Stan chuckles. “Fair point. Still betting on Clyde for the first disaster.”

Kyle points at him. “I’ll take that bet, but as far as drama goes, my money’s on Craig not showing up at all.” He pauses, glancing back toward Tweek, as if just remembering he were there. Guiltily, he quickly shifts the subject: “Hey, what about Kenny? He say anything? Haven’t heard from him all day, man.”

Stan’s eyes flick to the rearview mirror; a quick glance at Tweek before he shrugs. “Dunno. You know Kenny - he shows up when he feels like it.”

Kyle hums. “Yeah, maybe. Just weird not hearing from him. Usually he’s blowing up my phone before this kind of thing, trying to get a head count for which girl he’s gonna try to hook up with.”

“Maybe he’s got something going on,” Stan says. “He’ll turn up. He always does.”

They shift back into lighter stuff. “We’ve gotta get you to do karaoke,” Kyle says. “Full performance mode. Costume changes, dude.”

Stan groans with a grin. “No way, man. Not happening unless I’m so drunk I can’t stand. And even then, you’re carrying me offstage before I embarrass myself. Preferably before someone starts recording.”

Kyle laughs. “Okay, okay. I just like hearing you sing, bro. You’ve got a good voice. But hey - what about Butters? Think he’ll actually drink this time?”

Stan grins. “If someone gives him a beer disguised in a juice box, maybe. Even then, he might apologize to it before taking a sip.”

Tweek lets himself sink deeper into the seat, the wind from the open window tangling his hair, the summer air warm against his skin.

His eyes drift from the back of Stan’s head to Kyle’s animated gestures, the way they lean toward each other without thinking, their laughter looping in an unbroken rhythm.

The energy between them is easy, familiar, and loud in the best way - punctuated by bursts of laughter, the hum of the engine, and the occasional dramatic gasp from Kyle when Stan makes a particularly outrageous prediction.

It’s a distraction - welcome noise to drown out the heavy, quiet ache that’s been following him for days.

The ache of knowing Craig’s gone from his life settles deep in his chest.

In just two months he’ll be packing up, heading off to school, and shutting the door on this part of his life for good - a finality that feels both inevitable and unbearably heavy.

It’s the awareness that every shared laugh, every familiar corner of this town, is now tinged with an ending he can’t stop from coming.

Kenny stands in his cramped kitchen, one hip leaned against the counter, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth as he butters toast with the efficiency of someone who’s been running on caffeine and nicotine all day.

The toaster’s warmth still radiates faintly against his arm, and the quiet sizzle of cooling coils fades under the low crackle of his cigarette.

Two plates - each with a couple of slices - are stacked in his hand as he heads down the hall, the wood creaking beneath his bare feet. He doesn’t bother knocking when he reaches the bathroom; instead, he pushes the door open with the side of his foot, a practiced move that sends it banging gently against the wall.

Steam billows out instantly, curling around him in thick ribbons and clinging to his skin.

The cigarette bobs slightly between his lips as he squints into the haze.

Inside, Craig is in the shower, mid-rinse, head snapping toward the door as his shoulders hunch instinctively.

“What the fuck, man?” Craig snaps, recoiling toward the far wall. With no curtain to hide behind, there’s nothing between him and Kenny’s unimpressed stare but the drifting steam.

Kenny rolls his eyes, speaking around the cigarette like it’s a permanent fixture. “Get outta there already, it’s been like thirty minutes. You planning on paying the water bill this month? ‘Cause last I checked, you didn’t have a job.” His voice is lazy, but there’s an edge of amusement tucked beneath it.

Craig scowls, muttering something too low to catch, but Kenny’s already turning away, plates balanced easily in his hands. He strolls back down the hall without looking over his shoulder, not bothering to close the bathroom door behind him.

Craig twists the faucet off, the pipes groaning as the water drains away.

The sudden silence makes the drip of the showerhead sound louder. He grabs a towel from the rack, wrapping it low around his waist, and steps out into the hallway. The cool air rushes over damp skin, leaving a trail of dark footprints on the worn floorboards as he makes his way toward Kenny’s room.

Kenny has already set the plates on the unmade bed, the faint smell of butter and bread mingling with the sharper scent of cigarette smoke. He’s half-buried in his dresser, digging through a stack of clothes with one hand while holding the cigarette with the other, ash dangling precariously.

“Here,” Kenny says, pulling out a long-sleeve black shirt and tossing it toward Craig without looking. The fabric arcs through the air and lands against Craig’s chest with a soft thump, leaving a faint trace of cigarette smoke in its wake.

Craig catches it easily, glancing between the offered toast on the bed and Kenny still rummaging through the dresser. The hum of quiet domesticity settles over the small, cluttered room - a rare kind of stillness Craig hasn’t felt in weeks.

Kenny finally turns, tucking the cigarette into the corner of his mouth and nodding toward the shirt.

“Listen, dude, I got some stuff to do today before the party later on. Gotta see a few people.” He shoves the drawer closed with his hip and glances toward the bed, where the plates sit waiting, steam from the toast curling into the cool air.

Craig raises a brow. “You kicking me out already?” His voice is flat, but there’s an undertone of something heavier that makes Kenny pause.

“No, dude, just - ” Kenny waves a hand, setting the shirt he was holding back into the drawer. “You gonna be okay on your own for a bit? I don’t wanna leave you hanging if you’re… not feeling okay today.” His tone is casual, but his eyes stay on Craig in a way that makes the question feel loaded.

Craig’s expression shifts to mild annoyance, his shoulders stiffening. “Of course. I’m not a fucking child.” He yanks the towel from around his waist and starts to step into his jeans.

“Hey, I know,” Kenny says quickly, holding up both hands in a mock surrender, the cigarette bouncing slightly between his lips. “I never said you were. I’m just making sure, alright? You’ve been… y’know. Going through it. I’d be an asshole if I didn’t at least check.” He shrugs, trying to diffuse the tension with an easy grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

Craig exhales sharply through his nose, looking away as he pulls the shirt over his head, the hem catching on his damp hair. “Yeah. I’ll be fine.”

“Good,” Kenny says, tone lighter now, though there’s still a faint thread of concern running through it. “Eat your toast, then. I’ll be back before you know it. Just don’t burn the place down.”

Craig hesitates for a moment, fingers fiddling with the button of his jeans, then shakes his head. “Actually… I’m gonna head home.”

Kenny looks up from the dresser, frowning. “You don’t have to, dude. You can stay here. Seriously, it’s not a problem.”

“No, it’s fine,” Craig says, already stepping into his sneakers. “Go do whatever shit you need to do. I’ll get out of your way.”

Kenny leans back against the dresser, cigarette smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling. “It’s not about getting you out of my way, man. I just - ”

Craig cuts him off with a short, dismissive wave. “It’s fine. Seriously. I’ll be fine at home.”

Kenny studies him for a beat longer, as if weighing whether to push the point. His gaze lingers, searching for a crack in Craig’s stubborn front. Finally, he lets out a slow exhale and nods, tapping ash into a nearby mug.

“Alright. Suit yourself. I'll see you at Bebe's tonight?”

Craig doesn’t answer right away, just his grabs his bloodied shirt and hoodie from last night and mutters, “Yeah, sure,” before heading for the door.

Kenny watches him go, the sound of Craig’s footsteps fading down the hall. For a moment, he considers calling after him - maybe telling him to stay, or to just hang around until he gets back - but the words stick in his throat.

He takes a long drag from his cigarette instead, letting the smoke burn down to the filter before stubbing it out.

Kyle’s room is alive with quiet, familiar clutter - a desk crowded with papers and earbuds. Posters of bands they half-grew out of still cling to the walls, corners curling.

A bottle of cologne sits uncapped near the edge of the desk. A low hum from his computer adds to the quiet creak of the floorboards whenever either of them shifts.

Stan is sprawled across the foot of Kyle’s bed, absently tossing a stress ball in the air, his gaze unfocused as it arcs up and down. His phone rests beside him, ignored for now, as he kicks one heel against the mattress in lazy rhythm.

Kyle stands at his dresser, holding two shirts up to the light with the deep concentration of someone deciding national policy.

“Which one looks better?” Kyle asks without looking back. “This or the darker one?”

“They look the same, dude,” Stan says, glancing over briefly before letting his eyes drift back to the ceiling.

“They do not,” Kyle insists, tossing one shirt onto the bed in frustration and pulling the other on over his head. “You have no eye for detail.”

“I have eyes that work fine,” Stan replies. “You’re just overthinking it.”

Kyle steps over to the mirror, turning side to side, tugging the hem of the shirt down, then pushing his hair back. “Man, it doesn’t feel real that school’s over.”

Stan drops the stress ball onto the bed and props himself on his elbows. “Right? What do we even do now? Just… not go back?”

“No more cafeteria mystery meat. No more threats of detention, no more locker slamming in the morning hallway rush," Kyle says, his tone a mix of relief and nostalgia.

"Gonna miss seeing everyone every day," Stan admits, scratching at his jaw. "Even the people I don’t like. Feels weird thinking I won’t just bump into them at lunch or in class anymore."

Kyle nods slowly. "Guess we’re adults now. Terrifying, right?"

Stan smirks. "I can’t even fold fitted sheets without swearing at them. How am I supposed to pay taxes, manage bills, all that real-life crap?"

"You can’t. You’ll end up in prison for tax evasion," Kyle says dryly, which earns a short, amused laugh from Stan.

“At least prison laundry’s free,” Stan shoots back. He leans forward, grabs the shirt Kyle tossed aside, and throws it at his chest. “This one’s fine, wear it.”

Kyle pulls the shirt on but still can’t seem to leave it alone, smoothing the fabric down his chest, tugging the collar, twisting side to side to see it from different angles in the mirror. He sighs, steps back, then leans forward again like the right angle might suddenly change everything.

“You think Tweek’s gonna come tonight?” he asks, trying to sound casual, though there’s a thread of curiosity in his voice.

“He said he would,” Stan replies, shifting into a cross-legged position at the end of the bed. He leans his elbows on his knees, hands dangling. “But with him, it’s sometimes last minute. Anxiety and all that. Could be he’s sitting in his room right now, staring at the clock and debating if it’s worth the effort - or if it’s easier just to stay home.”

“Yeah,” Kyle says, pausing to study his reflection again, tilting his head like he’s searching for something in his own expression. “Still weird seeing him without Craig. Like puzzle pieces that don’t fit anymore, but you keep trying to jam them together because you remember when they did. And when they did… it worked.”

“I think it might be better for him,” Stan says, leaning back on his hands, his weight sinking into the mattress. “Craig’s not exactly known for emotional availability. Not saying he’s a bad guy, but… he keeps those walls high and thick. Makes it hard to let anyone in, even someone who’s trying like hell to be there for him.”

“No kidding,” Kyle agrees. “But Tweek’s been smiling more lately. Not the jittery, forced kind either - like real smiles. Maybe the breakup was what he needed. Maybe he can finally breathe without wondering if Craig’s gonna pull away on him at any second.” He tugs at the collar again, frowning at an invisible wrinkle, then sighs and smooths it again anyway.

“Or maybe he’s just putting on a face so no one asks questions,” Kyle adds after a beat, stepping away from the mirror to grab a hoodie from the chair. He tosses it onto the bed in case it gets cold later. “People do that all the time - smile so no one notices you’re wrecked. It’s easier than explaining.”

Stan rolls a shoulder, studying Kyle for a moment. “Tweek’s strong, man. He’s been through plenty and still gets up in the morning. He seemed fine when we dropped him off earlier. And Craig… well, he’ll figure his shit out or he won’t. That’s on him. I just hope they’re smart enough not to drag each other down again if they do circle back. Sometimes love’s not enough if you’re both drowning.”

Kyle smirks faintly at that, almost impressed. “Look at you, all wise tonight.”

Stan grins, shaking his head. “Saving it for the pre-party pep talk. And hey, you asked. Don’t get used to me being insightful - it’s rare, and I charge extra for it. First one’s free, though.”

Kyle chuckles, finally stepping away from the mirror for good. He grabs the hoodie and shrugs into it loosely. “Alright, fine. But if we get there and Tweek’s not, I’m blaming you for jinxing it.”

“Fair,” Stan says, grabbing his phone and slipping it into his pocket. “But I’m telling you - he’ll be there. He always shows up when it counts. Might not be early, but he’ll show. And if he doesn’t, I’ll buy you a drink to make up for it.”

“Better be a good drink,” Kyle says, already heading for the door, though his eyes flick back toward the mirror like he’s fighting the urge to check himself again.

Stan notices, but doesn’t say anything - just lets the corner of his mouth twitch, that half-smile he gets when he’s quietly amused.

“It will. Top shelf. Now - ” Stan leans lazily against the doorframe, watching Kyle with an ease that’s too practiced to be accidental, “ - you ready to see half our friends drunk and the other half trying to hook up upstairs?”

Kyle scoffs, but his eyes linger a second too long on Stan before he looks away. “Sounds like every party Bebe’s ever thrown.”

“Exactly,” Stan says. “Predictable chaos. My favorite kind.”

Kyle pauses halfway to the door, catching his reflection again, and makes a face. “Maybe I should change again.”

Stan groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Kyle - just pick one. It’s Bebe’s party, not a red carpet. No one’s gonna care what shade of green your shirt is once they’ve had two drinks.”

“Yeah, but there’s gonna be pictures,” Kyle argues, stepping back to the mirror anyway. “And I’m not gonna look like a scrub when Bebe inevitably tags me in something.”

“Trust me,” Stan says, moving closer, close enough that his hand on Kyle’s shoulders lingers just a beat longer than necessary as he steers him away from the glass, “you look fine. And if you don’t, people will just assume you spilled beer on yourself and changed.”

Kyle smirks reluctantly, straightening his collar one last time, acutely aware of the faint warmth from Stan’s touch. “Fine. This’ll do. Let’s go before I change my mind and put the other one on.”

Stan pushes away from the doorframe, falling into step beside him. “About time. If we miss the first beer pong game, I’m blaming you.”

“Like Clyde isn’t gonna break the table before we even get there,” Kyle says, following him toward the hall.

Stan laughs. “I give it fifteen minutes before he takes someone down with him.”

Kyle grins as they head for the stairs, catching Stan’s profile out of the corner of his eye, the way his jaw tightens when he’s smiling. That same smile tugs at Kyle in ways he’d never admit. “Yeah, I wouldn’t stand too close to him once the music starts.”

Stan smirks. “Totally. I’ll keep a safe distance.”

They move through the doorway into the hall, shoulders brushing in the narrow space, the quiet contact sending a faint jolt through both of them - a quick spark that lingers longer than either will admit.

Neither comments on it. Instead, their conversation slips into the familiar rhythm it always does - small jabs, easy jokes, that seamless, unthinking back-and-forth that’s been theirs for years. The sound of their voices bounces lightly off the walls, and with each exchange, the earlier tension fades a little more.

By the time they hit the stairs, Kyle’s grinning again, shaking his head. “This party’s gonna be a mess.”

“Yeah,” Stan says, voice warm, “but at least we’ll be in it together.” He flashes a brief smile, one of those rare, unguarded ones that makes Kyle's heart beat faster.

That unspoken current hums between them as they head down, ready to walk into whatever chaos Bebe’s party has waiting for them.

Kevin wipes his hands on a rag, the air stale with oil, hot metal, and faint cigarette smoke clinging between them.

The low hum of an engine fan fills the background, punctuated by the occasional metallic clink from somewhere deeper in the shop, and the faint scrape of boots on concrete.

A radio’s playing, some classic rock station barely audible over the shop noise.

Kenny stands by the open garage door, hands buried in the front pocket of his hoodie, shifting his weight from one foot to the other like he’s not sure if he’s staying or going.

The late afternoon light catches the faint shadow of a bruise on his forearm, and Kevin’s gaze flicks to it, lingers for a beat too long. He doesn’t call it out right away, but the crease in his brow says he’s clocked it.

“Alright, man,” Kevin says at last, tossing the rag onto his workbench and straightening his back with a crack of his shoulders. “Deals set. I’ll see you in, what… a few days?”

Kenny flashes a crooked grin, but there’s a tiredness at the edge of it. “Yeah, give or take. I’ll be back.”

Kenny’s halfway turned toward the lot when Kevin’s voice cuts through the open space. “You know you can stay here if you ever need to, right? Spare room’s yours. Don’t gotta… keep doing… whatever it is you’ve been doing on your own.”

Kenny glances back, the shake of his head slow but final. “I’m good, Kev. Seriously. No worries. I got it handled.”

Kevin watches him like he’s debating whether to push harder. “Alright,” he says finally, though the way his voice drops makes it clear he’s not buying it. “Just - watch yourself out there. Shit gets ugly quick.”

“Always do,” Kenny answers automatically, and the words have that easygoing edge he uses to skate over anything real.

They both know it’s a bluff.

Kevin steps forward, and they meet in a quick, rough hug - more of a solid shoulder bump than anything soft - but it’s loaded, the kind of brief contact that says more than either of them will out loud.

When they pull back, Kevin gives him a nod that’s half farewell, half warning.

Kenny heads back outside, the smell of oil and rubber clinging to him as he walks.

He squints against the lowering sun, shoving his hands deeper into his hoodie pocket, boots crunching over gravel as he heads for the street.

It’s a decent walk to the park, but he doesn’t mind - the air’s cool, and the rhythm of his steps gives him something steady to focus on.

His mind’s already shifting ahead - Butters and the promise of quiet conversation and an easy presence that might take the edge off the day.

He doesn’t let himself dwell on why he wants that so badly right now, just keeps moving toward it.

Kenny pulls out his phone, the screen lighting his face in the fading light. He types out a quick text. 

Kenny: On my way over to the park. Wanna join?

His thumb hovers for a moment before he finally hits send. Almost instantly, the typing bubbles appear, and a few seconds later, Butters replies with a simple, cheerful response that somehow manages to feel warmer than the cool air around Kenny.

Butters: Okay! See you soon :)

Kenny smirks faintly at the screen, sliding the phone back into his pocket as he veers toward the small park a few blocks away.

The sun is low, casting long shadows across the grass, and the sky is painted in streaks of gold, pink, and deepening purple. The air is crisp enough to make him shove his hands deeper into his hoodie pocket, boots crunching over loose gravel as he walks the familiar path.

He spots Butters sitting on a swing near the edge of the empty playground.

The chains creak softly with his gentle back-and-forth motion, sneakers tracing shallow lines in the dirt.

Even from a distance, Kenny sees the way his posture shifts when their eyes meet - shoulders easing just slightly, mouth pulling into the beginnings of a smile.

Kenny ambles over and drops onto the swing beside him, the metal frame groaning under his weight, the seat swaying gently before settling.

"Man," Kenny says after a pause, gripping the chains loosely, "I can’t even remember the last time I was on a swing. Feels like forever."

Butters’ face lights up, the change instant and unguarded. He kicks his legs back, letting the swing rise higher with each push.

"Well, you’re missing out, Kenny! Come on, it’s fun!" His voice is warm and coaxing, carrying that flicker of mischief like he’s daring Kenny to shake off whatever’s been weighing him down.

Kenny huffs a laugh and gives himself a tentative push, leaning into the motion. The chains groan with a familiar rhythm, and the cool air brushes over his face as he starts to pick up speed.

Soon enough, they’re both swinging in earnest - Butters pumping his legs like a kid at recess, and Kenny surrendering to the momentum, wind tugging at his hair. Each pass forward stretches his grin a little wider, the heaviness in his chest loosening.

Their conversation comes in bursts between the swings - half-joking dares about who can go higher, offhand comments about the park, and little observations about how quiet everything feels compared to their usual chaos.

Kenny leans back farther, letting his legs kick forward until he catches that brief, weightless moment at the top of each arc. It’s freeing in a way he hasn’t felt in years.

For a while, the rest of the world falls away.

There’s no pressure - just the rhythmic creak of chains, the easy company, and the warmth of laughter.

Kenny doesn’t have to think about what’s next or what’s behind him; he just lets the simple back-and-forth pull out something almost childlike, something he didn’t even realize he’d been missing until now.

Butters is grinning like this is the best part of his day, hair a little messy from the breeze, eyes bright in the fading light.

Eventually, the swings begin to slow, the momentum easing until they’re swaying gently side to side. Their breathing is still a touch fast, the kind that comes after letting yourself laugh and move without caring how you look.

Kenny leans forward slightly, boots dragging shallow furrows in the dirt, and glances over with a lopsided smile.

“You going to the party tonight?” he asks, like it’s a given.

Butters shakes his head, his smile softening but not vanishing. “Probably not. I’d get grounded.”

Kenny’s brow furrows, his swing rocking to a stop. “Grounded? Dude, you’re eighteen now. You’ve got a job. You’re starting college soon. They can’t just ground you like you’re a kid anymore.”

Butters’ smile falters at that, and a nervous, almost guilty look flickers across his face. “They can, though,” he says quietly. “They can put a lock on my door and keep me inside.” He looks away, shoulders curling inward. “They’ve done it before.”

The words hang there, heavier than the air around them. Kenny’s jaw tightens - he knows it’s true.

He’s heard the stories, seen the edge in Butters’ voice after those nights.

The easy warmth of the moment starts to cool, replaced by something sharper, protective.

Kenny leans back slightly in his seat, his swing stilling almost completely, eyes fixed on Butters with a mix of concern, frustration, and that deep, unspoken understanding that comes from knowing someone’s worst truths.

“Yeah…” Kenny says after a long pause, his voice lower now. “I know they have.” His hands tighten subtly on the swing’s chains, as if holding back the urge to get up and do something about it right then and there.

He lets the silence sit for a beat longer, then leans forward, his tone shifting - firmer, but still gentle.

“Then sneak out,” he says. “Seriously. This party’s gonna be huge, and you deserve to be there. Just one night where you don’t have to sit in your room and hear them breathing down your neck. You should get to have that kind of fun.”

Butters hesitates, his sneakers scuffing the dirt, eyes dropping to the worn patches beneath the swings. “I don’t know, Kenny… if they found out - ”

“They won’t,” Kenny cuts in, a quick grin flashing across his face, full of confidence he hopes will rub off. “You’ve been putting up with their crap your whole life, man. You’re eighteen now, you’ve earned a night to do what you want. Trust me - it’s worth it.”

Butters studies him, clearly torn, but there’s a flicker of something in his expression - hope, maybe, or the first spark of temptation. He pushes at the ground lightly with his toes, the swing moving in slow, thoughtful arcs.

“You really think I should?” he asks, almost like he’s hoping Kenny will give him permission.

Kenny leans back, gripping the chains with one hand, the other gesturing lazily. “I don’t just think - you should."

Butters exhales through his nose, still nervous, but the corner of his mouth quirks upward. “Okay… maybe. I’ll think about it.”

Kenny smirks knowingly, pushing himself with his feet. “That’s not a ‘no.’” He gives the chain of Butters’ swing a light tug. “You’ve got a few hours to decide, man. But if I show up and you’re not there, I’m breaking into your house and dragging you out myself.”

Butters laughs, shaking his head, but there’s a brightness in his eyes that wasn’t there before. They linger in the park a little longer, and somewhere in the lull, Butters glances over.

“You’ve always been nice to me, Kenny. I’m really thankful to have a friend like you.”

Kenny meets his eyes - blue on blue - and for a second, the creak of the swing chains might as well be the only sound in the world.

The park fades around them, the distant hum of streetlights turning into soft halos, tree shadows stretching long and still across the empty playground. There’s a quiet intimacy in that moment, like they’ve been sealed off from the rest of the world.

Everything Kenny sees in him - his open expression, the unshakable kindness in his gaze, the way he seems to carry light without even trying - is, in Kenny’s mind, the very definition of pure good.

Untouched and unspoiled by all the shit in the world, and somehow still standing strong.

“You’ve always been kind of badass, you know that?” Kenny says after a beat, his tone casual but threaded with something sincere.

Butters blinks, caught off guard. “Me? No way. I think most people just see me as a dork.”

Kenny smirks, leaning in slightly, shaking his head. “Nah. You’re good and wholesome. That’s rarer than people think. Makes you tougher than half the guys I know. Most people… they get mean, or they let the world change ‘em. You never did.”

Butters ducks his head a little, the faint blush in his cheeks visible even in the dim light. “Well, gee… thanks, Kenny. That means a lot coming from you.”

Kenny lets them fall into comfortable silence, the night air cool against his face, the scent of grass and warm asphalt lingering between them.

Finally, he checks the time, sighs, and pushes up from the swing, stretching his arms overhead before giving Butters a casual two-finger salute. “Alright, I’m out. Think about what I said.”

“I will,” Butters replies, his tone carrying that same maybe-yes energy, though his eyes linger on Kenny like he’s already halfway convinced.

Kenny takes a few steps down the path, boots crunching against gravel, the cool breeze brushing over him.

The park behind him fades into quiet shadow, but there’s a grin tugging at his mouth - a quiet, certain kind of satisfaction.

He doesn’t look back, because he doesn’t need to.

He knows that when the party kicks off later, Butters will be there, and for once, it won’t just be another night - it’ll be something worth remembering for them both.

Chapter Text

By nine o’clock, Bebe’s party has given up any illusion of control.

The bass pounds, rattling the walls and making the floorboards tremble beneath the crush of bodies. The air inside is thick with perfume, sweat, and alcohol - condensed into a haze that clings to skin, hair, and clothes until it becomes part of everyone there.

Each time the front door opens, a gust of cool air slices through the heat, only to be swallowed almost instantly by the humid press of the crowd. People linger by the entrance, stealing breaths before plunging back into the chaos, laughter rising high above the music as if daring the night to devour them.

Out back, the bonfire spits sparks into the dark, flames painting shadows across the friends sprawled on the grass. The scent of smoke, beer, and fresh-cut grass mingles with something floral from the nearby bushes. It settles into their hair and clothes, the kind of smell that will still cling weeks later, carrying the memory of summer.

Stan sits cross-legged with his guitar, plucking at uneven chords that tumble into half-forgotten verses. He laughs off the mistakes, grinning wide while Jimmy heckles from the edge of the fire, shouting requests like a drunk host trying to control the show.

Tweek curls up in a lawn chair, knees pulled tight to his chest. His nervous energy vibrates even in stillness, but when he takes the passing joint, his exhale drifts slow and steady into the firelight. For a fleeting moment, his face relaxes, his smile small but real. Sparks flicker in his eyes, lighting him from within.

Tolkien lobs an empty can toward Stan’s feet; it clatters against the dirt, and both of them burst into laughter. Around them, discarded bottles glint in the firelight like scattered stars. Cigarette tips flare and fade, their glow marking the quiet rhythms of half-heard conversations.

Near the fence, two goth kids whisper over the glow of a phone screen. Across the yard, a group argues loudly about the rules of a drinking game no one remembers starting. The music from inside spills through open windows, muffled but constant - a pulse that refuses to fade.

Step inside, and the warmth of the fire is replaced by the humid crush of bodies. The house breathes with sound and motion, the air saturated with beer, perfume, and the sour-sweet edge of weed. Crossing the threshold feels like entering another world entirely.

The living room thrums - limbs, laughter, flashes of light blending into a blur. Red cups sway dangerously in raised hands. Every corner is packed, every voice shouting to be heard above the music.

The kitchen is its own storm. Counters lined with sticky drinks, rings of condensation staining the surface, bottle caps crunching underfoot. Someone cheers as a ping-pong ball arcs into a cup, the sound of triumph rising over the din.

Out on the street, Craig approaches the house with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, drawn closer by the pulsing bass. The noise grows louder with every step, a living thing waiting to swallow him whole.

The moment enters, the heat hits - dense and immediate, wrapping around him until it feels like a second skin. The bass doesn’t just fill the room; it crawls through his chest and thrums behind his ribs. The smell hits next: beer, sweat, perfume, smoke. Everything too much, too close.

He barely makes it three steps before someone spots him.

“Yooo, Craig!” a voice bellows from the couch. Another shouts from the beer pong table, “Craig Tucker’s here, what up, man!”

Recognition spreads fast - voices calling his name, hands clapping his back, drinks raised like toasts. One guy lunges for a hug, his beer sloshing dangerously close to Craig’s shirt. He sidesteps, nods once, mutters something polite, and keeps moving.

He weaves through the house like a ghost, slipping between bodies, dodging the tangle of limbs and laughter. The noise presses in from all sides. He ducks into the kitchen, scanning the counter with laser focus until he spots an unopened fifth of vodka.

Without hesitation, he grabs it. The crack of the seal is sharp and clean against the chaos. He drinks straight from the bottle. The vodka burns going down, but he doesn’t flinch. He swallows hard, expression blank.

Two guys by the fridge notice. One points, wide-eyed. “Bro, that’s insane!” The other starts pounding the counter, chanting: “Tucker! Tucker! Tucker!” The chant spreads, half the room joining in, laughing and hollering his name like it’s a challenge.

Craig’s mouth twitches - half smirk, half dismissal. He lifts the bottle in a lazy salute and shoulders his way out before anyone can push the moment further.

The dining room is dimmer, quieter. The air cools. Voices blur into background noise beneath the beat. Craig exhales, shoulders loosening as he drifts toward the window. He sets a hand on the sill and stares out into the dark yard. Craig takes another swig from the bottle and watches his reflection: one version of himself looking at another, both uncertain which is real.

Outside, the bonfire burns bright, commanding the backyard. Sparks leap high into the night, scattering gold against the dark sky. The light rolls over faces, distorting and softening them by turns.

Tweek sits closest to the fire, curled into a lawn chair. The orange glow cuts across his face, glinting in his hair and the edges of his smile. He’s laughing at something Stan’s saying and his hands move as he talks, wild and expressive, the way they always have.

His body vibrates with life.

The sight knocks the breath from Craig. It’s joy, pure and unguarded, and it doesn’t need him anymore.

That realization lands like a blow.

He’s happier without you.

The thought whispers cleanly through him, cutting deep. He was never what Tweek needed. Maybe he never could be.

He lifts the bottle in his hand and takes a long drink. The vodka scorches his throat, spreading fire of its own through his chest, a counterfeit warmth. The burn doesn’t numb him - it sharpens the edges.

He turns away before the ache can crest. He slips past the crowd and through the haze of smoke and noise, until he makes it to the staircase and ascends.

Craig moves slowly down the hallway, fingertips brushing the wall as if to keep himself from collapsing.

He spots Nathan halfway down the hall - one shoulder against the wall, posture loose like he’s been waiting.

That familiar smirk stretches wider when his eyes lock onto Craig, carrying the smug, lazy confidence of someone who thrives on other people’s unraveling.

“Hey, Tucker,” Nathan drawls, voice syrup-thick and slow, every syllable dragged like he’s tasting it. “Hell of a party, huh? You having fun?” His gaze drops to the bottle in Craig’s hand, the grin cutting sharper. “Guess you already found one way to keep busy.”

Craig doesn’t break stride.

He flips him off mid-step - precise, wordless - and keeps walking. But after a few paces, something makes him stop. He turns, leaning back against the opposite wall. The glass bottle hangs loosely from his fingers as he takes another long pull, eyes half-closed, jaw tight.

The burn settles in his chest, but it doesn’t quiet the ache that’s been clawing at him since he saw Tweek outside by the fire, his laughter glowing in the dark - something Craig will never get back.

The noise from downstairs hums through the floor, muted but insistent, a reminder of the world he’s trying to stay detached from.

Footsteps echo. When Craig opens his eyes, Nathan is no longer lounging; he’s closing the distance with deliberate ease, boots clicking softly across the warped boards. His smirk has shifted - less playful, more predatory.

Craig meets him with a glare cold enough to freeze steel.

Nathan only lifts his hands in mock surrender, the motion smooth, almost theatrical. It’s not an apology - it’s a lure.

In one hand, a small ziplock rattles with two neon-pink pills. In the other, an identical baggie holds a dusting of fine white powder that catches the dim light like frost.

Nathan tilts them toward him, voice honeyed and dangerous. “Graduation special,” he says, slow and deliberate. “Pick your poison, man. On the house.” The grin that follows turns the words to oil - slick, heavy, impossible to wash off.

Craig doesn’t move. He just stares, blank and unyielding, the weight of silence working harder than any insult could.

“What are they?” His tone is flat, dry, the challenge buried just beneath it.

Nathan’s grin sharpens like a blade. He shakes the first bag, the two pills clinking softly. “These? Ecstasy.” Then he lifts the other, letting the white powder slide and shimmer. “And this - coke.”

The way he says it, it’s not an offer. It’s a dare.

Craig’s eyes stay locked on him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with a sharp flick of his wrist, he reaches out and snatches the bag of coke from Nathan’s hand. The motion is quick, clean, final.

The plastic crinkles in his grip.

Without a word, he shoulders past Nathan - hard enough to make contact. Nathan only shifts slightly, catching his balance with that same snake’s grin curling at his lips, watching Craig go like he’s already claimed victory.

Craig slips into Bebe’s parents’ bedroom and shuts the door softly behind him.

The sudden quiet is jarring. The noise from downstairs dims to a distant throb - bass and laughter reduced to a pulse beneath the floor. 

He drags a hand through his hair, exhales, and crosses the room. The en suite bathroom door is cracked open and he steps inside and locks it after flicking on the bright lights.

Craig leans against the door, eyes closed, breathing slow before he pushes off and sinks onto the edge of the bathtub. He braces his elbows on his knees, scrubbing his face with both hands like he’s trying to wipe himself clean from the inside out.

The alcohol burns through his bloodstream faster than it should. He hasn’t eaten and he's too thin. The vodka sits in his stomach like fire and lead all at once. His limbs feel heavy, the edges of the room beginning to bend. The tiles ripple slightly when he blinks.

He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and waits for the vertigo to pass.

When he opens them again, the plastic baggie in his hand catches the light.

He stares at it. His thumb presses against the crinkled surface, feeling the powder shift like fine sand. He’s never done anything harder than weed before.

This should scare him. It doesn’t. Not tonight.

All he can think about is how bad he feels - and how desperate he is not to.

He pushes himself up, swaying a little, and grips the counter to steady himself. Beside the sink, a stack of toilet paper waits. He rips one open, unspooling it until the cardboard tube drops free.

The baggie comes next. He shakes out a small pile onto the counter. The chemical scent hits him immediately - sharp, sterile, and faintly sweet. Using the torn edge of the bag, he shapes it into a clumsy line.

He tears the cardboard in half and rolls one side into a crude straw. It’s uneven, flimsy, but good enough. He leans over the counter, make-shift straw poised. The light reflects off the powder like frost.

The first inhale barely works. He sniffles, grimaces, and goes again - stronger this time. It burns, raw and chemical, tearing through his nose and flooding his sinuses until tears sting his eyes. He chokes out a breath, coughing. “Fuck,” he mutters, voice hoarse.

The taste hits next - bitter, metallic, electric. It crawls down his throat, tangling with the vodka already twisting through his system. The world tilts again. He grips the counter hard, then stumbles back to the tub, lowering himself onto the edge.

His hands cover his face, pressing hard. His breath hisses between his teeth as he waits for the sting to fade. It doesn’t fade - it transforms. The pain gives way to a rush, quick and violent, blooming through him like a flare.

His heartbeat slams against his ribs. The edges of the world sharpen and saturate. Every nerve hums. The weight that’s lived in his chest for months - years - lifts just enough for him to feel something that might almost be happiness.

The clarity comes next, bright and false. It floods him in dizzy waves, smoothing over the jagged parts, silencing the noise in his head. For the first time in forever, he feels good. Not fine. Not numb. Good.

His jaw aches, his skin tingles, his fingertips buzz. The warmth swells, thick and heavy, pressing into every corner of his body until it feels like he’s glowing from within.

He laughs softly - barely a sound, more a reflex - and reaches for the vodka. One more swallow, the liquid heat chasing the chemical burn down his throat. The mix hits perfectly - fire and ice, balance and chaos, crashing together until all that remains is quiet.

For the first time in longer than he can remember, Craig doesn’t feel broken.

The bonfire commands the backyard, its light and heat bending the night around it.

At the circle’s center, Stan sits with his guitar balanced on one knee. His fingers move with practiced ease, coaxing a melody that drifts and lingers, carrying the same unhurried rhythm as the flames themselves. The music folds into the atmosphere, weaving between laughter, fragments of conversation, and the occasional pop of resin catching fire.

On the edge of the firelight, Wendy leans toward Heidi, their chairs turned inward in a private conversation. Their voices tumble fast, punctuated by bright bursts of laughter that tilt Heidi backward, her hand gripping Wendy’s arm as if to keep from falling over.

“Stop, you’re gonna make me spill my drink,” Heidi giggles, though her eyes are bright, delighted.

Wendy grins, lowering her voice just enough for it to feel like a secret.

“What, am I just too much right now?”

Heidi shakes her head quickly, still laughing, and says, “No, you’re just making me laugh too hard.”

Wendy’s answering smile softens into something warm as she leans closer again, their small world intact despite the chaos around them.

Bebe, in perpetual motion, threads through the space with a dancer’s poise, her every step pulled by the cadence of Stan’s guitar. Each swivel of her hips finds the downbeat, her skirt flaring out and catching firelight in quick bursts that ripple across the circle.

Clyde, shirtless and already flushed from heat, leaps into her orbit with reckless energy. His enthusiasm outweighs his rhythm, and when he trips on the uneven grass the crowd howls its approval, clapping and shouting his name.

“Damn, Clyde, you’re hopeless,” Bebe laughs, spinning just out of his reach.

“Hopeless? Please. I’ve got moves,” he shoots back between breaths, staggering forward with exaggerated flair.

Bebe arcs away, hair whipping in a bright halo, then pivots sharply back, pointing a teasing finger at him.

“Try to keep up!” she calls.

Clyde grins wide, throwing his arms out as if to embrace the energy, and their chaotic duet draws another wave of cheers, the circle tightening as if pulled closer by their shared momentum.

Tweek sits cross-legged, barefoot, a joint balanced between restless fingers. He exhales slowly, a thin ribbon of smoke spiraling upward to merge with the haze above the fire. For once his movements lack sharp edges; his posture is loose, his smile easy, as if the warmth of the flames has smoothed the static that usually hums through him. In the shifting light, he looks content, caught between the smoke and the glow.

Further back, Tolkien and Nichole occupy a lounge chair built for one. She is curled into him, her head rising and falling with the rhythm of his breathing, his arm wrapped firmly around her shoulders. Their quiet conversation runs beneath the noise of the party like an undertone, private and self-contained. Their occasional laughter is subdued, but it holds the weight of comfort, needing no audience.

Kyle sits shoulder to shoulder with Stan, copper-red strands of hair lit like metal in the firelight. He drinks slowly, eyes scanning the motion around them - the dancers, the couples, the smokers - before returning to Stan’s playing.

Stan’s music functions as more than background; it is the pulse of the night, the quiet architecture holding together the chaos of heat, smoke, and summer energy.

It’s just shy of eleven p.m. when Kenny finally arrives, slipping through the side gate into the backyard with the easy, unhurried stride of someone who knows he belongs here.

Bebe spots him first. Her head turns toward the gate, eyes going wide, and her whole face lights up.

“Kenny!” she screams, voice cutting through the music and chatter. In an instant, she’s darting barefoot across the grass, skirt swaying with each step. She barrels into him without slowing, arms winding tight around his neck.

Kenny catches her effortlessly, one arm bracing her back, the other wrapping around her shoulders in a warm, sure hold. His grin comes slow, sly, a blend of charm and mischief honed over years.

“Hey, beautiful” Kenny says, the words low and teasing. He presses a kiss to the top of her head, feeling her laughter vibrate against his chest before she pulls back, still smiling. Without giving him a chance to linger, Bebe slides her hand down to his wrist and tugs him toward the circle like she’s reeling in a prize.

As they draw closer to the firelight, the welcome is instant and loud. Calls of his name ring out, a few whistles and hollers breaking through the guitar’s melody. Hands reach for him - a clasp on the shoulder here, a quick slap on the back there.

The warmth of it all sinks under his skin before he can steel himself against it, the feeling blooming unexpected and deep: wanted, seen, loved. Kenny hadn’t realized how much he craved it until this very second.

Kenny gravitates toward Tweek, who sits cross‑legged in the grass with a joint pinched between his fingers. Without preamble, Kenny stoops, slips the joint from Tweek’s hand, and inhales with the easy rhythm of long practice.

“Not bad,” he mutters as he hands it back.

His gaze drifts across the circle of faces around the fire - friends caught mid‑laughter, voices interwoven with the steady crackle of burning wood. He straightens, rolling his shoulders, and lets the smirk linger.

“I’m gonna grab a drink,” Kenny says, his tone light, almost playful. “Don’t go having all the fun without me.” He punctuates the remark with a lazy two‑finger salute before turning toward the house.

The heat of the fire recedes from his back as he crosses into the cooler current of night air, his skin prickling as if adjusting to a new atmosphere.

Behind him, the circle by the fire hums on, laughter and shouts blending into the low crackle of burning wood. Ahead, the throb of the party beckons with the gravitational pull of light and noise waiting to swallow him whole.

He steps up onto the porch, nudging past two kids leaning against the railing, their cigarettes flaring red in the dark.

The muffled thrum of music sharpens as he pulls open the back door, the humid press of the house enveloping him instantly. Heat, alcohol, perfume, and sweat collide into one overwhelming current that fills his nose, settles on his skin, and clings to his clothes.

Kenny navigates through it with practiced ease, slipping between clusters of friends shouting in each other’s ears, ducking his head as someone throws their arms up mid-dance and nearly clips his jaw.

He pushes into the hallway, shouldering past two kids arguing loudly about whether they should risk another run to the liquor store. The linoleum under his boots grows sticky as he nears the kitchen, the air changing again - less stifling than the living room but sharper, edged with the scent of whiskey and vodka mixing with warm soda.

The kitchen is a mess. Counters are cluttered with half-empty bottles, red cups stacked precariously like leaning towers, abandoned snacks going stale in open bags.

Someone has scrawled rules for a drinking game on the fridge with a dry-erase marker, half the words already smudged by careless hands. A group crowds around the table, chanting for a beer pong match that looks more reckless than competitive, the ping pong ball bouncing wildly off rims and skittering across the floor with each missed shot.

Kenny weaves through them without pause, brushing off a shoulder bump with a grin that doesn’t stick, until he finds what he’s after - a half-empty pint of whiskey shoved toward the back of the counter, overlooked in the mess.

He slides it toward himself like claiming buried treasure, the bottle catching the light before disappearing into the shadow of his hand. He twists the cap loose and tips it back for a long pull, the burn crawling warmly down his throat and settling low in his chest.

As he takes his first drink, a familiar voice drifts in from the dining room - Butters, talking to Red in that earnest, upbeat tone Kenny could pick out anywhere.

Curious, he leans around the doorway and spots him mid-conversation.

“Hey, bud,” Kenny calls, stepping in with the loose swagger of someone who’s already settled into the party’s rhythm.

He slings an arm easily around Butters’ shoulders, pulling him into a casual side hug that smells faintly of smoke, sweat, and the sharp tang of whiskey.

Butters brightens at the contact, his stiff posture loosening as he leans into the embrace. He returns it with a small, tentative smile, his voice pitching soft under the din.

“I wasn’t sure I’d actually go through with coming,” Butters admits, sheepish. His eyes flick nervously toward the crowded living room where bodies sway and bump, red cups slosh over the floorboards, and music rattles the windows. “I’ve never been to one of these before. Not like this, anyway.”

Kenny grins, tilting the whiskey bottle back before taking a long, unhurried sip. His eyes sweep the room like he owns it, practiced and at ease, the corners of his mouth curling as though he’s in on some secret joke no one else can hear.

“And yet, here you are,” Kenny says, voice pitched just loud enough to cut through the thrum of bass in the walls. “Told you it’d be worth it. Better than sitting home, right? Way better than hiding out with your folks breathing down your neck.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Butters replies, glancing again at the crush of people. “It’s loud, though. It’s… different.”

“Different’s good,” Kenny replies without hesitation. He squeezes Butters’ shoulder. “You’re eighteen now. Time to try things your parents would hate.” He smirks, leaning in closer until his words are meant for Butters alone. “Glad you came, man. Wouldn’t feel right without you.”

Butters’ smile widens at that, the tension in his chest loosening as he exhales. His shoulders ease, the noise of the party fading for a moment as though Kenny’s presence blocks it out. “Thanks, Kenny. That sure means a lot.”

“Yeah, well,” Kenny says, giving him another squeeze before finally letting go, “just stick around. We’ll make sure it’s a good one. Nobody here’s keeping score - you’re fine.” He tips the bottle back again, amber liquid catching the overhead light before disappearing down his throat. The burn spreads warmly through his chest.

For a moment, Butters seems to relax, eyes wandering toward the circle of kids crowded around the kitchen. Then his expression shifts, hesitation creeping into his voice. “I, um… I saw Craig earlier.”

Kenny freezes, the bottle hovering near his lips. His brow furrows, grin faltering. “Yeah? And?”

Butters fidgets with the hem of his sleeve. “Didn’t think he’d show. Not after how beat up he was the other day.” He glances at the floor, remembering. “He looked rough.”

The swagger drains from Kenny, his arm falling back to his side. His expression sharpens, blue eyes narrowing with sudden clarity, as though he’s trying to sift through Butters’ words for every unsaid detail. 

“Rough how?” Kenny asks finally. 

“I dunno,” Butters admits, his hands twisting together now. "He just didn’t look real good. He wandered off somewhere, and I haven’t seen him for a few hours.”

Kenny’s jaw tightens. He stares past Butters, scanning the blur of shadows and bodies spilling through the hallway and into the living room. 

“Alright,” Kenny finally murmurs after a long pause. “Thanks for telling me.” He forces the easy grin back onto his face, but it’s a mask, brittle and thin. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

Kenny pats Butters’ shoulder once more, firmer than before. “He’ll be alright, Butters. Don’t you worry about a thing.”

He glances over at Red, who’s leaning casually against the doorway with her drink in hand, having clearly caught at least part of the exchange.

Kenny grins and tips his chin at her. “How you doing, hot stuff?”

Red rolls her eyes, but there’s no real heat behind it. “Classy as ever, McCormick,” she says, smirking just enough to show she’s not actually annoyed.

Kenny chuckles, lifting his bottle in a half-toast before turning his attention back toward the rest of the house, eyes flicking over the crowded rooms as he moves towards the back of the house.

He pushes open the back door, and the night air rolls over him, cool and sharp. The firelight flickers in the distance, a living pulse that throws gold and shadow over the people gathered close.

As Kenny steps into the glow, Stan glances up from his seat with the guitar and leans toward Kyle, murmuring something under his breath. Whatever it is makes Kyle grin instantly, a laugh slipping out as he knocks his knuckles against the hollow body of Stan’s guitar, setting a steady, muted thump - a makeshift drumbeat in the warm night air.

Stan’s answering smile is wide, his fingers shifting effortlessly on the fretboard before launching into the opening chords of “Dancing Days,” the Stone Temple Pilots version.

He starts to sing clearly into the warm night: “Dancing days are here again, as the summer evenings grow.”

Tweek joins him after a bar, his tenor voice layering over Stan’s: “I got my flower, I got my power, I got a woman who knows.”

Kenny sit next to him, smiling and leaning forward. He tosses in harmony on the refrain, his rough low tone grounding their sound.

Together they hit the next line, Stan leading, “I said it’s alright, you know it’s alright, I know it’s all in my heart,” while Tweek smooths the edges with his lighter harmony and Kenny hums beneath it.

Bebe and Clyde are already in motion.

They’re pulled forward by the rhythm, their bodies finding an easy, unspoken sync - hips rolling, shoulders swaying, feet marking the beat with instinctive ease. Clyde twirls Bebe, and she spins with effortless grace, her skirt flaring wide in a burst of color.

Their rhythm looks practiced though it isn’t, their shared energy feeding off each other with every sway and step. Clyde, emboldened by the cheers around them, throws in an exaggerated dip, nearly losing his balance.

Bebe steadies herself with a firm hand on his chest, laughing as she shoves him back upright. He stumbles, then regains his footing with a playful bow, earning more whoops from the crowd.

Bebe lets herself whirl back into him, her laughter carrying above the music. She leans close enough for her hair to brush his shoulder, her lips curved in a grin that’s equal parts challenge and invitation.

“Try not to fall on your face this time.”

Clyde answers with a crooked grin, breath warm against her ear. “No promises.” The two dissolve into another round of laughter, their movements reckless but electric, dancing somewhere between clumsy accident and intentional flirtation. Each misstep only draws them closer, their energy feeding into the circle of onlookers until the whole group hums with their joy.

Around them, the music holds steady - Stan and Tweek carrying the verses with uneven but heartfelt voices, Kenny sliding into harmonies when the mood strikes. Their imperfect rhythm only adds to the charm.

The music swells into its close, voices trailing into harmony as Stan lets the final chord ring out into the night air.

The sound drifts upward, weaving with the crackle of the fire and the low hum of laughter.

Bebe and Clyde finish in unison, breathless and laughing, collapsing into each other’s arms as the fire’s sparks spiral upward into the dark.

She presses her forehead briefly against his shoulder, her chest rising and falling with exhilaration, while Clyde beams, flushed with sweat and triumph.

The group breaks into laughter, voices overlapping in easy, genuine amusement.

Riding the high of the night, Clyde scoops Bebe up in his arms princess-style and spins her around in the grass. She shrieks, half laughing, half protesting, her hands gripping his shoulders as the world blurs around them.

When he finally sets her back down, both of them are grinning from ear to ear, eyes shining with the glow of firelight and something unspoken that lingers in the space between them.

Stan sets his guitar down beside him and reaches for his drink, taking a long sip before leaning back on his hands, the firelight flickering orange against the glass. His shoulders sag in a rare moment of ease, the tension of the day dissolving into the night.

He glances toward the fire, nodding at Bebe and Clyde still tangled up in their chaotic push and pull, their dancing somewhere between flirtation and slapstick comedy. 

“Look at those two,” Stan says with a laugh, his voice low but carrying across the circle. “Acting like they’re on stage or something.”

Kenny lights a cigarette, the flare of his lighter briefly illuminating the sharp planes of his face. He smirks as smoke curls lazily upward. “Yeah, Clyde’s got about three moves and he’s already used ‘em all. Bebe’s carrying him.”

Kyle shakes his head, grinning into his cup. “She always does. Clyde just gets lucky enough to keep up.” He tips his drink toward them in salute. “Still, can’t say he doesn’t know how to enjoy himself. Look at that idiot grin.”

Kenny exhales a slow stream of smoke, shrugging one shoulder. “Hey, I’ll give him this - he’s having the time of his life. Doesn’t even care who’s watching. Probably doesn’t even notice.”

“Y-yeah, he looks happy. They both do,” Tweek says, pulling his knees up to his chest again. He’s relaxed and buzzed from the earlier weed, his words softer than usual, his nervousness eased into something calmer.

Stan chuckles at the chorus of voices, shaking his head. “Doesn’t matter what it looks like, Bebe makes him shine anyway.” He stretches his legs out toward the flames, letting the warmth soak through his shoes and into his bones. Then he leans back again, gaze flicking to Kenny with mock suspicion.

“So, Kenny,” Stan says, narrowing his eyes like a challenge. “Got any other plans for tonight?”

Kenny grins like the question was meant for him, tilting his head and shrugging before taking a drag from the cigarette between his fingers. He exhales in a long stream, the smoke drifting into the firelight, then points across the yard with the glowing tip.

“Yeah. Gonna try and fuck Lola before the sun comes up.” His tone is casual, like he’s mentioning what’s on TV later.

“Oh god,” Stan mutters with a shake of his head, though his tone is warm, humor tucked under the exasperation.

“Lola? Really?” Kyle asks, eyebrows lifting as he squints. “You’ve maybe said, what, five words to her since freshman year.”

Kenny just shrugs, entirely unbothered, his grin widening. “Exactly, dude. I’ve pretty much hooked up with every girl in the rotation, and she’s one of the last I haven’t. Gotta diversify the portfolio.”

Kyle gives him a flat look, deadpan as ever. “You make me lose faith in romance.”

“Nah, man,” Kenny says, flicking ash neatly into the dirt beside him. “I’m fun, I’m good in bed, and I’m not out here promising anything I can’t give. Everybody’s happy. No mess, no drama.”

Kyle rolls his eyes with a scoff while Stan lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

Tweek just ducks his head with a small smile into his water bottle, hiding the twitch of his mouth behind a sip.

The warmth from the flames and the leftover buzz from singing soften the edges of his thoughts, though he still feels like an observer here, part of it yet slightly apart, watching them all with a fond detachment.

It’s nice, Tweek thinks, seeing everyone in this easy mood - no sharp words, no tension, just music, laughter, and the comfort of belonging.

For a moment, he lets himself imagine this is how nights should always feel, stretched out forever, unbroken by anything heavier than the next joke or the next song.

"Alright, boys," Kenny says, pushing himself up to his feet with a lazy stretch that makes it clear he’s in no rush. His shirt lifts slightly as he raises his arms, firelight skimming over the flat plane of his lower stomach before he drops them back down with a satisfied sigh.

He saunters across the yard toward Lola, who’s standing with Annie and a small knot of girls by the fence, their voices lifting and falling with quick bursts of laughter.

Sliding into their circle with effortless confidence, Kenny leans down, his hand lightly brushing Lola’s arm as he murmurs something low in her ear. The casual intimacy of the gesture makes it seem like he’s been there all night, like the group had simply been waiting for him to join.

Lola laughs immediately, tilting her head back toward him like she wants to catch every word, and Kenny’s smile sharpens into something almost wicked. Annie nudges her with a knowing look, and the other girls titter behind their hands, half amused and half impressed at how easily he’s taken center stage.

A moment later, Lola shifts closer to him, letting the others fade into background chatter. They drift a few steps away from the group, their conversation becoming its own quiet thread, punctuated by her quick laughs and his low, steady voice.

From the fire, Stan, Kyle, and Tweek watch the scene play out.

Kenny moves with an ease that seems almost choreographed - every tilt of his head, every touch of his hand deliberate but casual, practiced but not forced. When he drapes an arm over Lola’s shoulders, it looks less like a move and more like the natural continuation of their shared rhythm. He steers her toward the house with the kind of familiarity that speaks of long practice, the bottle still dangling loosely from his other hand.

Halfway there, Kenny glances back over his shoulder and shoots them an exaggerated wink, his grin mischievous in the glow of the porch light. It’s a performance, and he knows exactly who his audience is. The wink lands, leaving the three of them in the firelight to interpret its meaning however they choose.

Kyle’s jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing slightly as he watches Kenny disappear into the dark outline of the house with Lola at his side.

“Why does he always get whoever he wants, whenever he wants?” he asks, his voice sharp enough to cut through the easy hum of the fire. There’s a buried edge in his tone - part frustration, part something that sounds suspiciously like jealousy, though he’d never admit it out loud.

Tweek shifts in his seat, hugging his knees loosely to his chest. “I think it’s because he’s charming,” he says with an easy shrug. His tone is almost apologetic, as if charm alone is enough to explain the whole mystery. His eyes flick back to the house, where the music swells louder for a moment before the door closes again.

“Ughhhh,” Kyle groans, leaning back and rolling his eyes dramatically, exaggerating the motion like he’s trying to shake the thought right out of his head.

Stan lets out a low chuckle beside him, the kind that says he’s heard this exact complaint before. He stretches his arms overhead until his shoulders pop, then exhales in a satisfied groan. His gaze drifts lazily around the circle, taking in the familiar faces glowing in the firelight, before pausing.

“Hey… where’s Wendy?” he asks, voice casual but tinged with a sudden curiosity.

Kyle turns to him, eyebrows lifting like Stan just asked what season it is. “Uh, she went inside with Heidi like an hour ago. Tolkien and Nichole too. You didn’t notice?”

Stan blinks, caught off guard. “Oh. Shit. Well…” He rubs the back of his neck with a sheepish half-smile, the flicker of the fire catching the faint flush of embarrassment creeping into his cheeks.

Tweek takes a slow sip from his water bottle, letting the moment stretch as he studies the two of them.

There’s an undeniable ease to the way Kyle and Stan speak to each other - teasing, comfortable, and threaded through with the kind of shorthand only years of knowing someone can build. But beneath that familiarity, Tweek catches the flicker of something harder to define.

It’s in the way Stan’s eyes linger on Kyle a fraction too long, the way Kyle leans in just slightly when he speaks, how their banter carries a charge that isn’t just friendly. It’s subtle, easy to miss if you aren’t looking for it, but now that Tweek sees it, it’s impossible to ignore.

“Hey, you two ever shut up?” Clyde teases from across the circle, grinning as he leans back on his elbows. “Feels like I’m watching some sitcom rerun.”

“Better than watching you fall on your ass,” Kyle shoots back quickly, making the group laugh.

Stan smirks, tipping his drink toward Clyde. “Careful, man. One more move like earlier and Bebe’s gonna leave you on the dance floor.”

Bebe rolls her eyes but laughs anyway. “Please. He’d trip over himself without me there to save him.”

Clyde spreads his hands wide, grinning. “And yet, I still looked good doing it.”

The circle chuckles, the easy rhythm of the party slowing into something softer, like the embers of the fire that still glow even as the night stretches longer.

It’s after midnight now, and the atmosphere has shifted into a more comfortable, languid pace.

The sharp edge of chaos has dulled, the earlier frenzy mellowed into a hum that still carries life but with less urgency. The air outside is cooler, and the house behind them breathes with its own pulse - music, voices, and muffled thuds of footsteps vibrating faintly through the walls.

The drinking games that had been running full tilt earlier are still alive in scattered corners of the house, but the circles of players have shrunk. Laughter bursts occasionally from the kitchen, followed by groans as someone sinks or misses a crucial throw.

People trickle between spaces like migrating birds, half-drunk and buoyed by the night’s rhythm, their chatter stitching together the two halves of the party: the smoky glow of the backyard fire and the humid pulse of the living room.

Bebe, still a little breathless from dancing with Clyde, leans forward with her elbows on her knees. Her hair is mussed from the twirls, her cheeks flushed, but her smile is soft and easy, luminous in the firelight.

“So, is anyone actually playing beer pong inside later?” she asks, glancing around the group, her tone casual but expectant, like she’s ready to keep the momentum alive.

Clyde, sitting comfortably beside her, gives a casual shrug. “I think a few people still have a table going. Might get going again soon.”

Stan tips his drink toward them, his grin wide. “You two gonna team up? After that dance, you’re probably unstoppable.”

Bebe laughs lightly, nudging Clyde with her shoulder, her laughter bubbling over like champagne. “We’d be alright.”

“More than alright,” Clyde adds, puffing his chest out dramatically as if the whole firelight is his stage. “We’d wipe the floor with all of you.”

Kyle smirks over the rim of his cup. “Alright? I saw Clyde play earlier. Let’s just say his coordination improves with music, not beer.”

“That’s fair,” Clyde admits with an easy grin. “Guess I’ll need Bebe to sing backup while I throw.”

“Or just stick to dancing,” Stan says, amused, raising his cup in mock salute.

Tweek, quiet until now, shakes his head. “I can’t play, unfortunately. I don’t drink.” His voice is soft, almost apologetic, though his small smile makes it clear he isn’t sulking.

Bebe’s expression softens instantly, her tone warm. “Then you can be our cheer squad.”

“I’m more of a watch-and-laugh kind of guy,” Tweek says, the corners of his mouth twitching upward.

“Even better,” Clyde says warmly, lifting his cup in a small salute. “Means you’ll remember all the embarrassing stuff the rest of us forget.”

“Exactly,” Stan says, chuckling as he swirls his drink lazily, leaning back against his palms.

Kyle leans forward, grinning with the sharpness of someone who lives to prod. “Good, then Tweek can blackmail us all with the details tomorrow. He’ll have ammunition for months.”

“Please,” Bebe says, rolling her eyes playfully, brushing a strand of hair back behind her ear as she leans in closer. “There’ll be more than enough material for him without even trying. You guys hand out disasters like free candy.”

Clyde points his cup at her, pretending to look offended though his grin betrays him. “Hey, speak for yourself. I’ve got legendary form.” He sways dramatically on his seat, striking a pose that earns another ripple of laughter.

“Legendary disaster, maybe,” Kyle shoots back without missing a beat.

“Legendary confidence,” Stan adds, lifting his drink high like a toast. “And confidence counts for something.”

Tweek lets out a small laugh, shaking his head. “I’ll keep score. That way no one can argue.”

“Oh, we’ll argue anyway,” Stan says, smirking, eyes glinting in the firelight.

“Especially if Kyle loses,” Clyde quips, nudging Bebe with his shoulder. The group erupts into another round of laughter, voices overlapping, sparks snapping up into the night sky.

Kyle feigns offense, pressing a hand to his chest in mock outrage. “I never lose. Never. You’re looking at a champion.”

Bebe raises her brows, amused, leaning back on her hands with a sly grin. “Oh, you’ll lose, honey. And when you do, I’m making sure everyone remembers it. I’ll etch it in stone if I have to.”

Kyle snorts, shaking his head, though there’s humor sparking in his eyes. “You’ll be waiting a long time for that.”

Tweek shifts again, voice cutting softly into the circle. “Sounds like you’re all planning a war.”

“Beer pong is war,” Kyle says solemnly, setting his cup down beside him with theatrical care, though his smirk betrays him. “Casualties, betrayals, the works.”

“Yeah, but at least it’s a fun one,” Stan adds, breaking the mock-seriousness with an easy grin. He glances around the circle, his gaze lingering on each of them in turn, softening with the unspoken acknowledgment of their shared moment. “Better than real life, anyway.”

Chapter Text

Kenny and Lola stumble into Bebe’s parents’ bedroom mid-laugh, lips already crushed together, kissing like they’ve been holding back for hours. The low light wraps the room in a hazy glow, shadows dragging across the walls with each lazy turn of the ceiling fan.

The door thuds shut behind them, Kenny kicking it closed without breaking the kiss. Their hands search with a messy urgency, tugging, grabbing, pulling each other closer like the night won’t give them another chance.

The bass from the party downstairs pulses faintly through the walls, distant, like the beat belongs to another world.

Here, it’s just the shuffle of feet across carpet, the clumsy bump into the edge of the bed, and then the collapse - limbs tangled, mouths still locked, laughter spilling into breathless heat.

Kenny strips his shirt off in one smooth motion, tossing it aside. Lola presses her palms against his chest, sliding upward as if mapping out every inch of him by touch alone.

He leans back down, kissing her harder, his hand firm on her jaw while the other works deftly at the buttons of her blouse.

One by one they snap open, fabric parting to expose the soft slope of her collarbone, the faint sheen of sweat at her chest.

Kenny’s mouth trails after the reveal, hot and deliberate, tasting her perfume as it clings to her skin. She gasps, fingers digging into his shoulders, her body arching toward him in a sharp, instinctive curve.

The sound that slips from her throat cuts off when her eyes shift.

Her head tips back toward the balcony doors - drawn, caught by something outside. In that instant her body goes rigid beneath him, breath stalling, the heat between them fractured by whatever she sees beyond the glass.

“Uh - Kenny,” Lola murmurs, her voice catching as her gaze fixes on something beyond his shoulder.

Kenny pauses mid-kiss, frowning as he follows her line of sight.

Through the half-open balcony door, Craig is there - back turned, cigarette pinched carelessly between two fingers, smoke coiling upward into the cool night.

In his other hand dangles a half-empty bottle, the glass catching faint threads of moonlight. When he inhales, the ember at the tip briefly illuminates the outline of his jaw before vanishing again. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, doesn’t acknowledge them. Whether it’s deliberate disregard or sheer detachment, Kenny can’t tell.

Kenny exhales through his nose, long and low, the annoyance immediate. His forehead drops briefly against Lola’s shoulder, the groan that escapes him weighted more with resignation than anger.

He peels himself away, snagging his shirt from the edge of the bed and pulling it over his head. Lola sits upright, fussing with her blouse, her eyes flickering uneasily between Kenny and Craig’s silhouette on the balcony. Her fingers pause at the last button, uncertainty holding her there.

“Sorry,” she says softly, though Kenny is already shaking his head.

“Don’t be.” A faint smile ghosts across his mouth, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Go on. I’ll deal with it.”

She lingers just long enough to smooth her hair, then slips from the room. Her perfume trails behind, fragile and fleeting.

Kenny watches the doorway a moment before turning toward the balcony, where the night air pushes the scent of Craig’s cigarette smoke deeper inside, mingling with the fading heat of what had almost been.

Kenny crosses the room in a few unhurried steps, pushing the balcony door open wider and stepping outside.

“Jesus, dude,” Kenny says, his tone cutting through the muffled roar of music and voices bleeding out from the house.

Craig jolts, shoulders twitching, caught mid-drag as smoke curls from his lips. His eyes flick toward Kenny, narrowing in the dim light. “Didn’t hear you,” he mutters.

He tips the vodka bottle bac; it’s three-quarters empty. Kenny notices the way the liquor slides down his throat with practiced ease - and how Craig doesn’t stagger or slur the way he should.

His body stays taut, restless, movements too sharp to be just drunk. When Kenny follows Craig’s gaze outward, he realizes Craig has been staring past the railing, down toward the fire pit where Stan, Kyle, and Tweek lean together in conversation. Their silhouettes glow in the shifting light.

“Slow down, man,” Kenny says. “You trying to kill yourself or what?”

“Maybe.” Craig’s lips curl into a smirk. “Does it matter?”

Kenny stops beside him, the tension in his shoulders shifting. Concern flickers across his face, but it’s an old concern, worn thin by repetition.

“You really gonna throw that line at me?” His voice is quiet but edged with finality. “Because I’ll tell you right now, it doesn’t hit the way you think it does.”

Craig shrugs. “Wasn’t trying to put on a show, your highness.”

The joke rings hollow. Kenny doesn’t bite. He studies Craig in silence, noting the restless energy under his skin, the jitter that doesn’t match the vodka.

Craig looks wired, brittle.

Too alive in the wrong way.

Kenny’s gut tightens.

“You’re not just drunk, are you?” Kenny asks evenly. “You’re lit up, man. What the hell did you take?”

Craig snorts, dragging smoke into his lungs before exhaling into the night. He refuses to look at Kenny.

“You’re paranoid.”

Kenny steps closer, crowding into his space, and before Craig can flinch away his hand snaps up, gripping Craig’s jaw, forcing his face toward him.

“Look at me,” he demands, voice dropping to a flat, immovable register.

Craig squirms against the hold, jaw clenched, trying to wrench free.

But Kenny’s grip is iron, and when Craig finally meets his gaze, there it is: pupils blown wide, drowning the blue of his irises.

“Christ, man. The hell did you take?”

Craig tears himself loose with a sharp jerk, spitting the words like venom.

“Go fuck yourself, fucking hypocrite.” He smacks Kenny’s hand away and takes a half-step back, chin lifted. “I told you - I’m fine.”

“Yeah, you look fantastic,” Kenny says dryly, his brows drawn tight with concern. “Cut the bullshit.”

“Mind your own goddamn business for once. Don’t you ever get sick of being the only one in the room who gives a shit?"

“Every goddamn day,” Kenny answers, voice flat, stepping closer. “I’m not walking away while you’re up here pounding vodka like it’s water and you don’t even look drunk. I know exactly what that means.”

Craig flicks ash over the balcony rail. “What, you think I’m gonna swan dive off the edge? I told you, I’m fine. Drop it and crawl back into whatever dumpster you’re calling home tonight.”

Kenny’s eyes darken. “Goddammit, Craig. Coke makes you feel sober while you’re absolutely not. Keep hammering down liquor on top of it, and your heart could give out. You could crash hard - OD and head straight into coma. You don’t get to play fucking stupid about this.”

Craig scoffs. “What, people overdosing on vodka? Sounds like bullshit to me. Urban legend shit.”

Kenny leans in, jaw tight. “It’s not bullshit. It happens all the time. You’re so strung out you can’t even think straight, and you’re gambling with your own pulse.”

Craig falters. His eyes cut again toward the backyard where laughter rises like static. “Maybe that wouldn’t be the worst outcome.”

“Don’t say that.”

Craig pivots to face him fully. “What, you want me to lie? You want me to stand here and fake it - act like I’m having the time of my life like they are? You think your little lecture is gonna flip a switch in my head? You think I’ll suddenly want to stick around because you tell me to ‘slow down’?”

Kenny exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’m not preaching at you. I’m telling you - you’re pushing yourself into a place you can’t crawl back from, and you damn well know it.”

“Perfect. So now you’re my warden? My fucking keeper? Didn’t know I signed up for that.”

“Jesus, man,” Kenny mutters, weariness bleeding into the frustration. “I’m not babysitting you. I’m trying to keep you alive, because whether you admit it or not, you’re aiming for the edge.”

Craig steps closer, shoulders squared, bottle clutched tight. “And maybe that’s where I want to be.”

Kenny’s patience thins. “You don’t mean that.”

Craig’s eyes narrow, defiance burning there. “Don’t you dare tell me what I fucking mean.” 

Kenny drags a hand down his face, exhaling smoke through his nose before flicking the butt of his cigarette into the grass below. His patience has worn to the bone.

“Alright,” he says finally. “I’m not standing here and watching you kill yourself.” In a single motion, he wrenches the bottle from Craig’s grip.

Craig’s entire body snaps taut. The hostility is immediate. He lunges, and spits out words: “Give it back, you piece of shit!”

Kenny twists his body, bracing against the shove, holding the bottle out of reach. “No,” he snaps, planting his feet hard against the boards. “Not tonight.”

Craig’s eyes glint sharp and mean in the half-light, his voice climbing, breaking into raw edges. “You think you’re a fucking savior? You think dragging me around makes you holy? You’re not some fucking hero, Kenny. You’re a parasite that refuses to die.”

The words land heavy, but Kenny only swallows, jaw locking. “Real nice, man.”

Craig laughs - an ugly, humorless sound that scrapes out of his throat. “It’s true. You crawl out of the gutter and call yourself loyal. What the fuck do you know about loyalty? You feed on disaster. You chase broken people like it’s your fucking kink.”

He shoves him again, harder, driving both of them into the balcony railing. Metal shrieks against the impact. The cigarette slips from Craig’s fingers and rolls, glowing like an ember about to burn out.

“Craig, shh - stop, man,” Kenny mutters sharply, trying to reach him, hands up, calm but ready. Craig slaps them away, movements twitching, erratic, feral.

“You put on this act,” Craig spits. “But it’s bullshit. You don’t save anyone - you just circle the wreckage like it’s the only thing that makes you feel alive.”

“Stop,” Kenny warns, stepping in again. “Hey - enough. You’re not even making sense.”

Craig rips his arms free of Kenny’s reach, snarling, “Luck - that’s all you’ve ever fucking had. Not brains, not strength. You should’ve been buried years ago, but the universe keeps letting you crawl back out."

Kenny stiffens, shoulders braced, voice louder now. “Craig, quit it.”

But Craig isn’t finished. "It’s all a lie! All of it! Every single fucking thing - it’s bullshit!”

He grips the railing like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered, knuckles bone-white, his whole frame vibrating with fury.

The sound of their struggle slices through the yard - boots scraping the wood, railing rattling, voices cracking sharp against the low thrum of music inside. The bonfire below still spits sparks, but the laughter around it has thinned into silence.

Down by the fire pit, heads turn upward.

Stan is the first to notice. His expression shifts from lazy amusement to taut awareness as he spots movement on the balcony. He lowers his drink slowly, eyes narrowing against the bright spill of lamplight.

Kyle follows his gaze. His brows furrow, his face tightening as recognition sets in. His shoulders brace instinctively, the posture of someone who already anticipates a confrontation he wishes he could prevent.

Tweek’s whole body jerks as if struck. The half-formed smile on his face collapses, replaced by dread that courses through him in a violent surge. His hands twitch, caught between clenching and reaching.

One by one, heads tilt upward, drawn to the balcony. Kenny and Craig’s silhouettes loom in stark relief against the golden rectangle of the open doorway. The scene has gravity, pulling every eye toward it, each second ratcheting the atmosphere tighter.

Kenny’s body is deliberate, weight grounded, his movements precise.

Craig’s, in contrast, are jagged - his limbs jerking wide, swinging with too much force, as if he is being yanked by invisible strings. His motions betray desperation more than control, like a marionette unraveling mid-performance.

Kenny’s grip falters, tightening once more before finally loosening. He feels the weight of futility pressing down, the recognition that Craig is slipping beyond reach.

His jaw tenses, then slackens, resignation winning out.

The fight leaves him in a single exhale.

His hand drops from Craig’s shoulder. His fingers twitch, hovering like they want to return, but the moment collapses and he steps back instead.

The air cools between them instantly, absence opening a gulf wider than the railing itself.

Craig sways, knuckles bone-white on the metal, but Kenny doesn’t look back.

He shoves the door open and strides inside, movements clipped and final. He cuts through the bedroom and then down the stairs two at a time, carving through the crush of bodies in the living room. A few voices call his name, but he ignores them, his hand raking through his hair in frustration. He pushes through the front door, and the cool night air slaps against his face.

By the time he crosses the lawn, his shoulders are squared, his pace brisk, almost militaristic. Without thinking, he tips the bottle back, the vodka burning its way down.

The moment it settles, he curses himself under his breath.

“Idiot,” he mutters.

“…Kenny?”

He turns and sees Butters sitting off to the side, legs stretched across the grass, hands braced behind him. The porch light catches in his hair, giving him an almost haloed softness.

Kenny exhales hard, tension still coiled tight, his frustration visible in every line of his body. He lowers himself onto the grass beside Butters, the cool blades damp against his palms. Their shoulders brush faintly - close enough for Kenny to feel the calm radiating from him. 

“Are you alright?” Butters asks quietly.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” Kenny mutters.

Butters studies him with quiet persistence. When he speaks, his tone is careful, almost disarmingly gentle, as though softness might sand down the edges still bristling from Kenny.

“Boy, this is some party, huh?” Butters says. “Feels like everybody’s been waiting for this one night to burn off the year. Loud, messy, maybe a little too much - but you can’t say it ain’t alive.”

Kenny exhales a sound halfway between a laugh and a sigh. He drags his palm across his face, pressing his fingertips into his temples. Through the spread of his fingers, he peeks at Butters - half-amused despite himself, the faintest trace of a grin flickering before it fades.

“But I reckon it’s a bit loud too,” Butters adds after a moment, light and thoughtful. “Guess that’s the way it goes though - folks hollerin’ and singin’, makin’ memories they’ll only half remember tomorrow. Still nice to see everybody together.” He glances sideways at Kenny. “You catch up with many folks tonight?”

Kenny only shrugs. The motion is slight, but even that loosens something in him. The taut coil inside unwinds, subtle but perceptible, under the cadence of Butters’ words.

There’s something in Butters refusal to sharpen anything, that makes the pressure in Kenny’s chest ebb. He doesn’t notice until his shoulders drop, as though some invisible dial has been turned down.

Butters tips his head back, bracing his weight on his palms. “Sure is a clear one tonight,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Funny how quiet it feels when you step out here. Doesn’t matter how much chaos is goin’ on inside, the air’s different under the stars.” His lips twitch with the beginnings of a smile. 

The words slip past Kenny’s guard before he can deflect them. They sink in, heavier than he’d like to admit. For a moment, he doesn’t respond, staring instead into the yard, looking out at the streetlamps.

“Yeah,” Kenny says finally. “Yeah… maybe you’ve got a point.”

He swallows, then takes the vodka bottle he’d swiped from Craig and tips it back for a few long gulps. The alcohol burns a rough line down his throat. He lowers the bottle, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and then slings an arm casually around Butters’ shoulders.

“Hey,” Kenny says, tone lighter, almost playful - edged fatigue dulled for now. “You havin’ a good time, man?”

Butters goes rigid at the sudden weight, heart ricocheting up into his throat. Heat floods his face, spilling crimson across his cheeks. He ducks his head quickly, hiding the expression Kenny never notices.

“O-oh, yeah,” he stammers. “It’s been real good. Different than I expected, but… good.”

Kenny chuckles, tilting the bottle like a mock toast. “Different good, or different bad?”

“Good,” Butters blurts, nodding too fast. “Just louder, is all. Folks I didn’t think would even notice me came up talkin’ like we’ve been friends for years. It’s… it’s nice bein’ part of it.” He fidgets with the frayed hem of his sleeve, sneaking a glance at Kenny, then looking away again. “Nice not feelin’ invisible.”

Kenny misses the quaver in his voice, the flush beneath the porch light. For him, this closeness is instinctive, a gesture made countless times - a shorthand for camaraderie. He squeezes Butters’ shoulder once, grinning faintly.

“Good. You deserve that,” Kenny says, simple and unpolished. “I’m glad you came, Butters.”

The words are tossed off lightly, but they linger, embedding themselves with a weight Butters can’t shake. 

“Yeah,” he murmurs finally. “Me too.”

The fire pit crackles steadily, sparks climbing upward like fractured stars before dissolving into the night.

The laughter and easy chatter that had once animated the circle has thinned into a low, uneasy hum, but Tweek hardly registers it.

His ears are still ringing with the memory of Craig’s voice - hoarse, splintered, volatile.

The balcony is empty now, but its image remains burned into his thoughts: Craig leaning over the railing, Kenny restraining him with one arm while the other still clutched that damn bottle.

He pulls his knees to his chest, trying to brace himself against the rhythm of the fire’s glow. Each pop of the logs makes him twitch, each shift of the flame reminds him of Craig’s violent movements, Kenny’s attempts to calm him, the way the whole scene seemed one second away from collapse.

Stan sits only a few feet away, prodding the dirt with a stick, his shoulders squared with tension. He hasn’t said much since it happened, but the silence itself feels weighted.

At last he mutters, “That looked… bad,” the words landing flat, nearly swallowed by the fire’s low roar. His jaw works as if the phrase cost him more than he meant to give.

Kyle shifts beside him, drawing his knees in, folding his arms tight across them. His eyes flash each time the firelight catches them, brow furrowed so deep it nearly shadows half his expression.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice clipped. “Really bad. I’ve never seen Craig like that. Not in public, not aimed at Kenny.” The admission is quick, but its unease lingers.

Kyle has seen Craig lose his temper before - hell, they all have - but this had been something different.

The thought unsettles him more than he wants to let on.

Tweek doesn’t speak immediately; his throat feels too tight, his mind a snarl of thoughts that won’t straighten. He stares into the flames until they smear into abstract light, orange streaks bleeding into his vision.

Finally he whispers, almost reluctantly, “Kenny didn’t look good either.” 

Stan presses his stick harder into the dirt until it snaps.

Tweek inhales sharply, then rises in a sudden, restless motion, brushing his hands down the front of his jeans.

“I… I’m gonna go inside for a minute,” he mutters, the words spilling too fast, jittering with nerves. He doesn’t wait for agreement, doesn’t look back - just disappears toward the porch, the shadows consuming him. Each step closer to the house amplifies the throb of bass until the party’s chaos swallows him whole.

Stan and Kyle both watch him go, their eyes trailing him until he’s gone from sight. Neither speaks, but the crease between their brows matches, both of them clearly debating whether to follow or to leave him his space.

In the end, neither moves.

Stan rakes a hand through his hair, shoulders sagging slightly as the alcohol weighs on him.

“What do you think that was even about?” His tone is looser now, words blurred at the edges by liquor. “Craig and Kenny, I mean. Looked like they were gonna tear each other apart.”

Kyle exhales sharply, his shoe grinding into the dirt. “The usual - Craig blowing up, Kenny trying to hold it together. But it looked meaner tonight.” His voice dips as though too much volume could reignite the tension they just escaped. “Did you see Kenny’s face? He was pissed.”

Stan tips back the last of his drink, the movement sloppy, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. His laugh comes out hollow.

“Craig’s always been an asshole and complete time-bomb. But I’ve never seen him make Kenny that mad.”

Kyle glances up at him, his frown deepening into something almost mournful. “And Tweek… he looked terrified. Like he didn’t know whether to bolt or scream.”

Stan hums, low and weighted. “Yeah. He’s probably spinning himself inside out right now. Poor guy.”

“Yeah. Guess so.”

Kyle studies Stan in the shifting glow, eyes lingering longer than necessary, as though some unspoken question hangs heavy between them.

It’s no longer about Craig or Kenny - it’s about the two of them now, pulled closer by the weight of firelight and alcohol, by the gravity of unspoken things.

The air grows warmer, denser, buzzing faintly with what neither has the nerve to articulate. Stan leans back slightly, eyes heavy-lidded but sharp enough to catch the charge vibrating between them.

“Hey… remember when we got drunk on the docks at Stark’s Pond?” Kyle asks softly.

Stan turns his head, blinking as if the memory has to cut through layers of alcohol before it reaches him. A crooked smile tugs at his mouth, but the slight tightening of his shoulders betrays how uneasy the recollection makes him.

“Oh yeah, I remember. That was, uh… it was a good night.” He scratches at the back of his neck, laughing under his breath. “I’ll miss stuff like that - summer nights, just us and the water.”

Kyle studies him for a long second, his expression hovering between incredulity and reluctant amusement. For him, that night isn’t some blurred adolescent misadventure. It’s sharp in his memory, unsoftened by time: the kiss, the awkward fumbling, the sting of cheap beer on their lips, and the suffocating silence that followed.

He leans in slightly, his eyes narrowing, his voice pitched just low enough to cut beneath the fire’s crackle.

“Seriously?” he asks, brow arched.

“Yeah,” Stan blurts, too quick, his tone brittle. “Just summer stuff. You know.” He forces a shrug, stiff and unconvincing. “Kids being dumb. Didn’t mean anything.”

The fire pops, filling the gap with noise that feels suddenly intrusive, like a substitute for everything Stan refuses to articulate.

Kyle exhales a humorless laugh, his mouth quirking into a smile that carries no real amusement. His eyes, though, stay steady, sharp, unflinching.

“You’re such an asshole, Stan.”

Tweek pushes forward through the dense crowd, his chest constricting, each breath clipped and shallow.

The press of bodies smothers him, sweat and perfume sticking to his skin like damp fabric.

Beer breath and heat thicken the air until it feels heavy enough to choke on. Every brush of a stranger’s shoulder spikes his nerves tighter, each accidental shove another shock to a system already overrun.

The bathroom door is closed, a noisy line spilling into the hall. Their laughter slices through him - sharp, careless, unbearable.

His throat closes.

He can’t wait, not here.

Not with eyes everywhere.

Tweek lurches toward the kitchen, shouldering past clusters of strangers. Their words blur into an incoherent wash of noise, only rhythm and volume cutting through. The bass rattles in his ribs, shaking the floor beneath his shoes, driving him until he reaches the sink.

His hands slip on the faucet, slick with sweat, but he jerks the handle until water streams from the tap. He bends low, splashing cold handfuls against his face. The shock stings but the relief is superficial, fading before he can even draw a full breath.

Panic still climbs, a serrated edge raking higher in his chest.

The reflection in the glass above the sink is fractured, warped by water and light. Tweek's eyes stare back wide and wild, unrecognizable - like looking at a stranger whose fear has overtaken him completely.

“You’re okay,” Tweek whispers, the tremor in his voice nearly drowned beneath the music’s relentless throb. His fingers clamp on the sink’s edge, white-knuckled. “You’re okay. Calm down. Calm down.” The words tumble out in fragments, eaten alive by the roar around him.

No one hears him. No one sees him.

The laughter grows harsher, the crush of voices colliding until it’s pure noise, blinding and total.

The lights glare too bright, stabbing at his vision.

The music beats through his skull, every pulse another blow.

His chest locks, air snagging in his throat like he’s choking.

The harder he drags for breath, the more impossible it feels.

His surroundings twist, blur, collapse into one overwhelming assault - too close, too loud, too much.

Tweek's hands quake against the sink as panic claws its way higher, jagged and merciless.

A broken sound tears from his throat as he drops forward, his forehead nearly touching the counter. Elbows dig into the edge, holding him upright by sheer will.

His fingers knot into his hair, yanking until his scalp stings, as though pain might give him a release.

“...Tweek?”

A hand lands on his shoulder. He jerks violently, spinning with wide, frantic eyes.

Clyde is standing there, a half-empty cup dangling from one hand, his brows furrowed with concern. He’d only wandered into the kitchen for another drink, but the sight of Tweek stops him cold, sobering him instantly.

“Jesus, man,” Clyde mutters, his voice edged with worry. “You’re not okay.”

The words tumble from Tweek before he can stop them, fragile and unguarded.

“I - I’m having a panic attack,” he stammers, his voice barely carrying over the bass but raw enough to break through Clyde’s haze. His whole body trembles, his arms crossed tight around himself, his eyes wide and pleading.

Clyde reacts quickly. His hand closes firmly on Tweek’s arm. “Alright. Okay. Come with me,” he says, gentler now, his concern plain.

Without leaving space for protest, he begins steering Tweek away from the sink and into the press of bodies.

The crowd closes around them, heat and music pounding from every direction, but Clyde doesn’t let go. He pushes forward, ignoring the stares, guiding Tweek through chaos.

They climb the stairs, the roar of music dimming with each step. Clyde shoulders open a door marked by a bold KEEP OUT sign - Bebe’s room, preserved from the party.

The door slams behind them, and suddenly the bass is quieter. What remains is the ragged scrape of Tweek’s breath filling the quiet.

He paces immediately, arms clamped around his ribs, his lungs pulling air in rapid, shallow bursts. He’s hyperventilating, gasping as though his chest is a vice. His hands twitch toward his hair, fingers threatening to rip at it just to relieve the unbearable pressure building inside.

“I - I can’t - ” Tweek chokes, voice breaking apart. His eyes glisten as tears surface, and though he shakes his head in denial, they spill free anyway. The panic claws higher, cresting until sobs drag themselves raw from his throat.

“Whoa, hey - hey, it’s okay,” Clyde says immediately, his voice soft and pitched to soothe. He takes a cautious step closer, hands lifted slightly as though approaching a startled animal. “You’re safe, Tweek. You’re alright, I swear.” 

Clyde edges closer, brushing a tentative hand against Tweek’s arm, and gently guides him toward the bed.

“Come on. Sit down, okay? It’ll help.” 

Tweek follows numbly, his movements slack and disconnected, until the backs of his legs meet the mattress. He drops down without resistance, as though gravity alone has folded him there.

Clyde nudges him back further until he’s pressed against the headboard. Tweek curls in tight, knees drawn to his chest, arms binding them close. He buries his face into the hollow between, his breath hitching ragged and uneven against denim, trying to vanish into himself.

Clyde lingers at the edge of the bed, torn between giving space and refusing to abandon him. His hand hovers uncertainly in the air before settling lightly on Tweek’s shoulder.

“It’s alright, man,” he says quietly, leaning in so his words reach through. “You’re here, no one’s gonna hurt you. Just breathe. As much as you can. You’re safe.”

The music downstairs still booms through the floorboards, but it’s dulled now, wrapped in the muffled quiet of the room.

“You don’t have to do anything, dude. Just sit here and let it pass. I’ll stay right here with you. I’m not going anywhere.”

Tweek trembles, his whole body wound tight as a drawn wire. His shoulders climb almost to his ears, his fingers clawing at the fabric of his jeans until his knuckles blanch.

Clyde doesn’t recoil. After a beat, he lowers himself to the edge of the bed. The mattress dips, shifting the space around them into something closer, smaller, more contained.

His posture is stiff, cautious, like he isn’t sure whether he’s allowed, but he stays.

“I’m not great at this kind of thing,” Clyde admits. He stares at the floor between his shoes, elbows braced on his knees. “But I hate seeing you like this, dude.” His glance flickers toward Tweek’s folded frame. “You don’t need to explain. Not unless you want to. Just… try to breathe if you can. If you can’t, that’s fine too. I’ll sit here until it passes. Promise.”

His hand hesitates in the air before landing tentative against Tweek’s back. The gesture is clumsy, but there’s no hesitation once it’s there. 

“You’re tougher than me,” Clyde mutters, almost under his breath, but still audible. “You’ll get through it. You always do. And if you want water or anything, I’ll get it. Just say so.”

Tweek doesn’t answer. His face stays buried, his breath still ragged, but Clyde doesn’t move away. He sits in the silence, giving it space to exist without trying to smother it.

After a long moment, his voice softens further. “You don’t have to do shit alone, you know. Even if it feels like nobody’s watching… I notice. I might not know the right things to say, but I can sit here with you until you feel better. I'll make sure no one bothers you."

Clyde shifts back until his shoulder rests against the headboard beside Tweek’s, making it clear he isn’t leaving.

“We’ll ride it out together. No pressure.” His words are quiet, self-conscious, but his presence is unwavering.

He lets the silence stretch, not trying to fill it, just offering the steady rhythm of his breathing beside Tweek’s frantic ones, until the storm has room to ease.

Chapter Text

Out on the front lawn, the night air is cooler, carrying the faint smell of cut grass and cigarette smoke drifting from the porch. Kenny sprawls on the grass, propped up on his elbows, the vodka bottle sitting forgotten by his side.

He’s crossed the line from tipsy into drunk - his grin a little wider, his words a little looser, though he still carries himself with the sharpness that never quite leaves him.

Butters sits next to him, cheeks flushed, the tipsy glow of alcohol softening the edges of his usually careful posture. He laughs easily, his head tilting back as he lets the sound ring out into the night.

The bass from inside thrums faintly through the walls of the house, but out here it feels distant, leaving them in their own little bubble.

“Man,” Kenny drawls, gesturing vaguely toward the stars, “you ever just think about how damn weird life is? Like… one minute you’re scraping by, and the next you’re lying on somebody’s lawn half-drunk with… you.” His grin pulls crooked as he glances at Butters. “Not the worst turn of events.”

Butters giggles, covering his mouth before lowering his hand again. “I guess that’s true. I don’t usually… um… I don’t usually do this sort of thing.”

Kenny chuckles, leaning back fully to sprawl across the grass. “You should. You’re good company. Better than half the idiots in there.”

Butters shakes his head, still smiling, the blush on his face deepening. “You’re just saying that.”

“Nah,” Kenny replies easily, closing his eyes and letting the night breeze wash over him. “I mean it.”

A beat passes before Kenny cracks one eye open, smirking. “Although, if the dastardly Professor Chaos knew I was out here slacking off instead of protecting South Park, I’d be in big trouble.”

Butters snaps his head toward him, instantly falling into the bit. “What do you mean, Mysterion? Chaos never sleeps! You must stay vigilant if you w-want to thwart my plans!” His voice is theatrical, exaggerated in a way that makes Kenny burst into laughter.

“Oh man,” Kenny grins, pointing at him, “you didn’t even hesitate. Straight into character.”

Butters snickers, shoulders shaking. “Well, it’s important work, keeping the town safe from villains like me. Someone’s gotta stand up to Professor Chaos!”

Kenny tips back onto his elbows, laughing still, but his eyes stay on Butters a beat longer than before.

The way Butters’ face lights up, cheeks pink and eyes sparkling with mischief, makes something shift inside his chest.

Kenny finds himself smiling without meaning to, wide and soft all at once.

On impulse, Kenny lunges forward with a playful growl, tackling Butters into the grass.

“Professor Chaos will never win!” he declares in mock-seriousness as they tumble together like kids roughhousing in a backyard.

Butters yelps, then dissolves into laughter, flailing his arms and kicking lightly at him.

“You’ll never stop me, Mysterion! My evil knows no bounds!” he cries, his voice cracking from laughter as he squirms beneath Kenny’s weight.

They roll across the lawn, grass sticking to their clothes and hair, each trying to one-up the other with more dramatic lines. Kenny pretends to throw an invisible grappling hook, Butters screeches about his “chaos minions,” and they both laugh so hard they can barely catch their breath.

Kenny wraps an arm around Butters, pinning him down briefly before Butters wriggles free with a triumphant shout, then Butters shoves back, declaring he’ll “destroy the city” as Kenny cackles at his over-the-top delivery.

Their scuffle is more play than fight, the kind of carefree wrestling that feels younger than their years. The night air fills with their laughter, playful jabs, and ridiculous declarations of hero versus villain, like they’re two kids caught up in their own comic book world.

Finally, Kenny gets the upper hand, pressing Butters flat onto his back in the grass.

He hovers over him, pinning his wrists gently, both of them panting, lungs burning from laughing so hard. The grass is damp beneath Butters, the faint chill of the earth soaking through his shirt, but all he can focus on is the heat radiating from Kenny above him.

The air warms into a hush as their eyes catch and hold, laughter thinning out into breathless silence.

Butters’ giggles falter and die in his throat, lips parted slightly as he stares up at Kenny, his cheeks flushed from both play and something he can’t quite name.

The closeness sinks in - the faint smell of cheap cologne and vodka clinging to Kenny, the warmth of his body pressing down, strands of blond hair slipping loose into his baby blue eyes. Kenny’s breath drifts warm across Butters’ lips, so close it makes his pulse stutter.

Kenny’s hands hold Butters’ wrists easily; large, calloused palms rough against smooth skin, the contrast startlingly intimate after so much joking.

Kenny’s grin slowly fades into something softer, his mouth parting as though he might speak but no words come. His eyes linger, calm and unblinking, blue catching the dim light.

The air between them suddenly feels thick and alive with an energy that hums in the space they share, every inch of closeness magnified.

Butters’ pulse thrums in his ears, matching the pounding in Kenny’s chest above him, and every shallow breath brushes warm against his face, making the space feel even smaller, even hotter, as if the night itself is holding its breath.

Neither of them moves, caught in the weight of the moment, the last traces of laughter still clinging faintly in their smiles but dissolving into something heavier, sharper, something neither of them knows how to name but both can feel pressing in from all sides.

Then, from the house, a sudden uproar crashes through the night - voices rising together in the sharp, rhythmic chant of “Fight! Fight! Fight!” spilling from somewhere inside or out back.

Kenny’s head jerks toward the noise, and in that instant the fragile spell between them shatters, the world rushing back in loud and unignorable.

He shifts back, easing off of Butters and pushing himself upright. The warmth and weight of him leaves quickly, replaced by the cool night air as Butters scrambles up to sit too.

Butters' face is still flushed, his breath just a little uneven, though Kenny’s attention has already turned toward the noise spilling from the house.

Butters swallows, brushing grass off his sleeves before glancing toward the commotion.

“What’d’ya reckon is going on?” he asks, his voice pitched high with nervous curiosity. “You think someone’s fighting?”

A few people suddenly rush past them toward the front door, slipping back into the house with wide eyes and excited voices. Kenny watches them for a second, brows furrowing.

“I dunno,” Kenny mutters, shaking his head. “Could be.” He pushes himself to his feet, a little unsteady, the alcohol in his system tugging at his balance. He holds himself with a hand on his knee, then drags his palm across his face as if to clear the haze. “I’m gonna go see what’s up.”

Butters blinks, still pink-faced and catching his breath, as Kenny straightens and heads for the front door.

The thrum of chanting grows louder as soon as Kenny pulls it open. Inside, the house is shifting, the crowd moving like a current - most of the remaining partygoers have flooded into the kitchen and dining area, pressing against the glass to look out at the backyard or pushing through to spill outside and see the action firsthand.

Through the press of bodies and the smudged glass of the back door, Kenny catches sight of what’s happening outside - Craig and Kyle squared off in the yard, voices raised in a furious screaming match. The sound barely carries through the wall of people and pounding bass, but the tension is obvious in the set of their shoulders, the sharp gestures cutting through the night.

Kenny’s stomach sinks, cold and sudden, like someone poured ice water down his spine.

His chest tightens with the same dread that always follows when Craig’s temper boils over.

Without a second thought, Kenny shoves through the crowd, ignoring the startled looks and muttered protests, and pushes his way toward the back door.

The moment he steps outside, the noise hits him full force. Craig and Kyle are in the middle of the yard, both red-faced, voices raw from shouting. Their words cut sharp through the chanting of the crowd, venomous and personal.

“Oh, fuck you, dude! You don’t know shit about me!” Craig shouts, jabbing a finger toward Kyle’s chest, his whole body trembling with rage. “Don’t you fucking talk to me like - ”

“ - like I don’t see exactly what you are?” Kyle cuts in, voice sharp despite the alcohol in his system. “You strut around like you’re above everyone else, but you’re not cool, Craig - you’re pathetic. You treat people like garbage and call it honesty, but really it’s just you being miserable and making sure everyone else feels as shitty as you do.”

Craig sneers, shoving closer. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about - ”

“Oh, I do,” Kyle snaps, slapping his hand away. His chest heaves with fury. “You’re a coward. A selfish, bitter coward who’ll end up rotting alone because nobody can stand you. You’re not misunderstood, you’re just fucking cruel.”

Craig doesn’t hesitate - he shoves Kyle hard in the chest. The force sends Kyle staggering back a step, his sneakers skidding in the damp grass. Gasps ripple through the crowd, and then Kyle’s on him again, surging forward with his fists clenched and rage boiling over.

He grabs a fistful of Craig’s shirt, jerks him close, and slams him with a wild swing. The punch cracks against Craig’s cheekbone, sharp enough to whip his head sideways. The crowd erupts at once - half panicked, half thrilled - “fight, fight, fight” echoing in jagged unison.

Craig reels but doesn’t falter. His fist arcs back, sloppy but savage, and crashes against Kyle’s jaw. Pain flares through his knuckles, but he doesn’t care - Kyle’s teeth click together with the impact, his head snapping back.

Kyle snarls, then lowers his shoulder and drives into Craig like a battering ram. The size difference shows - Craig’s taller, looming, but Kyle’s raw strength sends him staggering. Craig tries to plant his feet, but Kyle muscles him back three steps before hurling him into the grass.

Craig lashes out with a fist, wild and frantic, but Kyle eats the hit and answers with a brutal hook that rattles Craig’s jaw. Craig tries to crawl back, kicking out at Kyle desperately before he drives a knee upward, catching Kyle in the side.

Kyle barely grunts, manhandling Craig like it’s nothing as he twists Craig’s arm behind him with startling strength. Craig hisses, wrenching free only to get shoved back down hard.

Kyle’s smaller frame is compact power, pressing Craig down, grinding his forearm across Craig’s collarbone as Craig spits curses and thrashes beneath him. The noise is guttural, raw, nothing but snarls and the dull thud of fists against flesh.

Someone shouts for them to stop, but the chant only grows louder around them. Phones are out, lights flashing, the night split between chaos and spectacle.

Craig manages to twist and pin Kyle for half a second, spitting blood as he snarls in his face. Kyle answers by bucking hard, pure strength in his legs as he flips them over, driving his forearm against Craig’s throat this time. Craig’s hands scrabble for purchase, shoving back, their grunts and curses drowned out by the crowd’s roar.

Before it can spiral further, Stan grabs Kyle from behind and hauls back with all his weight.

“Stop fighting!” Stan barks, voice cutting through the chaos. Kyle thrashes against his hold, teeth bared, fists still swinging at the air, but Stan doesn’t let go, muscles straining as he wrestles him away from Craig.

At the same moment, Kenny swoops in, hooking his arms around Craig and dragging him backward.

“Okay, you’ve had enough,” Kenny grits out, his voice sharp as he fights to keep Craig from lunging again.

Craig twists in Kenny’s grip, spitting and snarling as he tries to get at Kyle again. His face is red, eyes wild. He jerks forward with every ounce of fury left in him and screams over Stan’s shoulder at Kyle.

 “No wonder Stan won't ever fuck you! You’ll never be anything but a miserable little bitch hiding behind your perfect grades and mommy’s approval!”

The words hang sharp in the air, brutal enough to still a few voices in the crowd. Kenny yanks Craig back harder, his arms locked tight around his chest.

“Enough, Craig! Shut the hell up!” Kenny snaps, pulling him farther away as Craig thrashes against him.

Stan drags Kyle in the opposite direction, Kyle’s face twisted with rage, his body straining as if he might still break free and charge. The chant of “fight, fight, fight” sputters and dies, the crowd groaning with disappointment as the violence tapers out. What’s left is a restless murmur as people shift uneasily, the spectacle cut short.

Craig fights against Kenny’s hold, every muscle tense, his voice cracking with rage and hurt as he keeps trying to break free, even when it’s clear the fight is over.

Kenny drags him back a few more steps, trying to steer him away from the crowd. But as they break through the ring of onlookers, Craig nearly collides with Tweek and Clyde - both of them caught in the headlights of the chaos.

Tweek stands frozen, wide-eyed and pale, his hands half-raised like he isn’t sure whether to reach out or run.

Beside him, Clyde hovers uncertainly, his usual grin nowhere to be found, his eyes darting between Craig and Kyle like he’s trying to figure out if he should intervene or drag Tweek away.

Craig’s fury snaps instantly to them, words spilling like venom.

“What the fuck are you staring at?” he snarls, jerking forward in Kenny’s grip. His glare cuts between them, but locks on Tweek. “Don’t stand there like you don’t know how this goes. You think you’re some fragile fucking saint, but you drove me out, Tweek - you and your constant meltdowns, your endless fucking drama and panic over nothing. I couldn’t fucking breathe around you!”

Kenny yanks him back with a surge of strength, his mouth close to Craig’s ear.

“Shut the fuck up,” he hisses, voice low and lethal. “You’re done.” His arms clamp tighter, dragging Craig backward with ease as Craig thrashes helplessly against the hold.

Tweeks eyes remain wide and hurt from the words, even as Clyde gently ushers him away.

Kenny doesn’t loosen his grip until he’s hauled Craig around the side of the house, out of sight of the backyard crowd and their hungry eyes.

He drags him roughly along the siding, boots crunching on gravel, until they spill out onto the quieter front lawn. Only then does Kenny release him, shoving him forward with a sharp push.

Craig stumbles a few steps, shoulders jerking, before he drops hard to his knees. The alcohol rips through him, and he folds forward, gagging as he vomits into the grass. The sound is raw, wet, painful, his whole body convulsing with each retch.

Kenny stands over him for a moment before he exhales a long sigh. He digs into his pocket, pulls out a cigarette, and lights it with steady, calm hands. The flare of the lighter briefly illuminates his tired face as he leans against the siding, dragging smoke deep into his lungs while Craig continues to vomit miserably into the dirt.

Eventually the violent retching slows, leaving Craig slumped forward on his knees, arms braced against the grass. His breath comes in ragged pulls, chest heaving as the world tilts around him. For a long moment he just stays there, head hanging, sweat dripping from his hairline, before forcing himself upright.

He pushes to stand too quickly. The mix of coke, alcohol, and days without food slams into him at once, and his legs nearly give. He sways hard, about to drop again when Kenny’s hand shoots out, holding him with firm pressure.

Craig lifts his eyes briefly, catching the serious look on Kenny’s face, and then looks away almost immediately, shame curling tight in his gut. Kenny just sighs, dragging long from his cigarette, the smoke curling between them.

“Come on,” Kenny mutters. “Let's get outta here.”

He tightens his grip, practically half-carrying Craig, one arm cinched around his waist to keep him upright. Craig stumbles more than he walks, his shoes dragging over the cracked pavement, and his weight heavy against Kenny’s side.

The cigarette hangs from the corner of Kenny’s mouth, the tip glowing with each drag as he exhales smoke into the warm night.

As they push through the front lawn, Butters is there, hovering uncertainly near the sidewalk. His eyes widen when he sees Craig slumped against Kenny.

“Is he - he alright?” Butters blurts.

“Yeah, he’s fine, he’s fine,” Kenny brushes him off quickly, adjusting his grip to keep Craig upright.

Craig lifts his head just enough to sneer. “Shut the fuck up, you pathetic little twink. Nobody wants you here.”

Kenny slaps a hand over Craig's mouth, tightening his hold with the other arm and yanking him forward.

“Ignore him, Butters. He's drunk… and a fucking asshole,” Kenny mutters through his teeth, dragging Craig away from the look on Butters’ face.

They move past the houses, leaving the chaos of the party behind, each step pulling them farther from the muffled bass and drunken shouting. 

The humid night presses in, dense with the sound of crickets. Porch lights flicker past, then fade as Kenny leads relentlessly on toward the dark stretch of the park ahead. The grass smell hits first - damp earth, summer heat - then the open space swallows them, a relief from the claustrophobic noise of the party.

At the edge of the park, Kenny eases Craig down onto the cool slope of the hill, keeping a hand braced on his shoulder to stop him from toppling. Craig sags forward, coughing, spitting blood into the dirt while his chest heaves.

Kenny stays crouched beside him, holding him up without a word.

Craig sinks into the grass. He lets gravity pull him backward until he’s flat against the earth, arms splayed, the breath knocked from his lungs as though he’s just finished sprinting.

Above him, the sky tilts and turns. The clouds shift slowly across it like indifferent thoughts. The vastness presses in, too big, too still, and everything Craig feels becomes louder - uncontainable in the quiet.

Kenny stands for a moment, silently observing. Then he lowers himself into the grass beside Craig, sitting cross-legged with the familiarity of someone who’s done this a thousand times. He brings the cigarette to his lips with hands that are far, far too steady and still.

Craig’s voice is low and gravel-thick. “Everything’s fucked up.”

Kenny hums in agreement.

Craig lifts one arm, draping it across his eyes. “I think I fucked it all up.”

Kenny exhales, smoke curling up toward the night sky. “Yeah,” he says. “You definitely did.”

Craig laughs bitterly, a sharp, humorless sound. “Thanks.”

“I’m not here to sugarcoat it,” Kenny replies. “You’ve really said some fucked up shit.”

"I know."

Kenny’s tone stays even, but there’s anger behind it. He turns his head, eyes fixed on Craig, sharp and serious.

“I’m not happy with you, man. You can be a bitch to me all you want - that’s fine, I can take it. But Butters? He didn’t fucking deserve that shit. Not tonight, not ever.”

Craig lets out a ragged breath, shifting his arm away from his face to glance at Kenny. "Why do you even hang out with him?” 

“Because he’s good,” Kenny says as he takes a drag on his cigarette. “He’s soft in a way most of us aren’t anymore. He reminds me there’s still light in all this bullshit. And I don’t want to lose that.”

Craig presses his palms over his face, muttering into them. “I don’t get it. Any of it. Why people stay.”

“You don’t have to get it, man. You just have to stop pushing people away when they give a shit about you. That’s the part you always fuck up.”

Craig’s hands drop back down. “And if I can’t stop? If that’s just who I am?”

Kenny shakes his head. “Then you’ll keep driving people off until there’s nobody left. And maybe that’s what you want, who the fuck knows. But don’t act like you don’t have a goddamn choice.”

Craig turns his head slightly, eyes growing wet. “I didn’t want him to leave.”

“Who? Tweek?” Kenny asks, voice softening.

“I left him before he could leave me.”

Kenny doesn’t answer immediately. He taps ash into the grass, eyes flicking to Craig’s face as the other continues shakily. 

“He was trying - he begged me - to just talk, to just give him something real and… just be honest with how I feel. And I couldn’t. I couldn’t even open my fucking mouth. So I just - I went down on him. Just to shut him the fuck up. Because I couldn’t say the things he needed to hear. And I thought maybe - maybe if I… if I did that, he’d stop asking.”

“Jesus, Craig.” Kenny’s voice is low. “That’s not the kind of thing you do to someone you love.”

Craig folds in half, fists pressed to his forehead. “I fucking hate myself.” 

Kenny doesn’t answer right away. He takes another drag of his cigarette, the ember flaring in the dark, and lets the silence stretch. 

“When I left him, we were fighting - screaming at each other.” Craig’s words come rough. “God, I was so fucking mean to him.” He chokes on the admission, dragging both hands down his face. “I’m just… I’m cruel. Kyle was right. I treat people like shit, like I can’t stop hurting everyone around me.” His arms cross tight over his chest, a shield against his own voice. “I swore I wouldn’t turn out like my dad,” he mutters, voice frayed. “But maybe I did. Maybe that’s all I’ll ever be.”

“You’re not him.”

Craig’s head jerks up at that, his eyes glassy and sharp. “How the fuck would you know?” 

Kenny doesn’t flinch. His gaze stays locked, unshaken. “Because it eats you alive. He never lost a night’s sleep over the people he hurt.”

Craig’s breath hitches, chest tight. His next words tumble out fast, like they’ve been lodged in his throat for years.

“He told me, Kenny. My dad - he told me I’m not even his. That I’m some bastard he got stuck with. He said it like it explained everything - like that’s why I ruin shit, why I don’t fit anywhere.”

Kenny’s jaw works as he drags slow on his cigarette, holding the smoke in his lungs before letting it bleed out through his nose. “No kid deserves to hear that shit. Doesn’t matter if it’s true or not - you didn’t ask for any of this. That’s on him, not you.”

Craig crumples inward, a guttural sob tearing out of him before he can choke it down. He presses his forehead to his knees, his whole body shaking, his sobs sharp in the night air.

“What do I do, Kenny? What the fuck am I supposed to do?”

Kenny stubs out the cigarette against the sole of his boot and his voice lowers, worn and heavy. “Outlast it. You keep going, even if it feels like spite is the only reason you can.”

Craig shakes his head. “I can’t,” he gasps. “I keep wrecking everything I touch.”

Kenny grips his shoulders hard, forcing eye contact. “I’ve seen who you are when you’re not burning shit down and acting like a complete asshole. Blood doesn’t decide who you are. Family is the people who stay when you’re on the floor, and I’m here. I’m staying. Even when you swing at me.”

Craig drops his forehead to Kenny’s shoulder, sobs ripping out of him in waves. His fists twist into Kenny’s jacket like letting go would erase him.

Kenny holds fast, one arm across Craig’s back, the other pressed to the back of his head. He breathes slow, deliberate, offering rhythm where Craig has none.

“You’re not a bad person, Craig,” he mutters. “You’re not.”

Craig clings harder, guilt spilling through the cracks in his voice.

“I said things I can’t undo. To Kyle, to Tweek… to you. I was fucking… cruel on purpose. I wanted it to hurt, and it did. I knew exactly what I was doing, and I still fucking did it.”

Kenny shuts his eyes, jaw taut, but he doesn’t release him. His hand presses more firmly against Craig’s head, keeping him together.

“I’m sorry,” Craig gasps. “I’m so fucking sorry… For all of it. Something's wrong with me and I don't know what.”

“I know,” Kenny says at last, his voice flat. “I know, man.”

Craig nods against him, the sobs dragging on, messy and relentless. The night air settles cool around them as the violence of his grief finally begins to dull, each shuddering breath leaving him a little weaker. His body slackens by degrees, now reduced to exhaustion. His head hangs heavy against Kenny’s shoulder, face damp with sweat and tears, his breath uneven but slowing.

At last Craig shifts, his grip tightening with urgency. His fingers knot tighter into Kenny’s jacket as if the fabric itself is the only thing keeping him grounded.

Slowly, reluctantly, Craig lifts his head. His face is a wreck of red-rimmed eyes and tear streaks. He pulls back just enough to meet Kenny’s gaze, his own eyes still brimming, the tears refusing to stop, clinging stubbornly as though they will never run dry.

For a moment they just look at each other.

Craig’s lips part like he might try to speak, but the words fracture before they can form. His throat works, caught between confession and collapse.

Then, before Kenny can react, Craig leans forward and kisses him.

It isn’t a kiss born of affection or clarity.

It’s desperate, muddled, raw - less a kiss and more a grasp, the kind of contact made by someone drowning, reaching blindly for the nearest solid thing.

Kenny stiffens at the contact, his eyes widening, hands caught in half-motion between pushing and holding. He tastes the salt of tears more than anything else, feels the ragged pull of Craig’s breath shuddering against his lips.

The kiss lingers for a beat too long, not out of passion, but out of Craig’s unwillingness to let go.

Kenny’s hand comes up, pressing gently but firmly against Craig’s chest, easing him back with a light pressure. The separation is careful, not sharp enough to wound but resolute enough to be final.

“Craig - hey. No.”

Craig freezes. His lips still parted. His eyes shift into something raw and panicked.

“This isn’t that,” Kenny says, voice calm and unshaken. “You don’t want me. You’re just hurting.”

“I didn’t mean - ”

“I know,” Kenny cuts in gently. “You’re fucked up right now, and looking for something to fill the void. I get it. But this - ” he gestures lightly between them. “ - this isn’t the answer.”

Craig pulls away entirely now, shame crashing over him in waves. His hands cover his face. 

“God - Kenny,” he whispers, tears welling again. "I'm so sorry. Fuck - I don't know what's fucking wrong with me. I'm so sorry."

Kenny doesn’t even pause. He reaches back out, wrapping his arms around Craig once more, pulling him into a firmer, stronger hug. His grip isn’t tentative this time; it’s solid, and firm, like he’s determined to hold Craig together by sheer will alone.

“It’s okay,” Kenny says softly. “I’m not mad. I promise.”

Craig doesn’t speak. He just presses his forehead into Kenny’s chest, clutching him like he might dissolve otherwise.

The living room is dim, littered with red plastic cups, half-crushed cans, and the sticky remains of spilled drinks soaking into the carpet. 

The once-roaring party has dulled into a sluggish hum, voices hoarse, laughter fragmented. It’s nearly three in the morning, and the exhaustion has settled into everyone’s bones, pulling the energy down with the hour.

Stan sits at the edge of the couch, hunched forward, a crumpled towel pressed tight in his hands. Kyle leans against him, head tipped back awkwardly, blood smeared beneath his nose and staining the collar of his shirt. His face is pale, lips chapped, eyes heavy-lidded but defiant.

Stan’s hand is firm at his shoulder, keeping him in place while the other dabs gently at the streaks of red. Kyle winces, hissing through his teeth, but doesn’t pull away. He stares at the ceiling with glassy eyes, his breathing sharp and uneven.

“You’re fine,” Stan mutters, his movements precise and careful in a way that shows how badly he wants to help. He dabs again at Kyle’s upper lip, wiping the blood away before it dries into another stain. The towel is already marred, dark splotches spreading across the fabric.

Around them, the wreck of the night sprawls across the house. Empty bottles and cans roll across the floor when nudged, ashtrays overflow onto tables sticky with spilled mixers. 

Bebe steps in, heels clicking against the sticky floor, her eyes sweeping the room like a general surveying her battlefield. She claps her hands once, loud and cutting, making heads turn.

“Alright, that’s it - party’s over. Time to go, everybody. Wrap it up.” Her tone has steel in it, no room for argument. She strides across the room, prying cups out of stubborn hands and steering people toward the door. “Let’s go, come on, grab your shit.”

Someone groans in protest, another laughs tiredly, but no one fights her authority. She moves briskly, pushing bodies and nudging shoulders toward the exit.

Her voice rises above the murmur: “You don’t have to go home, but you sure as hell can’t stay here.”

Bebe twists the stereo knob, dragging the volume down until the music is no more than a hum beneath the noise of people shuffling out.

Jackets are tugged on, keys jingle, laughter sputters weakly in the hallway. Goodbyes are mumbled, promises to call or text tomorrow spill into the air, though most will be forgotten by morning.

By the time the last of the extras are ushered out, the living room has stilled.

The air feels cooler without the crush of people, but the mess remains, a battlefield of discarded drinks and ash. Only the core group remains - those who always stay when the crowd thins, the ones who can’t simply walk away from the wreckage. 

Bebe lingers near the stereo, her eyes scanning what’s left of the party.

She spots Tweek curled up in the armchair, knees drawn tight, his face pale and pinched. He looks strung out on nerves, hands fidgeting against the fabric, and Bebe knows without asking that it’s Craig’s bullshit that’s left him gutted.

Clyde drifts up beside her, still shirtless and barefoot with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans. “Want help clearing out the rest of ’em?” His eyes flick toward a couple of strangers passed out on the floor and another slumped half-asleep in a kitchen chair.

Bebe shakes her head, her voice calmer now, the authority softening. “Nah. If they’re out cold, they’re harmless. Let them sleep it off.” She exhales, glancing back across the messy room. “Not worth the fight right now, especially since my parents aren’t back until next week.”

Bebe’s eyes catch Wendy and Heidi by the front door, their heads bent together, laughing quietly as they slip on jackets and gather their bags. They look like they’re already halfway gone, their voices lighter than the air still clinging in the house. Bebe watches as Wendy breaks away, heels clicking softly as she crosses the room toward the couch.

Stan is still there, leaning close to Kyle, pressing the bloodied towel gently against his face. Wendy leans down, her voice low and warm as she tells him goodnight. Stan tilts his head up and they kiss - quick, sweet, the kind of practiced affection that slips in as naturally as breathing. 

Bebe notices Kyle’s face stiffen beside Stan, just for a heartbeat. His jaw tenses, his eyes flinch away, betraying more than he wants to. He tries to mask it, shifting under the towel, but the look doesn’t go unnoticed. Not by Bebe.

She straightens and crosses toward the door, where Wendy and Heidi are already slipping on jackets.

“Goodnight, babes,” Bebe says, her voice softer now as she gives them each a kiss on the cheek. “Get home safe, okay?”

Wendy squeezes her arm in response, Heidi offering a warm smile, before the pair step out together into the night, laughter fading as the door closes behind them.

A moment later, Tolkien and Nichole emerge from the kitchen, his arm looped easily around her waist. There’s a glow about them, their closeness obvious in the way they lean into each other. “We’re heading out too,” Tolkien tells her, his voice even but relaxed.

“Nighty night, you two. Be safe,” she says with genuine affection.

They smile back, offering their own goodbyes before slipping out the door, their silhouettes pressed together as they vanish into the night, intimate and unhurried.

Bebe lets out a long, weary sigh and drops onto the loveseat beside Clyde, throwing her legs over his lap. Her heels dangle loosely from her feet, the leather straps leaving faint indents on her skin.

Clyde simply leans back into the cushions, arms stretched along the top, letting her settle in. The room feels quieter now, stripped down to only what matters. It’s just her, Clyde, Stan, Kyle, and Tweek left in the living room - the core of the night’s wreckage.

“I might go too,” Tweek says, the words barely audible, fragile enough to break in the silence.

Bebe’s chest aches at the sight of him.

“I’m so sorry, honey,” she says gently, leaning forward a little. “I should’ve been there for you tonight… after all that drama with Craig.” Her voice carries guilt, the weight of someone who prides herself on never letting her people down.

Tweek shakes his head quickly, almost too quickly, like the thought of her blaming herself makes him uneasy. His voice comes out tight but sincere.

“It’s okay, Bebe. Really.” He doesn’t quite meet her eyes, but the sincerity is there.

Clyde’s hand pats her leg, solid and reassuring where she sits sprawled across him.

“I took care of him,” Clyde says. “We had some bonding time.” He shrugs, but there’s a hint of pride beneath the casualness.

Tweek looks sheepish at that, his cheeks coloring faintly as a small, embarrassed smile tugs at his mouth. Still, the gratitude in his eyes is unmistakable.

“Yeah… we… we did. Thanks, Clyde,” Tweek admits, his voice soft but clear. His gaze lingers on Clyde longer than usual and then drops back to his hands.

The moment of fragile quiet is broken suddenly by Kyle’s sharp voice. “Ow, motherfucker!”

Stan, leaning beside him with the towel, jerks his hands back instantly, grimacing.

“Shit, sorry,” he mutters.

Kyle pinches the towel against his face himself now, shooting Stan a look that’s equal parts irritation and fatigue.

“Careful, dude, unless you’re actually trying to finish the job,” he mutters, voice muffled through the cloth.

Stan snorts under his breath. “If I wanted to finish the job, I’d let Craig do it.”

The attempt at levity falls flat, landing somewhere between bitter and weary, but it’s enough to break some of the tension lingering in the air.

Tweek rubs at his eyes with the back of his hand before glancing around the room, shoulders tense as if he doesn’t want to make a scene.

“I should go home,” he says softly, his voice carrying more than just fatigue. “Goodnight, guys.”

Bebe straightens immediately, her tone warm and sure even through her weariness. “We love you, sweetheart. Don’t forget that. Be safe getting home.”

Tweek nods quickly, almost bashful, and murmurs, “Thank you, Bebe.” His smile is small, flickering and shy, but genuine. He pulls his jacket tighter around himself, then slips out the door.

For a moment, nobody speaks.

Clyde tips his chin toward the ceiling, hair mussed, chest bare and still streaked faintly with glitter from earlier in the night. His hand drapes lazily across the armrest, the picture of someone who hasn’t got the energy to hide how tired he is.

“Man, I’m starving,” he says, his voice cutting through the silence that has lingered since Tweek left.

“Yeah, same,” Stan agrees, leaning over to grab a solo cup from the end table and tipping back the beer left in it. “Haven’t eaten since before the party. Could kill for something greasy right now.”

Bebe lets out a small laugh, tossing her hair back from her face and settling more comfortably against Clyde.

"You’re both hopeless,” she mutters, though the fondness in her voice is clear. She wiggles her feet to alleviate the ache from wearing heels all night, sighing as if she might melt into the cushions.

Kyle, still holding the towel gingerly against his nose, blood finally slowing to a trickle, raises a brow.

“So what’s the plan then? We just sit here and waste away?” His tone is sardonic, but there’s a sliver of genuine curiosity beneath it.

Stan glances around, frowning. “It’s almost three. Everything’s closed.” He says it like a verdict, like they’re doomed to ride out the night with nothing but the bitter taste of cheap beer in their mouths.

“Yeah, no chance of pizza,” Kyle mutters, still muffled behind the towel. “They stopped delivering hours ago.”

Bebe shakes her head firmly, leaning back into the cushions.

“And we are definitely not attempting to cook anything right now.” She lets out a dry laugh, eyes flicking toward the kitchen, where the counter is still cluttered with empty bottles, a sink full of dishes, and the sleeping body of a partygoer at the breakfast bar. “We’d burn the place down. Guaranteed.”

“So what’s left?” Clyde asks, drawing out the words. “Something open, cheap, and quick.” He emphasizes each word like it’s the solution to all their problems. “We just need one place - one miracle - that hasn’t shut down yet.”

Stan leans forward, rubbing a hand over his face. “What, like some twenty-four-hour diner?” His tone is skeptical. “Closest one’s way across town, and I don’t think any of us are up for that.”

“Exactly,” Kyle mutters. “We’d pass out in the car before we even got there.” He shifts again, the towel slipping slightly.

Stan perks up a little, the corners of his mouth lifting for the first time in a while.

“Taco Bell run?” The suggestion is half a joke, half serious, but it lands with the perfect weight. 

Bebe sighs, her lips curling into a grin despite the exhaustion etched into her. “Fine. Taco Bell it is. But I’m driving. I’m the only one sober enough and you drunkards all know it.”

Stan doesn’t argue. He just stretches until his shoulders crack and mutters, “Fair enough.” He glances over at Kyle, a flicker of guilt on his face. “You’re good to go?”

Kyle rolls his eyes, still holding the towel to his nose. “Yeah, yeah. Fast food’s not gonna kill me. Let’s go before I change my mind.”

Bebe doesn’t wait for more discussion. She scoops Stan’s keys off the table with a jingle, and in a ripple the four of them are moving, spilling out into the cool night. Their laughter trails after them, snagging on the porch rail before scattering into the street like loose change.

“Shotgun,” Clyde calls, already halfway down the walk, climbing into the passenger seat like he was born there.

“Don’t let him touch the AC,” Kyle says as he nudges Stan toward the back door.

Stan clutches a bottle of gin he’d swiped from the kitchen, raising it like a prize as he and Kyle clamber into the back seats.

Bebe slides in behind the wheel like it’s hers.

“Drive, Barbie,” Clyde says, grinning at her profile. “Drive us unto glory. Also to Taco Bell.”

The SUV idles off the curb; the headlights catch the glitter embedded in Bebe’s hair like stars. She tosses him a look, sharp and fond. “Call me Barbie again and I’ll leave you in the parking lot to live among the potholes.”

“Queen behavior,” Clyde says, then immediately starts touching buttons. The radio jumps stations - pop, static, a hymn of seventies guitar, more static - until he finds a beat that sounds like summer in a tin can and cranks it. The speakers rattle.

“Yes. Yes. That’s the stuff.”

Clyde leans halfway out his window and screams the chorus into the dark, his voice cracking gloriously. Bebe swats at the air, laughing, and nudges the wheel to straighten after a gentle, harmless drift he caused by trying to play DJ and hype man at once.

“Hands inside the vehicle,” she says. “If I lose you, I am not explaining that to your father.”

“He would never notice,” Clyde lies. “I am as replaceable as a fork.”

“You're the weird fork that’s too small for pasta but too big for dessert,” Kyle says. “You live in a liminal drawer.”

“That was poetry,” Clyde says, clutching his chest. “Write that on my tombstone.”

“Shut up,” Bebe says, cheerful, and taps the window down an extra inch. The night pours in, coolness threading over their wrists, the faint scent of pine and motor oil.

“Okay,” Clyde says as if convening a council. “Order strategy. We need like… two party packs, a Crunchwrap, nachos big enough to swim in - ”

“And a cheese quesadilla,” Bebe says. “For the driver.”

“Queen said what she said,” Clyde agrees. “Also those cinnabon donuts.”

“Make sure they don’t overload the sour cream,” Kyle says, automatic and specific like he’s litigated this before.

Stan raises a hand solemnly. “And those little sauce packets? I need an armful of each one.”

“You’d cry,” Kyle says.

Stan narrows his eyes, leaning back in his seat. “I’ve survived your mom’s chili three years running. Taco Bell's got nothing on me.”

Kyle snorts, turning his head to give him a look. “You? Please. You’ve got the weakest stomach out of all of us. One Crunchwrap and you’re keeled over like you’ve been poisoned.”

Stan bristles, sitting up straighter. “That’s bullshit. I do not have the weakest stomach! Wendy doesn't have a spice tolerance at all and hates spicy foods. What about Craig, huh? He never eats fast food. He’d tap out before I would.”

Kyle fires back without hesitation, his tone sharper now. “That’s cause Craig never eats anything at all.”

The words hang sharp ans the car goes quiet after that, the silence pressing down heavy as they all remember the mess earlier - the fighting, the shouting, the weight of Craig’s havoc sitting with them even now.

They hit the outskirts - warehouse lots like sleeping whales, chain-link fences laced with weeds, the distant orange glow of the highway bleeding against the mountains. Stan and Kyle swap the bottle of gin back and forth for small sips on Kyle’s part, and longer pulls on Stan’s.

Clyde finds the window controls again and lets more of the night air in. He leans back, head tilted, eyes closed a second like he’s trying to memorize the exact feel of air on his scalp.

“This is it, guys” he says. “Peak existence. Me, my best friends, a queen at the wheel, and the knowledge that we will soon have glorious, fake Mexican cuisine. If I ever get happier than this, arrest me.”

Bebe glances over. For a blink, Clyde is twelve and dangling from the monkey bars, daring gravity to try him while he goofs off. Then he’s eighteen again, mouth too fast, heart too big and gold even under the grime. She looks back at the road.

“Stop narrating,” Kyle says, leaning his head back and trying to let the alcohol soothe him. “You’re not in a movie.”

“Bold of you to assume,” Clyde says, eyes still closed. “This is cinema.”

Stan perks up enough to lurch forward and thump the back of Clyde’s seat. “Do the voice.”

Clyde opens one eye. “What voice.”

“The one,” Stan insists, pointing as if that clarifies anything.

Clyde sighs like a martyr and drops into his best fake-deep radio host. “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to tonight’s feature: Four idiots v. Ten Soft Tacos. Rated R for Romanticizing Taco Bell.”

Bebe laughs, delighted. “The Academy is on line one.”

The traffic light ahead glows dimly, hanging from its cross-arm like a jewel. Their lane shifts from red to green with that soft, almost sleepy pulse.

They roll forward into the intersection.

Stan is laughing, his grin wide and loose as Kyle turns toward him.

The moment fractures instantly: from behind Stan, headlights cut through the dark - blinding, searing white like an electrical surge. In the next breath, the night implodes, the world collapsing inward with violent force.

Kyle’s breath is ripped out of him. His chest snaps forward against the seatbelt, the strap slicing across his sternum like a hot blade. His ribs scream. For a heartbeat he’s weightless, stomach pitching, then the belt slams him back, lungs crushed empty.

Stan’s body slams into him, all bone and muscle, driving Kyle hard against the opposite door. Their skulls collide, an explosion of white pain detonating behind Kyle’s eyes.

The window shatters. Glass explodes, erupting inward in a cascade of glittering fragments. Kyle catches flashes of each shard reflecting the green glow of the traffic signal before they slice into his skin. His arm, his cheek, his neck bloom hot as blood surges to the surface.

The SUV spins, tires shrieking against asphalt, the frame twisting as the vehicle careens across the intersection.

Kyle’s body pitches sideways again, crushed against Stan, then whips back into the unyielding grip of the seatbelt cutting deeper into his shoulder.

The air itself turns toxic.

The chemical tang of airbags mixes with the ozone of shattered glass and the suffocating stench of gasoline.

It burns in his throat, makes each ragged inhale feel thinner than the last.

Kyle’s ears ring with relentless intensity, warping the world into something distant and submerged. Every sound - metal grinding, tires squealing, his own strangled gasp - warps into something distant. His heart slams in his chest so violently he can feel it in his throat.

The SUV lurches to a halt with a final, bone-deep crunch, the shuddering vibration rattling through his teeth.

Then comes silence.

The kind of silence that hums, thick and nauseating, broken only by Kyle’s ragged breath and the distant hiss of steam rising from the crumpled hood.

“Stan?” His voice cracks, hoarse with shock. His body screams with every movement, but there is no reply.

Kyle's vision blurs, the sting of blood in his eyes turning the world into smears of red and black. His fingers fumble at the seatbelt, too weak to find leverage. His chest seizes, air clawing to get in but never filling enough.

“Bebe?… Clyde,” he rasps, words fraying into a whisper.

Pinned and bleeding and gasping in the ringing dark, Kyle realizes the night has gone violently, irreversibly wrong.

“He… help,” Kyle wheezes, tugging futilely at the belt. A cough racks through him, leaving him weaker. The edges of reality begin to slip.

With effort that makes his entire body tremble, Kyle drags a hand into his pocket. His fingers are slick, leaving bloody fingerprints and streaks across the screen as he forces his phone awake and engages the emergency dial.

“911 what’s the location of your emergency?”

Chapter Text

Craig stirs with a groan, his body stiff and unwilling. 

His skull pulses with pain, every throb a punishing echo of the bottle he drained, the coke he tried, and the chaos he unleashed. The dull roar in his head makes it hard to tell where the hangover ends and the comedown begins.

The cracked vinyl beneath him squeaks as he shifts, trying to untangle limbs that feel bruised and misaligned, like he fought the night itself and lost.

Craig's shirt is twisted, streaked with dirt, grass stains, and dried blood.

One hand rises to shield his eyes from the thin light breaking through the grime-coated windshield, a glare that cuts him open rather than wakes him.

He’s slouched in the passenger seat of the junker car in the abandoned lot, the shell of metal and glass holding him like a coffin.

Everything aches.

Kenny sits beside him in the driver’s seat, a cigarette burning slowly between his fingers. He looks contemplative, smoke curling from his lips, his usual swagger dulled into something uncharacteristically low-spirited.

Kenny's lip is split, and there's dried blood crusted beneath his nose.

His silence is heavier than words.

Craig blinks again. Memory fractures try to align in his skull but don’t quite fit. The last clear image he has is of standing on Bebe’s balcony with Kenny, words blurring under the burn of vodka and the static crackle of his own fury.

After that - nothing but blackout.

He looks down at his own hands. His knuckles are ravaged - skin split open, blood dried in patches, swelling beginning to set in. Like he fought something, or someone, relentlessly, trying to exorcise pain through force.

Craig stares at them, dread solidifying in his gut.

“What - ” Craig’s voice cracks, hoarse and gravelly. “What the fuck did I do?”

Kenny doesn’t look at him immediately. His gaze remains fixed out the dirty windshield.

“You really don’t remember?”

Craig’s throat tightens. “No.”

Kenny finally turns his head, eyes unreadable. He wipes at the crusted blood beneath his nose with the sleeve of his hoodie and winces.

“You fought with Kyle and got your ass beat. It was kind of deserved, though.” he says, voice low. "You said some pretty fucked up shit to him. And Tweek. And Butters… and… me."

Craig’s stomach drops. He shakes his head slowly, the motion stiff, like his body is resisting the truth.

“Jesus Christ,” Craig mutters, his voice breaking. “I don’t even - fuck. I don’t remember any of that. What the fuck did I say?” His hands rise to his face, trembling as he drags his palms down over his eyes, as though he can scrub the fragments of memory back into place.

“A lot of shit, man,” Kenny says, looking back out the window as he smokes. “Shit about how Stan’ll never fuck Kyle because he pretends to be a perfect little momma’s boy, or something. Tweek - that, well. You told him that he drove you off with his issues, basically sayin’ he was too much to handle. You were just being a complete piece of shit, man. Told Butters no one even wanted him there, which is absolutely not true.” Kenny cuts a sharp look at him.

Craig presses the heel of his palms into his eyes, trying to alleviate the ache within.

“What did I say to you?”

Kenny stays quiet for a moment, as is contemplating how to answer. Finally, he sighs heavily before taking a drag on his cigarette.

“You were really fucked up on coke, dude. Like, rambling and not making a whole lotta sense at the time. But, I guess… you told me I was a parasite and implied I had some kind of hero-martyr complex, which, to be fair, you’re not wrong, I guess. Just… not the kind of thing you throw in a friends face, you know?”

Shame coils hot in Craig’s gut, settling like a weight that drags down every breath he takes.

There’s no smirk, no offhanded joke to ease the tension. Instead, Kenny looks tired - older than he should, his eyes shadowed in a way that unsettles Craig.

“That wasn’t all, man,” Kenny says, his voice low and flat.

The quiet finality in his tone makes Craig’s stomach twist harder. His throat goes dry, every muscle stiffening as his mind scrambles for what else he’s forgotten, what other ugly truth is waiting to be dragged into the light.

“What else?” Craig forces the words out as if bracing for impact.

“You kissed me.”

Craig freezes. His hands drop from his face, his eyes snapping wide as if the words alone burned.

“I - what?”

“You were fucked up,” Kenny says firmly. “And hurting. You didn’t know what you were doing. I stopped you before it could go anywhere. But I need you to know it happened.”

Craig presses his hands to his face, eyes burning. The shame lands heavy, sharp, coiling through his gut until it feels like it might split him open from the inside.

“It’s not the kiss I’m upset about,” Kenny says after a long pause, his voice softer now, smoke curling from the cigarette still smoldering between his fingers.

Craig lowers his hands slowly, dragging them down over his face as if peeling away the skin might make him someone else. His gaze flickers up, full of dread, his throat working before he forces the words out.

“Then what?”

Kenny’s voice drops lower, carrying the blunt edge of truth. “You tried to fight me, after. You kept telling me to hit you. Said you deserved it. Begged me to do it, like it would balance something out.”

Craig’s breath catches mid-inhale. His stomach flips, a sick lurch that makes his skin crawl. He shakes his head faintly, as though denial alone could erase the words.

“I didn’t hit you, Craig,” Kenny says, exhaling smoke that drifts between them. “You swung, and I let you. Over and over. Until you either got tired or realized I wasn’t going to break you the way you wanted.” His tone is flat, but the tightness around his mouth betrays the strain.

Craig stares at him, pale and horrified, his chest aching with the memory he can’t find.

“I know you don’t remember,” Kenny continues, leaning back slightly, his expression grave. “But I need you to know how bad it got. How far you pushed it.”

Craig turns his face toward the window, unable to meet his gaze any longer. His reflection stares back at him in the fogged glass - blurred, warped, foreign.

 “Why didn’t you stop me?” His voice cracks on the last word.

“Because you were looking for a wall to crash into,” Kenny says quietly. “And if it wasn’t me, it would’ve been yourself. Or worse. I wasn’t gonna give you that.”

Craig bites down hard, his jaw clenched tight, locking everything inside. His shoulders hunch inward, bracing himself against the weight of Kenny’s words, refusing to give anything away.

“I’m not saying it was okay,” Kenny adds after a beat, his eyes narrowing, his voice carrying the weight of something final. “It really fucking wasn’t. But I wasn’t about to destroy you just because you wanted me to.”

Craig’s voice escapes in a whisper, thin and frayed. “You should’ve hit me.”

Kenny exhales, slow and measured. The smoke from his half-burned cigarette drifts in front of his face, curling into the stagnant air of the car. His voice is quiet when he finally speaks.

“I don’t hurt the people I love, man. Even when they ask me to.”

Craig turns his head slowly, eyes red-rimmed and narrowed, unsure whether to laugh or cry.

“You love me?”

Kenny gives him a long look - tired and sincere. The kind of honesty Craig has always hated because it leaves him nowhere to run.

“Don’t be stupid, Craig. Of course I do.” Kenny shrugs like it's obvious. “You’re my best friend.”

The words hit Craig deeper than he expects, burrowing into a place he’s spent years boarding up. He blinks once, then again, the sting behind his eyes not from tears but from exhaustion, from the weight of hearing something he didn’t realize he needed.

He searches Kenny’s face for irony, for discomfort, for anything to make it easier to dismiss - but he finds none. Just Kenny, calm and cool in the haze of smoke, looking back at him without flinching.

It lands with the weight of shared history: of years spent in the same orbit, late-night escapes, bruises covered in the school bathroom, silent companionship that outlasted everything else.

Not an admission of longing, but one of loyalty.

A recognition of chosen brotherhood forged in the quiet spaces where no one else looked.

From behind the seat, Kenny pulls a half-empty water bottle. He twists the cap and hands it over without comment. The plastic crinkles faintly in his roughened palm.

Craig drinks slowly, each swallow rough, the lukewarm water dragging down his parched throat. His stomach clenches at the taste, but it steadies him, pulling him inch by inch back into his body. 

Kenny leans back into the seat, watching him quietly, his own face shadowed by exhaustion. The smoke from his cigarette still lingers faintly, weaving into the stale scent of whiskey and sweat that clings to the car.

“I’m leaving South Park tomorrow. I can’t stay here anymore.”

Craig’s head snaps up, eyes narrowing. “What? Tomorrow?” 

“Yeah. I’ve been planning it for a while. Just… waiting for the right time. And after last night - after everything? I can’t keep doing this.”

The words hit Craig like another blow, knocking the air from his lungs. His fingers tighten around the water bottle until the plastic warps under his grip. “So that’s it? You’re just - gone?”

Kenny exhales, his gaze soft. “Not gone. Just… somewhere else. I need to try and make something different of myself, Craig. If I don’t, I'm going to die here. This place is going to kill me.”

Craig shakes his head slowly, breath coming uneven. His throat aches like there’s fingers pressed against his windpipe.

“You can’t just leave - ” The protest breaks halfway. “Not now. Not when - ” He cuts himself off, jaw tight, unable to finish.

Kenny doesn’t push him. He just watches, letting the silence stretch heavy between them. He leans back against the seat, arms loose but posture tense, eyes fixed on Craig like he’s waiting for him to break the silence first.

But Craig sits there, shaking, rage and hurt colliding with the hollow fear of being left behind again.

Finally, Kenny leans forward, his tone firm but not unkind. “I need you to take care of yourself, man. I’ve been enabling your bullshit for too long - standing by while you spiral, letting you drag yourself lower and lower. I can’t keep doing that.”

Craig’s jaw tightens. “So what, you’re just gonna bail and leave me here to rot?”

“I’m not bailing,” Kenny says, steady but sharp. “I’m telling you I can’t keep propping you up while you tear yourself apart. You’ve got to stand on your own legs, Craig. Because if you don’t - ” He stops, shakes his head once, slow. “ - if you don’t, no one else can do it for you.”

Kenny leans back, running a hand through his messy hair, his voice lowering.

“You need to start with the basics, man. Get some sleep. Fucking eat something. Take care of your body and talk to people instead of shutting them out and treating them like shit. With me outta the picture, I won't be around to keep enabling you, and you’re gonna have to grow eventually.”

Craig lets out a short, bitter laugh. “Eat, sleep, talk. You make it sound like I’m some broken-ass plant you forgot to water.” His tone is sharp, but his eyes won’t meet Kenny’s.

“I’m serious,” Kenny says, leaning forward.

“And what - suddenly I’m supposed to turn into Mr. Well-Adjusted just because you’re skipping town?”

“Not suddenly,” Kenny replies. “But you’ve gotta try."

Craig’s eyes flick away, his expression unreadable, but his shoulders tense.

“And you’ve gotta make things right with them,” Kenny continues, his tone firm. “With the people who’ve been trying to stand by you even when you push them off and hurt them. You owe it to them. You need to apologize, Craig. To Tweek and to Kyle. You need to show them you can be better than this.”

Craig scoffs, shaking his head. “Why the hell should I care what anyone thinks of me, anymore?” His voice is sharp and defensive like he's grasping at excuses.

Kenny’s expression hardens, his voice dropping into something heavier, more final.

“Because if you don’t do this - if you keep acting like none of it matters - then you’re not the person I thought you were. You’re my brother in everything but blood, Craig, and I’ve always defended you. But if you can’t make things right with them - if you can’t even try - then I don’t know if I can forgive you for that.”

The words slam into Craig, cutting deeper than any insult ever could. 

He stares at Kenny, searching desperately for a smirk, some sign he’s exaggerating, anything that would let him shrug it off.

But there’s only the hard, unflinching weight of truth in Kenny’s eyes.

Kyle comes to slowly, surfacing from a haze of fragmented dreams and darkness.

The first thing he registers is the florescent brightness - the kind of white light that hums against eyelids and refuses to let you sleep again. The second is pain: a deep, bruising ache that seems to pulse from the center of his chest outward, making each breath feel like it drags over gravel.

When his eyes finally crack open, the ceiling tiles blur in and out of focus. His throat is dry. There’s the distant beep of a monitor, steady but irritating, and the faint rustle of fabric as a nurse moves past beyond the curtain pulled halfway around his bed.

Before he can piece anything else together, a hand finds his hair, fingers soft as they brush through his curls. His mother’s face hovers instantly in his field of vision.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Sheila whispers, her voice breaking as she leans closer. “You’re awake.”

She keeps petting his hair, careful not to jostle him, the motion rhythmic and soothing. Her other hand clasps his, thumb stroking across his knuckles.

He shifts slightly, and a sharp lance of pain cuts across his torso. He hisses, immediately regretting the motion. His dad’s hand is there too, steady against his arm, holding him still.

“Easy, bud. Don’t move too much.” Gerald’s voice is firm but gentle.

Kyle’s hand drifts up instinctively, pressing against the angry bruise carved across his chest by the seatbelt. He can tell it’s swollen and sore beneath his shirt, spreading across skin already marked by shallow cuts and scratches from shattered glass.

His left arm is wrapped in stitches and bandages, the short sleeve of his shirt rolled up to keep them clear. Spots of dried blood stain his top and pants, caked beneath his nails and crusted on his skin. Around his head, gauze has been wound snugly to hold a pad in place against the side of his skull.

His brow furrows as awareness creeps in. The fragments of memory - the headlights, the scream of tires, the violent snap of the seatbelt - slot together into a jagged picture.

He knows the crash happened.

He knows that’s why he’s here.

But he doesn’t know how bad it was.

Kyle swallows hard, voice rough.

"How bad was it?” His eyes flicker between them, searching their faces for the truth he’s half afraid to hear. “Is everyone… did anyone else - ” His throat closes up. “Please just tell me.”

Kyle’s parents exchange a look over him - one that cracks with fear and grief. Another presence shifts at the foot of the bed: Ike, sitting in one of the chairs, his posture tense. 

Sheila’s hand trembles slightly in Kyle’s hair as she tries to keep her voice calm. “Sweetheart, you’re okay. That’s what matters right now. Let’s just… focus on that.”

Kyle shakes his head, panic climbing in his chest.

“No. No, don’t do that. I need to know.” His voice rises. “Is Stan okay? Where are the others? Are they okay?!”

Gerald stiffens, swallowing thickly as though the words refuse to come out. Sheila’s eyes glisten, her touch faltering as she leans closer, caught between shielding him and telling him the truth he’s demanding.

The heart monitor beside him begins to accelerate, beeping sharp and fast in time with the panic clawing through his chest. Kyle tries to push himself upright, wincing as the seatbelt bruise flares hot across his ribs. His mother immediately lays a hand against his shoulder, gently pressing him back down.

“Easy, baby, don’t - please don’t move like that,” she whispers, tears trembling in her voice.

But Kyle’s eyes are welling, fury and fear mixing until his whole face trembles.

“Stop it - stop dodging me! I need to know!” His words break, but he forces them louder, raw. “Is everyone okay? Where is Stan? Tell me what happened!”

His mother’s face crumples. She leans closer, brushing her hand across his curls as though she could protect him from the truth.

“Stan’s in surgery right now,” she says softly, each word weighted and careful. “He… he got hurt pretty badly. We don’t know much more than that yet.”

Kyle’s breath shudders, a sob catching in his throat as hot tears slide down his temples. He clenches the blanket in his fists, refusing to let go. “And the others? Clyde - Bebe - what about them?”

Sheila’s lips part, but no sound comes. Her eyes brim, throat working helplessly as she falters. She can’t force the words out.

It’s Gerald who finally answers.

“Son… they didn’t make it.”

Kyle shakes his head violently, as though he can undo the words if he refuses them hard enough.

“No… no, no, no,” he sobs, curling onto his side despite the pain in his chest, folding in on himself as though he might vanish into the thin hospital blanket. His shoulders heave, his cries raw and unrestrained, filling the small observation bay with grief too big for the walls to hold.

Sheila leans over him at once, gathering him close, her hand stroking through his curls even as her own tears spill freely.

“Shh, my baby boy, I’ve got you. I’m right here,” she whispers, her words breaking as she rocks him gently, trying to soothe the inconsolable.

Gerald stands by the bed, his own face stricken, hands tightening into fists before falling uselessly to his sides.

Ike slips off the chair and edges closer, climbing carefully onto the bed despite Sheila’s startled protest. He curls himself against Kyle’s back, his arms wrapping tight around his brother like he can shield him from the pain.

Kyle trembles under the weight of both his mother and Ike’s embrace, grief pouring out of him in waves.

After a long moment, Gerald clears his throat, his voice low and unsteady. “I’m - I’m going to go let them know Kyle’s awake.”

Gerald lingers a moment longer, torn, his gaze fixed on his sons - one broken open with sobs, the other clinging fiercely to him - before forcing himself past the curtain, leaving Kyle surrounded by his mother’s arms and Ike’s strong, desperate hold.

Time passes in a blur of light and muted footsteps. Gerald makes his way to the waiting room, his face lined with strain as he tells the gathered friends that Kyle is awake.

Tolkien lets out a shaky breath, Wendy presses her face into Heidi’s shoulder, Nichole grabs Tolkien in relief, and Jimmy exhales like he’s been holding his lungs tight for hours. Tweek hovers near the back, wide-eyed and trembling, but even he looks steadier hearing the words.

There are quiet gasps, teary relief, and soft embraces exchanged, a ripple of hope moving through the group as the weight of waiting eases for a moment.

He stays only a little while, enough to reassure them, before returning down the hall toward the observation unit.

When he returns to Kyle’s bedside, Gerald pushes through the curtain , his shoulders heavy but his presence steadier for having shared the news.

He’s barely settled into the chair beside his son when the sharp buzz of his phone rattles in his pocket, startling him. He fishes it out, glances at the caller ID, and sees Randy Marsh’s name glowing on the screen.

His chest tightens as he answers.

“Randy?” Gerald’s voice is hoarse.

On the other end, Randy exhales shakily. “He’s out of surgery, Gerald. Stan’s out. He made it through.” His voice wavers, thick with relief and exhaustion. “The doctors say it’ll be a long recovery, but… he’s stable.”

Gerald leans back against the chair, his eyes squeezing shut as the tension in his body loosens just a fraction. He lets out a slow, heavy breath, one hand gripping the phone tighter as though holding onto the words themselves.

“Thank God,” he murmurs. “Thank God.”

Kyle stirs at the sound his own eyes wide and desperate. “What? What did he say? Dad - what did he say?!”

Gerald looks at him, the weight of both grief and relief etched into his features. He swallows, then repeats softly, “Stan’s out of surgery. He made it through and he’s stable."

“I need to see him,” Kyle rasps, his voice hoarse but blazing with raw resolve.

His parents react instantly. Sheila presses him down with trembling hands, her face crumpled with panic.

“No, honey, you need to stay still,” she pleads, tears shining in her eyes. “You’re not strong enough to be up - please, just stay here. Just rest, baby.”

But Kyle shoves her hands away, rage flaring hot in his chest, his breaths coming fast and shallow.

“Don’t tell me to just lie here while he’s back there. I need to see him.” His voice cracks but rises again, louder, fiercer. Kyle rips the pulse oximeter from his finger and strips the blood pressure cuff off in one sharp motion, alarms shrieking to life around them, red lights flashing on the monitor. The sound pierces the small room, a warning no one can ignore. “I’m not going to sit here doing nothing.”

“Kyle, stop - ” Gerald’s voice breaks as he reaches out, his hand brushing his son’s arm, but Kyle twists free, his pale face wet with fresh tears. The frustration and desperation in his features cut through Gerald like a knife.

“I’m a legal adult,” Kyle snaps, breath ragged and body trembling with fury, every word scraped raw. “I can make my own medical decisions. And right now, I’m deciding I need to see my best friend.”

Kyle’s legs wobble dangerously as he swings off the bed, knees nearly buckling under the weight of his own body. His bare feet slap against the cold linoleum and Ike rushes forward, hands out to catch him, his face pale with fear.

But Kyle barrels through the curtain anyway, ignoring the sting in his temples, the way the hallway light stabs at his eyes, and his parents’ frantic voices crying after him.

Each step is shaky, his balance uneven, but sheer force of will drives him on. He grips the wall with one hand, his knuckles white, dragging himself forward. The hallway stretches out endlessly before him, sterile and harsh under the fluorescent glow.

His chest heaves with pain, his ribs burning with every breath, but he doesn’t stop. Determination and terror fuse inside him, carrying his weakened body onward, step by step, toward where he knows he has to be.

The sign for the surgery waiting room looms like a beacon, harsh and unwelcoming. Kyle pushes through the door with every ounce of strength he has left. His body screams at him to stop - his ribs ache with each breath, his legs threaten to give beneath him - but sheer determination carries him forward.

“Where is he? I need to see Stan Marsh,” Kyle demands, stumbling toward the receptionist’s desk.

The receptionist takes in his appearance. “I’m sorry, it’s only family right now - ”

“Look at me!” Kyle shouts, slamming his palm down on the counter, the sound reverberating through the quiet room. The force sends another jolt of pain through his chest, but he doesn’t flinch.

His tears roll down unchecked, his voice cracked and raw, breaking on every word.

“We were in the same car crash together. Two of our friends are dead. I need to see him. Please let me see him!” The desperation in his tone slices through every ear in the room, echoing long after the words leave him, as though his grief itself has carved into the walls.

The receptionist falters, then lifts the phone with a weighted sigh. She speaks quickly into the receiver, her eyes flicking toward Kyle’s shaking form as though she isn’t sure if he’ll collapse or become violent. After a tense beat, she sets the phone down and nods gently, her tone softer than before.

“Stan’s parents have given approval for him to be seen.”

The heavy double doors open, and Sharon Marsh steps out, her face pale and drawn.

She carries herself with the fragility of someone who has not slept, shoulders bowed beneath the weight of fear she’s been forced to endure all night. Her eyes are swollen, her hands restless at her sides as though she doesn’t know what to do with them.

She walks toward Kyle slowly, her expression shifting when she sees him standing there trembling, blood-stained and barefoot in the middle of the room.

“He isn’t awake yet,” she says softly, her voice heavy but steady with effort. “The surgery went as well as it could have, but he needs rest.” Her words seem to steady the space around them, even as her eyes shine with tears she’s refusing to shed in front of him.

Kyle’s lips tremble, his whole body shivering from exhaustion, grief, and fury barely held together.

“How bad is it?” he chokes out, his voice breaking on the question. “Please - just tell me how bad he was hurt. Don’t - don’t hide it from me.”

For a moment Sharon can’t speak. Her lips part, her throat works, but the words won’t come. Instead she closes the distance, her arms opening as she reaches for him.

Kyle falls into her embrace with the weight of someone finally crumbling, his fists twisting in the fabric of her shirt as if it is the only thing keeping him upright. His body folds into hers with a desperation that feels bottomless, the sobs tearing through him like they’ve been waiting for hours to escape.

His sobs are violent, unrestrained, shaking them both, his breath hot against her shoulder. Sharon braces her feet and rocks him gently in her arms. Her own tears slip free, sliding down her cheeks as she presses her face into his hair, breathing in the smell of smoke, blood, and antiseptic still clinging to him.

Her voice is broken but sure as she whispers, again and again, “He’s still here, Kyle. He’s still here.” Each repetition steadies her as much as it steadies him.

After a long while, Sharon eases her hold, brushing his curls back with trembling fingers, her thumb lingering on his temple.

“Sweetheart… you should head back to your room. You need rest.” Her tone is gentle but insistent, the kind of voice used when reason and love are all that’s left to give.

Kyle sniffles hard, pulling back with his shoulders squared. His face is blotchy, streaked with tears, but his eyes are fierce.

“I’ll go back,” he says, the words clipped. Then after a beat he adds, defiant, “But only to sign myself out.”

Sharon gives his arm one last squeeze before letting him go, her eyes shining with both fear and reluctant understanding.

Kyle turns away, his steps unsteady as he leaves her.

By the time he pushes past the curtain into his bay, the room spinning faintly around him. 

His RN - a weary, hollow-eyed man with a clipboard in hand - meets him at the bedside. The nurse studies him for a moment, taking in the swaying stance, the gauze wrapped around his head, the blood still on his clothes.

“I want to leave. AMA.” Kyle’s voice is rough but steady, the words cutting through the dizzy hum in his skull.

“You want to leave against medical advice?” he asks, his tone heavy with fatigue but edged with concern. “With a concussion like this, you really should stay at least stay a little longer. The risk - ”

“I don’t care,” Kyle snaps. “I need to be there for Stan. I’m not sitting in here while he’s alone.”

The nurse sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ll inform your doctor. If you’re set on this, I’ll get the paperwork. But I strongly advise you stay.”

Kyle doesn’t answer, his glare fixed on the wall until the forms are placed in front of him. His parents hover, Sheila pleading softly, Gerald trying to reason with him, but Kyle only shakes his head. “I’m eighteen. I get to decide. And I’ve decided.”

He scrawls his signature across the AMA form with shaking hands, the pen digging hard into the paper. The moment it’s done, he rips the copy free and heads out of the unit, his parent’s hot on his heels.

In the ED waiting area, the group waiting for updates looks up all at once when Kyle appears. Wendy is the first to react, bolting from her chair to fling herself into Kyle’s arms.

“Oh my God, Kyle,” she breathes against his shoulder, her words breaking with relief. “You’re okay.”

One by one, the others join - Heidi and Nichole clinging close, whispering shakily that they’d been so scared, while Jimmy rests a a gentle hand on his back.

Tolkien pulls him into a firm grip, muttering, “Don’t you ever do that again, man.”

Tweek hangs back for a moment, hands twitching at his sides, before finally leaning in.

They form a circle of teary embraces around Kyle. Their faces streaked and tired, every expression worn down by hours of grief. For a moment there is warmth in the closeness, a fragile unity in sorrow, the kind that doesn’t erase the pain but makes it feel a little less impossible to bear.

“I signed out AMA,” Kyle tells them, his voice hoarse and gravelly. “I’m going to the surgery waiting room. I need to be there for Stan.”

The words hang heavy in the air, and for a moment it looks like someone might argue - but no one does.

Together they fall in line, filing quietly down the hall as if tethered by an invisible cord. The silence between them is not empty but heavy, each of them lost in their own looping thoughts of last night, replaying it like a tape that won’t stop.

Kyle’s gait is stiff and uneven, his bandaged arm pressed against his ribs as if holding himself together. His parents hover close, watchful, their faces drawn with tension.

When they finally reach the surgery waiting area, Kyle sinks heavily into a chair. Sheila sits on one side of him, Gerald on the other, each parent close enough to steady him if he falters.

The others spread out around them, forming a protective circle in the rows of hard plastic chairs. The atmosphere is quieter than the chaos of the ED but heavier, every breath steeped in anticipation. The muted hum of vending machines and the distant ring of a phone at the reception desk only amplify the silence.

For a while, they speak in low voices, comforting each other, recounting fragments of the night like puzzle shards they keep turning over, trying to fit them into something whole.

Nichole murmurs about Clyde’s laugh, Heidi nods through tears as she remembers Bebe pulling her into the photo booth at the party, Wendy shares how Stan had smiled at her across the yard just hours before the crash. Jimmy comments, sadly, just how fast the night changed for them all.

The words trail off into silence again, the weight of absence sharper with every memory spoken aloud.

Kyle leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, his head cradled in his hands. His voice emerges muffled but firm, driven by a sudden awareness that someone important is missing.

“Kenny’s not here.” Kyle says as he looks up, scanning each tired face around him. “Where is he? Has anyone heard from him?”

The others exchange uneasy glances before Tolkien finally answers. He shakes his head, leaning back in his chair with a grimace, his shoulders slumped under invisible weight.

“Nope. He hasn’t answered any of my texts or calls. Probably passed out in some girl’s bed right now.” He tries for a wry smile, the kind that doesn’t reach his eyes, but it cracks some of the tension.

A weak laugh slips from Kyle despite the tears threatening at the corners of his eyes, a short-lived reprieve from the grief pressing in on all of them. The sound is fragile and ready to crack, but it eases the tension in the room for a fleeting second.

Wendy leans against Heidi’s shoulder, shaking her head with a tiny smile that doesn’t last, and Tolkien exhales as if even that moment gives them something to hold onto.

Kyle wipes roughly at his face, the heel of his palm catching against flecks of dried blood. He winces but doesn’t stop, forcing out a choked laugh through the tears, shaking his head as though trying to push the weight away.

“Yeah… sounds like him. Classic Kenny,” he mutters, voice rough and thin.

The moment of humor is small, fragile, but it flickers through them like the briefest reprieve, a spark in the darkness that dies almost as quickly as it came. The silence that follows feels even heavier, as though the walls themselves are absorbing their exhaustion.

Then Tweek’s voice cuts in, jittery and raw, his knee bouncing uncontrollably as his fingers twist tighter and tighter at the hem of his sleeve.

“Craig hasn’t responded to anything either,” he blurts. The syllables stumble over each other, pushed out with nervous urgency. “I’ve called him, I’ve texted - like, a dozen times - and nothing. No answer. Not even a read receipt.”

The confession lands heavy, dragging them back into silence.

Each person feels it differently - some with fear, others with frustration - but none of them can shake the gnawing sense that the world is tilting further off balance.

Tolkien runs a hand over his face, muttering a curse under his breath.

Kyle’s expression tightens, jaw flexing as though he’s swallowing words he doesn’t want to say.

Hours pass.

The lights overhead never change, and the weight of time drags heavy in their bones.

Every cough down the hall, every squeak of rubber soles against linoleum feels amplified in the tense stillness.

It’s nearly noon when Sharon Marsh reappears, her face weary, her eyes puffy from hours of holding herself together. She wipes at her cheeks quickly before stepping into the waiting room. The moment she enters, everyone rises to their feet, expectant, their bodies taut with fear and hope.

“He’s awake,” Sharon says softly. Her voice wavers, like she’s trying to steady herself against a tide that keeps pulling.

She clasps her arms across her chest, rubbing her elbows as if to warm herself, and hesitates a long beat before going on.

“Listen… before you go in, you should be prepared.” Sharon’s voice is low, weighted with exhaustion and grief. Her gaze flickers from face to face, lingering on Kyle, on Wendy. “Stan’s right femur is broken. And - ” she swallows hard, her voice catching, “ - the car frame went straight through his chest and shoulder. It… it nearly took his arm off.” She shakes her head, blinking against fresh tears. “The surgeons worked for hours. They were able to re-attach everything, but it’s going to take time. They saved the arm, but it’ll be fragile for a long while.”

The words settle heavy like lead, pressing into all of them until the silence feels suffocating.

Wendy clamps a hand over her mouth, eyes swimming, shoulders shaking as she tries to hold herself together.

Tolkien mutters a curse and turns away, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle twitches near his temple. His fists tighten at his sides, and for a moment he looks like he wants to punch the wall just to have somewhere to put the fury and helplessness burning in his chest.

Heidi leans into Nichole, who immediately wraps an arm around her.

Kyle grips the arm of the chair so hard his knuckles blanch, the blood draining from his face. His heart pounds in his throat, breath catching like it doesn’t know whether to sob or rage.

Beside him, Tweek looks like a trapped animal, every muscle screaming flight, though he doesn’t move.

When they finally step into Stan’s room, the truth becomes unavoidable.

Stan's right leg is immobilized in traction, thick bandaging and a brace holding the broken femur steady beneath the blanket. His right arm and shoulder are bound tight in gauze and heavy wrappings, surgical lines stitching his torso together in long, angry seams. The swell of bruising creeps up his neck, discolored and raw, and his face is ghost-pale against the white pillow.

Machines beep steadily, filling the silence with their cold reassurance. The room feels frozen in time, every sound magnified, every movement careful, as though even breathing too loudly might undo the fragile thread holding Stan together.

Stan stirs when they enter, his eyes heavy and clouded but finding them.

Kyle moves forward first, his steps uneven, his voice hoarse, breaking as it leaves his throat.

“Hey, dude…”

Stan forces a weak smile, his face pale, lips cracked and dry. Even in his fragile state he manages to whisper back, “Hey.”

The sound is barely there, a thread of voice frayed at the edges, but it’s enough to close the distance between them.

Kyle can’t stop himself - his hand lifts slowly, trembling, until his fingertips brush gently against Stan’s cheek.

Stan doesn’t flinch; he leans faintly into the touch, his bruised skin warm beneath Kyle’s hand. Their eyes lock together, both pairs red-rimmed, and in that look is everything they’ve been through: the crash, the fear, and every year of friendship that’s bound them tight enough to survive this moment.

“Are you alright?” Stan rasps after a long moment, his voice raw with effort, each word dragging against his throat like sandpaper.

Kyle nods quickly, though the tears spilling down his cheeks betray him.

“Yeah, yeah - just some minor bumps and cuts,” he says, the words tumbling out too fast, too insistent, like if he repeats them enough they’ll become true.

Stan’s gaze drifts downward, his bleary eyes catching the thick, angry line of stitches running jagged along Kyle’s forearm. His brow lifts, a faint, incredulous look breaking through his exhaustion.

“That doesn’t look minor.”

Kyle shakes his head, his voice breaking around the edges as he answers, “I’m alright, man. I’m alright.” His thumb presses a little harder against Stan’s cheek, as if holding him there will comfort them both.

For a long, quiet moment, they just stare at each other.

The chaos of the hospital - the shuffling nurses, the beeping monitors, the distant murmur of voices - fades away, leaving only the pounding of their hearts and the closeness of their shared breath.

Stan’s lips twitch into a watery smile, the faintest curve that still carries the weight of a promise.

“Good.”

Kyle leans forward then, careful and slow, until the sides of their faces press together - temple to temple, cheek to cheek, their skin hot with tears. Stan’s breath shudders against him, and Kyle feels the crusted blood along his own hairline smear faintly where they touch.

The contact is messy, damp, and trembling, but it is real - the closest thing to a hug Stan’s battered body can allow, and in that fragile closeness both of them finally breathe.

Kyle closes his eyes tightly, the warmth of Stan’s skin grounding him in a way nothing else has since the crash. His own tears slide down in a stream, soaking into Stan’s hair as they breathe together in silence.

Stan exhales shakily, his uninjured hand curling weakly into Kyle’s sleeve, clutching it like a lifeline. For a long moment they just stay like that, holding on in the only way they can.

The others linger close, their eyes wet, caught between wanting to stay and not daring to intrude further.

Tolkien clears his throat softly, breaking the silence. His voice is steady but weighted with emotion.

“We’re all here for you, man - for both of you. You don’t have to go through this alone.” He steps forward, placing a reassuring hand on Kyle’s shoulder. His eyes are rimmed red, but his calm presence steadies the group.

After a beat, he gently ushers them toward the door, murmuring that Stan and Kyle need a little space right now.

Wendy hesitates, brushing her thumb across her wet cheek as if to wipe away the moment she’s reluctant to leave.

They leave reluctantly, shuffling out one by one.

When Tweek glances back over his shoulder before stepping out, his breath catches at the sight: Kyle sitting on the edge of Stan’s bed, their foreheads pressed together. Kyle’s hand cradling the side of Stan’s face like something fragile he refuses to let go.

The sight burns into him, searing and painful in its tenderness, and he carries it with him into the hall.

Out in the hallway, Sharon waits for them.

Her expression is weary but kind, etched with the lines of too many tears and too little sleep. Just a few feet away, Randy sits slumped in one of the hard plastic chairs, elbows on his knees, his face buried in his hands. He doesn’t look up when they file out, only drags a hand down over his face like he’s trying to wipe away the hours, his shoulders sagging beneath invisible weight.

“You should all head home,” Sharon says softly, her voice carrying a gentle finality. “Rest up and take care of yourselves. Stan’s stable now, and he’s going to be alright. And so is Kyle. There’s no use hanging around, waiting on them. They’ll need time - and so will you.”

Her words fall over them like a blanket, heavy but warm.

The group drifts into silence, Sharon’s words settling into their bones, offering them the first fragile permission to step back, to breathe, and to begin the slow, painful work of carrying on.

The McCormick luck is the same as ever - Kenny retraces his steps and realizes his phone must’ve slipped out of his pocket somewhere during the playful wrestling on Bebe’s lawn.

He figures if anyone picked it up, it’d be Butters. The kid’s careful like that. Always tidying up after other people’s wreckage, even when no one asked him to.

He walks the cracked sidewalk up to the Stotch house and scans the driveway first thing - no cars. Good. Safe. He doesn’t want to deal with Butters’ parents. Not today.

The house looks the way it always does: blinds perfectly straight, flowers clipped to identical heights, porch swept clean. Eerie in its perfection, like the whole place might collapse if a single magazine was out of place on the coffee table. Even the air seems stiller here, as if sound itself might disturb the carefully pressed order.

Kenny raps his knuckles against the door. The knock echoes too loud in the quiet neighborhood, the sound bouncing off the siding.

A shuffle comes from inside, hesitant, before the hinges creak. Butters peers out, his posture tense, shoulders rising toward his ears.

“K-Kenny?” His eyes widen, a quick flicker of surprise and nervousness, like he’d been expecting anyone else but him. “What’re you doin’ here?”

“Think I left my phone at the party,” Kenny says, voice rough from cigarettes and hangover, words scratching out of his throat. “I think I left it somewhere on the lawn. Figured I'd stop here first to see if you might’ve picked it up, before I head all the way over to Bebe's.”

Butters hesitates, teeth worrying at his lip before he nods. “Oh - uh - y-yeah. Yeah, I did.” He opens the door wider, still tentative, like he’s not sure Kenny really belongs here. “You c-can come in, if you want.”

Inside, the air is clean and silent, a sharp contrast to everything Kenny has ever known.

The living room looks staged, like a furniture catalog - couch cushions too stiff, carpet vacuum lines still perfect, not a single mug or candle out of place. The light through the window gleams against glass surfaces, catching on the polished frames of family photos arranged at perfect angles.

Kenny feels grimy just standing in it, like his boots might stain the floor or the smoke on his jacket might cling to the spotless curtains. His awareness sharpens, every breath too loud, every shift of fabric drawing his attention.

He sticks his hands into his pockets, the weight of dirt under his nails suddenly noticeable, foreign in this pristine world.

Turning from the perfection of the room, Kenny makes eye contact with Butters, who stands nervously before him, wringing his fingers together.

That’s when he notices.

There’s a faint dusting shimmer across Butters’ eyelids that catches the light as he shifts his gaze. A translucent glitter, subtle but there - like a secret that slipped through the cracks of this sterile house.

Kenny tilts his head, blinking, the sight tugging at something unexpectedly soft in him.

Butters notices the glance and instantly stiffens. His hand flies to his face.

“Oh - oh god, I - ” Butters stammers, spinning toward the end table where a box of tissues sits ready, as if waiting for this exact emergency. “I forgot - I wasn’t thinkin’ - I’ll just, I’ll get it off - ” He scrubs furiously at his eyes, words tumbling out in a fluster. “It was just silly, I was foolin’ around, I - ”

“Hey,” Kenny cuts in, calm. He leans his hip against the arm of the couch, posture loose, watching him without judgment. “Relax. It looked good.”

Butters freezes mid-swipe. His ears go pink, then red, color rushing down his neck. He drops the tissue like it burned him, eyes darting away, searching for anywhere to land that isn’t Kenny’s face.

“Y-you’re just sayin’ that.”

Kenny shrugs, lips quirking in a half-smile, his tone easy but sincere.

“Nah. I mean it. It looked good on you.”

Butters fidgets, shoulders hunched, cheeks still glowing with heat.

Even after his frantic scrubbing, stubborn flecks of glitter cling to his lashes, catching the light when he shifts. His fingers twist at the hem of his shirt, tugging and releasing like he doesn’t know what else to do with his hands.

Kenny takes him in quietly - the blush creeping down his neck, the nervous flutter of his hands, the way he can’t hold eye contact for more than a second before darting his gaze away.

“Listen,” Kenny says after a beat, his voice cutting through the stillness, softer now than before. “If you ever need out - if it gets bad with your parents - you know my brother’s got that extra room at the shop. You’d have a place to crash and you wouldn’t have to explain a damn thing. You'd be safe there.”

Butters startles, his head jerking up. His mouth opens, then shuts again, his breath catching.

“Why are you tellin’ me that?” His voice is thin, edged with surprise, but beneath it there’s something else - a fragile flicker of hope he’s trying to hide.

Kenny exhales slowly, the sound rough in his throat, his gaze dropping to the spotless carpet like he can’t stand the weight of Butters’ wide eyes.

“Because I’m leaving tomorrow. Outta South Park. I can’t stay here anymore. Figured you should know you got options. You don’t gotta stay stuck in this house, man.”

The confusion on Butters’ face is instant and sharp. His lips part, words stumbling over themselves before they even form.

“Kenny… you don’t know, do you?”

Something tightens in Kenny’s chest, cold and sudden. He straightens a little, frowning.

“Know what?”

Butters swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. He hesitates, shifting on his feet, then without another word slips down the hall. The creak of his footsteps fades for a moment, leaving Kenny in the silence of the living room, stomach churning.

When Butters reappears, his hands are shaking. He’s holding Kenny’s phone, the lock screen faintly glowing against his palm like a shard of light in the spotless room. He carries it carefully, as if it’s too heavy for him alone.

He presses it into Kenny’s hand with both of his, lingering a beat too long before letting go. His wide eyes are glossy, his voice barely above a whisper.

“There was an accident last night,” Butters says, the words catching in his throat. His voice wavers like it’s too heavy to carry, like saying it out loud makes it more real.

Craig collapses into his bed, the springs creaking beneath his weight like an old groan.

He doesn’t bother to change out of his clothes; the stale stink of sweat, alcohol, and smoke clings to him like a second skin, but he’s too drained to care. His skull pounds with every faint noise drifting in from the outside world. His stomach is hollow and acidic, every muscle in his body aching as though he’s been wrung out.

He kicks half-heartedly at the twisted blanket near his feet before giving up and letting it lie there. All he wants is for the world to shut up, for everything to stop spinning and leave him in peace, if only for an hour.

His phone is dead, a black rectangle heavy in his pocket. With a low groan, he drags it out, the cracked case catching against his jeans. He fumbles with the cord on his nightstand until it clicks into place. The screen stays black, lifeless, and he lets it drop with a dull thud onto the table. Rolling onto his stomach, he buries his face into the pillow.

His breath is shallow, his eyes squeezed shut, the dull ache of dehydration carving deep behind them. For a while he drifts in that half-sleep limbo where thoughts dissolve into static.

Time slips by without meaning. Minutes, maybe longer. Then the phone begins to stir.

At first it’s one faint vibration, muffled by the wood of the nightstand. Then another. Then another. Each one more insistent and dragging him closer to consciousness. It builds steadily until, once enough charge pulls through, the flood bursts open.

The phone rattles violently against the surface, buzzing in relentless, staccato pulses. The screen flares to life in a strobing rhythm, lighting the dim room again and again, every flash stabbing into Craig’s sensitive eyes. With a hiss of annoyance, he rolls over, stretching an arm blindly across the cluttered surface, knocking aside an empty glass and a crumpled receipt.

He flips the phone over lazily, expecting something dumb: a group chat blowing up with jokes, or Clyde spamming memes like he always did when he was restless.

Instead his bleary eyes focus, sharpen, then freeze.

What greets Craig is not stupid distraction but panic.

His thumb halts mid-scroll.

Dozens of messages crowd the screen, most of them short and frantic, words tumbling into one another: Answer your phone. Call me back. Where are you? Pick up. Please. The missed calls are worse, stacked in merciless lines, filling the log: Tweek. Tolkien. Jimmy. Again. Again. Again. Names flashing like alarms, each one a demand for his attention.

His stomach plummets, bile threatening at the back of his throat, but his chest seizes with something worse - cowardice.

He doesn’t want this.

Not now.

Not with his head splitting, not with the room swaying every time he blinks.

He doesn’t want to know what those words mean. His first instinct is to hurl the phone away, bury his face back into the pillow, and convince himself it isn’t real.

Exasperated, he scrolls through the chaos, his pulse quickening with every name. His thumb hovers over Tweek’s thread, and for a moment he almost taps it. The preview alone is enough: rows of desperate texts, broken messages that look more like cries for help than anything else.

His breath falters. Then he jerks his hand away as though the screen burned him. Not him. Not yet. He can’t face Tweek’s words - not when his own chest already feels like it’s caving in.

With a bitter sigh, Craig drags his finger down to Tolkien’s name instead. It feels safer. Less personal.

He taps the call button and lifts the phone to his ear. The dial tone hums, long and merciless, stretching into eternity. He rolls onto his back, flinging an arm across his eyes to shield them from the harsh bar of afternoon sunlight sneaking through the blinds. His lips curl into a grimace of irritation, a flimsy mask against the unease gnawing at his gut.

When the line clicks and Tolkien answers, Craig doesn’t bother to soften his tone.

“What,” he mutters, flat and sharp, like the single word could wall him off from whatever truth is waiting.

On the other end, Tolkien’s voice comes low, steady, but Craig hears the fracture beneath it - the tightness, the controlled tremor of someone barely keeping it together.

“Craig…” His pause is heavy, his breath audible through the receiver. “There was a car crash last night. It’s bad.”

Craig’s eyes snap open to look up at his ceiling; dotted and speckled with glow in the dark stars.

The phone buzzes once more against his palm, still lit up with a flood of unread messages, as if the world itself refuses to let him keep pretending nothing has changed.

Chapter Text

The sky above is flawless, a hard and brilliant blue that stretches from horizon to horizon, pitiless in its brightness.

Sunlight cascades down the ridges of the mountains with a sharpness that makes the eyes ache, illuminating every rooftop, every blade of grass, as though mocking the grief gathered in its shadow.

Birds chatter in the distance, the cheerful notes carrying on air that feels unworthy of mourning. Every breeze that stirs the trees seems indifferent, moving forward as if nothing has changed.

It’s been four days since the accident.

Three since Stan left the hospital, his body stitched together, his movements stiff and careful.

Time has bent strangely since, stretching and folding in ways that make each minute feel both immediate and endless.

Inside the chapel, the brightness dies abruptly.

Heavy curtains dull the sun to muted slants of light that fall across pews polished by decades of weight. The air thickens, heavy with the fragrance of lilies and roses that line the altar in regimented symmetry, their whites and pinks arranged to soothe but succeeding only in suffocating.

The polished urns - two, side by side - rest at the center.

Bebe’s, Clyde’s.

Their gleaming surfaces catch the overhead light and reflect it coldly, a parody of the vitality they once held. Each glimmer feels obscene, an insult to the warmth that has been stripped from the room.

Above them, photographs are displayed on easels: school portraits chosen for their formality, polished and professional, but jarringly insufficient.

Bebe’s shows her mid-smile, posed against a bland studio backdrop, her vibrancy muted by the stillness of the shot.

Clyde’s portrait captures him in rigid posture, grinning obediently, the twinkle in his eye constrained by the conventions of the photographer’s lens. The glossy paper shines under the chapel lights, freezing them in time in a way that feels unnatural.

Those who knew and loved them find the images almost unbearable - not because they are unflattering, but because they are so unlike them.

Bebe had been a force to reckon with, dazzling and unstoppable, impossible to confine to a stiff smile in front of a neutral background.

Clyde was a complete goofball, alive with jokes and easy laughter, never still long enough for anything but a candid blur.

Both had filled space with volume and movement, the kind of presence that demanded notice even from across a crowded room.

To see them reduced to these static, perfect images is to see their wildness erased, their noise silenced, their heat compressed into something lifeless. 

Clyde's father sits closest to the altar, his body caved inward as though hollowed from the inside out. His hands rest inert in his lap, knuckles pale, his gaze fixed on the threadbare carpet.

He has known loss before - the death of his wife when Clyde was still a child - and now his son has been torn from him. Divorced from his second wife, solitary, there is no one left to absorb the shock alongside him.

His silence is louder than any wail, a stillness that reverberates.

Rows behind, Bebe’s mother sobs openly, her shoulders convulsing with the force of it. Wadded tissues collapse into pulp in her fists, her grief uncontrolled. Beside her, Bebe’s father encircles her shoulders in his arms, his own face pale and absent.

Each time a mourner leans close to murmur some attempt at comfort, his composure splinters, his voice breaking, unable to carry words in return.

The service itself passes like a dream dulled at its edges, unreal and cold.

Eulogies follow, meticulously written but profoundly inadequate.

When the final words fade, there is no release, no peace - only a silence thickened by the press of bodies unwilling to move, as though rising from their seats would mean admitting, finally, that everything is over.

The chapel doors open at last, and the sunlight outside slices through the gloom with an almost violent brightness, forcing mourners to squint against its glare.

The day outside is impossibly serene. Birds continue to chatter overhead, indifferent and insistent in their song, as if grief has no claim on them.

The air smells of pine and asphalt baking in the summer heat. 

They meet at Kyle’s house after the service, the weight of the funeral still clinging to their minds, pressing into their bones like a heaviness they cannot shake.

The air inside is muted and oppressive, the shades drawn halfway against the piercing brightness of the afternoon.

Shoes are scattered haphazardly at the door, jackets draped over chairs and banisters without thought, as though none of them had the will or energy to put them in their proper places.

They gather in the living room, the seven of them sinking into the old couch and along the carpeted floor. Shoulders brush together, knees press close, and yet the silence between them feels impossibly wide, cavernous, like the absence of their friends has stretched into the very air around them.

Stan sits stiffly, adjusting his injured leg with restless fingers, wincing when he shifts too quickly. His movements are clumsy, frustrated, but Wendy is there at his side, her fingers brushing his bangs aside when he hisses in pain, her presence quiet, her eyes rimmed red though she hasn’t let herself cry in front of the others.

Tolkien leans against the arm of the couch, arms folded tightly across his chest, his expression taut with a kind of quiet vigilance - as if by watching the room, by holding himself perfectly still, he can keep the pieces of their world from collapsing further. Nicole curls into him, her head against his shoulder, her body drawn small, her feet tucked gently under Wendy’s legs where she sits, seeking warmth in the closeness.

Jimmy, uncharacteristically subdued, stares blankly at the carpet, his gaze unfocused, vacant. The jokes and easy laughter that usually follow him everywhere have burned down to nothing, his spark dimmed to embers. Beside him, Heidi sits clutching a throw pillow to her chest, hugging it so tightly it looks as though she’s using it to hold herself together. Her eyes keep dropping toward the floor, her lip caught between her teeth as if she’s fighting to keep from unraveling completely.

The silence stretches on and on, each of them lost inside the same darkness, none willing to break it first. The room feels both too full and achingly empty, a gathering of bodies weighed down by everything missing, everything they cannot bring back.

When the knock comes at the door, none of them expect it.

Kyle freezes where he stands, his shoulders tense. He glances at Stan slouched into the couch, then back toward the door.

His hesitation is obvious, as though he’s bracing for another blow on a day already defined by them. He reaches for the knob, his hand hovering for a moment before he pulls it open.

Craig stands in the doorway.

His posture is stiff, his arms hanging awkwardly at his sides. His jaw is clenched, his gaze fixed downward as though the sight of the floor is easier to face than the eyes waiting for him.

There’s something unfamiliar in his expression, a vulnerability that is difficult to name until it settles into recognition: regret.

For a moment, Kyle simply stares, thrown off by the sight.

Craig doesn’t linger on the threshold. He steps inside, each movement cautious, as if walking into enemy ground. The soft scuff of his shoes seems loud in the unnatural quiet. 

The others glance toward him with guarded expressions but say nothing.

Craig clears his throat, the sound raw in the silence, and when he speaks his voice is flat, as though rehearsed, but underneath it trembles something rougher.

“I need to say something.” He pauses, his hand twitching restlessly against his side. “Kyle - I know we butt heads. We always have. But I never meant to hurt you the way I did. I’ve been… dealing with a lot, and I’ve been taking it out on people who didn’t deserve it. That wasn’t fair of me to hurt you like that. I'm sorry for what I said, and what I did.”

The apology hangs in the room like a thread stretched taut.

Kyle shifts. His arms remain folded across his chest, but the stance looks less like defiance now and more like armor, a shield against the force that is Craig.

His lips press tightly together as he studies Craig. His green eyes are sharp, searching, as though weighing every syllable for sincerity.

He exhales, long and controlled, before answering.

“Alright. I… I get it. I’ll accept it.” Kyle's words are measured, as if testing their stability before letting them go. There’s hesitation in them, but beneath that is a faint tremor of trust. He isn’t offering forgiveness, but he is leaving the door cracked for it, just enough to show he’s willing to try.

Craig nods once, a small dip of his head, and the tension in his shoulders loosens, just barely. His posture shifts - less rigid, less barricaded. 

Kyle's gaze flickers briefly toward Stan, an unspoken acknowledgment of how much more fragile everything could have been. Stan meets it, his jaw tightening, but he doesn’t speak. 

Kyle glances toward Tolkien and Jimmy, a silent check for their unspoken verdict, before turning back to Craig.

His voice is quieter now, softer than before.

“You wanna hang out here for a bit? We’re just… sitting around. It’s not much, but it’s better than being alone.”

Craig hesitates, the offer itself seeming to sting, to scrape at wounds he can’t cover. But then he nods, slow and deliberate.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’d like that.”

Craig moves further into the room, his presence subdued for someone usually so assured. He sinks to the floor at the edge of the couch, his body angled as though he isn’t certain he belongs there.

Tolkien gives a faint nod of acknowledgment, Jimmy offers a half-smile that feels warmer than it looks, and Stan watches Craig for a long beat before exhaling, settling back with the kind of weariness that signals he’ll let this moment stand.

Craig sits among them but slightly apart, his eyes drawn not to the floor but to the memories tugging at the edges of his mind. He doesn’t speak - he rarely does in moments like this - but he feels the shape of Clyde’s smile in his chest, the easy way it always appeared after some half-formed joke.

He remembers the bounce of Bebe’s curls at prom when she spun across the gym floor in her red dress, the color vivid in memory.

The silence stretches until Jimmy clears his throat, his voice quieter than usual.

“I-I keep thinking about the la-last time I talked to Clyde. He… he wa-wanted to borrow a list of jokes to memorize. Said he’d give-give them back the n-next day. I told him he better not lose them.” He forces a small laugh that cracks apart halfway. “Guess I’ll ne-never get them back now.”

Stan rubs at his face with the heel of his palm, wincing as his leg shifts. “Bebe was with me and Wendy at the park a couple weeks ago. We were just hanging out, and she leaned over and snatched my soda right out of my hand. Told me I should be glad she didn’t drink the whole thing.” He lets out a shaky breath, the corner of his mouth twitching upward before falling again. “She never asked. She just… took what she wanted.”

Wendy’s voice is soft. “That was Bebe. She filled every room she walked into. If she wanted something, she made it hers. And you didn’t even mind, because it was her.”

Nicole leans her head against Tolkien’s shoulder, murmuring, “I miss her laugh. She used to laugh so loud the teachers would glare at her, but she wouldn’t stop.”

Kyle looks down at his hands, fiddling with the hem of his sleeve. “Clyde texted me the night before… just some dumb meme. It was stupid, and it still made me laugh. He never knew when he was helping, but he did. Even with dumb jokes.”

Tolkien clears his throat. “Clyde always tried to tag along when I stayed late for band. He couldn’t play a note, but he’d carry cases for people just to hang out. Said it made him feel useful.” He shakes his head, smiling faintly. “He was useful. More than he ever knew.”

Wendy swallows, adding softly, “Bebe told me she wanted to go shopping again before summer ended. We were going to go next week.” Her voice breaks on the last word.

It's Heidi, quiet until now, who drops the admission. Her voice is thin, trembling but sure.

“Clyde… he was in love with Bebe. I know they dated before, dumb middle-school stuff, but he was serious about it this time," Heidi murmurs softly. "He told me he was going to ask her out again. After the party.” Her words settle in the room, heavier than anything that came before.

Wendy chokes on a breath, tears spilling down her face. “At that sleepover we had… Bebe was reading tarot cards for fun. She pulled the Lovers card for Clyde. We all laughed, but she smiled at it - like she knew." 

Craig shifts, looking down at his phone and the open screen that he hasn't been able to bring himself to scroll out of.

Clyde: i kno ur upset bro but dont b mean to tweekers. poor bby just had a panicc atrack

Clyde: u want taco bell? we b hedin out soon jus txt ur order xoxo

The casual tone, the misspellings, the way Clyde’s humor bled into even the simplest text - it feels like a punch to the gut.

Craig stares at it and realizes those words are the last Clyde will ever send him.

Kenny leans against the side of Kevin’s auto shop, still dressed in his funeral clothes. The black shirt is wrinkled now, his tie half-loosened, sleeves rolled past his elbows.

He drags hard on a cigarette, exhaling smoke into the late evening air, his body language restless but guarded.

Grease-stained cars and the faint smell of motor oil wrap around him, grounding him more than the church or reception ever could.

Kevin steps out from the garage bay, wiping his hands on a rag. He pauses when he sees Kenny, his gaze lingering a little longer than usual. “Hey,” Kevin says evenly. “How you holdin’ up?”

Kenny flashes a quick grin, all charm, his voice pitched in that easy bravado he’s perfected.

“Me? Yeah, don’t worry about me. I’m golden. Just needed a smoke break.” He flicks ash off the tip of the cigarette, posture loose, like he’s untouchable.

Kevin narrows his eyes, seeing straight through it. He steps closer, and before Kenny can react, he tugs him into a hug.

Kenny stiffens instantly, arms caught awkwardly at his sides, before patting Kevin’s back once, then swatting him lightly on the arm.

“Alright, big guy,” Kenny mutters, smirk twitching at his lips.

Kevin pulls back, expression softer but serious. “I love you, little bro.”

Kenny groans, rolling his eyes exaggeratedly. “Aw, come on, dude. Let’s not do that right now.”

Kevin holds up his hands in mock surrender, stepping back to give Kenny room.

“Okay, okay.”

Kenny takes another drag before speaking, his voice quieter now, stripped of the theatrics.

“Listen… there’s something I need you to do for me. It’s about Butters.”

Kevin tilts his head. “That little blond kid you used to run around with?”

“Yeah,” Kenny says, eyes fixed on the pavement. “That’s him. When I leave… he might need some help. But he won’t ask for it. Not in a million years. So I need you to tell him - that room you keep in the back, the one you’re always offering me - it’s his too. If he ever needs it.”

Kevin studies him for a long moment, then nods firmly. “You got it.”

Kenny exhales, flicking the last of his cigarette into the gravel. “Thanks, man.” 

It’s late - very late into the night, when the house is drowned in shadows and loneliness.

Craig’s dad is passed out in the kitchen, slumped over the table with an empty glass near his hand. His snores rattle unevenly, a heavy sound that fills the downstairs. It isn’t new. It isn’t surprising.

It’s a picture Craig has seen a hundred times, and it stirs nothing in him but the dull ache of routine.

Craig steps out of the bathroom, towel still looped around his shoulders, his hair damp and clinging to his forehead. His skin is flushed pink from the hot water, steam still clinging faintly to him. He’s tugging a plain shirt over his head and adjusting the waistband of his boxers when his phone buzzes on the nightstand.

The vibration is sharp in the stillness, startling in its intrusion. The light from the screen cuts through the dark, revealing a text from Tweek.

Tweek: i’m outside. can i come in?

Tweek: or can you come out?

For a second Craig just stares at it, the words seeming heavier than they should be.

Then he doesn’t hesitate.

He yanks the shirt down, drags the towel through his hair in an attempt to quickly dry it, and moves through the dim hall. His bare feet are quiet against the carpet, careful not to disturb the already fragile peace of the house. He slips to the front door and opens it, the cool night air brushing against his still-warm skin like a shock.

Tweek is standing there, jittery but sure in his choice to be here, his blond hair wild in the faint breeze.

His hoodie sleeves are tugged down over his hands, and his sneakers are untied like he left in a rush. His eyes flicker nervously toward the sound of snoring drifting faintly from the kitchen, but he says nothing about it. Tweek doesn’t need to. He’s been here before. He knows.

Craig steps aside, letting him in.

The front door clicks shut behind them, and they pad softly upstairs together, avoiding the spots on the floor that creak the loudest, their shadows stretching thin and long against the narrow hallway walls. Tweek’s hand twitches at his side, brushing the seam of his jeans in restless repetition as they move, but he doesn’t speak.

When they reach Craig’s room, Tweek stops just inside the doorway.

His green eyes widen slightly at the sight before him - the wreckage left behind from Craig’s drunken, rage-fueled breakdown.

Books are scattered in messy heaps, torn pages sticking out like broken bones. Posters sag half-torn from the walls, corners curling, tape barely holding. Clothes lie in tangled heaps across the floor, a laundry basket overturned in the corner. A lamp lies on its side near the dresser, its shade dented, the cord stretched tight against the wall socket. The blinds are crooked, letting in uneven slices of moonlight that stripe the mess in silver.

The chaos hums in the silence, alive in its disorder.

Tweek doesn’t comment, though his throat bobs like he wants to. He just moves carefully through the mess, stepping around piles with nervous precision, and sits down on the edge of Craig’s bed. 

Craig lingers in the doorway for a moment longer, eyes sliding over the wreckage as if seeing it for the first time through Tweek’s gaze.

A flush of embarrassment prickles his chest, but he swallows it down and finally crosses the room.

He lowers himself into the chair at his computer desk, the wheels creaking faintly as it shifts under him. He doesn’t sit too close, doesn’t close the gap between them. 

Tweek keeps his eyes fixed on the floor, twisting the edge of his sleeve between nervous fingers.

Finally, he speaks, voice low and tentative. “It’s… strange being here again.” His words carry hesitation, like he isn’t sure if he should have said them at all.

Craig’s gaze flicks up, then quickly away, swallowing hard.

Tweek clears his throat softly. “I almost didn’t text you. I didn’t want to… bother you.” His shoulders hunch, as though bracing for rejection.

Craig exhales slowly, the sound almost a sigh.

“You’re not bothering me.” His tone is quiet. He hesitates, then adds, “I’m glad you came.”

The words seem to steady Tweek just enough, but the silence settles back in almost immediately, pressing against them like a physical weight.

Craig’s gaze flickers to Tweek’s profile, watching the way he keeps biting at his lip until it’s raw, fingers clenching hard in the sleeves of his hoodie as though the fabric is the only thing keeping him tethered.

Tweek leans forward as if something inside him has snapped. His shoulders quake violently, breath catching in a ragged, broken gasp that seems to tear free against his will.

Hot tears spill down his cheeks before he can stop them, running in quick, uneven tracks. His hands come up to cover his face, palms pressed hard as if he can block the flood, but the sobs push through anyway, muffled but raw.

His whole body curls inward, chest hitching with each shuddering breath.

Craig is on his feet in an instant, crossing the small space between them. He kneels at Tweek’s side first, then pulls him close when Tweek turns, clinging desperately to him.

Craig wraps both arms around him, guiding them back until he’s sitting against the headboard. He pulls Tweek with him, cradling him against his chest.

Tweek buries his face into Craig’s shirt, his fists clutching the fabric like he might drown without it. Craig holds him tighter, his chin resting lightly against Tweek’s hair, the two of them pressed close in a silence that says more than either of them can manage in words.

For a long while they stay like that, breathing uneven, hearts thudding against each other. Craig smooths a hand up and down Tweek’s back in slow passes, his own eyes closing as he lets himself feel the weight and relief of having Tweek this close again.

Eventually Tweek leans back just enough to see him, eyes red and wet, desperation burning through the tears. His fingers clutch at Craig’s shirt as though to keep him from slipping away.

“Come with me,” he whispers hoarsely. “To Rhode Island. After - after Bebe and Clyde - after… everything that’s happened… please, Craig. Just come with me. I don’t want to do this alone.”

Tweek pulls back further to make eye contact, and in Craig’s blue eyes he sees the grit - raw, aching, uncertain. Craig doesn’t answer. He just holds the gaze, lips pressed thin, the silence louder than any refusal.

Tweek’s throat trembles as he whispers again, “Please don’t make me do this alone.”

Craig still doesn’t speak, and the weight of that silence crushes down on Tweek. Shaking his head, he knows Craig won’t agree, not now, maybe not ever. But the ache inside him is too big, too sharp to hold back.

He closes the distance, pressing his mouth to Craig’s in an aching, tearful kiss.

His voice breaks against Craig’s lips as he whispers again, “Please…”

This time the word means something else entirely - an aching plea not for promises, but for closeness, for relief, for intimacy.

“Please,” Tweek murmurs again, softer, trembling and wet with tears.

Craig’s hand tangles hard in Tweek’s hair and tugs him forward, their mouths crashing together in a kiss that’s all teeth and tongue. It tastes like sweat and salt, like grief burned down into something feral.

Tweek’s voice fractures against Craig’s mouth, ragged little pleas spilling out between bruising kisses.

Craig doesn’t answer - he can’t. His palms slide over ribs and waist, clutching like he needs to brand the shape of him into memory.

Tweek climbs higher onto his knees, pressing their mouths back together until Craig feels like he’s being consumed. His fingers bite into Craig’s shoulders under his shirt, then knotting into his hair with a tug that makes Craig groan low and guttural.

The sound vibrates against Tweek’s tongue as he licks into his mouth, filthy and unrestrained. Then, with one urgent motion, he swings a leg over and settles onto Craig’s lap, bodies colliding in a fusion of weight and heat. Craig holds him instinctively, hands closing tight at his hips.

Tweek breaks contact only to wrestle his hoodie and shirt over his head, arms shaking with the effort, tossing it to the floor with no care for where it lands. 

For a suspended second their eyes meet - unguarded, stripped bare, sorrow and want exposed in equal measure. Tweek dives forward, their mouths colliding again with ferocity, as though to close the unbearable space of a heartbeat.

His hands twist into Craig’s shirt, pulling it upward with frantic insistence.

Craig yields, raising his arms as Tweek drags it over his head and discards it. Craig’s bare chest meets his, skin-to-skin contact igniting an immediate flare of heat that spreads like wildfire.

Tweek shudders at the sensation, a broken sound slipping into Craig’s mouth as he gasps. Craig cups the nape of his neck, pulling him back into another searing kiss, their breaths colliding in fevered bursts, filling the silence of the room with the rhythm of anguish and desire intertwining.

Craig allows Tweek to dictate the motion, receptive and reactive to Tweek’s fire.

His hands map the tense terrain of Tweek’s back, sliding and gripping, shifting to his waist only to clamp down as if he, too, needs an anchor. His palms skim the slope of Tweek’s ribs, the vibrations of uneven breath shivering beneath his touch.

Their stomachs touch as Tweek arches into him, bare skin slick with sweat, breath mingling hot in the narrow space between them.

Craig’s teeth scrape along the base of Tweek’s throat, biting down until he tastes the salt of skin. Tweek hisses, shoving his face back up and forcing another kiss.

“Please,” Tweek whispers into Craig’s mouth, the syllable fractured into something more primal than language.

His lips trace down Craig’s jaw, nip at his throat, then rush back up to crash against his mouth again. His hips grind down in messy circles, chasing friction, desperate to drown himself in sensation.

Craig exhales sharply through his nose, the kiss hungry and deep. His hands trace Tweek’s spine before curling his fingers into the beltloops of Tweeks jeans, pulling him down hard into his lap until no space remains.

The pace escalates too quickly, too recklessly.

Gasps and guttural sounds are swallowed into each other’s mouths. Their hips grind together and the world compresses to the raw scrape of teeth, the violent clutch of hands, the broken tempo of their breathing.

Tweek finally wrenches his mouth free, chest laboring for air, his hands trembling as he braces upright on Craig’s lap. His face is flushed, hair damp and clinging to his brow, eyes glazed with emotion that leaves him raw.

In silence he fumbles at his waistband, moving back and dragging his jeans down in hurried, uncoordinated motions. He nearly tangles himself in the fabric in his desperation.

Craig swallows thickly, his gaze shadowed and intent, every frantic gesture reflected in his own body. He tears at his boxers in one impatient tug. The fabric snags against his ankles, but he kicks it away with force, driven by the need to match Tweek’s pace.

Tweek twists toward the bedside table, his hand fumbling at the drawer until it rattles open with a hollow bang. Objects clatter as he digs through, and his fingers finally close around the small bottle of lube shoved against the back. The bottle nearly slips from his shaking hand, but he drags it free.

He climbs back over Craigs lap, where Craig’s hands grip and tighten at his hips.

The silence lasts only a moment before Tweek leans back down, their mouths meeting with bruising force. He swallows the broken sound that spills from Craig’s throat, the kiss messy and consuming.

Tweek shifts forward once more, knees pressing into the mattress as he settles down over Craig’s lap, legs spread wide as the velvet skin of their cocks brush together.

The small bottle of lubricant is pressed abruptly against Craig’s chest. The hard plastic digs into bone, and Tweek’s voice shatters into the space between them.

He whispers a single word - “please” - fractured and quivering.

Craig hesitates only briefly. His inexperience shows in the fumbling twist of the cap. For an instant his gaze flicks upward, seeking confirmation in Tweek’s tear-rimmed eyes, but the urgency overwhelms the need for assurance.

The heat of the moment obliterates hesitation; there is no room for thought. He squeezes the bottle until the lubricant coats his fingers, then reaches down, guided by Tweek’s impatient movements and the relentless press of his body.

When Craig’s fingers find his hole and enters him, Tweek’s body jolts violently. A sharp cry tears from his throat, immediately muffled when Craig captures it with his mouth.

Craig’s fingers push deeper, slick and seeking, and Tweek’s body jerks hard in his lap. The sound that rips out of him is shameless - half sob, half moan - and it vibrates through Craig’s mouth as he swallows it in another brutal kiss.

Tweek claws at Craig’s shoulders, nails dragging hot welts down his skin, gasping against his lips with a broken litany of pleas.

His head tips back, throat bared, sweat dripping down the curve of it as he cries out loud, unrestrained. He doesn’t care if the whole house hears. He doesn’t care about anything but being filled until it drowns out the ache eating him alive.

Craig pulls his hand free, fumbling for the bottle again, and Tweek all but rips it out of his grip, slicking his cock up with clumsy, desperate hands.

The need is too sharp, too consuming.

Tweek straddles him fully, reaching back to take hold of Craig's cock and line himself up before he sinks down.

The stretch makes him keen, his hands shooting up to clutch at Craig’s hair, dragging his face against his chest. Craig grips his waist, fingers digging hard, groaning ragged against his skin as Tweek takes him in to the hilt.

For a heartbeat they freeze, both trembling, both breathing like they’ve run miles.

Then Tweek starts to move.

He rocks his hips in shallow motions, testing the stretch with shaky breaths. The bed creaks softly under them, every sound amplified in the quiet of the room.

His moans slip free in broken fragments, low and unsteady, curses tangled with gasps as he adjusts around Craig. 

Their mouths keep finding each other, messy kisses that slide wetly across lips and tongue, tasting of sweat and salt. Tweek drags Craig closer by the hair, whining, the kiss breaking only when he needs to gasp Craig’s name, his voice cracked and pleading.

Craig groans into his mouth, sucking at his lower lip, every sound rough and raw, as if they can only survive by consuming each other.

Tweek presses his forehead to Craig’s, tears welling up as he whispers against his lips, “I can’t - I can’t - fuck - I need - ”

Tears start to slip free down Tweek’s flushed cheeks, glinting faintly in the dim light of the room. His face twists between ecstasy and anguish, even as he moans Craig’s name again.

Craig looks up at him then, blue eyes catching the low light, bright and piercing, and he feels it strike straight through him.

From Craig’s vantage, Tweek is breathtaking - hair damp and sticking to his temples, chest rising and falling in frantic rhythm, lips parted around gasps and sobs.

Craig slides a hand up the slick plane of Tweek’s back, holding him as he begins to thrust up into him, each movement dragging moans out of Tweek that sound like cries of both pleasure and pain.

Tweek clings tighter, nails digging into the hair at Craig’s neck as his cock slides against the flat of Craig’s stomach with each movement. 

Craig can barely think through the haze of it - the heat squeezing him, the sight of Tweek’s face, the broken litany of sounds spilling out with each grind of their hips. He cups Tweek’s face, forcing him to look down even as tears keep falling.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” Craig murmurs against Tweek’s mouth before pulling him back into another heated kiss, swallowing every sob, every plea, as if he can take them inside himself and never let them go.

Tweek starts to slow down, clinging tighter, every roll of his hips trembling with emotion. His moans breaking into sobs as he presses his mouth to Craig’s again, whining into the kiss like he’s falling apart.

His hands fist hard in Craig’s hair and shoulders, gripping like he can’t bear to let go.

Craig strokes his thumbs over the slick of Tweek’s waist, holding him and meeting each movement with gentle thrusts that match his rhythm.

He looks up, eyes catching on the mess of tears across Tweek’s face, the way his lips quiver as he breathes against him.

“God - I love you so much,” Craig whispers hoarsely, the words tearing out of him unguarded.

Tweek shakes his head, eyes squeezing shut, his grip on Craig’s shoulders tightening almost painfully. He presses his face close, voice broken as he cries out again, refusing the words even as his body clings tighter, desperate for every inch of closeness.

Craig says it again, his voice low but certain.

“I love you.”

The words hang between them, tender and raw, but Tweek refuses to hear them, sobbing harder as if they wound him. Craig smooths his hands up along the slick curve of his back, drawing him closer, holding him tight as their bodies move slower, deeper, the rhythm softening into something aching and careful.

“I can’t, Jesus, Craig - I can’t,” Tweek chokes out, his voice splintering. He presses his face down into Craig's neck, trembling under a sob as Craig's hands smooth over his skin. “I... I hate you so much - how could you... Jesus, how could you do this to me - I can’t - ” The words tumble from him in shuddering gasps, breaking under the weight of emotion.

"It's okay," Craig hushes him, gently guiding Tweek's head back so he can whisper against his mouth, low and soothing.

He kisses him gently, coaxing, lips moving with slow, deep care, swallowing the broken protests until they dissolve into sound.

“I love you so much,” he breathes into the kiss, the words sinking into flushed skin.

Tweek shudders, his breath hitching between sobs.

“Don’t - don’t do this to me,” he begs, the words trembling, broken in his throat. His hands tighten at Craig’s shoulders, desperate, terrified, as though love itself is too heavy to bear.

Craig only smooths his hands higher, sliding up the ridges of Tweek’s spine, pressing their bodies closer until no space remains. His lips brush over Tweek’s cheek, his temple, his mouth, each kiss tender.

“I love you,” Craig murmurs again and again, the repetition soft but unyielding. “I love you more than anything. I always have.”

Craig deepens the kiss, pouring everything into it, coaxing, soothing, steadying Tweek as he breaks apart in his arms.

Tweek finally wraps his arms around Craig’s shoulders, clutching him tight as their rolling thrusts slow and still. Craig stays buried inside him, pressed to the hilt, their bodies locked together in heat and tears. 

“I can’t… I can’t,” Tweek whispers into the kiss, his voice cracking apart. “Please - don’t make me do this alone. Don’t leave me, Craig… I can’t - ” The words tumble out in shuddering gasps, each one carrying the weight of everything he’s terrified to lose.

Craig hushes him gently, lips brushing over his tear-streaked mouth, his hands holding Tweek closer, like he could fuse them into one body if he just stayed still enough.

But Tweek only shakes his head, pressing his face into the curve of Craig’s neck. His sobs shudder through both of them, hot breath damp against Craig’s skin.

Craig runs his hands slowly down the length of Tweek’s back, feeling every tense line of muscle under his palms, before slipping lower to grip the backs of his thighs. He holds Tweek tight as he shifts their weight. The movement is gentle, but Craig rolls them over all the same, easing Tweek down onto the mattress so that he lands on his back.

Craig stays pressed inside him, hovering above, arms bracketing Tweek’s body, his face only inches away, blue eyes locked onto the tear-streaked green staring back up at him. He shifts, his hands sliding down to grip Tweek’s thighs. He lifts them, guiding them upward until Tweek hooks his legs tight around his waist, ankles locking behind his back.

The new angle pulls Craig deeper, and both of them shudder at the sensation.

Craig begins to move again, slow at first but deep, each thrust intentional, filling him to the hilt. Tweek gasps, head tipping back into the pillow, his hands clutching desperately at Craig’s shoulders.

Their mouths find each other again, kissing through the tears, every movement thick with ache and need as Craig takes over the rhythm.

Each thrust makes Tweek’s body light up, muscles tightening as heat coils in his core. His breath comes ragged, breaking into cracked moans that spill out no matter how he tries to swallow them down.

One hand shoots back, clutching the pillow in a white-knuckled grip, twisting the fabric. His other arm flings across his face, trying to shield himself from the intensity, his head turning to the side, but it doesn’t hide the wrecked, open-mouthed sounds spilling out - high, needy whines and broken sobs that make Craig drive into him harder, deeper, lost in the sight of him unraveling.

He’s consumed by sensation - the molten heat gripping him, the way Tweek’s body clutches and flutters with every thrust, hips arching to meet him. The way Tweek sobs beneath him, his voice breaking into wet cries that brand themselves into Craig’s skull. 

Tweek throws his head back against the pillow, and a loud, unrestrained wail tears from his throat - raw, piercing, shaking through both of them.

Craig surges up instantly, sealing his mouth over Tweek’s in a bruising kiss, swallowing the sound before it can spill any louder.

He fucks him through it, deeper, harder, using the kiss to smother every ragged cry.

Tweek clutches at him blindly, nails dragging hot down his back, sobbing into Craig’s mouth while his body shudders beneath the relentless drive of Craig’s hips.

Both of them break for air, panting into each other’s mouths, their foreheads slick with sweat as they press together.

Craig leans back, shifting his weight until he’s upright on his knees, his hands sliding down to clamp tight around Tweek’s hips. He angles him just so, before driving back in with brutal depth.

Tweek chokes on the sensation, one hand flinging up to cover his mouth, palm pressed hard to muffle the cries he can’t contain. Hot tears slip into his hairline, sliding down his temple as he whimpers beneath the pressure.

Craig grips harder, fingers biting into the sharp jut of bone, using the leverage of his new position to thrust with force. Craig adjusts his angle again, pulling Tweek back onto him just right, and the effect is immediate. Tweek spasms around him, body jolting as the relentless grind finds his prostate with the perfect amount of pressure.

His muffled cries spike into broken, high-pitched whines, his whole frame twisting under the pressure. One leg kicks out violently, heel dragging against the sheets in an uncontrolled spasm before Craig catches it, pinning it still with a firm grip. He keeps the angle, driving into that spot again and again, watching Tweek unravel under the merciless rhythm.

Tweek’s breath starts to hitch wildly, his chest heaving as if he can’t keep up with the pace. His hand slips from his mouth for a moment and broken words tumble free, pleas spilling out between sobs.

“More - Craig - please, don’t stop - please - ” His voice cracks, the words dissolving into soft cries. His thighs clamp tight around Craig’s hips, nails clawing at the sheets, begging wordlessly for everything he can take.

Craig pants heavily, sweat dripping down his temples, his hands slipping on the slick of Tweek’s hips as he tries to hold him tight. His gaze catches on Tweek’s cock, hard against his stomach, flushed and leaking pre-come across his skin.

The sight makes Craig’s breath seize, heat rolling through him as he watches Tweek writhe, undone beneath him.

Craig leans back down, lowering himself until their mouths can meet again.

He kisses Tweek hard, swallowing every sob and moan as their lips slide together, messy and frantic. One hand stays gripping his hip, the other slipping down between their slick bodies until his fingers wrap around Tweek’s cock.

He strokes in time with his thrusts, spreading the pre-come across the swollen head, dragging broken cries straight out of Tweek’s throat.

Tweek clutches at him blindly, both hands finding his hair and tugging hard, whining and crying into Craig’s mouth as the sensations overwhelm him. His body bows upward, caught between Craig’s cock driving deep inside him and the steady strokes over his length, his sobs muffled against Craig’s lips as he falls apart in his arms.

Craig feels the tension coiling tighter in every part of him, the way Tweek clenches around his cock, the way his cock pulses in Craig’s fist, leaking over both their stomachs.

Tweek sobs against him, voice unraveling into high, broken wails that are smothered by Craig’s mouth. His hips buck helplessly, grinding into Craig’s strokes, thighs quivering where they lock tight around his waist.

Tweek’s whole body jolts, his back arching as his cries break into a raw, unrestrained shout. His cock pulses hot in Craig’s hand, spilling across both their stomachs in sharp, messy spurts.

Craig chokes on a groan, breath catching as the tight squeeze around his cock nearly blinds him. His rhythm falters as heat coils and bursts low in his gut, hips snapping forward with a final, deep thrust as he spills inside him. His mouth finds Tweek’s again, swallowing the broken cries as they both shudder through the climax together.

Craig stays inside him for a long moment, his body trembling with the aftershocks, before lowering himself down. He presses his forehead to Tweek’s collarbone, both of them gasping for breath, their chests heaving together in the dim quiet of the room.

Slowly, carefully, Craig pulls out and sits up, dragging in a ragged breath, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat.

He glances down - Tweek lies sprawled across the mattress, both arms thrown across his eyes as though hiding, his chest still rising in quick, uneven pulls. Cum slicks across his stomach and his whole body trembling with the comedown.

Craig lowers himself onto the mattress, rolling to lie on his back beside him.

The shift feels strange - open, exposed, the silence of the room suddenly pressing down harder than before. His chest is still heaving, his skin sticky with sweat, and he feels raw in a way that has nothing to do with the sex.

Emotion surges in his throat - thick and unsteady.

Tweek doesn’t move.

He keeps his arms slung across his eyes, his face hidden from view, refusing to look at him. The distance is sharp, even with their bodies only inches apart, and Craig swallows against the ache of it, his heart pounding louder than the quiet that fills the space between them.

After a long stretch of silence, Tweek sniffles softly, the sound small and fragile.

He shifts beneath the weight of his own arms, then slowly pushes himself upright. His arms drop away from his face as he sits up, wiping quickly at his cheeks, though the tears have already left their mark.

Tweek moves forward until he’s on the edge of the bed, legs dangling over, his back to Craig.

The curve of his spine is tense, shoulders hunched, every line of him drawn tight as if bracing for something Craig hasn’t yet said.

Craig lies still, watching him in silence, the space between them growing heavier and thicker with every passing second. His chest tightens, eyes prickling with unwelcome tears.

He wants to speak, to reach out, but the words lodge in his throat, choking him.

Tweek shifts again, his breathing uneven as he pushes himself up from the mattress. He stands on shaky legs, his body trembling as he bends to gather his clothes from the floor. His hands shake violently as he pulls them on piece by piece, refusing to turn, refusing to look back at Craig.

Craig watches helplessly, his throat tight as the soft rustle of fabric fills the silence.

Each motion Tweek makes feels like another step away, widening the gap between them. The sight of his trembling hands fumbling with buttons and zippers twists something sharp inside Craig. He bites down hard, jaw clenched, blinking against the sting in his eyes.

He opens his mouth once, then closes it again, the words dissolving before they form. The heaviness in the air is suffocating, thick with everything unsaid, and it presses harder with every second that passes.

Tweek doesn’t look back. He pulls on the last of his clothes with shaking hands, then moves quickly to the door. The hinges creak softly as it opens, and a moment later he’s gone - slipping out into the hallway without a word, without a glance.

Craig stays where he is, frozen in the quiet aftermath, listening to the sound of retreating footsteps fade until there’s nothing left but the ringing silence of the room.

He lies back slowly, sinking into the mattress, his body heavy and hollow. His eyes fix on the ceiling above, unblinking, as the reality settles in sharp and cold.

He waits for Tweek to return, but the minutes stretch long, and the doorway remains empty.

He is alone.

Craig drags a hand over his face, fingers digging hard into his eyes as if to blot it all out.

After a moment he turns to his nightstand, pulling open the drawer with a rough jerk. Inside, his hand fumbles until it finds the battered pack of cigarettes and the old zippo lighter he keeps there. The cardboard is bent and soft at the corners, but he pulls one free anyway, setting it between his lips as he lies back down.

He flicks the lighter once, twice, before the flame catches. The first inhale is shaky, smoke filling his chest and burning on the way out.

His brows knit together, his throat tight, and before he can stop himself the tears return.

He cries softly around the cigarette, eyes fixed on the ceiling above him, smoke curling upward into the heavy quiet of the room.

Chapter Text

Kyle’s been called gifted his whole life.

The word clings to him like a label sewn into the inside of his shirt, impossible to peel away.

His parents repeat it with equal parts pride and expectation, weaving it into conversations at the dinner table until it becomes impossible to separate who Kyle is from what he is supposed to be.

Gifted. Talented. Bound for greatness

It's stamped invisibly across every choice he makes, shaping his path before he even takes his first steps into adulthood.

Everyone expects him to become a lawyer, like his father.

Debate trophies line the mantle at home like rows of proof, each one gleaming under the living room lights.

Kyle has always loved the fight of it - standing in front of an audience, dismantling weak points in logic with a grin, laying out evidence like carefully sharpened weapons.

He loves the adrenaline, the rush of being smarter, faster, sharper than the person across from him.

He wants to be a lawyer too.

Or maybe he only thinks he does.

Because it is easier to want what everyone else has already chosen for him. A future that is sharp, structured, predictable, already mapped out before he even finishes high school.

He can see it stretching ahead of him like a road without turns.

And then the car crash.

The memory isn’t linear.

It comes in shards, fragments that stab at him when he least expects it.

Kyle can still smell gasoline seeping into the night air, acrid and choking, mixing with the copper tang of blood coating his tongue.

The high-pitched squeal of twisted metal still rings in his ears sometimes, vibrating against his skull like an echo that never fades.

The 911 operator’s voice crackling through his phone, sharp and insistent, asking him to stay calm, to explain where they are, to give details he can’t pull together. His skull throbbing, thoughts skipping and scattering like a record scratched too deep. Words falling from his mouth clumsy and broken, and the phone slips from his slick hands once, twice, coated with blood he can’t tell is his or someone else’s.

The memory cuts in jagged flashes - the sting of gravel biting into his skin, the blur of red and blue lights, the screaming of sirens carving through the haze.

A seatbelt digging hard into his chest, the rattling of his ribs with each shallow inhale.

Strangers who had leaned over him, neon vests glowing against the dark, gloves that smell like latex and smoke pressing against his skin. Metal groaning as it’s is pried apart, every sound shuddering through him like it’s part of his body.

He recalls someone touching his forehead, murmuring, “Stay with me,” and Kyle had tried - he really did - but his body had felt like it’s slipping through the ground itself.

And then - nothing.

Now, though, it's quiet.

Kyle stands in the doorway of Stan’s house, two glasses of water sweating in his hands. The silence of the room presses against him, heavy in the way only absence can be.

Stan sits across the room, his back to Kyle, his frame folded into the wheelchair that has become a fixture in his life since that night. His head is bowed, his good elbow propped against the armrest, his hand covering his face as if he can hold it all together that way.

His other arm rests uselessly at his side, fingers curled inward against his leg. Beneath the blanket that covers his lap, Kyle knows what’s missing. The slope of his shoulders is heavy, carved down by the permanence of what is taken from him and the long road of healing that waits ahead.

Kyle doesn’t move forward yet, caught between the weight of the past and the uncertainty of everything still to come.

He watches.

Everything after that night feels fractured, lives divided into before and after, as though the crash split not only metal and bone but time itself. Even moments of calm feel like they’re built on fault lines that could split at any second, fragile and dangerous. The glasses tremble faintly in his hands, water lapping against the rims, and he thinks about how close they came to losing each other, how close everything came to ending in silence.

How much of them is lost anyway.

He thinks of Stan’s laugh, how it used to echo across the field after football practice, filling the air with careless ease.

Now it comes out softer, careful, like he’s rationing joy as though it costs too much to give freely.

The memory of that sound makes Kyle’s chest ache with a strange combination of grief and longing.

Kyle’s eyes catch on the details: the way Stan’s hair falls into his face, longer now since he hasn't cut it. The angry wounds that peek from under the collar of his shirt in various stages of healing, the tremor in his fingers when they tighten against the armrest, the small wince he tries to hide when he shifts in the chair.

And the absence of his right leg, the way the blanket folds differently now, shaping a truth Kyle wishes wasn’t real but can’t ignore.

Every little change feels like an injury of its own.

None of it should belong to them. They’re only eighteen.

They’re supposed to be scribbling inside yearbooks, chasing curfews, counting down to college. They’re supposed to be laughing at stupid jokes, not cataloguing what they’ve lost.

Kyle thinks about the boy who used to run laps around the football field without even losing his breath, who could pick Kyle up off the ground with ease when he was sulking, who always carried the weight of everyone’s expectations like it was nothing.

That boy feels both gone and sitting right here, slouched in a chair he never asked for, his body permanently altered in ways that no effort, no training, no willpower can undo.

Kyle swallows hard, his throat thick.

He sees flashes: Stan’s face slack, pale, a twisted piece of the car frame driven through his arm and shoulder, nearly taking it off; his right leg trapped after the passenger seat crumpled back into him. The way first responders moved around him like choreography, efficient and relentless, voices firm and calm despite the chaos.

He sees the blur of red lights bouncing off shattered glass, the acrid stink of smoke and gasoline.

Now Stan’s here, breathing, but forever changed. Condemned to months, if not years of recovery.

Kyle feels something tighten in his chest, not just grief but recognition - recognition that everything he thought was certain about his own future is breaking apart the same way the car did, twisted in directions he never planned for.

The lines he thought he’d follow, the expectations stacked on his shoulders, don’t fit anymore.

For the first time in years, he isn’t certain about his future.

The arguments he used to revel in seem hollow compared to the sound of a dispatcher’s voice asking him for details he couldn’t give, compared to the press of gloved hands stopping bleeding, compared to the calm that cut through chaos in ways words never could. The flash of paramedics’ jackets under the floodlights, and the way their hands move fast and sure over broken bodies; how their presence alone seems to tether the world back together for a moment.

Kyle begins to wonder if the path waiting for him isn’t toward arguments and verdicts, but toward sirens and stretchers. Toward being the one who shows up when it matters most, not the one who analyzes it after the fact. Kyle thinks of how many times he’s argued about abstract concepts in debate club, how many trophies sit gathering dust, and how none of that knowledge helped him on the night that mattered.

None of it saved Bebe or Clyde.

None of it made Stan whole again.

He takes a slow breath at the revelation, watching Stan shift slightly in the chair, his hand dragging down his face in a gesture of exhaustion, the sound of his sigh rattling the quiet.

Kyle finally steps into the room, each step slow, and sets one of the glasses on the dresser beside Stan.

“Here,” he says softly. “You should drink something.”

Stan lifts his head, his face a map of bruises and yellowing skin, dark stitches cutting jagged lines across his shoulder where the doctors literally pieced him back together. His right arm is strapped against his torso in a sling, immobile. The blanket over his lap does little to hide the absence beneath it - the way his right leg abruptly stops at his knee. The chair creaks faintly when he shifts, the sound punctuating the silence.

“Thanks,” Stan mutters. He leans back, shifting uncomfortably, his jaw tight with effort. “I hate asking for help with stuff.”

Kyle sits on the edge of the bed across from him, setting his own glass on the nightstand. “It’s not asking. I was already getting water. And you literally can’t right now, so - get over it.”

Stan snorts weakly, a faint grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Still annoying.” He pushes at the wheel with his left foot, adjusting himself a few inches closer to the bed. “At least I can still roll around like a pro. One-footed champion.”

Kyle forces a smile. “Yeah. Real impressive. Olympic level.”

Stan raises an eyebrow. “What, no medal? No parade?”

Kyle smirks faintly. “Budget cuts, dude. You’ll have to settle for a gold star sticker.”

Stan huffs, shaking his head. “Figures. Can’t even get a decent prize after getting my leg cut off and nearly dying.”

“Stan - ” Kyle starts, but Stan waves him off with his good hand.

“I know, I know. Bad joke.” He sighs, his eyes dropping to his lap, the brief spark of humor fading. “It’s either laugh about it or…” He trails off, shoulders slumping.

Kyle leans forward, searching his face. “Or what?”

“Or think about how much it sucks,” Stan admits, his voice thin. “And I can’t do that all the time.”

Kyle studies him - the way his lips press thin with every subtle shift of his body, the exhaustion that drapes over him like a second skin. He can see the lines of pain written into his features, the way Stan carries it not just in his posture but in the heaviness of his voice, in the way he slouches into the chair like it’s holding more than just his weight.

“How’s the pain?” Kyle asks carefully.

Stan shrugs his good shoulder, a short, tired gesture. “It’s there. Always there, but…” He trails off, rubbing his face with his left hand, his palm dragging down across bruises that still look raw. “Doesn’t matter. It’s not gonna change anything.”

Kyle wants to argue, to tell him it does matter - that every bit of comfort matters - but he doesn’t.

Instead, he asks, “You’ve been quiet all day, man. What’s going on?”

Stan hesitates, long enough for Kyle to notice how his left foot taps against the floorboards, restless, a small staccato sound in the heavy air. Finally, Stan exhales and admits, “I’ve been talking to Rutgers.”

Kyle’s chest tightens. “About… football?”

“Yeah.” Stan swallows hard. “They pulled my scholarship offer.”

Kyle blinks, stunned, his mind scrambling for an explanation. “What? They can’t - Stan, you almost died, you - ”

“They can.” Stan cuts him off sharply, his jaw set. “And they did. I’m not gonna be able to play again. Even after I recover - I won’t be able to play like I used to. Even if Rutgers wanted me, I couldn’t physically do it. I’m done.”

Kyle shakes his head, his voice breaking. “That’s bullshit.”

Stan lets out a bitter laugh. “Yeah, well. My whole life’s different now, isn’t it?” He gestures with his slinged arm and the blanket over his lap. “This is me now. No more football. No more future like I thought. Rutgers doesn’t want me. Nobody does.”

“Don’t say that,” Kyle says quickly, heart hammering. “That’s not true.”

Stan looks at him then, his eyes tired. “It feels true.”

“It’s not. You’re still - Stan, you’re still you. You’re still here.”

Stan exhales slowly, his shoulders sagging under the weight of it all. “What does it matter if I’m still here anymore, man? I can’t do anything. Sports is all I was ever good at. I’m not smart like you, Kyle. I have nothing else.”

“Of course you do,” Kyle insists, sharper this time, before forcing himself to calm. “You think I care about Rutgers? About football? I care that you’re alive. That I can sit here and talk to you. That you’re still here.”

Stan studies him, his jaw working as though he wants to fight him on it, but no words come. "Feels like everything just… got taken from me. Like I’m stuck in this chair... I can't walk... I can't run. I can't write cause I'm fucking right handed and this shit's fucked up too. All that’s left is everyone feeling sorry for me.”

Kyle shakes his head, eyes burning. “I don’t feel sorry for you. I’m angry - for you. Because you didn’t deserve this. None of us did.”

Stan’s eyes grow wet as he looks away quickly, jaw tightening. “You always say shit like that. Like you can just… fix it.”

“I’m not trying to fix it,” Kyle says, low but firm. “I just don’t want you thinking you’re worthless. You’re not. You’ve never been.”

Stan swallows hard. “You really think that?”

“I know that.” Kyle’s answer is immediate. He leans closer, placing one hand on each armrest of the wheelchair, bracketing Stan in gently. “I’ve always known that.”

The air between them tightens, vibrating with tension.

Stan shifts faintly, his eyes flicking across Kyle’s face like he’s searching for cracks, for lies, for something he can’t name. His breath catches, and then - his gaze dips. Just for a heartbeat, his eyes flick to Kyle’s mouth.

Kyle notices, heat flooding his face, his own gaze darting to Stan’s lips before he can stop himself. His chest pounds, his breath faltering. Stan’s throat works as he swallows. His eyes lift again, meeting Kyle’s, and the space between them feels like it could snap apart with the weight of what’s unsaid.

Kyle’s grip on the armrests tightens. They hover there - almost, not quite - on the verge of something they can’t take back, each heartbeat so loud it feels like it belongs to both of them.

And then the knock of footsteps in the hallway shatters it. Wendy’s voice carries before she even rounds the doorway, casual and warm.

“Hey, Stan? You need anything - ”

She stops short, her eyes flicking between the two of them.

Kyle jerks back instantly, clearing his throat as he pushes away from the chair. His face burns, the closeness collapsing instantly.

“Uh - I was just - getting him water,” he stammers, too quickly. He forces a crooked half-smile, his voice cracking. “Actually, I should probably head home. Long day and all that.”

Before either of them can respond, Kyle slips past Wendy, his ears burning.

The words they didn’t say and the almost-kiss they didn’t share hang in the air behind him; unbearably real.

The day after Bebe and Clyde’s funeral, Stan had been home. His leg still locked away beneath the cast - the complaints had started early despite the grief of losing two of their closest friends 

At first, Kyle thought it was just the usual pain - the kind Stan had been dealing with since the crash.

But this was different.

He can still see it: Stan pale as bone, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, cursing through his teeth as he clawed at the armrest of the couch. His voice cracked between sobs and furious swearing, the pain pulling him under in ways Kyle had never seen.

The painkillers weren’t touching it.

His skin burned with fever, his lips dry, eyes glassy as he mumbled that something was wrong, that it felt like his leg was on fire from the inside out.

Kyle remembers standing there helpless, clutching a cold rag to Stan’s head while his best friend trembled and cursed and begged.

When they brought him back to the hospital, Kyle remembers the way the doctors’ faces shifted when they cut off the cast, when they pressed along the swollen skin. The words came clinical, sharp: compartment syndrome. The crush injury finished it's job. It had strangled the blood flow and poisoned the tissue.

The fever wasn’t just fever - it was sepsis taking hold.

Sharon had been frantic, her voice breaking as she demanded answers.

Randy stood stiff and pale, his usual bluster stripped away, clutching Stan’s discarded sneakers in one hand like he didn’t know what else to hold.

Kyle remembers the way Sharon’s face crumpled when the doctors said the words “life-threatening,” and how Randy whispered something desperate under his breath that Kyle couldn’t catch.

There had been talk of vascular reconstruction, of fasciotomies, of risky procedures that might buy time.

Every word from the surgeons blurred into the next, Kyle straining to hold onto any possibility that something could still save Stan’s leg.

But the decision was clear, brutal, and absolute.

The only way to guarantee Stan’s life was to take the leg.

A below-knee amputation.

Final.

Irreversible.

Stan was no longer fully present by then, his skin hot and slick with fever as sepsis pulled him under. He mumbled nonsense, half-curses and half-pleas, too delirious to understand what was happening around him.

They wheeled him into emergency surgery, his head lolling against the gurney, and Kyle stood frozen, watching until the doors shut behind them.

That memory never leaves him.

It haunts him just as much as the crash itself, a second fracture carved into the timeline of their lives, another line between before and after.

Kyle stands in the bathroom at home, the mirror fogged faintly from the shower he didn’t bother to take. The overhead light is too bright, washing everything in sterile white.

He rolls up his sleeve slowly, exposing the length of his forearm.

A long cut runs jagged across his skin, the stitches recently removed. The dots where the sutures once held him together still mark him, evenly spaced like tiny reminders of how close he came to being undone.

The skin is bright pink, tender, stretched tight over the healing wound. He lifts his arm closer, turning it under the light, tracing the uneven line with his eyes.

Clyde is dead.

Bebe is dead.

Stan’s body is forever changed.

And Kyle got away with only a single deep cut and a mild concussion.

He stares at the scarring tissue and feels sick, as though the wound on his arm is too small, too shallow, compared to what was taken from them.

It feels obscene, the imbalance of it - like he’s carrying a debt he can never pay back.

Survivor’s guilt gnaws at him, whispering that if he walked away with so little, then he owes something greater in return. Maybe the only way to balance it is to step into the role of those who ran into chaos when everyone else ran from it.

He pictures himself in their place, the strangers who reached into twisted metal and blood to pull them free. What it would mean to run toward the wreckage instead of away. 

It’s not law school. It’s not debate trophies or courtrooms or his dad’s shadow.

His reflection blurs slightly as his eyes sting. He presses his palm to the sink and leans forward until his forehead nearly touches the glass. 

He thinks of Bebe.

Of Clyde.

Their laughs, their smiles, loud and unrestrained, filling up spaces he never realized could feel so empty until they were gone.

Kyle remembers the very last moment he shared with them - Clyde slipping into that ridiculous radio host voice, booming and dramatic, while Bebe threw her head back and laughed, clear and bright, like nothing bad could touch them.

That’s the memory that comes to him most - the echo of it, the warmth of it, before everything went wrong.

Kyle grips the edge of the sink, his knuckles whitening. The scarring wound on his arm throbs faintly, a living reminder. His throat aches, a lump pressing as he forces down the tears.

He thinks of Stan – how sad and defeated his eyes were when he admitted They pulled my scholarship offer.

He doesn’t know if he’s strong enough. But Kyle knows, looking at the cut on his arm and thinking of Bebe and Clyde, that he can’t go back to who he was before.

Kyle inhales, long and steady, and lets the air out in a shudder.

He knows what he has to do.

He leaves the bathroom, flicking the light off behind him. He moves into the living room and raises his voice, sharp and clear enough to carry through the house.

“Mom? Dad? Ike? Can you all come here?”

There’s a beat of silence before he hears movement - chairs scraping against the floor in the kitchen, the faint thud of footsteps on the stairs. He stays standing in the center of the room, waiting, the scar on his arm burning like a brand beneath the sleeve he never pulled back down.

There’s movement from the kitchen,  and then his mom’s voice calls back, wary. “Kyle? What is it?”

“I need to talk to you,” Kyle says, as his pulse hammers in his throat. He glances once more at the scar on his arm, the fresh reminder of everything they’ve lost and everything he still has. “All of you. Now.”

A few moments later, Ike comes down the stairs in his pajamas, rubbing at his eyes, his hair sticking up in every direction. “What’s going on?” he mumbles, confused, still half-asleep.

Gerald steps out of the study, still holding a pen in one hand, his brow knit in concern as though Kyle has interrupted something important. Sheila appears from the kitchen, drying her hands on a dish towel, her expression instantly tight with worry as she scans her son’s face for any sign of injury.

They all gather in the living room, exchanging wary glances, and Kyle gestures toward the couch.

“Sit. Please.” His tone makes them all hesitate before slowly obeying.

Sheila frowns but lowers herself onto the cushion beside Gerald, her hand brushing unconsciously against his. Ike drops onto the armchair, curling his legs beneath him.

Kyle remains standing, his hands restless at his sides, pacing a step or two before he finally stills, grounding himself with a deep breath.

“I need to tell you something,” Kyle begins. “I’ve been… feeling a lot since the crash. It changed everything. Not just for me - for all of us. For Stan.” His throat tightens, the image of Stan in the wheelchair flashing before his eyes. “I lost two of my best friends. And I can’t stop thinking about how fast it all went. How fast everything can change. I can still hear the sirens when I close my eyes. I can still smell the smoke.”

Sheila leans forward, her face tense, eyes shimmering. “Kyle, honey, what are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” Kyle exhales, pressing a hand through his curls, “that I can’t just go back to normal. I can’t pretend I’m the same kid who thought he knew his whole life already mapped out. The crash made me see things differently. I need to feel like I’m doing something real. Something that matters immediately.”

Gerald’s brow furrows. “Of course what you do matters, Kyle. You’ve worked so hard to get where you are. You’ve always been on track for more.”

Kyle shakes his head slowly. “I’m not saying I’ll never do more. Maybe I will. But right now? Right now I need to do something tangible. Something where I can see the difference in front of me.” He swallows hard. “I’m not going to Denver in the fall. I’ve decided to enroll in paramedic school.”

Sheila gasps softly, her hand pressing to her mouth. “Kyle… paramedic school? You’re serious?” 

Kyle nods firmly. “Yes. I’ve thought about it a lot. I want to be the one who shows up when it matters. Who helps when it counts. I need that. After everything that’s happened… I need that. I can’t keep pretending debate trophies are enough to make me feel whole. They don’t matter when I think of Bebe, when I think of Clyde. When I think of Stan.”

Gerald leans forward, his shoulders hunched as though bracing for an argument. “Kyle, with your academic record, your potential, you can do so much more than that. You could be a doctor - ”

“Maybe someday I will,” Kyle cuts in. His eyes don’t waver. “But not now. Right now, this is what I want. This is what feels right. I need to be out there, helping people in the moment - not years from now, not after more waiting.”

For a moment, silence stretches. Gerald’s mouth tightens, his disappointment clear. Sheila’s eyes shine with worry, and she presses a hand to her chest. And then Ike pipes up from the armchair, a small grin tugging at his mouth.

“Honestly? That’s pretty cool, Kyle.”

Kyle lets out a shaky breath, a faint smile flickering across his face. His shoulders ease just slightly. “Thanks, Ike.”

Sheila finally exhales, the tension leaving her shoulders. “Kyle… I was scared you were going to say something reckless. But this - this is… noble. It’s brave.” Her voice wavers. “It’s not what I pictured for you, but… I can see why you feel called to it. It suits you. It’s who you are - always trying to protect, always trying to do right.”

Gerald runs a hand down his face, sighing. “I wanted more for you because I know what you’re capable of. But maybe I’ve been pushing you toward my idea of success, not yours.” He meets Kyle’s eyes, his expression worn but softening. “If this is what you want, and you’re certain, then… I’ll support you.”

“I am certain,” Kyle says quietly. “This is what I want.”

Gerald nods slowly. “Then we’ll stand behind you.”

Sheila reaches out and squeezes his hand, her eyes damp but warm. “Your father’s right. We’ll support you. It’s not easy work, Kyle. It’s dangerous. But it’s also incredibly important. If this is your path, then we’ll be proud of you.”

“Thank you. That means a lot.”

Ike grins wider, his legs swinging idly over the armchair. “Told you it was cool.”

Kyle laughs softly, his eyes stinging, the knot in his chest easing. For the first time since the crash, he feels in control - a path stretching ahead that finally feels like his own.

It’s been a month since Clyde and Bebe’s funerals.

Three weeks since Kenny left without saying goodbye.

Two long and miserable weeks of Craig lying in a pit of depression and hopelessness, questioning whether he should ever get up again.

Each time he thinks like that, Kenny’s voice rattles in his head – if you can’t make things right with them, then I don’t think I can forgive you for that.

Craig's visited Stan a few times since the amputation, sitting with him in the living room or on the porch, doing his best to stay level-headed when Kyle is there too.

He doesn’t offer much but his presence, a quiet sort of support without demanding anything in return.

For Kyle, who drifts between fury and exhaustion, Craig’s calmness is one of the few things that makes the air feel breathable again.

But there's still one person who Craig has hurt more than anyone else.

One person he can't seem to stop disappointing. 

It’s late, the quiet hum of the neighborhood broken only by the faint hiss of sprinklers down the street.

Craig stands on the lawn outside Tweek’s house, a handful of small pebbles in his palm. He tosses one lightly at the upstairs window, just like old times. It clinks against the glass with a sharp little note, followed by silence. He waits, shifts his weight, tosses another. Then another.

Finally, the window creaks open. Tweek’s head appears, his blond hair wild and his eyes heavy with exhaustion. Shadows cling to the bags under his eyes, evidence of too many nights without sleep.

His gaze hardens the second he spots Craig below.

“Seriously?” Tweek hisses down. “Leave me the fuck alone, asshole.”

Craig shoves his hands in his pockets, tilting his head up. “Can you come down? Just for a minute. Please.”

Tweek’s frown deepens. For a moment, he looks ready to slam the window shut. But something in the way he lingers betrays his hesitation. After a long pause, he sighs, defeated.

“Fine. Jesus, just - give me a second.”

The window closes. A few minutes later, the front door opens with a soft creak. Tweek steps out onto the porch in a t-shirt and pajama pants, arms folded tight against his chest.

He closes the door firmly behind him, the latch clicking loud in the night, a deliberate barrier - Craig isn’t welcome inside.

Tweek squints at him under the dim porch light, his voice clipped.

“What do you want?”

Craig shifts on his feet. "I want to talk to you about some things. Things I should’ve said a long time ago.”

Tweek lets out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Oh, now you want to talk? After not saying a single word to me for a month? When it’s on your terms?” His arms tighten across his chest. “That’s convenient.”

Craig doesn’t flinch; he expected the pushback. His jaw works once before he answers, softer this time. “I know. I’ve been awful to you. You’re right to be pissed, and you have every reason to hate me, at this point.”

Tweek glares at him. “So why now? Why suddenly talk when it’s the middle of the night?”

Craig swallows. “Because if I don’t say it now, I never will.” He looks down, then back at Tweek. “It’s not just about our fights. It’s about me. Things I’ve never told you about... stuff that happened to me. Why I freak out when we’re close. Why being with you scares the hell out of me sometimes.”

Tweek’s arms stay crossed, but his voice wavers. “Then say it.”

“Not here,” Craig says quickly, shaking his head.

Tweek narrows his eyes. “Why can’t you just tell me here if it’s so important?”

“Because what I need to say isn’t something I can just blurt out in your front porch,” Craig replies, strained. "Can we go somewhere together? Like Stark's Pond?"

Tweek’s jaw tightens. His arms stay locked, his posture untrusting, but the edge of his voice falters. “I don’t know if I can believe anything you say anymore. You disappear, you treat me like shit, and now you just show up here asking me to go off somewhere with you?”

Craig takes a slow breath. “Please. Just this once. Let me say what I need to say, and if you want nothing to do with me after… I’ll leave you alone for good.” His voice is quiet, carrying the weight of finality.

Tweek studies him, suspicion still sharp in his eyes, but his resolve wavers. Finally, with a muttered curse under his breath, he turns and cracks the door open, grabbing his car keys from the bowl inside and slipping on his sneakers.

When he steps back onto the porch, he points a finger at Craig.

“We’re driving. I’m not walking with you. That’s more time around you than I can stomach right now.”

Craig nods without argument. “Do you want me to drive?”

Tweek freezes, staring at him. “Have you been drinking?”

Craig’s mouth twitches into a sad smile. “No. Not tonight. But I get why you’d ask.”

Tweek presses the button on the remote, the car lights flashing as it unlocks. He shoves the keys into Craig’s hand, his voice flat.

“You drive, then. I’m too tired.”

Craig nods, slipping into the driver’s seat without protest.

The ride is silent.

Tweek sits with his arms crossed tightly, his body turned toward the window, head leaning against the glass as if he can press himself farther away from Craig. His reflection in the dark pane looks pale, strained, every angle a reminder of distance.

Craig’s hands grip the wheel, but his mind drifts.

The smell of the car, the worn upholstery under his fingers - it all pulls him back to prom night.

He remembers driving this very car with Tweek beside him, their hands tangled together, laughter and smiles spilling into the dark. He remembers how soft the air had felt, how light everything seemed, how in love they were.

How happy Tweek was.

Craig glances at him now, the tight set of his shoulders, the exhaustion etched into his face.

Tweek’s not happy anymore.

Not with him.

They pull into Stark’s Pond. Gravel crunches under the tires, the car shuddering to a stop. Before Craig can shift fully into park, Tweek’s seatbelt clicks and the passenger door swings open. He climbs out, shutting it behind him with finality.

It’s clear he wants this over with as quickly as possible.

Craig kills the engine and steps out, the night air cool against his face. He makes his way to the picnic table under the dim glow of a streetlamp, the wood damp from evening dew. He sits down slowly, planting his hands against the tabletop like it can ground him.

Tweek approaches, his footsteps sharp against the gravel, but he doesn’t sit. He stays standing, arms crossed again, eyes fixed on Craig with a guarded edge.

“Alright,” he says flatly. “Talk.”

Craig looks up at him, the words slow to come. He drags a hand over his face, exhaling hard.

“First… I need to say I’m sorry. For all of it. The hot and cold shit, pushing you away one minute and holding on too tight the next. For acting like I don’t care when I do. For fighting with you over nothing. For being so damn...  unavailable all the time.”

Tweek shifts his weight, arms tightening. “You think just saying sorry fixes it?”

Craig shakes his head quickly. “No. I know it doesn’t. I just… I need you to know I’m aware. I know how terrible I’ve been to you. You didn’t deserve any of it.”

The silence hangs heavy between them. Craig’s eyes drop to the tabletop, his fingers tracing the damp grain of the wood. His voice lowers.

“That’s why I asked you to come here. Because there’s more to it than me just being an asshole.”

Tweek barks out a bitter laugh, but it cracks halfway through. “Oh, really? What - so it’s not just me driving you away with all my issues? Because that’s what you said at the party.”

Craig’s head jerks up, his expression tightening. “I was... blacked out at that point - I’m not trying to excuse it, I just… Kenny told me after - gave me the rundown of everything I did that night."

“You told me I was too much to handle. That I was the reason you left. That I drove you off.” Tweek’s voice trembles, but his glare stays sharp. “Do you have any idea how fucked up that was to hear?”

Craig’s brow furrows, shame burning in his chest. “I know. I hate myself for it.”

Tweek’s breath comes faster, his chest rising and falling as his anger builds. He turns sharply to the side, shaking his head, muttering under his breath before going silent altogether. His arms hug tighter around himself, every line of his body rigid with frustration and hurt.

Craig watches him, the weight of the moment pressing down. Finally, his voice breaks through, low and cautious.

“Something happened to me back in middle school. When... when I was twelve. And it - it changed everything. Changed how I see people. Changed how I see myself. It’s why being close to you… why being vulnerable feels like the hardest, scariest thing in the world for me.”

Tweek still refuses to look at him, his face turned away, but his shoulders shift slightly. He’s listening. The sharpness in his stance dulls, if only a little.

"It was… I was upstairs in my room, watching Red Racer cartoons. My dad had a friend over to watch the game in the living room. Everything was fine - normal.” Craig's fingers curl tight against the edge of the table.

“His friend came upstairs, said he needed to use the bathroom. But he didn’t go there. He came into my room. Closed the door. Locked it.” Craig’s voice breaks on the words, but he forces himself to keep speaking. “I didn’t… I didn’t understand at first. I thought it was a mistake. But it wasn’t. He…” Craig shakes his head, his throat tight, eyes fixed on the grain of the wood like it can hold him together.

Tweek turns then, shocked, his eyes snapping to Craig. His arms slowly unfold from their tight grip around his chest, hanging stiffly at his sides as he stares at him in stunned silence; realization settling in.

Craig swallows hard, forcing the rest out. “He shoved me down, called me pretty over and over while I was crying, and I was too scared to fight back properly. When it was over, I locked myself in the bathroom. I was bleeding and it - it hurt so much."

Tweek finally finds his voice, though it comes out shaken. “Craig…” His arms hover awkwardly, no longer crossed, his anger cracked apart by shock. “I… I didn’t know.”

“Of course you didn’t. I never let you.”

Tweek exhales shakily and lowers himself onto the bench across from Craig. His hands twitch against the wood, like he wants to reach across but can’t yet bring himself to.

Craig’s voice steadies only enough to continue. “It’s twisted everything. Being with you - trying to love you - while hiding what happened… it’s been like living with a black hole inside me. It just eats everything.”

Tweek’s eyes search his face, still reeling. He leans in, voice quieter now. “Every time you pulled away, every time you shut down - I thought it was my fault. That I was too much.” His throat bobs, eyes softening. 

Craig shakes his head quickly, almost desperate. “No. It was never you. It was me... letting it rot everything between us. I wanted to hold you close and all I could do was push you away.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me sooner? Why carry it alone?”

Craig exhales, shame flickering in his eyes. “Because saying it out loud makes it real. And I didn’t want it to be real. I didn’t want you to know something bad happened… How - how I could just let him do that to me. I used to get suspended for fighting all the time, but I… I didn’t fight him back at all. I froze. I didn’t even try.” His voice cracks on the last word, shoulders curling inward.

Tweek’s gaze lingers, his voice calm as he finally speaks. “Craig… what he did to you - it wasn’t just ‘something bad that happened.’ It was assault. It was rape. None of that was your fault, honey. You were a kid.” His hands flex against the table, restless, aching to close the distance.

Craig’s throat works, unable to meet his eyes. “I didn’t want anyone to look at me differently. Especially you.”

Tweek shakes his head, leaning in closer. “I don’t. I never could. I just… I feel sick knowing what you went through. That someone hurt you like that. And that you thought you had to go through it alone.”

Craig swallows, his voice rough. “I didn’t know what else to do."

Tweek watches him for a long moment, his anger gone, replaced by a raw ache. His eyes sting as he whispers, “Did you ever tell your parents?”

Craig nods faintly, rubbing his thumb along the damp wood. “I told them he was an asshole to me. Said he said some fucked up things. I couldn’t tell them the truth. My dad didn’t believe me, brushed it off. But my mom… she did. And they started fighting. It got bad - screaming, doors slamming. It… it led to the divorce.”

Tweek frowns, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. He leans back slightly, trying to piece it together. “That sounds… strange. I mean - if all you said was that he was rude, why would your parents fight that badly?”

Craig freezes, his breath catching. He stares down at his hands, considering, his chest tight. “I… I don’t know.”

“You sure you’re remembering it right?” Tweek asks more softly this time, cautious.

Craig drags his hands over his face, his voice soft. “I don’t know. That whole time - it’s just a blur. I was twelve. Everything was… hard. I don’t know what I said, or what they understood. I just remember the fighting. And then it was over.”

Tweek studies him, the night air cool between them. “Craig… I’m not saying you’re wrong. I just think… maybe you carried the blame for things that weren’t your fault. Maybe your parents already had issues, and what you said - whatever it was - just brought them to the surface.”

Craig lifts his head slowly, eyes tired, searching. “You think so?”

“I know so,” Tweek says quietly. “You were twelve. You were scared. None of this - none of it - should’ve been on you.”

Craig lets out a shaky laugh, more bitter than amused. “It feels like everything’s always been on me. Like my whole life has just been surviving one thing after another. And the worst part is, I started believing that’s all I was good for.”

“That’s not true."

Craig leans forward, rubbing at his temples. He hesitates, then exhales. “There’s more... A couple weeks ago, after my dad beat the shit out of me, he told me himself that he wasn’t even my real dad.” His voice cracks, raw and shaking. “So now I don’t even know who the hell I’m supposed to hate, or who the hell I’m supposed to be.”

Tweek’s breath stumbles, his eyes wide with shock. “Craig… Jesus. That’s - God, that’s awful. I’m so sorry.”

Craig shakes his head quickly, pushing on. “Don't apologize to me. I’ve ruined our relationship. I get close... then I panic. I shut down, I fight, I sabotage. And the crazy part? You were the one I actually wanted to be vulnerable with. But it still felt impossible to let you all the way in.”

“You think I didn’t feel that?"

“I know you did. I could see it on your face everyday. I saw it every time you asked me to open up and I wouldn't.”

Tweek’s eyes flicker. “Did you ever… did you tell Kenny?”

Craig hesitates, closing his eyes. "Yeah... I did.”

Tweek stiffens, his hurt immediate. “So, you trusted him?”

Craig shakes his head, looking back up. “It wasn’t about trust. I was drunk - really drunk. It was maybe a week before graduation. It just came out. I didn’t plan it, I didn’t even know I was going to say it until I heard myself talking.”

Tweek’s lips press together, his expression pained. “And he understood.”

Craig exhales. “Yeah. Because he’s lived through worse.”

Silence stretches before Tweek leans back slightly, his eyes steady on Craig. “But you never wanted to say it to me.”

“I was terrified. I didn’t want you to see me as something less.”

Tweek shakes his head. “I don’t see you that way. I never have. I wish you’d trusted me enough to tell me sooner.”

Craig swallows hard. “I’m sorry. I thought I was sparing you, but… I was just making things worse.”

The night is still around them, broken only by the faint chorus of crickets and the lap of water against the shore. Craig stares down at his hands resting on the picnic table, voice low when he speaks again.

“My whole life people have called me pretty. Always making comments about how I looked. Teachers, strangers, even family sometimes. It… fucks with me. Makes me think of that night. Like being pretty was all I was good for.” Craig exhales sharply, his fingers curling into fists. “And after that, every time someone said it, all I could hear was him. All I could feel was that I was just a face. Something to use.”

Tweek’s gaze softens, his voice gentle. “Craig…”

Craig keeps going, his tone bitter. “And everyone thinks I’m bland, boring. That there’s nothing under the surface. A pretty face and a dull personality. That’s what people see when they look at me.”

Tweek shakes his head immediately. “That’s not what I see. Not what I’ve ever seen.” He pauses, struggling to find the right words. “Don’t get me wrong - I know you’re... you're beautiful. But I’ve never seen you as just that. You’re not boring... You’re not dull. You’re… layered. Complicated. Frustrating as hell a lot of the time, but never boring.”

Craig lets out a shaky breath, lifting his eyes to him. “I know. You’ve always made me feel like more than that. Even when I was acting like less than. I’ve always respected that about you.”

Tweek leans forward, his voice stronger now. “You think you’re just a face, but I’ve seen past the bullshit - I know who you are inside. I’ve seen you scared and I’ve seen you soft, even if you hated letting it show. You’re more than what people say.”

Craig blinks, the words sinking in, his throat working around a lump. His chest aches with the weight of being seen.

“I don’t know what to say to that.”

“Then don’t,” Tweek replies, his tone gentle, though his eyes shine. “Just believe me when I say - Craig Tucker, I know you inside and out, and I’ve always loved you. I always will. That hasn’t changed.” His voice falters at the end, but it holds strong enough to carry the truth between them.

Their eyes meet in the dim light, something raw and unguarded settling between them at the worn picnic bench, heavier than the silence that surrounds them.

After a long beat, Tweek’s voice drops softer. “Is this why you don’t want to go to MIT?"

Craig blinks, caught off guard by how much it disarms him. “Yeah. I... I didn’t trust myself to hold it together. I didn’t trust myself not to implode. I still don't, honestly.”

Tweek tilts his head, studying him. “So you chose nothing. All the same pain, all the same ghosts.”

Craig nods. “Yeah. At least here, I knew what I was dealing with. MIT felt like walking into fire. And I didn’t think I’d make it out.”

Tweek breathes out slowly, his gaze softer now. “You could’ve told me that. I would’ve understood.”

Craig’s eyes lift to him, glassy in the dim light. “There’s more I should’ve told you. Things I should’ve said a long time ago. About how I see you. About what you’ve meant to me.”

Tweek shifts uncomfortably, but doesn’t look away. Craig continues, his voice low and earnest. “You were the first person who made me believe I could be more than what happened to me. When I think of you, it isn’t chaos, it isn’t fear - it’s… it’s safety. Even when I didn’t know how to show it.”

Tweek’s throat tightens; his eyes shine as he shakes his head. His voice wavers when he speaks.

“I didn’t come here to get back together with you, Craig.”

Craig nods immediately, accepting. “I know. I’m not asking for that. I just… I need you to know, and if you walk away tonight still done with me, at least you’ll know the truth.”

Tweek swallows hard, blinking quickly. His voice comes quiet, fragile. “It’s a lot to take in.”

“I know,” Craig says gently. “I don’t expect anything from you. Not forgiveness. Not another chance. I just couldn’t let you keep thinking that you're to blame for everything that went wrong.”

“Is this the part where you tell me ‘it’s not you, it’s me?’”

“No. It’s not some line. It really was me. The things I never said, the things I never faced… they poisoned everything. You deserved better than the half-assed version of me you got.”

Tweek looks away, swallowing hard. “Craig,” he starts but can’t seem to continue. Craig presses on.

“I’m sorry I failed you,” Craig says, voice softening. 

Tweek shakes his head, eyes growing wet and his throat tight. His voice catches, then steadies. “You’re saying things I never thought I’d hear from you. It almost doesn’t feel real.”

Craig gives a faint, rueful smile. “Guess I ran out of time to keep hiding. You’re leaving soon, after all.”

The words linger, heavy in the quiet. Something shifts between them - anger drained, replaced with a fragile understanding.

Tweek studies him closely now, really looking. The bruises still healing along Craig’s jaw, the dark shadows under his eyes, the distant calm stretched thin across his face. Warning signs spark inside him.

“Craig,” Tweek says carefully, drawing his attention.

Their eyes meet, and for the first time Tweek sees the resignation there, heavy and worn.

“Are you okay?”

Craig holds his gaze for a moment before shaking his head. His voice is quiet, almost small.

“No.” He pauses, swallows hard, then adds, “Is that okay?”

Tweek nods slowly, his voice strong despite the ache in his chest.

“Yeah.”

Craig meets his eyes again, his guard down in a way Tweek has rarely seen. Vulnerability pools there, raw and unhidden. Craig blinks, and tears spring to his lashes before he can stop them. He mutters a quick apology, almost ashamed, and wipes at his face with the heel of his hand as though he can erase the moment.

Before he can retreat fully, Tweek reaches forward, his hand closing gently around Craig’s, who stills at the touch.

No words come right away - only quiet emotions flowing between them, heavy, but understood all the same.

Craig glances down at their hands as Tweek threads their fingers together.

The touch feels almost overwhelming after so many weeks of isolation and rejection of human contact. His throat tightens couple of tears roll calm and steady down his cheeks. He wipes them off with his free hand, the other still warm Tweek’s grasp.

Tweek gives his hand a small tug. “Come on.”

Craig rises slowly and lets Tweek guide him back toward the car. The night is quiet around them, the gravel crunching beneath their shoes. When they reach car, Tweek gestures for him to get in. Craig obeys, and Tweek circles around to the driver’s side, sliding in behind the wheel.

Without another word, he starts the engine to drive them back.

The atmosphere in the car is gentler now. Craig sits back in the seat, his head resting against the headrest, but turned toward Tweek’s profile - calm and purposeful, not jittery or anxious the way he so often is. The sight eases something in Craig’s chest.

As the road unwinds beneath them, Tweek reaches over without looking and takes Craig’s hand again, lacing their fingers together. Craig stares down at the gesture, at the warmth pressed against his palm, before lifting his gaze back to Tweek.

“I’m still in love with you,” Craig says softly, the words fragile.

Tweek squeezes his hand, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. “I know.”

Craig takes in a slow breath, his thumb brushing over the back of Tweek’s hand. “I’m not saying that because I’m trying to win you back. This whole talk we had - it wasn’t about that, I swear.”

Tweek furrows his brows, his throat working as he blinks a few times, still keeping his eyes fixed on the road. His voice comes quiet and gentle.

“I know.”

They lapse into silence after that, the weight of everything settling into the quiet hum of the car. Neither of them speaks again until Tweek turns into his driveway. He lets go of Craig’s hand to kill the engine, and for a moment they both just sit there, the silence stretching.

Finally, Tweek pushes his door open and steps out. Craig watches him circle around the hood before the passenger door creaks open. Craig blinks up at him, slow to move, his body heavy with apprehension.

He climbs out, putting a few steps of space between them, unsure of what Tweek is thinking - already bracing himself to walk home if that’s what Tweek wants.

But Tweek only gives him a soft, sad smile.

“Come on. I’d rather you stay the night here than go back home.”

Craig follows him inside quietly. The house is dim, the familiar creak of the stairs greeting them as they head up, each step groaning under their weight. The stillness of the space feels heavy, like the walls themselves remember the tension that has stretched between them for so long.

His heart aches when they reach Tweek’s room - it hasn’t changed at all since the last time he was here.

Tweek toes off his shoes and sets them aside. Craig hesitates, watching, then quietly follows suit - pulling off his shoes, stripping back the layers of the day until he’s down to a t-shirt and boxers.

They both climb into bed, each retreating to the edge of their side, leaving a wide strip of mattress untouched between them, an invisible line neither dares to cross. The gap feels both protective and unbearable, like a chasm carved out of everything they’ve been through.

Still, almost instinctively, they turn to face one another, hesitant but unable to resist. Their bodies mirror each other, curled just slightly inward. Their eyes meet in the dim light filtering through the curtains, finding each other across the divide. 

Craig swallows, the words rough in his throat. “I feel… lighter, after everything I told you.”

Tweek shifts a little, shoulders still tremble faintly with nerves, his voice is calm when he answers.

“You don’t have to say more."

Craig nods faintly. His eyes flick away, then back again, misting under the weak light. His voice breaks when he admits, “I wish saying sorry could undo it all. But I know it can’t.”

Tweek swallows hard, his throat working. He blinks a few times before speaking.

“Craig… I’m still leaving next month.”

Craig’s chest caves a little, his muscles tensing, but he nods slowly.

Tweek breathes in slowly. "And I think… we should stay apart for a while. Work on ourselves. Figure out who we are without pulling each other under.” His eyes are wet, but he holds Craig’s gaze as he says it.

Craig’s lips part, a thousand protests pressing at the back of his throat, but he forces them down. His face can’t hide the pain - every word costs him something, but he nods again, the sound of his agreement hushed and final.

“Yeah. You’re right.”

Neither looks away. The silence stretches, but it no longer feels like avoidance - it feels like mourning, like the acknowledgment of something too big to fit neatly into words. 

Tweek reaches out, tugging gently at Craig’s arm.

Craig doesn’t resist. He shifts closer, the space between them collapses as they meet in the middle of the bed. Their arms wrap around each other tightly, clinging in a way that speaks of both desperation and relief.

Tweek buries his face against Craig’s hair, his voice breaking as he whispers, “I didn’t mean what I said that last time we saw each other. I don’t hate you.” His throat catches on the words, tears choking him as they spill out, dampening Craig’s shirt.

Craig nods faintly against Tweek’s collarbone. “I know. I’ve said a lot of things I never meant to, too. Things I wish I could take back.”

Tweek pulls back just enough so their faces are close. His hands come up, trembling but tender, cradling Craig’s face with a gentle touch. His thumbs brush over damp cheeks, soothing him.

“I’m still in love with you, Craig,” Tweek whispers. “I always will be. You know that, right?”

Craig blinks away tears, his chest shaking with the effort, his voice cracking as he manages, “Yeah.”

They sink into each other again, tighter this time, whole-bodied, as if the embrace alone could keep the world at bay.

Chapter Text

Craig hasn’t moved in hours.

The sheets are tangled around his legs, damp with the weight of sweat and disuse. His room smells like stale smoke and the faint rot of food containers shoved under the bed. The air is stale, thick, like it hasn’t been disturbed in days. 

The blinds are drawn tight, cutting out the day, leaving the room dim and airless. He lies half on his side, half on his back, staring at nothing. Time passes without markers - no clock ticking, no phone buzzing, no footsteps outside to remind him that the world is still moving.

His phone has died somewhere in the mess, and he hasn’t cared enough to find it. Hunger doesn’t register anymore. Thirst barely stings. All he can feel is the hollow ache in his chest that doesn’t fade, no matter how many hours slip away.

It’s been a week since Tweek’s plane took off.

Two months since Kenny took left without saying goodbye.

Two months since the funerals that hollowed the town out and left them all with scars no one knows how to carry.

Everyone else has found their way forward, tumbling into adulthood whether they’re ready or not.

Craig isn’t.

The front door opens without warning, hinges creaking loud enough to echo through the silence. Craig doesn’t twitch. He doesn’t look. He lets the sound move through him like another piece of background noise, as though maybe it isn’t real, just another ghost wandering through the house.

Bootsteps cross the living room. The hall. Then his bedroom door swings open.

“Get the fuck up, dude.”

Tolkien fills the doorway, tall and solid, his tone cutting through the air like a blade.

He doesn’t wait for Craig to acknowledge him. He steps inside, a large suitcase in hand. With one clean motion he throws it onto the bed, the edge slamming against Craig’s legs hard enough to jar him.

Craig flinches, finally, blue eyes dragging up in sluggish confusion. “What the - ”

“Up. Now.” Tolkien’s already moving, yanking open the closet doors with sharp efficiency. He shoves hangers aside, grabs an armful of hoodies and shirts, and dumps them into the suitcase without bothering to fold. The sound is loud, deliberate, like a verdict already decided. “Pack your shit. We’re leaving in a few hours.”

Craig pushes up onto his elbows, groggy and defensive, voice hoarse from days of disuse.

“Leaving where?”

“Palo Alto.” Tolkien doesn’t even glance back. He’s at the dresser now, pulling open drawers, tossing socks and jeans in heavy handfuls. The thud of them against the suitcase is loud, final. “I’m leaving for Stanford. And you’re coming with me.”

Craig blinks, dazed, like the words don’t make sense. “What? No, I - ”

“Yes.” Tolkien cuts him off, spinning on him with sudden force, eyes burning. “You’re not dying here, Craig. Not like this. I’m not letting another one of my friends die an avoidable death.” His voice cracks at the edges, harsh and desperate, carrying too much weight to be brushed off. “So, you’re coming with me. End of story.”

The suitcase grows heavier with every toss of fabric, until it’s clear this isn’t a suggestion. It’s an ultimatum, drawn in the lines of Tolkien’s jaw and the sharp movements of his hands. His body vibrates with the same energy he carried at the funeral, standing stone-faced by Clyde’s urn, his fists pressed white-knuckled against his thighs. That grief is still here, driving him like a blade at Craig’s chest.

Craig sits up fully, hair mussed, expression unreadable. His voice is flat, cracked from disuse, brittle as dry glass. “You can’t just decide that for me.”

“I can,” Tolkien snaps, low and certain. “Because if I don’t, you’ll rot in this damn bed until there’s nothing left of you. And I am not watching that happen. Not after everything we’ve lost. Not after Bebe. Not after Clyde. Not after all of it.” His voice wavers but he doesn’t stop, his eyes blazing, firm and serious. “You’re coming with me, Craig. I’m not giving you the choice to disappear.”

Craig stares at him, throat dry, mind fogged with exhaustion and despair. He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t move either. He just sits there, legs bent beneath the weight of the suitcase, staring at the man who refuses to let him vanish - at the one person left who is still willing to drag him kicking and screaming into the light, whether he wants it or not.

Finally, Craig exhales, the sound brittle and reluctant, and swings his legs over the edge of the mattress. His joints protest the sudden motion, but he ignores it, pushing himself to his feet with the sluggish stiffness of someone who hasn’t done a lot of moving in days.

“Good,” Tolkien says immediately, already pulling more clothes from the dresser. “We’re heading straight to the airport. Don’t worry about tickets, don’t worry about money, don’t worry about anything. I’ve got it covered. Just get your essentials in the bag. You’ll be with me. You won’t have to figure out shit on your own.”

Craig bends slowly, lifting a hoodie from the pile and folding it half-heartedly before dropping it into the suitcase. Tolkien talks as he moves - about the flight leaving this evening, about the house waiting for them in Palo Alto.

“I’m not staying in the dorms,” he explains, matter-of-fact. “My parents bought me a place right next to campus. Three bedrooms, plenty of space for the both of us. You’ll have your own room - your own bathroom, too. An en-suite. No one breathing down your neck. It’ll be yours to lock up and shut out the world if that’s what you want.”

His words are practical, like scaffolding being built around a crumbling structure.

The promise of space. Stability.

Something Craig hasn’t had in years.

Craig only half-hears him. His eyes have drifted, caught by something small and familiar on the corner of his desk. The mug Tweek had given him as a birthday present years ago. The outside is painted in swirling galaxy tones, deep purples and blues streaked with flecks of white and silver that look like stars scattered across space. Inside, the surface is a matte, velvety black, dark as the night sky without a moon.

Craig remembers unwrapping the box. The way Tweek had hovered nervously, chewing his lip, insisting it wasn’t good enough even as Craig turned it over in his hands, stunned that someone had made something like this just for him.

He doesn’t think. He just acts. He grabs another shirt from the drawer, wraps it tightly around the cup, and lowers it carefully into the suitcase, tucking it between stacks of clothes. A precious memory hidden among fabric.

Tolkien notices the motion. His gaze flicks briefly to the bundle, the way Craig’s hands linger for just a second too long. But he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t tease, doesn’t question. He only turns back to the closet, grabbing another shirt and tossing it onto the growing pile.

“Flight’s in three hours,” he says instead, firm and brisk, like nothing unusual happened.

The dining room doesn’t look like a dining room anymore. The table has been pushed against the far wall, chairs stacked in a corner. In their place, a padded therapy table, a set of parallel bars, and a clutter of resistance bands and foam blocks mark the space as something else entirely: a recovery room.

Stan sits at the table, hair shaggier than he’s ever let it grow; pieces falling into his eyes as he leans over the task at hand. His right arm, newly freed from its cast, is stiff and awkward, stitched scars still angry across the skin.

A small bowl sits on the table in front of him and scattered across the surface are brightly colored blocks - childlike, almost mocking in their simplicity.

Wendy kneels beside him, kind and patient, guiding his elbow when his movements drift too wide. Across the room, Kyle sits on a workout bench with his arms crossed.

“Did you ever finish that show I told you about?” Kyle asks, twirling a pen idly between his fingers.

Wendy shakes her head with a small smile. “No, my mom kept hogging the TV for her crime documentaries. She’s on her fifth binge this month. I think she knows more about serial killers than actual cops do.”

Kyle snorts. “That explains why she always gives me that look, like she’s profiling me.”

“Maybe she is,” Wendy teases, her lips twitching. “You’d be suspect number one if the grocery store clerk ever turns up missing.”

“Yeah, well, that guy already hates me because I told him his prices are highway robbery,” Kyle shoots back. “I’m basically living on his shit list.”

Wendy smiles, shaking her head. “You’re unbelievable.”

They trade laughs while Stan struggles.

Stan pinches one of the blocks between his thumb and forefinger, the effort obvious in the way his hand trembles. The nerves don’t fire the way they used to; his fine motor skills are shredded, and every motion feels clumsy, foreign.

Kyle leans forward, grinning at Wendy. “Seriously, though, you should’ve seen the way he glared at me last week when I asked if the milk was expired. Dude looked ready to call the cops.”

Wendy covers her mouth to stifle a laugh. “You probably sounded like you were accusing him of poisoning the whole town.”

“Maybe I was,” Kyle says dryly. “Public safety is everyone’s responsibility.”

Wendy smirks. “Right. And next you’ll be running for town council.”

“God forbid,” Kyle mutters, rolling his eyes. “I’d have to sit in meetings with my dad.”

That makes Wendy laugh harder, shaking her head. “Okay, fair.”

Kyle shrugs like he’s proved his point. “See? I’d be doing the community a favor by not running.”

Stan drags the block toward the bowl, lips pressed tight with concentration, only for his knuckles to knock against the ceramic edge. The block slips from his grip and clatters against the tabletop, rolling out of reach.

“Fuck!” The word rips out of him, sharp and raw. He slams his left palm down uselessly beside the bowl, shoulders hunching.

The room goes quiet. Wendy’s hand hovers midair, Kyle’s voice cuts off mid-sentence.

For a beat, there’s nothing but the hum of the overhead light and Stan’s uneven breathing.

Then Kyle exhales through his nose, tilting his head. “Well, I think the block won that round. Two out of three?”

Stan’s glare snaps up at him, sharp and tired. “Shut up, Kyle.”

Kyle raises his hands in mock surrender, leaning back. “Okay, okay. Let’s take a break, dude.”

The tension softens only slightly, the silence filling back in, heavy but less brittle.

Stan stares down at the bowl like it’s mocking him, jaw clenched, hair falling into his eyes. Wendy rests her hand lightly against his back, saying nothing. Kyle watches from across the table, trying not to let emotion crack.

Wendy clears her throat softly, glancing between them.

“Why don’t we go outside for a little air?” she suggests, her voice gentle but firm. She moves behind Stan’s chair, fingers curling around the wheelchair handles. Kyle pushes himself up from the bench without a word, stretching his stiff shoulders.

Together, they maneuver through the hallway toward the back door. The house is quiet, every creak of the floorboards loud in the silence. When Wendy swings the door open, the porch greets them with warm sunlight and the scent of cut grass.

A ramp has been built alongside the stairs, the wood still pale and fresh compared to the weathered deck.

Wendy guides Stan out onto the porch, easing the wheels forward. Kyle follows, hands shoved into his pockets, squinting against the light. For a moment, no one speaks. The air is easier here, the hum of summer cicadas carrying from the trees.

“Smells better than inside,” Kyle mutters finally, sinking into one of the porch chairs. “Less… defeat.”

Wendy shoots him a look. “Kyle.”

“What? I meant the smell of dust and antiseptic,” he says quickly, raising his hands. “I wasn’t trying to make it heavy.”

Stan huffs, not quite a laugh but close. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Wendy leans against the railing, her eyes drifting to the yard. “At least it’s quiet out here. No TV, no crime documentaries blaring in the background.”

Kyle smirks. “Don’t tempt fate. Your mom probably has a portable speaker set up somewhere.”

That earns him a real laugh from Wendy, and even Stan’s mouth twitches, just barely, as the three of them settle into the porch’s uneven rhythm of air and sunlight.

Wendy tips her head back, closing her eyes briefly. “You know, if my mom could, she’d narrate our lives like one of her crime shows. ‘Three teens caught in the middle of a suspicious porch hangout…’”

Kyle chuckles. “And the reenactment would be played by D-list actors. I’d end up looking like some forty-year-old with a bad wig.”

“That would be generous,” Stan mutters, his voice dry.

Wendy and Kyle both glance at him, startled before small smiles break across their faces.

Kyle leans forward, grinning. “Yeah, I’d probably be played by Nicholas Cage in a cheap disguise.”

Stan shakes his head faintly, a sigh caught between irritation and amusement. “Christ, kill me now. That sounds like a trainwreck.”

Wendy smirks. “Don’t tempt him, Stan. He’d run with that idea.”

“Damn right,” Kyle says, settling back against the steps. “But I’d still come out looking better than that grocery store clerk. If he ever gets cast, the director’s gonna have to find someone with permanent resting bitch face.”

Wendy snorts and covers her smile. “Oh my god, Kyle.”

Stan exhales slowly, eyes drifting toward the yard, but his lips curve just enough to show he’s listening. The conversation, light and ridiculous as it is, chips away at the heaviness sitting between them.

The days of Stan’s recovery blur together, but when he sits still long enough, fragments come back in sharp detail. The last month before everything shifted had been the hardest, and the most intimate.

Those early weeks stripped him of pride more than the pain itself ever did. He needed help with everything - getting dressed, eating, moving from bed to chair. It embarrassed him, humiliated him in ways he couldn’t put into words. Every small dependency felt like another piece of himself shaved away.

One night stands out clearer than most.

Kyle had stayed over, sleeping on the couch in the living room because Stan’s parents needed a break. When Kyle woke in the early hours, it was to the sound of Stan struggling. He stumbled toward the guest room and found Stan half out of bed, reaching desperately for his wheelchair, his face twisted with pain and frustration.

“I have to pee,” Stan muttered, breathless and ashamed, refusing to look Kyle in the eye.

Without hesitation, Kyle hurried to help. He steadied the chair, guided Stan into it, and wheeled him carefully toward the bathroom. The silence between them was heavy, somber, and thick.

In the cramped space, Kyle braced Stan upright, letting him balance on his good leg while he relieved himself. For a long moment, both of them were quiet, the gravity of the situation pressing down - two boys who once thought they were invincible, now reduced to this.

And then, somehow, it cracked.

Maybe it was the absurdity, maybe it was the memory of all the times they’d snickered in locker rooms at school, but a laugh burst out of Kyle first.

Stan shot him a look, half offended, half incredulous, before breaking too.

Soon they were both laughing - loud, breathless, immature in the way only old friends could be. It sounded like it used to, like middle school, like things before everything went wrong.

For those few minutes, the heaviness lifted. They weren’t patient and caretaker, weren’t broken and whole. They were just two idiots laughing in a bathroom, and the sound of it helped stitch something back together.

For Stan, that moment was as much a part of healing as any exercise, proof that even in humiliation there could still be joy - that he hadn’t lost everything.

On the porch, Stan shifts in his chair, his tone lower, almost hesitant.

“Hey, Kyle… could you give me and Wendy a minute alone?”

Kyle studies him for a beat. “You mean go home, or just inside?”

Stan drops his gaze to his lap, fingers curling against his thighs. It takes him a moment before he mutters, “Just inside. For now.”

Kyle glances at Wendy, then back to Stan. Concern flickers across his face, but he only nods. “Alright. I’ll be in the living room.” He stands, brushing his hands against his jeans, and disappears through the porch door. The screen shuts with a soft click, leaving Stan and Wendy in the warm hush of cicadas and fading daylight.

The silence stretches, heavier without Kyle’s sarcasm to buffer it. The hum of cicadas rises and falls outside, the weight of summer air pressing in.

Wendy moves around from behind the chair, her face gentle but weighted, her eyes carrying a sadness she has been preparing herself to voice. She’s known this talk has been coming for a while, but knowing doesn’t make it easier.

Stan swallows hard, his gaze fixed on the yard where the grass wavers in the heat. His voice is low, cracked at the edges. “I love you, Wendy. You’re the first person I’ve ever loved.”

Wendy’s lips twitch into a sad smile, her eyes softening. “I know. I love you too.”

“No, I mean - ” he presses, his throat tight. “You’re everything. Beautiful, smart, kind. You’ve always been the best part of me. But… I think we should break up.”

The words fall heavy, settling between them like stones in water, rippling out in silence. Wendy kneels by his chair, her hand resting lightly on the armrest, her breath hitching before she speaks.

“Stan…”

“I don’t want to hold you back,” Stan says quickly, as if rushing might dull the pain. “You’ve got a future, and I can’t be the reason you give it up. You deserve to chase everything you want. I can’t tie you here.”

Wendy’ eyes glisten, but her smile stays warm and kind. “You’re not holding me back. But I understand what you’re saying.”

Stan looks at her, startled by how calm she seems in the face of it. “You do?”

“Yeah,” Wendy whispers. She hesitates, studying him, the lines of his face she’s known for so long. “Stan… you don’t even realize it, do you?”

He frowns, brow furrowing. “Realize what?”

Wendy's hand lifts to his cheek, thumb brushing softly over his skin.

“That we’ve both changed. We’ve been growing, and we haven’t always been growing in the same direction. The love will always be there, but we’ve become completely different people.” Her voice trembles as she leans in, pressing a tender kiss to his lips. When she pulls back, his eyes are wet, a single tear cutting down his cheek.

“I’m sorry,” Stan whispers, voice breaking. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Wendy murmurs, though her own voice shakes. “You’ll always be my first love. No one will ever take that from us.” She draws in a shaky breath, gathering her courage. “You're probably the only guy I’ll ever love.”

Stan blinks at her, confusion mixing with grief. “Wait… what do you mean?”

Wendy steadies herself, her thumb still resting against his face. “I’ve been having feelings. For… for girls. I kept it inside because I wanted to be faithful to you - and I was. I never strayed, Stan. But... I like them. I feel drawn to them. I can’t ignore that part of myself, not if I’m going to be honest about who I am.”

Stan stares, stunned, searching her eyes. “You mean… you’re into girls?”

She nods, firm even as her tears threaten to spill. “Yeah. I am… I’m - bisexual, though… I think you really are the only boy I've ever... had any kind of feelings for. I think my preferences are more towards girls. Of course, that could just be because I've never been with one yet.”

Stan mouth opens and closes, words failing him until he forces one out. “Oh… that, uh… that changes some things.” His voice is small.

Wendy’s lips curve into a faint, sad smile. “It doesn’t erase what we had. You were everything to me. You still are, in some ways. But… maybe this is the moment we let each other grow into who we’re supposed to be? Not as halves of one thing, but as whole people in our own right.”

Stan presses his good palm flat against his thigh, trying to steady his breathing. His chest is tight, his eyes blurred with tears he can’t hold back. Wendy leans closer, brushing one away with her thumb, her forehead resting lightly against his.

“I’ll always love you, Stan,” she whispers, her breath warm against his skin. “You’ll always be my first.”

“And you’ll always be mine,” Stan breathes, his voice shaking but sure, the truth of it etched into him.

They stay there together for a long moment, quiet but close, cicadas buzzing in the heavy summer air, the porch bathed in fading light.

The love between them hasn’t vanished - it has only shifted, reshaped into something softer and bittersweet.

Eventually, when their tears have slowed, Wendy rises slowly and takes hold of the wheelchair handles. Her movements are gentle, as if she’s afraid of shattering the fragile peace between them. She guides Stan back inside, the house cooler and dimmer after the porch’s golden light.

In the living room, Kyle is sprawled on the couch, scrolling through his phone. He perks up when they enter, his eyes darting to their faces. He notices the redness around their eyes, the way their shoulders sit heavier than before, but he doesn’t say a word. The silence tells him enough.

Wendy lets go of the chair and steps toward Kyle. He stands to meet her, uncertainty flickering across his face. She offers him a small, warm smile. Leaning in, she presses a quick kiss to his cheek - a soft, affectionate gesture, the kind Bebe always used to give her closest friends. When she pulls back, her voice is calm but thick with emotion.

“I’ll see you boys tomorrow.”

She gives them one last glance, her expression full of love and care, before she turns and heads for the door. The quiet sound of it shutting lingers in the room long after she’s gone, echoing like a closing chapter neither of them will forget.

Both Stan and Kyle watch the door for a beat before Stan exhales and starts moving. He plants his left foot against the floor, pushing in short bursts, guiding the chair forward with his good arm on the wheel and the clumsy drag of his weaker right arm adding what little help it can.

Kyle’s eyes follow him, tense, but he doesn’t reach for the handles - he knows how much Stan needs to feel what independence he can.

The kitchen is quiet as Stan rolls up to the counter, his hand steady as he reaches for the neck of a half-empty bottle of gin. His fingers close around it like it’s an old habit, and he doesn’t pause, doesn’t second-guess. He just lifts it into his lap, pivots the chair, and directs himself toward the guest room that’s been reshaped into his new bedroom on the first floor.

“Come on, man,” Kyle mutters, walking at his side, worry threading through every word. “Don’t drink on your meds. Aren’t you still taking antibiotics?”

Stan shakes his head, jaw clenched. “No. I’m not on anything now. That’s all done. Just Tylenol and ibuprofen from here on out.” His tone is final, like he’s rehearsed the line already. His eyes flick up toward Kyle, a flash of challenge glinting there. “You wanna make yourself useful? Grab a couple glasses.”

Kyle lets out a long breath, his expression sour with reluctant acceptance. Still, he pulls two mismatched glasses from the cupboard, the faint clink ringing in the quiet kitchen, and trails after Stan down the hall.

In the guest room, the blinds are half-drawn, the furniture unfamiliar yet already arranged around Stan’s new life. Stan maneuvers to the bedside, then braces his hand against the frame. With a grimace, he plants his good leg and pushes himself upright. Pain slices across his face as he winces, but he forces through it anyway. Kyle pauses in the doorway, his chest aching.

The sight of Stan standing - even on shakily on one leg - punches him with nostalgia and grief.

He’d forgotten how tall Stan really is, how much space he takes up when he’s upright. He’s broader; the lines of his shoulders still those of an athlete, the muscles in his arms flexing as he steadies himself.

Strength carved into every inch of him, but tempered by the jagged, disjointed effort of someone rebuilding from broken pieces.

Kyle swallows hard against the lump rising in his throat and steps forward, lowering himself onto the edge of the bed as Stan eases down beside him with stubborn determination. The mattress dips under the weight, the glasses balanced on Kyle’s knees. He tries to lighten the mood, his voice a little too forced.

“Alright. What are we drinking to?”

Stan doesn’t hesitate. He tips the gin bottle forward, the liquid splashing into each glass. The smell is sharp, burning. His mouth twists as he says flatly.

“I broke up with Wendy.”

Kyle blinks, startled. “Shit, man.” He shakes his head, brows pulling together. “That sucks ass. What happened? You didn’t tell me you were even thinking about breaking up.”

Stan stares into his glass, watching the swirl of liquor as if it might hold an answer. His voice comes rough, halting. “I didn’t want to hold her back. She’s got everything ahead of her, and I love her so much. I really do. But…” He pauses, pressing his lips together before forcing the rest out. “I don’t know if I love her the same way anymore. Not like I used to.”

Kyle shifts, turning slightly toward him. “You mean… not romantically?”

Stan exhales, his shoulders sagging under the weight of it. “No - I do love her romantically. She’s my first love. That’ll never change. But at the same time, it feels almost… platonic. Like she’s family. Like both things at once, and I don’t know what to do with that.”

Kyle frowns, incredulous. “Dude, how do you feel both romantic and platonic towards someone? That doesn’t even make sense.”

Stan doesn’t answer with words. Instead, he lifts his glass, throws his head back, and drains it in one swallow. The burn doesn’t even make him flinch. He lowers the glass with a heavy thud onto the nightstand, then turns his head toward Kyle.

They’re close - shoulder to shoulder, faces only inches apart. The heat of the gin sits in his chest, but his gaze is steady, locked onto Kyle’s eyes.

“You tell me.”

The cabin hums with the steady drone of engines, air thick with recycled coolness and the faint smell of coffee drifting from the galley. Rows of passengers murmur quietly or sit in silence, their faces turned toward glowing screens or pages of books.

The world outside the window is nothing but clouds and sky.

Craig sits pressed against the window seat, hood pulled up, arms crossed loosely in his lap. His gaze stays fixed on the glass, but he doesn’t see the shifting layers of white beyond it.

His mind is somewhere else entirely - back in South Park, back in the month before, back in the house where Tweek’s laughter used to spill through the walls. Every small detail of him circles in Craig’s head: the twitch of his fingers, the way he fidgeted with his sleeves, the smile that always undid him. The pain of his absence is sharp, constant, impossible to push away.

Tolkien sits beside him, solid and grounded, his posture straight, his presence strong. He’s scrolling idly through his phone, but his eyes flick to Craig every so often, measuring him.

Every time, Craig is the same: silent, locked in himself, drowning in thought. Tolkien resists the urge to shake him, to force words out of him. Instead, he leans into being a quiet pillar - shoulder firm, presence reliable, something Craig can lean on if he ever chooses to.

Craig doesn’t, but Tolkien can feel it - the tension, the grief, the slow unraveling. And he refuses to let another friend slip away right in front of him. Not after Clyde. Not after Bebe.

He’ll drag Craig across the country if he has to, sit next to him for every mile, hold him up until he remembers how to stand on his own again.

The jolt of descent brings Craig back. The plane shudders as it dips through layers of cloud, and the captain’s voice crackles overhead, announcing their arrival. Passengers stir, gathering belongings, snapping seatbelts free. Craig stays still, numb, until Tolkien nudges him gently to stand.

Together, they file off with the rest.

The moment they step through the jet bridge, the air shifts - thicker, warmer, carrying the faint smell of asphalt and exhaust. Craig flinches at the sudden heat, tugging at his hoodie like it might help.

Tolkien lets out a quiet laugh. “Told you to change,” he says, voice light, but Craig ignores him, eyes set forward.

They move through baggage claim, Tolkien guiding by quiet gestures and steady nudges, Craig following in a daze. His suitcase appears on the carousel, but it’s Tolkien who grabs it, setting it at Craig’s feet before steering them toward the sliding glass doors. Outside, the pickup zone buzzes with cars and voices, heat radiating off the concrete. A man holds a sign with their names, standing beside a black sedan.

Tolkien nods to him, leading Craig along.

Craig doesn’t protest. He doesn’t ask questions. He just goes where Tolkien puts him, shoulders bowed, body moving on autopilot.

The car’s air conditioning hits him in a cool rush as they slide inside. Tolkien exchanges a few words with the driver, then leans back with a sigh. Craig turns to the window, resting his temple against the glass. The city of San Francisco unfurls as they leave the airport - wide roads, palm trees, low stucco houses bright against the sun.

For thirty minutes, Craig says nothing as they drive south; just watches the world stream by, stunned by its color and beauty, by how far away it feels from the only place he’s ever known.

When the car finally slows, it’s in front of a house that looks like it belongs in a magazine. Expensive and carefully designed, though modest in size, it sits just outside the campus bounds, close enough that Tolkien will be able to walk to his classes. The stucco walls glow in the afternoon light, and the small yard is neatly trimmed, giving the place an effortless air of stability.

Craig steps out reluctantly, the heat hitting him again as Tolkien thanks the driver.

The front door opens to a space decorated in clean, modern lines: soft gray couches, polished wood floors, walls hung with art that looks like it came from a gallery. It’s comfortable, warm, but also pristine in a way that makes Craig’s chest tighten. He feels suddenly out of place, his sneakers too dirty for the rug, his hoodie too worn for this kind of house.

Reality slams into him, heavy and strange.

What is he doing here?

What is even happening anymore?

Tolkien doesn’t give him time to spiral. He claps a firm hand to Craig’s shoulder, steering him down a hallway with easy authority.

“Come on. I’ll show you your room.”

The door opens to a large bedroom, fully furnished - queen bed, dresser, desk already in place, even curtains drawn back to let the light spill across the floor. Craig stands frozen in the doorway, overwhelmed.

Tolkien sets his suitcase by the bed and turns back to him, his tone even but reassuring. “Just chill, alright? Don’t worry about anything right now. My parents already know I brought you with me - they’re supportive. You don’t need to think about bills or money or any of that. Just… settle in."

Tolkien crouches down, unzipping the suitcase and pulling out clothes, stacking them neatly in the dresser drawers. Craig moves slower, half-dazed, pulling items free one at a time. When his hand closes around the familiar weight of the mug, he hesitates. The galaxy glaze still gleams under the light, the inside a matte black void.

He sets it carefully on the nightstand beside the bed, angled so it will be the first thing he sees when he wakes.

Tolkien notices but just continues folding until most of the suitcase is empty. Then he straightens, wiping his palms on his jeans, and turns to Craig with a pinched grin.

 “I love you, dude, but could you please go shower? I didn’t wanna say anything before, but I can tell you’ve been bedrotting for real, man.”

Craig huffs out a faint, humorless laugh and nods. He pushes himself up from the bed and heads into the ensuite bathroom.

The moment he steps inside, he freezes - this is nothing like the cramped, peeling bathroom back home. The space is pristine and modern, all clean lines and polished stone. A walk-in shower with a glass door gleams under recessed lights, and beside it sits a large whirlpool tub, its chrome fixtures catching the glow. The scent of fresh linen and soap lingers in the air, almost overwhelming in its newness.

Craig strips slowly, each motion heavy with exhaustion, and steps into the glass shower. Warm water pours over him in a rush, steam filling the space. It runs through his hair, down the knots in his shoulders, loosening the grime of weeks. For a moment, he just stands there, letting it beat against his skin, eyes closed, forehead pressed to the tile.

But it doesn’t stay simple.

His mind drifts - straight to Tweek.

He remembers the shower they took together; the way Tweek’s hands, always jittery everywhere else, turned soft and careful when they touched him. How he would trace Craig’s bruises with a featherlight touch, washing him slowly, as if every mark deserved kindness instead of shame.

Tweek’s voice had been quiet in those moments, his green eyes strong, grounding Craig when he didn’t know how to ground himself. The memory stirs a sharp ache in his chest, mixing with the warmth of the water until it’s almost unbearable.

Craig washes himself quickly and mechanically, before he shuts off the water abruptly, dragging a towel around his waist. Droplets streak down his shoulders as he steps back into the bedroom. The door is closed now - Tolkien must’ve pulled it shut when he left. Craig scans the space that’s apparently his for the time being, the neat furniture and soft lighting pressing down on him. He feels lost.

He grabs a change of clothes from the dresser, pulling them on as his dirty ones go straight into the hamper tucked near the wall. When he finally exits the room, the house feels too quiet - until he hears Tolkien’s voice carrying from the living room.

Tolkien is on the phone, pacing with a grin, speaking animatedly to his parents. He laughs, warm and easy, the kind of sound Craig hasn’t heard in weeks. When Tolkien notices him, he lifts his chin in acknowledgment, still finishing up the call.

Craig’s eyes flick over the space while he waits - the open-concept living room bleeding into a wide kitchen on the other end, modern and airy, no walls dividing them. It’s beautiful. Too much.

The call ends with a cheerful goodbye, and Tolkien pockets his phone. “Ordered us some pizza when you were showering,” he says, tone casual. “Should be here in a little bit.”

Craig nods and lowers himself stiffly onto the sofa, posture rigid. The cushions are too soft, the air too clean.

Tolkien drops onto the opposite cushion, studying him. “Hey - relax. This place is yours too.”

Craig lets out a hollow breath, eyes fixed on the coffee table.

“Tolkien… why am I here?”

The question lands heavy, and Tolkien exhales, long and slow, before sinking onto the couch beside him. His voice is quieter now, weightier.

“Let’s talk it out,” he begins. “I’ve watched you spiral ever since graduation, Craig. Your refusal to go to MIT - that was huge.”

Craig shifts uncomfortably, frowning. “I had my reasons - ”

Tolkien doesn’t let up. “The breakdown you had at the party, trying to fight everyone - that was bad.”

Craig bristles, crossing his arms. “That was one night. I was drunk - ”

“And the way you’ve treated Tweek?” Tolkien presses. “Bad. Really bad.”

Craig exhales sharply, jaw tight. “I know, okay? You don’t have to rub it in.”

Tolkien’s tone sharpens, eyes fixed. “Choosing to isolate, bedrot, cut yourself off from everyone? That’s worse.”

Craig stiffens, voice rising. “Dude, I’m not - ”

“Yes, you are,” Tolkien cuts him off, voice firm. “I just lost two of my closest friends. Another one’s missing a leg. And I’m not about to sit here and be a passive witness while you destroy yourself. You’re not killing yourself on my watch. Not now, not ever.”

Craig throws his hands up. “Jesus, you make it sound like I’ve got one foot in the grave already.”

Tolkien leans in, unwavering. “Because that’s exactly how it looks. Every choice you’ve made since graduation? It’s been dragging you closer.”

Craig shakes his head, jaw set. “I’m not trying to die, man. I’m just - ”

“You’re just giving up,” Tolkien snaps. “Piece by piece. And I refuse to watch that happen.”

Craig falters, eyes darting away, searching for an argument that doesn’t come. “You don’t get it.”

“No, Craig,” Tolkien says, voice steady and hard. “I don’t get it, but I’m still not letting you waste yourself.” He pauses, his expression tightening. “You think Clyde and Bebe’s deaths didn’t wreck me? That I don’t still wake up in the middle of the night expecting a text from them, only to remember they’re gone?”

Craig’s face softens, just barely. “Of course it wrecked you. I know that.”

“We all grew up together,” Tolkien continues, pressing on, “and now two of them are just - ashes in urns.” His voice cracks before he steadies it again. “And Stan… watching him fight every day to relearn how to even hold a pen - it kills me, man. None of this is fair, but he’s fighting anyway.”

Craig looks down at his hands, rubbing at his knuckles. “Yeah. Stan’s tougher than all of us.”

Tolkien’s gaze hardens. “And then there’s you. One of my closest friends, someone I’ve had in my life since elementary school. I see you falling apart, Craig. Slowly, like you’re unraveling thread by thread.”

Craig swallows hard, shifting in his seat, unable to meet his eyes.

Tolkien exhales, softer this time. “That’s why you’re here. This is a change of scenery, Craig. It gets you out of South Park, away from your shithead dad, away from the bad memories. Think of it like a little vacation, if that helps.”

Craig finally glances up, his eyes wary. “Vacation? What the hell am I supposed to do here?”

“Whatever you want,” Tolkien says simply. “Take the time to breathe. Go read a book by the beach. Sleep in. Sit outside in the sun. Just… let go of the pain for a minute.”

The next few days pass in a blur that feels both endless and thin, like time has stopped moving forward but still manages to slip away from Craig every time he blinks.

He drifts from room to room in the new house, the space too clean, too polished, every corner a reminder that this isn’t his life. Craig doesn’t quite know where to put himself - on the couch, at the table, in the kitchen - every surface feels like it belongs to someone else, like he’s trespassing in a home that will never feel like his.

He sits down, stands up, paces without purpose, his body restless but his mind heavy. The walls feel closer with every step, too white, too bare, too unlike anything familiar. He catches his reflection in the glass door once and almost startles, like he doesn’t recognize himself here.

 He thinks about how he used to disappear into the cracks of his own room back home, and now, here, even his shadow looks wrong.

The contrast leaves him disoriented, like he’s living in a photograph instead of reality.

Tolkien tries to fill the space with noise, like he can will Craig into being present.

He cooks breakfast with the radio on low, hums along with old songs, puts music on in the background when they sit in the living room, drags Craig out for groceries they don’t even need just to get him moving. He suggests little trips into town, pointing out restaurants or bookstores they could visit, talking like they have all the time in the world.

Sometimes he nudges Craig with a joke, sometimes with quiet persistence, but nothing fully reaches him. Craig goes, but he floats through it all like a ghost, answering in monosyllables, his eyes sliding off every detail, his shoulders curving in as though braced for something to strike him.

Craig sits out on the back porch, cigarette in hand, staring at the unfamiliar skyline while cicadas hum in the heat, his body heavy with inertia. The air smells different here - saltier, thicker, carrying a bite of the sea when the wind shifts - and it feels like it presses down instead of lifting him up.

He thinks about calling Tweek, thumb hovering over his phone, but the thought knots his stomach so hard he can barely breathe.

His mind floods with what he’d even say, whether Tweek would pick up, whether silence would be better than rejection.

He doesn’t press the button.

Instead, he smokes until the filter burns his fingers, then lights another just to keep from thinking. He counts each drag like it’s a clock, measuring time by how quickly the smoke disappears, his chest hollowing with every exhale.

Tolkien takes him to campus, coaxing him out with the promise of coffee and a short walk. Craig trails behind as Tolkien strides across Stanford’s sprawling lawns and historic stone buildings. The campus feels alive in a way Craig isn’t prepared for - students weaving between dorms, voices rising with confidence and laughter.

He catches flashes of murals on walls, flyers stapled to bulletin boards, small clubs forming in circles on the grass, debates flaring up like sparks between strangers.

Craig doesn’t speak, but inside he feels smaller with every step, like the ground itself is reminding him he doesn’t belong here. The library’s massive columns tower above them, stone cool and steady in the sun, and Craig feels like it’s staring down at him, unimpressed.

Tolkien, on the other hand, moves like this place was built for him - head high, shoulders squared, steady in a way that makes Craig ache with a mixture of admiration and resentment.

He watches Tolkien greet someone in passing with easy familiarity and thinks about how far apart their lives already are, how Tolkien is walking toward something, and Craig is just circling, stuck.

Tolkien points out where his classes will be, where he’ll spend most of his days, and Craig can already see him belonging to this place in a way Craig never could. He wonders if this is what success is supposed to look like, and if he’ll always be the one on the sidelines, staring in.

The ache turns sharper under the sunlight, which seems to shine harsher here than back home, bright enough to expose every crack. It reflects off windows, bakes the sidewalks until they shimmer.

Craig squints against it, sweating under his hoodie, wishing he could crawl out of his skin.

The thought of the ocean gnaws at him too; he can smell salt on the air when the wind picks up, and sometimes, faintly, he swears he hears the crash of waves beyond the hills. The nearness unsettles him. Back home, the mountains made the horizon feel contained, like walls that kept him from falling off the edge of the world. Here, it’s endless, vast, no edges to hold him in, nothing to stop him from being swallowed by all that open space.

He imagines the water stretching further than he can see, deep and unknowable, and the thought both terrifies and fascinates him.

He wonders if Tweek would have liked it here, if Tweek would’ve seen freedom in the endless blue where Craig only sees threat.

At night, he lies awake in the strange bed, staring at the ceiling lit by the glow of a streetlamp just outside the window. The sheets are soft, but they don’t smell like home, and he twists them into knots without realizing.

Palo Alto doesn’t sleep like South Park did.

There’s always motion - tires hissing on pavement, the faint wail of sirens somewhere further off.

Craig listens and wonders if this is what Tolkien meant when he said Craig could breathe easier here, because right now every inhale feels tight in his chest, like the city’s pressing against him instead of lifting him up.

He misses the dark quiet of South Park nights, the way silence settled like a blanket, broken only by the occasional dog barking or the hum of his father’s television through the walls.

He thinks of Kenny – the two of them side by side on that junker car, sharing secrets while getting drunk or high or both. Their reckless voices slicing through stillness of the night.

Here, silence never comes; it’s restless, full of jagged edges, like the city itself refuses to let him rest. Even the dark feels brighter here, like it can’t help but spill light into every corner, denying him the cover he used to hide beneath. He closes his eyes and still sees it, the burn of light behind his lids. The weight of it makes his body feel heavier, like even sleep has been stolen from him.

Still, there are moments - brief flashes - that slip through the heaviness.

The sting of salty air when they drive past the bay, the water catching sunlight like shards of glass.

Tolkien laughing too hard at something on TV, throwing his head back in a way that makes him look impossibly young and unburdened. The way music drifts in through an open window from a neighbor’s house, soft jazz that mixes with the hum of the city until it feels like something alive.

The rich smell of coffee when Tolkien makes it in the morning, steam curling through the kitchen.

The way the fog rolls in some evenings, thick and low, swallowing the city until it feels like they’re the only ones left in the world.

Craig notices these things in spite of himself, filing them away like fragile artifacts, small reminders that maybe not everything here has to feel so foreign. He doesn’t know why he notices, doesn’t know why he clings to them, but he does.

They’re almost nothing, barely minutes out of days, but sometimes, when the weight in his chest lightens and he lets himself breathe, they feel like cracks of light leaking in through the dark.

For the first time, he wonders if maybe Tolkien’s right - that being here might not fix him, but it might keep him alive long enough to find out what fixing even looks like.

That maybe, just maybe, this city with its endless edges and harsh brightness has room for him after all, even if he hasn’t figured out how to step into it yet.

Craig barely makes it two weeks before Tolkien is bursting into his bedroom at seven in the morning. The door slams open, light cutting across the dark room, and Craig groans, dragging the pillow over his head like it could block out Tolkien entirely.

“Dude, dude - wake up!” Tolkien’s voice is too loud, too excited for this early in the day. “You’re fucking viral right now.”

Craig shifts under the blankets, muffled. “What?” His voice is rough with sleep, equal parts irritation and confusion. “What are you even talking about? It’s - what time is it?”

“Seven.” Tolkien doesn’t even sound sorry. He’s already crossing the room, phone clutched in his hand like evidence. “Come on, look at this.”

Craig peeks out from under the pillow, bleary eyes narrowing. Tolkien shoves the phone in front of his face, and Craig blinks against the glow of the screen. It takes him a second to process what he’s looking at.

It’s a photo. Of him.

Grainy, zoomed in, clearly snapped by a stranger across the street. He’s outside some coffee shop, hoodie zipped up, cigarette balanced between his fingers, head tipped slightly down as smoke curls upward. The morning light slices across his face in sharp angles, catching in his hair, outlining his profile. He looks… untouchable. Distant. Like a photograph staged for a magazine instead of a stolen candid.

Craig’s chest tightens. It doesn’t even look like him - at least not the him that’s been bedrotting for weeks, the him hollowed out by grief and exhaustion. It’s like some version of himself that he doesn’t recognize, made into something he never intended to be.

“Why the fuck - ” Craig pushes himself up on his elbows, blinking at the endless flood of notifications at the top of the screen. “Why is this everywhere?”

“Because you’re a meme, dude.” Tolkien is grinning, half amused and half astonished. “Look at the numbers - thousands of likes, retweets, reposts. There’s already a hashtag.” He scrolls down, showing Craig the comments stacked underneath: moody pretty boy, #CigarettePrince, depressed Disney prince energy.

Craig stares at the words like they’re in another language. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

“Nope.” Tolkien’s still scrolling, the screen filled with screenshots and edits people have already made - his face black-and-white with overlaid song lyrics, memes calling him the patron saint of sad mornings.

“You’ve gone viral overnight. People are obsessed.”

Craig drags a hand down his face, groaning into his palm.

“Great. Just what I needed. Strangers romanticizing me looking like shit outside a coffee shop.”

“Looking like shit?” Tolkien barks a laugh, shaking his head. “Craig, you look like you just wandered out of an indie film.”

Craig glares at him through his fingers. “I was buying coffee. I wasn’t auditioning for anything.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Tolkien says, still laughing. “The internet’s already decided who you are. And right now? You’re moody-pretty-boy, hashtag-cigarette-prince. That’s it. That’s the brand.”

Craig collapses back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling, still half asleep and now fully horrified. “Kill me.”

But after a few beats, curiosity wins out. Craig sits up again, grabbing his own phone from the nightstand. The screen lights up with a flood of notifications - Jimmy, Wendy, Stan, Kyle, various friends from South Park.

All of them have messaged, freaking out about the same thing, sending screenshots and links. He doesn’t answer any of them. His thumb just hovers, then swipes past their names.

Instead, he scrolls through the posts. The picture of him outside the coffee shop has already spread across every platform, shared thousands of times. He’s unidentified - no name, no tag, just some stranger who people are calling beautiful, broken, magnetic.

#CigarettePrince is trending, attached to edits, moodboards, and captions painting him into someone else’s story.

A viral phenomenon born out of nothing more than a cigarette and a moment he hadn’t even noticed being watched.

Tolkien leans against the wall, arms folded. “You know, you could probably capitalize off this.”

Craig squints up at him, irritated. “What the hell does that mean?”

“I mean modeling. For real. Do a campaign, a clothing brand, something like that.” Tolkien shrugs, casual but serious. “My parents have connections - it wouldn’t be hard to find you an agent.”

Craig barks out a sharp laugh, scoffing as he drops his phone onto the blankets.

“Absolutely not. No fucking way.”

Tolkien doesn’t back down. “It’d be easy work for you, Craig. All you’d have to do is stand there and let someone take your picture. That shot outside the coffee shop? That was just some stranger on a cellphone. Imagine what it would look like if a real photographer was behind the lens.”

Craig stays quiet, jaw tight, eyes fixed on a crease in the blanket. He listens, even if he won’t admit it.

“It doesn’t have to take over your life,” Tolkien continues, his voice coaxing. “You could do it on your own time. When you feel up to it. And the money’s good. It’d give you something to work toward instead of just sitting still. Best part is - you don’t have to force anything. Just show up and look annoyed.”

Craig swallows, still silent. His thoughts drift, unspooling to all the times people have commented on his looks, how teachers or strangers or even friends would throw out lines about his appearance.

He’s always felt like that was all he was to anyone.

And now?

The entire internet seems to agree.

He shuts his eyes for a long moment, dragging a hand over his face. The idea of turning this accident into something intentional gnaws at him - half tempting, half repulsive.

He mutters, more to himself than Tolkien, “It’s not me. It’s just a photo.”

Tolkien sighs. “Just think about it, alright? That’s all I’m saying. Let me know if you change your mind.”

Craig rolls onto his side, turning his back in a wordless dismissal. Tolkien lingers a moment, then quietly leaves the room, the door clicking shut behind him.

Left alone in the dim light, Craig reaches for his phone again. Notifications still flood the screen - his friends from South Park all of them sending screenshots, comments, variations of holy shit, is this you? He ignores them, thumb sliding past their names.

Instead he opens Twitter, scrolling through the endless string of #CigarettePrince.

The original post is still climbing in numbers, captioned: “this random dude outside the bodega looks like he’s one trashy night away from enlightenment, and he’s still gonna sell me cologne.”

Thousands of replies and reposts trail beneath it.

Other captions jump out at him as he scrolls:

“bro looks like the love interest in every sad French film.”

“he’s giving ‘I’ll ruin your life in one weekend but you’ll thank me for it.’”

“this is what Tumblr was made for. moody chain-smoker energy.”

“someone cast him in a perfume ad immediately.”

Craig stares at the screen, reading what strangers think of him, the narrative they’re weaving out of a stolen moment. The knot in his chest tightens. To them he isn’t Craig Tucker, just a faceless archetype to project onto.

A pretty picture to scroll past, to romanticize, to consume.

The more he reads, the more it hurts.

Each repost feels like another layer of distance between who he really is and what they’ve decided he must be. They don’t see the mess under the hoodie, the sleepless nights, the grief rotting him from the inside out.

They don’t know the silence of his bedroom or the weight of what he’s lost.

To them, he’s aesthetic.

A mood. A backdrop for someone else’s fantasy.

Craig’s thumb hovers over the screen, his chest aching. He tosses the phone down on the mattress like it’s burned him, rolls onto his back, and stares at the ceiling, hollowed out by the knowledge that the world only seems to want pieces of him he doesn’t recognize as real.

His mind drifts back, compulsively, to every moment someone once told him he looked good when inside he was crumbling - compliments dropped in passing, friends joking about how photogenic he was, strangers reducing him to nothing but an object.

The sting of those memories deepens as he thinks of how often he stayed quiet, never correcting them, because it was easier than explaining the truth: that most days he felt like he was barely holding himself together.

He lies there longer, staring at the ceiling until the shapes blur. He wonders what they’d all say if they saw him like this - rumpled, unhealthy, hollow-eyed.

If they’d still call him beautiful then, or if they’d just turn away.

A bitter part of him thinks they’d still find a way to romanticize it.

They always do.

Eventually, with a long breath that feels heavier than it should, Craig pushes himself upright.

The clock on the nightstand reads just past seven a.m.

His pulse kicks up as he does the math - it's ten on the east coast.

Craig lingers on the thought, heart thudding hard, before he reaches for his phone again.

His hands tremble, not from exhaustion this time but from the uncertainty of what he’s about to do. He stares at the screen for a long beat, thumb hovering over the name he’s been avoiding. He doesn’t even know what he’ll say if the call connects. Still, he presses it before he can talk himself out of it.

It rings once. Twice. Three times. Each tone stretches longer than the last, filling the room with suspense until he’s certain it’ll go to voicemail.

His heart sinks lower with every second.

Then, at the last moment, a click. The faint shuffle of someone adjusting on the other end.

A voice, rough but unmistakable, carries through the line.

“Craig?”

Craig closes his eyes. His throat tightens and he swallows against the lump there before he finds the ability to speak.

“Yeah. Hi.”

There’s a pause, heavy with everything unsaid, the weight of distance and longing flooding the silence.

Then, soft and breathless, Tweek responds: “Hi.”

Chapter Text

It’s the summer before junior year, and the heat sits heavy on the neighborhood like a suffocating blanket. The sun glares down on the pavement until it shimmers in waves, the air thick and sluggish, even the breeze dragging across the lawns like something exhausted. 

Butters is out front of his house with the garage door rolled open, his broken bike propped awkwardly on its stand. The chain is twisted, the brakes refusing to catch - damage left behind after a couple of boys from school decided to shove him off and send it skidding across the asphalt.

The scrapes on his palms from that fall still sting faintly, but that’s nothing compared to what his father will say if he notices the wreck.

Sweat clings to the back of Butters’ neck as he hovers nervously nearby, sneakers scuffing the hot concrete. He keeps glancing toward the street, half-afraid his father's car will roll up and see him fumbling helplessly beside the busted frame.

Kenny crouches beside the bike like it’s nothing at all. He’s in a tank top damp with sweat, his skin tanned and sun-warmed from long days of odd jobs and construction gigs. Ripped blue jeans cling to his legs, threadbare at the knees, and heavy work boots thud against the shimmering driveway. His arms flex easily as he works the kinks out of the chain, calloused hands moving with practiced confidence, grease smudging across his knuckles and settling deep into the creases of his palms.

The smell of motor oil, sweat, and faint cigarette smoke clings to him, sharp and masculine, bleeding into the humid air until it feels like the atmosphere itself carries his signature.

Kenny’s tall - easily six feet, and built lean, every muscle defined from labor rather than gyms. His hair clings damp to his forehead, strands sticking together from sweat, and beads of moisture trace slow paths down his collarbone before vanishing into the gape of his shirt. He looks like he belongs under this punishing sun, like he’s part of it, every inch of him radiating strength and unbothered ease.

Butters can’t stop staring.

Every movement Kenny makes seems magnified in the heavy air - the shift of his shoulders, the flex of his forearms, the casual way he mutters under his breath while tightening a bolt.

Butters’ throat feels tight, his palms clammy, his chest fluttering with nerves he doesn’t understand. He forces himself to look at the driveway, at the tool box, at the sky stretching blank and blue overhead - anywhere else - but his gaze keeps snapping back, helpless, as if Kenny is the center of some orbit he can’t escape.

“See?” Kenny says lightly, flashing him a grin as he loosens the brake cables. “Not so bad. Chain just needed untangling, brakes were a little warped. I’ll have you riding again in no time.”

Butters swallows hard, trying to answer, but his voice catches in his throat.

“Y-yeah. Thanks, Kenny. I - I really appreciate it,” Butters stammers, tugging at the hem of his shirt like it might hide the warmth rushing into his face. He looks away quickly, but the image of Kenny - sweaty, tanned, perfectly unbothered - burns behind his eyelids. His pulse pounds in his ears, echoing so loud he wonders if Kenny can hear it.

Kenny chuckles, glancing up at him briefly before turning back to the bike. “No problem, dude. Gotta keep you rolling, right?” His voice is smooth, playful, carrying that easy confidence that seems to come naturally to him.

Butters forces a nervous laugh, eyes darting back to him despite himself. He can’t help it. Kenny is all effortless charisma and easy playboy vibes, and it leaves Butters flustered, his chest buzzing with feelings he isn’t ready to name. He grips his hands together tightly, trying to ground himself, even as his eyes linger again on the cut of Kenny’s shoulders in the sunlight, the sweat darkening his tank top in patches, the way he smells like summer itself.

When Kenny finally stands, he stretches his back with a soft grunt, then pulls the hem of his tank top up to wipe the sweat from his face. The motion bares his stomach - lean muscle defined sharply beneath sun-bronzed skin, his hips cut into sharp lines that disappear into his jeans.

The sight makes Butters’ breath stutter; heat rushes into his cheeks before he can stop it, his whole face flushing red.

Kenny drops the shirt back down, rubbing the back of his neck idly. He glances at Butters, squinting.

“You alright there, man? You look kinda red. You getting overheated? Or sunburned?”

Butters jerks his head, startled, fumbling for an answer.

“N-no! I mean - I’m fine! Totally fine.” His voice cracks halfway, and he forces himself to glance down at his sneakers, willing the blush to fade even as it burns hotter. His palms are damp, fingers nervously twisting at the hem of his shirt. He hopes Kenny doesn’t notice the way his shoulders are trembling, the way his breath comes too fast for a simple summer afternoon.

Kenny tilts his head, unconvinced, but he doesn’t press with words. Instead, he steps closer, moving with that easy swagger that seems so natural to him, and drapes an arm around Butters’ shoulders in a loose half-hug, tugging him gently against his side.

Kenny has always been a tactile person - affection slipping easily into his gestures, touch a language he speaks without thinking.

The heat radiates off him, the damp cling of sweat seeping into the fabric of his shirt. The faint smoke of cigarettes lingers in his skin and clothes, mixing with something warmer, earthier - the natural musk of someone who has spent the whole day under the sun.

Butters freezes. The sudden closeness knocks the air out of him. The scent, the heat - it hits him like a wave, dizzying in its intensity.

Kenny smells good. Too good.

Like the kind of good that explains every girl who’s ever trailed after him with wide eyes and easy smiles.

His body feels solid, warm, alive against Butters’ smaller frame. It makes sense now, painfully so, and Butters’ stomach twists at the realization. His heart lurches into his throat, panic rising fast.

No, no, no - he can’t think like that. Not about Kenny. Not about his good friend who makes everything look so easy.

His mind stumbles over itself: the cut of Kenny’s shoulders, the rough edge of his hand where callouses brush his sleeve, the lean muscle pressing lightly into him.

For a terrifying second, he wants to stay there, breathing in the smell of smoke and summer. Then he jolts, wriggling free of the arm with a nervous jerk, stammering as he moves quickly toward the bike and the open toolbox.

“Uh, I - I should probably - um - get this all cleaned up before my dad gets home. And - and I totally forgot, I’ve got laundry I was supposed to do - ” The excuses tumble out in a messy string, flimsy and unconvincing, but he clings to them desperately. His voice squeaks near the end, and he bites his lip hard to cover it. His hands dart for the tools, stuffing wrenches and screwdrivers back into the box with too much force, metal clinking loud and uneven as though to fill the silence between them.

Kenny straightens, watching him with confusion, grease still streaked across his hands. His brows knit slightly, curiosity flickering in his blue eyes.

“Alright, man,” Kenny says slowly, giving him space. His voice is light, though there’s a faint crease between his brows, something unspoken lingering. “I’ll see you later then.” He runs a thumb over his palm, smudging grease absently, gaze following Butters as if trying to make sense of him.

Butters nods too quickly, avoiding his eyes as he fumbles to gather up the tools. His hands shake just enough to make the wrenches clink together like nervous percussion. He ducks his head low, trying to hide his blush.

“Y-yeah. Later,” he mutters, pushing the toolbox toward the garage with his foot, moving too fast, like if he doesn’t hurry the heat in his chest might give him away.

Kenny lingers a second longer, leaning his weight on one boot, studying him with an unreadable look. Then he shrugs, a small smirk tugging at his mouth, and turns back toward the sidewalk, leaving Butters alone with the echo of his own heartbeat hammering in his ears.

The sound follows him into the garage, thrumming beneath his skin, louder than the cicadas outside. The summer feels heavier than before, as if it’s pressing down on him, trapping the feelings he’s too scared to let out. The air inside the garage hangs thick and stagnant, and Butters leans against the workbench, pressing a hand over his chest as if that might calm the wild rhythm there.

He breathes shallowly, the weight of Kenny’s scent and warmth lingering like a phantom, clinging to him even after Kenny is gone.

He wipes his palms on his shorts, trying to will his body back into stillness, but the heat outside feels like it has lodged inside him, impossible to shake. His bike sits half-fixed, grease still fresh on the chain, and the silence of the garage suddenly feels unbearable.

He squeezes his eyes shut, the image of Kenny’s grin, his sweat-slick shoulders, and the solid feel of his body pressing close replaying on a loop.

The sound of cicadas swells, drowning out everything else, as if the entire world knows the secret he’s trying so hard to keep buried.

Kyle’s laughter rattles the soda can in his hand, nearly tipping it into his lap. He coughs, waves Butters off, but Butters only leans in harder, mangling Shakespeare with all the wild energy of a Saturday morning cartoon.

“Thou… uh… thou art a total dweeb!” Butters blurts, pointing dramatically at the ceiling like it’s the villain in his play. His voice squeaks, and he slaps his chest, stumbling into something that sounds half like a Southern preacher, half like an old-timey nobleman. “Forsooth, I shall smite thee - with… algebra homework!”

The baggy shirt Butters wears slips off one narrow shoulder and his earrings catch the light while his hands carve big, ridiculous shapes in the air. The sheer silliness of it breaks something open in the room, that kind of laughter that feels impossible to stop once it starts. The stereo is on, playing classic rock in the background.

Kyle doubles over, his stomach aching, soda fizzing dangerously near the rim. “Stop - stop, I’m gonna choke,” he wheezes, tears already brimming in his eyes. Butters ignores him, committed to the bit like it’s his last performance on earth.

Even Stan can’t stop himself from smirking when he wheels in and catches the tail end of the show. “What the hell did I just walk into?” he asks, an eyebrow raised.

“A masterpiece,” Kyle chokes out between fits of laughter. “Pure, unfiltered art.”

Butters beams, cheeks pink from the performance. “You think so? I was just messin’ around.”

Kyle can’t help thinking how far Butters has come since high school.

Back then he used to shrink into himself, desperate not to be noticed, and now he’s here - smeared with chalk from class, nails painted pink and chipped, making them laugh so hard Kyle’s stomach hurts.

It hasn’t been easy getting here.

Kyle remembers the screaming match between Butters and his parents, how the whole town seemed to whisper about it, and how Butters packed up what little he had and disappeared into Kevin McCormick’s auto shop; a move no one had saw coming.

For over a year he lived there among motor oil and rusted tools, studying by the light of a single desk lamp, teaching himself how to stand on his own even when no one thought he could. Despite already working at the café, Butters also worked shifts cleaning up around the shop to cover his keep, his nights echoing with the metallic clang of tools while his mornings started with coffee poured into paper cups handed down by Kevin with a nod.

Sometimes Kyle would drive by late at night and see the glow of that little desk lamp through the dirty glass, Butters bent over his work, shoulders hunched as he focused.

He didn’t knock, didn’t intrude, but those moments stayed with him - proof of how much grit Butters carried under his skin. Kyle had never really told him, but he thought it was one of the bravest things he’d ever seen: a kid reinventing himself under the pressure of abandonment and the stink of oil.

Slowly, Butters started showing up different - new shirts and pastel clothing, earrings glinting under classroom lights, confidence creeping in where the stuttered apologies used to be.

He began to laugh louder, to answer questions in class without staring at the floor, to wear clothes that once would have made him nervous. He even started hosting little study groups at his apartment once he finally moved in - his place tiny and creaky above a store downtown, but warm, lit by strings of mismatched lights and cluttered with papers and books.

Sometimes Kyle swings by, and the place smells like tea and candles instead of oil and smoke, and he can see how much calmer Butters looks there. He has a shelf now, lined with secondhand books and little trinkets he’s collected - things no one else would think twice about, but that he’s proud to call his own. He has a little cactus he waters obsessively and a cracked lamp that still glows warm, casting the whole room in amber at night.

It isn’t much, but it’s his, and he talks about it with a pride that Kyle can’t help but respect.

Kyle never thought of himself as protective, but seeing Butters carve out a life against all odds makes him want to stand guard over it, to make sure no one drags him back into the shadows he fought so hard to leave. Admiration edges into pride, pride into something softer, something that sticks in Kyle’s throat before he can name it.

The faint creak of the wheelchair shifts Kyle’s attention, the sound subtle but always there if you’re paying attention. He’s learned to notice - to catch when Stan’s body is worn out, when the shoulder pulls wrong, when the chair has to come out.

Today is one of those days.

But Stan’s smile is easy, unforced, the kind Kyle didn’t see often back when everything was hospitals and grief.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Stan says, catching Kyle’s glance. “I’m fine. Just… easier today with the chair.”

Kyle snorts softly, shaking his head. “Yeah, fine. You always say that.”

“Because it’s true,” Stan fires back, his grin widening. “What, you want me to mope about it instead?”

Kyle opens his mouth, ready to argue, but stops short. He thinks about the grind of recovery - the endless appointments, the hours of physical therapy, the scars that never fully faded. The prosthetic changed how Stan walks, the bad shoulder never let him reach like he used to, but Kyle knows how much work it took just to get here. He admires it, even envies it sometimes: the sheer stubbornness that kept Stan pushing forward when it would’ve been easier to give up.

He remembers visiting during rehab sessions, watching Stan grit his teeth through pain, watching the slow, steady progress, and thinking he had never seen anyone fight so hard just to reclaim a piece of normal life.

Every step Stan takes now feels like a victory they all get to share.

“You know,” Kyle says quietly, voice softer than he meant it to be, “you’ve come a long way.”

Stan tilts his head, brows lifting. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Kyle shrugs, uncomfortable with the weight of honesty. “Just… I was there, remember? I saw you. And now you’re here. It’s - ” He cuts himself off, waving a hand as though brushing it aside. “Forget it.”

Stan watches him for a beat, then chuckles. “You’re terrible at compliments, you know that?”

“Yeah, well, you’re terrible at taking them,” Kyle shoots back, grinning now.

Stan taps his phone, skipping to the next song on his playlist. The opening chords of “Dust N’ Bones” by Guns N’ Roses crackle from the speaker. Both Stan and Kyle light up instantly, practically in unison: “Hell yeah.”

Butters beams at their excitement, nodding along though the music isn’t exactly his style. He just likes seeing them so alive, their energy bouncing back and forth.

“Man, this track’s pure Izzy,” Stan says, gesturing with his hand for emphasis. “You can feel it. That groove, that swagger - it’s all him. Back before all the bullshit.”

Kyle leans forward, animated now. “Totally. You can hear the difference once he quit. Use Your Illusion had that grit because Izzy was still there holding the whole thing together. After he left? Chaos. Straight-up implosion.”

Stan points at him, nodding eagerly. “Exactly! The fights, the drama, Axl losing his mind, Slash trying to keep it alive. But ‘Dust N’ Bones’? That’s them in their prime. That’s Guns N’ Roses before the collapse.”

Kyle laughs, shaking his head. “It’s like a soap opera, but with leather pants and guitars.”

Butters giggles, eyes wide at their passion. “I don’t know half of what y’all are talkin’ about, but you sure make it sound important.”

Kyle shoots him a grin. “It is important, Butters. It’s rock history. This stuff matters.”

Stan smirks. “Exactly. Lore, man. Pure GNR lore.”

Butters chuckles, raising an imaginary glass in return. “Well, here’s to the lore, then.”

The three of them laugh together, the sound easy and warm, music rattling through the speakers as the conversation drifts on, light and alive.

“You know I gotta opening shift tomorrow at the shop,” Butters groans. “Four-thirty in the mornin’. And then it’s straight to classes until seven at night. Seven! By golly, I might actually keel over right there in lecture.”

Stan lets out an exaggerated groan of sympathy, dragging a hand down his face.

“Man, don’t even talk to me about classes. Half my professors think everyone can write like the Flash. I can barely scribble half a sentence before they’re already on the next slide. My arm just - ” he wiggles his shoulder with a lopsided grimace - “still doesn’t play nice, even when I baby it.”

Butters nudges him with a soft laugh. “You still keep up, though. I seen you with your notes, Stan, don’t even try to act like you’re behind. You’re one of those people who always manage to make things work.”

Stan smirks, conceding with a shrug. “Barely.”

Kyle snorts. “At least you two get to sit in class and complain. Paramedic school was twelve-hour days of practicals, drills, and ride-alongs. I swear I lived off vending machine coffee and pure adrenaline. Thought I was gonna drown in it more than once.” He shakes his head, then cracks a smile. “But hey, now I’m official. Two weeks on with Park County EMS, and I haven’t died or gotten fired yet.”

Butters perks up, his eyes bright. He elbows Kyle lightly, nearly knocking the soda can out of his hand. “Yeah, and you actually look happy about it. Happier than you’ve been in years. I can tell.”

Stan points at him with a knowing look, leaning forward in his chair. “Don’t lie, dude. You love it. We can see it written all over your face every time you talk about a call.”

Kyle can’t help but laugh, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “Fine, fine, I do. And working with Red? That’s a trip. She’s got more piercings than I can count, tattoos running all the way down both arms, and absolutely zero filter. But she’s sharp as hell, and she makes every shift feel like a story waiting to happen.”

Butters grins wide. “She sounds awesome. I’d love to hang out with her again, sometime.”

“She is,” Kyle says, shaking his head with a chuckle. “Wild as hell, though. Never boring. Last week she told off a cop for parking in front of a hydrant. Just straight up called him an idiot and made him move his car. I thought I was gonna die laughing.”

Stan raises his brows, impressed despite himself. “Okay, that’s actually kind of badass.”

“Yeah,” Kyle agrees, settling back into the couch with a grin. “She keeps me on my toes. But that’s good. Makes the job feel alive, y’know?”

Stan leans back, smirking. “Still sounds like hell to me. But hey, at least it’s your kind of hell.”

“Exactly,” Kyle says, stretching his arms behind the couch, sinking deeper into the cushions.

Butters smiles, tucking his legs up beneath him. “Well, if you’re happy, then we’re all happy for you, Kyle. That’s what matters, right?”

The late morning sun slants across the wide glass windows of Craig’s Los Angeles home, bleaching the hardwood floors into pale streaks that stretch toward the far wall. Dust drifts lazily in the beams of light like slow-moving snow, suspended in the still air, settling on untouched counters, glass surfaces, and bookshelves lined with more emptiness than decoration.

Craig sits at the kitchen counter with a mug he hasn’t touched, staring at nothing, letting the silence pool around him until it feels heavy enough to sink into his chest. He drums his fingers against the ceramic, slow and restless, though he never actually drinks.

His gaze drifts to the window, to the blur of palm fronds in the breeze, to the gleam of cars moving far below, and none of it feels like it belongs to him.

He moved here six months ago, out of the Stanford house Tolkien’s parents had bought for him.

Tolkien stayed behind, still finishing his degree - the picture of responsibility in a way Craig never pretended to be. Craig went south without much of a plan, following momentum more than intention.

Modeling fame had erupted around him faster than he could process - his face splashed across glossy spreads, his name buzzing through agencies like wildfire. He came into the industry like a storm front, sudden and impossible to ignore, never bothering to smooth his edges.

For a year he burned through four different agents, each one giving up after weeks of missed calls, curt emails, or no-shows to shoots.

They all called him difficult. They weren’t wrong.

Then Tolkien stepped in.

Tolkien didn’t know the business, not really, but he knew Craig. That was enough. He managed the work remotely, fielding calls, booking shoots, arranging flights, cleaning up the messes. Occasionally he flew down when things needed more control, but most of it was handled over the phone.

Craig preferred it that way. Tolkien’s presence was grounding, but distance kept things uncomplicated. Their conversations were clipped, professional more than personal, and Craig liked it - business conducted by someone who cared, but not enough to smother him.

Sometimes Craig thinks about how strange it is that Tolkien has become his handler, yet also how inevitable it feels.

Nobody else would have lasted.

When Tolkien calls, Craig answers; when anyone else does, he lets the phone buzz itself quiet.

Now that Craig is the “next hot thing”, everyone seems to want something from him. His appeal is contradiction itself: striking, aloof, unreachable, yet magnetic.

His behavior makes him gossip fodder.

Craig shows up when he feels like it, sometimes hours late, sometimes not at all. He’ll give a photographer three perfect frames and then shut down, refusing another shot. He can make a campaign unforgettable with a glance and then vanish for days.

Difficult. Unreliable. Magnetic.

The words circulate through fashion weeks, whispered by editors, gossiped by assistants, repeated at afterparties in smoke-hazed voices.

Craig’s unpredictability only makes him more in demand. 

He’s built a brand on being untouchable.

Craig’s house mirrors that image - minimal furniture, sharp edges, wide empty spaces. Craig doesn’t clutter his life with keepsakes. A few framed prints from designers lean against walls, never hung. Clothes lie in piles across chairs, remnants of fittings abandoned midway.

On the counter, an unopened stack of envelopes waits - contracts, invitations, a letter begging him to RSVP to Paris. He ignores them all, the quiet of his house worth more to him than whatever glamour waits beyond.

Some nights he ends up on the couch, the floor-to-ceiling windows pouring light onto him before he’s ready to wake. The emptiness feels deliberate, as though too much comfort might trap him. Even the décor he does have - glass tables, leather chairs - feels impersonal, rented rather than lived in.

It’s not a home so much as a waiting room with his name on the lease.

He likes it that way. It makes leaving easier, should he ever decide to.

The last couple years since graduation, Tweek drifts in and out of this life like breathing, pulling Craig back before he disappears completely.

Every few months Craig buys him a ticket to fly over, and they always fall into each other like no time has passed.

Ever since the breakup, they don’t call it dating - Craig avoids the word, Tweek doesn’t push - but the closeness between them leaves little need for labels.

In the mornings, Tweek makes coffee that Craig actually drinks, filling the silence with movement and sound: muttering under his breath, restless pacing, the scratch of pencil over paper as he jots down ideas for lyrics, a painting, notes on a staff. He leaves sketchpads scattered across tables, coffee mugs forgotten on counters, jackets draped over chairs like he’s claiming space in Craig’s world.

Craig hasn’t made the trip to Rhode Island, hasn’t stepped into the world Tweek lives in. He tells himself he’s too busy, too booked, but the truth is simpler: he prefers things on his terms.

Easier to host than to travel. Easier to keep Tweek inside his own walls.

Tweek doesn’t complain, but Craig notices - the wistful tone when he talks about classmates, the quiet hope in his voice when he wishes Craig could see it. Sometimes Craig almost says yes, almost promises to go, but the words never leave his throat. He tells himself Tweek knows him well enough not to expect it, but even he can feel the strain in the silence that follows.

Kenny, on the other hand, lingers in his life like a ghost.

Craig hasn’t seen him in two years.

Occasionally his phone buzzes with a message that feels pulled out of the past more than typed in the present. Short bursts - two lines, maybe three - casual to the point of meaningless.

Craig never deletes them. They remain in his inbox, fragments of someone who once mattered, who maybe still does. He imagines Kenny wherever he is - free and grinning, or maybe broke and stranded, unreachable.

South Park feels just as distant, a place Craig hasn’t set foot in since eighteen. Twenty-one now, he counts the absence in years, in flights never booked, in holidays passed by. He thinks of the streets he grew up on, the mountains bracketing the horizon, but only in fragments, memories that feel borrowed.

Occasionally he dreams of it - snow falling over driveways, his mother’s cigarettes burning on the porch railing - and wakes unsettled in a bed that doesn’t feel like his own.

Those mornings, the loneliness stretches longest. He doesn’t reach for the phone. He doesn’t call anyone. He just sits with it, as if silence itself has become his oldest habit.

Sometimes he wonders if Kenny does the same.

The house remains silent. No footsteps, no voices, no music bleeding from other rooms. He leans back on the stool, stretches his legs across the tiled floor, and lets the quiet press closer, the only constant he trusts not to demand anything of him. His phone buzzes once on the counter but he doesn’t move.

Two more buzzes and Craig lowers his head down to the counter, resting his chin on his folded arms.

A sudden knock shatters the silence, sharp and insistent.

Craig stiffens, irritation prickling instantly at the back of his neck. He doesn’t want company. He doesn’t want anyone intruding on this carefully constructed quiet.

For a long moment, he doesn’t move, willing whoever it is to give up and leave. But the knocking comes again, quicker this time, forcing him to sigh. With reluctance heavy in his bones, he pushes himself to his feet. His steps echo through the wide, empty house as he drags himself toward the door, jaw tight.

When he swings it open, the annoyance evaporates in an instant.

There’s Tweek - out of breath, smiling wide, cheeks flushed from the L.A. heat, hair damp at the edges of his forehead. That smile knocks the air out of Craig’s lungs.

His heartbeat lurches, sudden and sharp, the same way it always does when he sees Tweek like this - bright and alive, sunlight clinging to him like it belongs there. It feels like being pulled back into motion, like remembering what it means to breathe.

Tweek has changed, though Craig can’t pretend he’s surprised.

A junior at RISD now, he’s leaned into himself in ways Craig always suspected he would.

His clothes are layered and loose, a patchwork of fabrics and colors leaning into a bohemian kind of freedom. Bracelets stack along his wrists, beads clicking softly whenever he moves. A small silver stud gleams in his nose, and a helix piercing catches the light when he tips his head. Over one shoulder of his shirt, dark ink sprawls an intricate mandala tattoo unfurling across his left shoulder, its lines blooming outward like something alive.

Craig’s eyes catch on it for a moment too long before pulling back to Tweek’s grin, that wide, unstoppable grin that always undoes him.

“Hi,” Tweek says, breathless and laughing lightly, like the journey up to Craig’s door has been a small triumph. And in that moment, Craig can’t think of a single reason to be annoyed anymore.

“What are you doing here? I didn’t - I didn’t know you were coming,” Craig blurts, startled by the sound of his own voice cracking through the stillness.

Tweek’s grin only widens. “Happy birthday! I wanted to surprise you!” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world; like crossing the country just to stand here with flushed cheeks and a duffle bag slung over his shoulder makes perfect sense.

Craig feels his chest swell, warmth spreading fast. A blush creeps up his neck before he can fight it. The irritation from moments before is gone, replaced with a stunned, disbelieving kind of happiness he doesn’t know what to do with.

He steps back without thinking, letting Tweek slip past him into the house.

Tweek drops the duffle bag with a soft thud near the door and bends to tug off his Birkenstock sandals. Craig stands frozen, watching. When Tweek looks up mid-motion, hair falling into his eyes, his grin tilts into something knowing - bright and teasing all at once. Craig’s breath catches, words dissolving in his throat as if that grin is the only thing holding him in place.

Then Tweek rises smoothly and steps toward him. Each movement is deliberate, like a predator closing in on prey.

Craig swallows hard, throat dry, every nerve sparking as he watches the distance vanish between them.

Before he can form a thought, Tweek’s fist hooks into the collar of his shirt and yanks him forward with surprising strength. Craig’s breath hitches - then Tweek crashes into him, lips hot and insistent, pouring fire into the quiet.

The shock lasts only a heartbeat before Craig is kissing back, hard and hungry. His hands twitch upward, clutching at Tweek’s arms, holding on like this is the first real thing he’s felt in weeks. Heat rushes through him, sparking low in his stomach.

Tweek moves with purpose, every shift of his body charged with control. He drives Craig deeper into the kiss, spinning them until Craig’s back hits the closed door with a thud that vibrates through the frame. Tweek cages him there, mouths locked. Craig groans into it, lost to the urgency, the world shrinking to heat and pressure. His hands slide higher, pulling Tweek closer.

When Tweek finally breaks for air, Craig’s chest heaves, lips swollen, eyes dazed.

“I’ve missed you,” Tweek murmurs hot against Craig’s lips.

“Uh, okay, yeah - ” Craig whispers back, but Tweek cuts him off with another searing kiss.

Craig shudders, clutching at Tweek’s shoulders, dragging him closer still. The kiss grows ragged, broken by sharp breaths and half-swallowed moans. Craig’s head tips back against the door with a dull thud, a raw sound escaping before he can catch it.

Every inch of him feels fevered, every nerve pulled taut.

Their hips find each other, grinding together in desperate friction that makes Craig’s knees threaten to give. The heat builds quickly, stacking higher with each kiss, each press of body to body, until Craig feels like he might shatter.

His skin buzzes under Tweek’s hands, his jaw wet from kisses pressed along it before their mouths reconnect, hungrier than before.

Then Tweek pulls back abruptly. Craig lurches forward at the loss, lips parted, chest heaving, goosebumps prickling at his skin.

“Why did you stop?” Craig blurts, voice hoarse and ragged with need. His eyes search Tweek’s face, confused and pleading for the space between them to vanish again.

Tweek laughs - light, teasing, maddening. The sound is warm and sharp all at once, making Craig’s stomach flip. He doesn’t answer outright. Instead, he threads his fingers firmly through Craig’s.

“Come on,” Tweek murmurs, tugging him away from the door. 

Craig stumbles after him, dazed, as though his body belongs more to Tweek’s pull than his own will. His pulse roars in his ears, louder than the creak of floorboards beneath their steps.

They pass the living room, sunlight fractured across sleek furniture, but Craig barely registers it. The only thing he feels is Tweek’s hand in his, pulling him forward. 

The master bedroom waits at the end of the hall, sunlight spilling across the bed in long golden stripes. The door clicks shut behind them, and Craig’s own breath catches at the sight, at the simplicity of being pulled here by Tweek’s hand.

Craig’s bed is unmade, sheets twisted and pillows shoved unevenly to the side.

There are clear signs he lives here - clothes scattered across a chair, a book half-open on the nightstand, a mug abandoned near the dresser. It isn’t pristine or curated like the rest of the house; it’s lived-in, personal, undeniably his.

And now Tweek is steering him straight into it, turning the space from ordinary into something electric.

Tweek tugs Craig forward, sliding his hands firmly onto Craig’s shoulders, then gently but insistently pushes. Craig yields, his breath stuttering as he moves backward, step after step, until the backs of his knees bump the edge of the mattress.

With one final shove, Craig drops onto the bed, the impact punching the breath from his chest in a soft gasp. He doesn’t fight it - he’s already in gear with whatever comes next, his body humming with anticipation.

Tweek makes quick work of his clothes. He tugs his shirt up and over his head in one swift motion. The fabric is loose, patterned in sun-faded green earth tones, worn soft from endless wear, and it flutters as it’s tossed aside. His pants follow - flowy linen, the color of washed-out sand, cinched at the waist with a simple tie that comes undone with a flick of his fingers and he kicks them off with his boxers.

All the while, his jewelry speaks for him: the clink of stone bracelets knocking together, the faint scrape of beaded bands against his skin, the soft slide of an amethyst pendant on its silver chain as it swings forward and brushes his chest.

Craig’s breath audibly hitches when he takes him in.

Tweek is bare, already hard, his body caught in the spill of sunlight that frames him in warm gold. His piercings glint - the silver stud in his nose, the helix shining at the curve of his ear - while the mandala tattoo sprawled across his shoulder seems to move with every shift of his body, the ink almost alive in the light.

His hair is damp from the heat outside, fringe sticking to his forehead, and every detail makes Craig’s chest tighten. He’s beautiful - so achingly, painfully beautiful - that Craig is struck speechless. 

Tweek places one knee on the mattress, then another, climbing slowly, deliberately up and over him.

Craig’s hands flex against the sheets, his throat bobbing with a hard swallow as his eyes track every movement.

When Tweek reaches for the hem of Craig’s shirt, Craig leans up, letting the fabric peel away from his skin. He lifts his arms high, surrendering to the motion, his skin prickling in the warm air as the shirt is tossed aside. Tweek’s fingers brush his sides in the process, leaving sparks in their wake.

Craig’s hips shift restlessly, and with one decisive push, he kicks off his boxers in a single motion, baring himself completely beneath Tweek’s looming figure.

Then Tweek lowers himself, closing the last inches of space, and their mouths crash together again. The kiss is deeper this time, hungrier, bodies pressing flush, chest to chest, stomach to stomach, cocks grinding against each other with desperate friction.

The contact rips a soft, broken whine from Craig’s throat, muffled into Tweek’s mouth as his hands surge upward, clinging. Craig bends his knees, bracketing Tweek’s hips between his thighs, locking him in place. He tugs him closer, desperate, greedy, his body moving with instinct rather than thought. His nails dig crescents into Tweek’s back, dragging over skin with shaky insistence, the need to feel every part of him impossible to resist.

Craig tips his head back, breaking the kiss for a second just to drag in air, but what leaves him is nothing short of a whimper, helpless and raw.

Craig finally finds his voice, breaking into desperate moans.

“Please - fuck - god, Tweek, please,” he gasps, the words spilling from him without thought, rough and ragged. Each syllable vibrates through his chest, raw and urgent, as if he’s begging for air.

Tweek only grinds harder, rolling his hips slow and deliberate, teasing him mercilessly. His rhythm is maddening, a cruel edge of pleasure that makes Craig’s entire body quake. Then Tweek drops his mouth to Craig’s throat, lips fastening at the base, sucking until bruises bloom under his teeth.

“Fuck - I’m fucking close,” Craig blurts, wild and helpless.

Tweek nips sharply, just enough to make Craig jolt, before soothing the sting with his tongue.

“Stop - stop, unless you want me to come right now.” Craig’s tone is strangled, begging, almost breaking, as if he’s clinging by a thread.

Tweek pulls back instantly, still hovering above him, his own breath ragged. A grin spreads across his lips, sharp and playful, even as his chest rises and falls like he’s just run a mile.

Craig stares up at him, wide-eyed, his face flushed, chest heaving, every inch of him slick with sweat and need. He’s unraveling, and Tweek knows it, drinking in the sight as his green eyes flicker with affection and fire.

Without breaking eye contact, Tweek leans sideways, arm stretching across Craig’s body to the nightstand. The drawer slides open with a scrape, rattling softly with the handful of objects inside. Tweek’s hand emerges with a bottle of lube. The click of the cap popping open echoes in the charged silence, the sound landing heavy between them.

Craig exhales hard, the relief rushing out of him in a shaky sigh.

“Fucking finally,” he says, the words more moan than statement, his head tipping back against the pillow, throat exposed, lips parted.

Tweek slicks his fingers, coating them generously. The first touch is soft, slow. Tweek circles Craig’s rim with slick fingers, teasing the sensitive muscle, tracing it in lazy strokes that make Craig’s hips twitch.

Craig hisses on an inhale, biting down on his lip, his hands fisting the sheets so tight his knuckles pale.

Tweek keeps him on edge, working him with slow, deliberate swipes, dipping just enough to make Craig feel it before pulling back. The torment makes Craig buck upward, his cock smearing precum against his stomach, leaking, desperate. 

Tweek curls his finger slightly, testing, making Craig cry out again, louder this time. He withdraws just enough to press back in, setting a rhythm that has Craig’s hips twitching helplessly. Craig’s cock jerks against his stomach with each thrust of Tweek’s hand, precum smearing across his skin.

“Jesus, you’re sensitive,” Tweek observes, and Craig looks ready to take matters into his own hands.

“Fuck, Tweek, you’re fucking killing me,” Craig moans, arching off the bed. He can barely breathe, barely think, undone by the slow, patient stretch that only makes his hunger sharper.

“Goddamn, Craig,” Tweek mutters, voice rough as his eyes rake over Craig’s flushed body, “you’re so goddamn hot.”

Craig clutches at the pillow behind his head, knuckles white, eyes squeezed shut. His cock drools across his stomach, leaking steadily with every press of Tweek’s fingers against his prostate. His chest heaves, sweat dripping down his temples, sliding into the hollow of his throat.

Another sharp cry rips out of him, followed by a strangled, “Fuck!”

His whole body jerks, hips bucking wildly into Tweek’s hand, sheets twisting beneath his grip as though the bed itself is trying to hold him down.

Tweek presses his fingers push directly into his prostate, massaging with calculated precision. Craig seizes up completely, muscles clenching and trembling all at once.

His back arches off the bed, thighs trembling as he shouts, broken and raw.

“Fuck - Tweek - I… Ah - ah, fuck - fuck!”

Craig comes untouched, streaking across his chest and stomach.

“Oh fuck - oh my God,” his voice shakes, breaking apart on the edges of every word. He drags his hands down his face, then presses his palms over his eyes as though the sensation is too much to bear.

Even in the aftermath of orgasm, he trembles around Tweek’s fingers, unable to stop the low, needy sounds spilling past his lips. His thighs quake, his toes curling into the sheets as if grounding himself against the flood of sensation.

Finally, Tweek eases his hand away, slick fingers leaving Craig aching and open.

Craig groans at the loss, his body clenching on nothing.

Tweek shifts back, uncapping the lube again, pouring it over his palm until it drips thick between his fingers. Craig moves his hands from his face, blinking up just in time to see Tweek stroke himself with a hiss. He looks painfully hard, his cock glistening under his own touch, the head flushed and wet. 

Craig swallows, throat dry, pulse racing so hard it makes his temples throb.

Slowly, he rolls over onto his stomach.

The sheets bunch beneath him, dragging against his overheated skin, his body stretching out languidly before he pushes himself up onto his knees. His shoulders roll forward as he settles, muscles taut.

Tweek freezes mid-stroke, eyes widening, lips parting as he stares. They’ve never done it like this before. For a moment he doesn’t even breathe, watching Craig shift.

Craig glances back over his shoulder, hair sticking to his damp forehead, pupils blown wide.

“Come on, babe.” He rasps.

The words hit like a strike of lightning. Tweek chokes out a curse and hand falls away from himself, still slick with lube. He shuffles forward on his knees immediately, urgency spilling into every movement, until he’s kneeling right behind Craig’s spread legs. 

Craig’s skin is hot under his palms, the sweat-damp curve of his back a map Tweek can’t resist tracing with his gaze. The curve of his ass, the way his thighs spread to make space, the subtle tremor in his calves - it all feels unreal.

“Jesus… you have no idea what you do to me.” Tweeks voice comes out low, strained, shaking at the edges as he whispers.

Craig pushes back slightly in response, grinding against him, a filthy, impatient invitation. The sensation drags another hiss from Tweek’s throat, his body trembling with restraint, every ounce of self-control hanging by a thread as he prepares to sink into him for the first time in this new position.

Tweek takes a slow breath, then pushes in. The tight heat makes him groan, biting back a curse as relief surges through him, his teeth sinking into his lower lip to hold it in.

Craig gasps loudly, the sound ragged and raw, his fingers clenching the sheets so tightly that the fabric strains between his fists. He presses his face into the bedding, overwhelmed.

Tweek stays buried to the hilt, frozen with restraint, his hands gripping Craig’s hips hard to keep him pinned in place. His head bows forward, hair damp against his forehead as he drags in harsh breaths. 

Craig shifts, his cheek pressed against the sheets, eyes glazed but determined. His voice comes out cracked and hoarse, a plea wrapped in command: “Do it,” he rasps.

The words ignite Tweek like gasoline to flame, and he pulls back slowly, the drag exquisite, before snapping his hips forward again with a sharp slap of skin on skin. Relief shudders through him, a curse escaping between clenched teeth.

Craig’s reaction is visceral - his back arches with a wanton moan, body contorting as though he can’t decide if he’s trying to escape the overwhelming stretch or beg for more. 

Tweek grinds his teeth, fingers digging bruises into Craig’s hips, holding him in place as he drives in again, harder. His thrusts grow rhythmic, making the bed rock beneath them, the headboard knocking lightly against the wall with every snap of his hips.

Craig buries his face against the pillow, muffling the loudest of his cries, but the sounds still slip free - hoarse, desperate, burning with raw need. His face is turned to the side for air, cheek flushed crimson, lashes clumping with tears he can’t blink away.

His cock drags against the sheets, leaving smears of precum with every grinding shift, the friction only adding to his unraveling. His hips tilt back desperately into Tweek’s rhythm even as his body trembles with the strain of keeping up.

Tweek leans over him, sweat dripping onto Craig’s back as he moves faster, teeth bared as he bites down on the sounds threatening to rip out of his throat. His hips snap relentlessly, bruising pace building, every thrust sinking impossibly deep. Craig feels consumed, undone, each cry rougher than the last as his entire body bows under the intensity, surrendering to the rhythm that leaves no space for thought, only need.

Craig twists his torso, forcing himself to glance back over his shoulder. His eyes are wet, lashes clumped with tears, his face flushed scarlet and contorted with pleasure. He looks beyond desperate, his voice breaking as he begs.

“Touch me - fuck, Tweek, please - oh god. Please touch me, I can’t - ” The plea dissolves into sob as his body shudders, chest pressed tight to the sheets, arms trembling under the weight of sensation.

Tweek groans low in his throat, hips never faltering as he pistons into him, deep and ruthless. One hand keeps Craig’s hips pinned, fingers digging bruises into skin, while the other slides beneath him, wrapping firmly around Craig’s cock - already hard again, straining, twitching, slick with precum.

A loud, cracked wail bursts from Craig’s throat, echoing through the room, shaking the air between them. Curses spill helplessly, breaking into cries that shatter into moans as his body writhes.

“Yeah - Jesus, fuck, that’s it,” Tweek rasps, voice rough and raw as his own control frays. His chest presses forward against Craig’s back, sweat dripping from his forehead down onto Craig’s skin, sliding between his shoulder blades. His amethyst pendant swings and taps softly against Craig’s damp skin with each thrust, marking the frantic pace like a metronome.

“Come on, Craig - fuck - c-come with me,” Tweek pants, his words a jagged encouragement.

Craig breaks first. His body seizes, muscles locking as a strangled scream tears from his throat. He comes hard, pulsing thick into Tweek’s hand, his release streaking across the tangled sheets below. His thighs tremble violently as wave after wave rolls through him, arms collapsing forward as he struggles to hold himself up.

The clench of his body around Tweek drags him under seconds later. With a bit off moan, Tweek slams in deep, hips snapping one last brutal time before he spills inside him. Heat floods forward in hot waves, filling Craig as Tweek buries his face against his back, teeth grazing the sweat-slick skin. His groan breaks muffled but primal, his body shuddering violently.

Craig gasps out fragments - “fuck, oh god, Jesus fucking Christ, Tweek” - his voice torn to shreds, eyes glassy as they slip shut. He bites the pillow, trembling, as though trying to contain the last of his shudders.

After a long moment, Tweek pulls out gently, careful not to jar Craig further, and rolls onto his side.

Craig groans at the loss, dragging a hand up over his face to wipe at the sweat and tears sticking there.

“Jesus fuck, Tweek - goddamn,” he mutters, voice rasping, still unsteady.

Tweek laughs softly, the sound warm and low, and immediately scoots closer until their bodies press again.

Craig sprawls flat on his stomach, limp and heavy against the sheets, while Tweek drapes an arm over him. His hand smooths down the length of Craig’s back, tracing the notches of his spine beneath sweat-slick skin.

Tweek notices too easily how sharp they feel, how faint outlines of ribs push visible at Craig’s sides. The thought gnaws at him - Craig hasn’t been eating enough again. He looks leaner than the last time they saw each other, thinner in a way that makes Tweek’s chest tighten with quiet worry.

Craig exhales, a long sigh into the pillow, before finally turning his head to blink up at Tweek. His eyes, though tired, are still that same striking, vibrant blue that always undoes him.

“I need a shower,” Craig mumbles, his voice a mix of complaint and exhaustion.

“Yeah,” Tweek agrees softly, already sitting up. But before he can fully move, Craig shakes his head, burying half his face back into the pillow.

“Nu-uh. I’m not moving.”

Tweek huffs a laugh, then leans down, manhandles Craig onto lay on his back, then slides an arm beneath his knees and another under his shoulders. Before Craig can protest, Tweek lifts him clean off the bed in a bridal carry. Craig goes limp at first, assuming it’s a joke, until realization hits and his eyes snap wide.

“Holy shit - you’re carrying me?” he blurts, shock cutting through the exhaustion.

Tweek only adjusts his grip, steady and sure, a grin tugging at his lips.

“Been getting back into boxing lately,” he explains lightly, not wanting to draw attention to Craig’s weight. “Helps with stress.”

Craig stares at him, bewildered, as Tweek carries him toward the bathroom. Once there, Tweek sets him gently down on his feet.

“Bubble bath?” Tweek asks, teasing, his green eyes glinting.

Craig recoils immediately, grimacing.

“Fuck no. I’m covered in jizz inside and out.”

Tweek snorts, rolling his eyes as he reaches for the knobs, twisting the shower on. Steam quickly begins to fill the room, fogging the mirror, curling around their shoulders like a second skin.

He slips off his amethyst necklace, the pendant clinking lightly against the counter, then removes the bracelets from his wrists, stacking them neatly beside the sink. The sound of stone beads sliding together lingers faintly in the warm air. He nudges Craig toward the glass shower door. Craig moves slower, limbs heavy with exhaustion, but still with that casual kind of trust only Tweek seems to draw out of him.

They step into the shower together, hot water streaming down over them, washing away sweat and stickiness. The spray beats against Craig’s shoulders, making him sigh as the heat soaks into his muscles. Tweek tilts his head back into the water, eyes slipping closed for a moment as it cascades down his hair and chest.

Their movements are slow, deliberate, tender - Craig’s hands smoothing soap over Tweek’s arms, down his chest, across the sharp line of his collarbone. Tweek’s fingers massage shampoo into Craig’s hair, nails scratching lightly over his scalp, drawing a soft groan from Craig’s throat.

They trade places easily, rinsing and repeating, the water carrying away the suds as small touches linger far longer than necessary, fingertips tracing over damp skin with more affection than urgency. The intimacy of it settles over them, quiet and complete, a kind of wordless conversation.

Craig leans into the spray, eyes fluttering shut as memories flicker.

He remembers the first time they showered together - how he was covered in bruises back then, skin mottled with pain that Tweek had touched carefully, kissed gently as if to mend them.

That first shower had been about healing, about reassurance, the two of them moving with tentative care, silence filling in where words failed.

Now, he has no bruises, no injuries, nothing for Tweek to treat with fragile caution. Just clean skin beneath steady hands, comfort instead of repair. He feels the contrast sharply - the difference between being cared for because he was broken and being touched simply because he’s loved.

Tweek’s hands drift slowly down his back, soap sliding easily across his skin. Craig feels the heat in every careful pass, the tenderness as Tweek brushes the water from his face, smoothing his hair away from his forehead.

Craig doesn’t flinch at the closeness, doesn’t feel the need to guard himself, and the realization hits hard.

This too is healing.

Not patching over wounds, but building something softer, stronger.

A reminder of how far they’ve come, of how much has changed.

The hot water drums around them like a shield, the world outside dissolving into mist. Craig tilts his head back into Tweek’s palm, letting him rinse away the last of the suds.

For once, he doesn’t fight the pull of ease that creeps into his body, doesn’t argue against the comfort. He allows himself to stand there, eyes closed, letting Tweek’s hands guide him.

Intimacy without fear.

Closeness without pain.

It’s unfamiliar, but it’s good, and he finds himself relaxing fully, trusting the moment as if nothing else matters beyond the steam and the warmth and the person sharing it with him.

Chapter Text

Afternoon light filters through the blinds in pale stripes, stretching across the fresh sheets they’d wrestled onto the bed after their shower.

The air is cool, the hum of the air conditioner buzzing away, and the two of them lie on their sides, facing each other - bare, unguarded, close enough that every word feels like it falls straight into the other’s chest.

Craig’s hair is still damp, his cheek pressed into the pillow, while Tweek fidgets restlessly with the edge of the blanket that rests low at his hips, unable to keep his hands still even now. 

“They’re setting up the gallery next week,” Tweek says, his voice soft but alive with nerves. “A couple of my pieces got picked for the main hall. Everyone keeps saying it’s a good opportunity, but all I feel is pressure. Pressure to be perfect, pressure to prove I belong there, pressure that I’m not wasting my time.”

Tweek’s hair sticks up in wild tufts, still damp from the shower, his eyes shadowed with the dark circles Craig can’t ignore.

Craig hums low in his chest. “That’s good. How’s it coming together right now? You finished the big installation yet?”

“Almost,” Tweek admits, his hands twitching between them. “It still looks like a disaster if you catch it mid-process, but that’s the point - controlled chaos. I just keep pulling late nights trying to get it perfect. And then the professors pile on more feedback, and I spiral, because what if it’s not enough? What if it just looks like noise instead of something intentional? And I see the others, and they make it all look so easy.”

Craig studies him calmly, a stark contrast to Tweek’s jittering. “Yeah, I can tell. You’re wrecked.”

Tweek laughs weakly, pressing his palm to his forehead. “I’ll sleep after. Once it’s hung, I’ll crash. Maybe. Maybe I’ll just pass out for three days.”

“You’ve said that every semester,” Craig mutters, though the concern in his voice is clear. “Still waiting for you to prove me wrong.”

Tweek shrugs, then hesitates. His voice drops, quieter, almost ashamed. “Sometimes I think I made a mistake, you know? Choosing art over music. When I’m too wound up to work, I write songs. Lyrics mostly. It helps. I’ve been humming melodies in the studio like I can’t stop myself. I want to get a keyboard - something portable - so I can actually play again since I’m never around a piano except when I go home during breaks.”

Craig tilts his head, surprised but careful not to push too hard. “You’ve been writing songs again?”

“Yeah.” Tweek’s eyes flicker, uncertain, then soften with something close to longing. “I miss it. I don’t regret RISD, but… part of me wonders what would’ve happened if I stuck with music. At least when I’m writing, I feel… lighter. Like I can breathe. Painting eats me alive some days. Music doesn’t. Music makes me feel like me. I guess I’ve been chasing that feeling, even when I can’t admit it out loud.”

“So buy the keyboard. Seriously. If it helps you breathe, do it. You’ve spent enough time trying to hold yourself together for everyone else.”

Tweek exhales, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “Maybe I will. I’ve been looking at secondhand ones online. Nothing fancy. Just…just something to keep near me so I don’t forget what I love.”

The air settles into something tender, the quiet weight of honesty stretching between them, until Tweek nudges him lightly with his knee. “Anyway… enough about me. It’s still your birthday, isn’t it? I already gave you one present, but you don’t get out of letting me say it again - happy birthday, Craig.”

Craig smirks faintly, his voice dry as ever. “Pretty sure you set a new standard for birthday gifts.”

Tweek’s cheeks flush, but his grin is unashamed. “Yeah, well.” He pauses, softer now, almost shy. “I’m glad I could be here today. I wanted to surprise you. The look on your face this morning was worth everything.”

Craig’s throat tightens, though he hides it with a shrug, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Mission accomplished.”

Tweek laughs, the sound light but edged with relief. “I thought maybe you’d be mad I just showed up out of nowhere.”

Craig shakes his head slowly. “Not mad. Shocked, yeah. But… not mad.”

They let the silence stretch, warm and full, sunlight spilling across their shoulders.

Tweek breaks it first, tilting his head. “So… modeling. How’s that been lately?”

Craig exhales, gaze shifting to the ceiling where the stripes of light carve patterns.

“Still weird as shit. I mean, there are fan pages now. Strangers online making edits of me like I’m some movie star. It’s insane.”

Tweek grins, almost giddy. “It’s hilarious. You’ve got entire corners of the internet obsessed with you. I’ve seen screenshots from people who don’t even know you, talking like they do. You’re this… idea, out there. They think they’ve got you figured out when you barely even say two words.”

Craig groans into the pillow, dragging his hand down his face. “Yeah, and all I ever wanted was a quiet, uneventful life. Instead I’m apparently everyone’s idea of moody boy aesthetic.”

Tweek snickers, biting his lip like he’s trying not to laugh. “You know what’s even crazier? I know we’re not, like, ‘boyfriends’ or ‘dating’ or anything official anymore… but it still blows my mind that I’m in this - whatever this is - with a literal model. Like, I get to crawl into bed with the guy people on the internet are thirsting over. If they knew, man, they’d probably riot. Jesus, I’d probably get hate mail.”

Craig narrows his eyes, deadpan. “You make it sound like I should come with a warning label.”

“You kinda should,” Tweek fires back, grinning now. “Caution: may cause unintentional fandoms. Side effects include obsessive edits and badly photoshopped collages. Maybe a few unhinged DMs.”

Craig rolls his eyes, but the corner of his mouth betrays the faintest smile. “God. That’s exactly what I didn’t want. Attention. Noise. All I wanted was quiet. And somehow, here I am.”

“Here you are,” Tweek echoes, softer, with a fondness he doesn’t try to hide. His thumb brushes against the blanket between them before he asks, “When you’re not working, what do you even do with yourself out here?”

Craig opens his mouth to answer, but the truth stalls in his throat.

For a split second, an image flashes sharp in his mind - himself sitting on the cold kitchen floor at two in the morning, drunk and disoriented, staring at his reflection in the oven door like it might speak back.

Another blur: popping a Xanax in the half-light, lying flat on the living room carpet with the TV off, ceiling spinning while his mind drifts somewhere he can’t quite follow.

Dissociating until the hours bleed together. He swallows, pushes the memories down, and forces his gaze back to Tweek as though none of it had surfaced at all.

“Mostly nothing,” he mutters, the words flat, deliberately uninteresting. “Eat, sleep, stare at the wall. Real exciting stuff.”

Tweek tilts his head, studying him. “You haven’t been, like… stargazing or anything? Or reading those space journals you were always into?”

Craig hesitates. The question cuts deeper than Tweek knows.

He can’t even remember the last time he let himself do something he enjoyed - lying out under the night sky, tracing constellations until he lost track of time, or flipping through science magazines. The memories feel far away now, fogged over like they belong to someone else entirely. The thought of it aches, like nostalgia for someone else’s life.

He shakes his head faintly. “No. Haven’t really thought about it.”

Tweek frowns, propping his chin on his hand as he watches him. “That sucks. You loved that stuff.” His voice is gentle but pointed, not accusing, just observing. “Maybe you should try again sometime. I think you’d feel better if you did.”

Craig doesn’t answer right away. His eyes drift past Tweek’s shoulder toward the ceiling again, as if the very thought of stars is unreachable from here. The silence stretches until he finally murmurs, “Maybe.”

Craig clears his throat, shifting slightly, breaking the heaviness. “How long do you get to stay?”

Tweek’s smile falters, guilt tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Just for the night, unfortunately. I’ve got crits tomorrow morning back in Providence. Couldn’t risk missing them.”

Craig’s chest tightens, though he doesn’t let it show. He only nods once, his voice flat. “Right. Makes sense.”

Tweek watches him carefully, picking up on the disappointment he won’t admit. He nudges Craig’s arm lightly, his voice trying to brighten the air again.

“Hey… it’s still your birthday. Is there anything in particular you’d like to do today?”

Craig thinks it over, then turns his head toward him with the faintest smile. “Just being with you, honestly. That’s enough.”

Tweek flushes, his voice softening. “You’re sappy when you want to be, you know that?”

Craig shrugs, the smile tugging a little wider. “Don’t tell anyone. I’ll deny it.”

They share a quiet laugh, the sound settling between them in a way that feels easy, like it belongs. Their laughter fades into a softer quiet, the kind that feels like it could stretch forever. Tweek’s gaze lingers on him, thoughtful, almost searching, as though trying to read the things Craig never says aloud. He shifts slightly closer, his hand brushing over the bare skin on Craig’s back.

“I’ll be back in South Park for winter break,” Tweek murmurs after a pause. “It’s still home, even if it feels different now.” He hesitates before adding, “Would you ever consider coming back too? Just to see how everyone’s doing?”

The question hangs between them, heavier than it sounds, filling the space with all the weight of what’s been lost and what still ties them there.

Craig stares at him, silent, the ceiling light striping across his face, and feels the quiet pressure of a past he hasn’t decided if he’s strong enough to face.

His thoughts slide unwillingly back toward the town he’s been running from.

The drama that carved cracks through all of them - fights that spiraled too far, nights that ended in sirens, the funerals that burned holes in their group. He thinks of Bebe’s bright laughter that will never echo again, of Clyde’s ridiculous antics that used to fill every silence, and how their absence left the town thinner, hollow in a way that felt wrong.

The memory presses like a bruise, tender and unhealed. He sees the chapel, flowers arranged in sterile rows, parents hollowed by grief, the whole town carrying silence on their shoulders.

He thinks of his father, of the house that never felt like home, where every slammed door rattled his bones. Growing up in a place that didn’t want him whole. He can still smell the cheap beer, still hear the venom in every word, and part of him recoils even now at the thought of walking back through that threshold.

The kitchen tiles under his feet, the creak of the hallway floorboard outside his bedroom - small sounds that still live in his body like splinters.

But the memories aren’t all jagged.

Another comes softer: nights with Kenny at the abandoned lot, cheap bottles passed back and forth until the stars above blurred, the two of them laughing at nothing, bitter and alive in their own broken way. The kind of nights that felt like escape, even when they weren’t.

Kenny’s grin, wild and reckless, had felt like defiance against everything waiting for them outside that cracked asphalt.

And then - different still - the rooftop of the coffeehouse. A blanket pulled tight beneath him and Tweek, the hum of the town below like a heartbeat, and above them an endless sky. Craig remembers how Tweek’s voice shook when he pointed out the constellations Craig taught him, how the air smelled faintly of burnt espresso drifting from the vents, how the quiet there felt safe. The stars had looked close enough to touch that night, and for once he believed he might actually want to reach for something. He remembers how Tweek’s hand brushed his, hesitant at first, then firmer, and how that simple touch kept him tethered when the rest of the world felt like it was falling apart.

All of it swirls together now, clashing in his chest.

He lies there beside Tweek, wondering if going back would mean picking at scabs; wounds that never closed - or if it would mean remembering the parts of himself he left behind with them.

Would he be dragged under by the weight of ghosts, or would he find something worth holding onto in the wreckage?

Craig doesn’t answer.

The silence stretches until Tweek’s voice slips into it, soft and careful.

“He’s not there anymore, you know.” Tweek’s gentle green eyes flick toward Craig’s steely blue.  “Your dad. He’s gone. That house isn’t the same. You wouldn’t have to face him again.”

Craig swallows, his jaw tightening as he stares at the ceiling. “Yeah, I know,” he says finally, his voice low and flat. “But the house is still there. The walls, the memories… all of it’s still sitting there waiting. Doesn’t matter if he’s gone. I can still feel him when I think about it.” He exhales through his nose, a sound halfway between a sigh and a laugh. “South Park’s full of ghosts for me, Tweek. Some of them good… but a lot of them aren’t.”

Tweek shifts slightly, his hand brushing Craig’s back again, more soothing this time as he gives a small nod.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Tweek says quietly. “Just figured I’d ask.” He hesitates, then adds even softer, “Have you ever thought about… maybe seeing your mom? Or even finding out who your real dad is?”

Craig’s eyes flick toward him, startled for a moment, but he doesn’t answer. The question hangs there, heavy and unspoken.

Finally Craig shifts, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know if I could handle it. Seeing her again… opening that door. And as for who my dad is - ” he cuts himself off with a sharp exhale, shaking his head. “I don’t know if I’m ready for that.”

Tweek’s thumb brushes gently over Craig’s knuckles. “You deserve to know. Doesn’t have to be now. Just… someday.”

Craig turns his head, meeting Tweek’s eyes for the first time since the question. There’s a flicker of gratitude there, hidden under the weight of everything he can’t say. He doesn’t answer, but his hand stays where it is, resting against Tweek’s.

Tweek lets the silence linger a moment longer before breaking it with a crooked smile. “Hey - I have another present for you.”

Craig snorts softly. “What, sex was a present?”

Tweek shoots him a look. “Excuse me - good sex. And yes, it was.”

Craig huffs out a laugh, the corner of his mouth twitching upward, while Tweek slips out from under the covers. Naked and unbothered, he pads over to his duffle bag and crouches to dig around inside. Craig watches lazily from the bed, far too comfortable to move, his head sinking deeper into the pillow.

When Tweek returns, he’s holding his iPad. He climbs back under the covers, sliding close against Craig until their arms and shoulders brush. He unlocks the screen, pulling up an app with a grin. “Earlier, I asked if you still stargaze,” he murmurs. He opens Night Sky 11 and lifts it overhead, tilting it toward the ceiling. The app maps out the constellations above them, the dark screen dotted with stars.

Craig turns his head toward him, eyes widening, something soft and startled in his expression. He looks at Tweek like he can’t believe him. Shocked, enamored, caught off guard.

Tweek smiles gently, eyes on the glowing stars. “Since it’s been a while, I figured we could stargaze like this. You can tell me about what you see.”

Craig feels warmth bloom in his chest, spreading out until it hums in his fingertips. He clears his throat, trying to mask it, aiming for stoic even though it’s obvious he’s happy.

Tweek tilts his head, looking at him expectantly. “Well?”

Craig exhales, shifts, and lifts a hand toward the screen. He pinches and swipes, zooming in on different patches of the virtual sky. His tone shifts - lighter, quicker, carrying a spark that Tweek hasn’t heard in years.

“Alright… let’s see. You’ve got Pegasus starting to show - see that big square? That’s the Great Square of Pegasus. Ancient astronomers used it as a marker for the autumn sky. People used to say it was the body of the flying horse, chained to Andromeda up there. Farmers once used it to time harvests, because the square would rise at dusk when it was time to bring crops in.”

He taps again, finger tracing across the screen. “Sliding down toward the west, that’s Aquila - the eagle. Altair’s the brightest star in it. In myths, the eagle carried Zeus’s thunderbolts. In Chinese folklore, Altair is the cowherd, separated from the weaver girl, Vega, across the Milky Way. They’re allowed to meet only once a year. It’s crazy how different cultures look up at the same stars and write totally different stories.”

Craig swipes eastward, voice quickening. “There’s Andromeda. That little smudge right there? That’s the Andromeda Galaxy. Two and a half million light years away, the farthest object you can see with the naked eye. Imagine that - your eyes catching light that’s traveled millions of years just to land here. And yeah, it’s on a collision course with the Milky Way. Won’t happen for billions of years, but when it does, the skies themselves will change. Entire constellations rewritten, horizons full of new stars.”

Tweek’s eyes soften, following every motion.

Craig doesn’t notice - he’s too caught up, his voice gaining momentum, animated in a way that makes him sound almost boyish.

He keeps zooming in and out, jumping between constellations and galaxies, facts tumbling out faster than he can contain them. His voice burns with enthusiasm, each fact carrying more life into the room.

The glow of the screen paints him softer, and for the first time in a long time, he looks like himself - nerdy, fascinated, lit up from the inside. The bitterness, the detachment, the weight he usually carries all seem to fall away.

Tweek just watches, smiling, eyes shining with affection.

This is the Craig he remembers from when they were young - excited, rambling, eyes bright with wonder - not the bitter one, not the model on glossy pages, not the self-destructive version drowning in silence.

This is his Craig.

The one who loved space so much he couldn’t shut the fuck up about it.

The one who let himself be carried away by the stars.

And God, Tweek loves to see him like this.

The ambulance barrels down the road, lights strobing against windows and sirens howling as Kyle steers the wheel. The city peels open in front of them, traffic pulling to the side under the force of wailing sirens.

Red sits in the passenger seat, the toughbook open on her lap, its glow throwing pale light against her face. She scrolls with a sigh, pulling up the run report from dispatch.

“DV call,” she says over the noise. “Female, mid-thirties. Caller says she’s injured but still conscious. Doesn’t say where she’s injured or how badly - ”

“Of course it doesn’t.”

“ - and PD is on scene,” Red finishes.

Kyle nods, leaning on the air horn as they approach a congested intersection. The sound bellows out, rattling through his chest. He flicks the siren from wail to phaser, the higher pitch cutting sharper through the traffic. Cars scatter in response, and he pushes them forward.

“Hell of a way to spend a Tuesday night,” he mutters, keeping his eyes on the road.

Red smirks faintly, though her eyes don’t leave the screen. “Could be worse. Could be a lift-assist.”

“I’d rather be lift-assist than be the crew in charge of the patient requiring lift-assist,” Kyle shoots back, weaving the rig through traffic.

Red snorts, shaking her head. “Fair point. Honestly, at least lift-assists don’t usually bleed on you.” She taps the toughbook, then adds in a lighter tone, “Hey, that reminds me - have you heard about Sophie Gray?”

Kyle cuts the wheel around a slow-moving sedan, the sirens screaming. “Sophie? Haven’t seen her in forever. What about her?”

“She’s in EMT school. Should be graduating soon,” Red says, voice carrying easily over the howl of the siren. “Still in nursing school too, but she’ll be working on an ambulance while she finishes up. Word is she’s looking at Park County EMS.”

Kyle’s mouth pulls into a quick grin despite the tension of the drive. “No shit? That’s awesome.” He punches the air horn again, threading the ambulance through the tight lane. “Always liked Sophie. She had a good head on her shoulders.”

Red nods, scrolling through more details on the screen. “Couple months out. Wouldn’t be surprised if we see her in this station before long.”

Kyle hums, the sound lost beneath the roar of the siren. “Yeah, that’d be good. Be nice having her around.”

They lapse into a rhythm - Kyle navigating traffic with sharp, practiced motions while Red calls out updates from dispatch. The tension of the call lingers between them, a thread pulled taut, but the chatter keeps it human. The ambulance surges forward into the night, closing in on the address flashing across Red’s screen.

They roll up a block from the house, the scene already alive with flashing red and blue. Several police cruisers are parked out front, officers spread wide across the lawn and driveway. Kyle eases the ambulance to a stop, keeping distance.

From inside the cab they can hear it - shouting, loud and raw, spilling from the house. A man’s voice bellows curses while officers bark back, trying to hold control. The whole street feels wired tight, neighbors clustered at porches and windows.

Red grabs the radio, her tone even. “PD on scene, this is Medic 3. Are we clear to approach?”

Static crackles back, then a clipped reply: “Negative. Stay put for now. We’ll advise.”

Kyle shifts in his seat, fingers tapping the steering wheel, adrenaline restless in his veins. Red leans back, watching the mess unfold with her chin propped on her hand.

The front door slams open wider and a man leans out of the frame, screaming down at the officers. “Back the fuck up!” he roars, spit flying, his face twisted with rage. A couple of cops step forward anyway, barking commands, their voices loud and useless against the storm.

Red snorts. “Christ, they’re really trying to out-yell him. Real tactical.”

Kyle shakes his head, lips twitching in dry amusement. “Yeah, nothing says de-escalation like screaming louder than the guy losing his shit.”

But then one cop stands out - a broad-shouldered tank of a man, built like a wall. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t raise his voice. He just stays rooted, calm and steady, talking low and firm. Kyle watches from behind the windshield, surprised to feel a flicker of respect. At least one of them isn’t pouring gasoline on the fire.

Minutes drag until the broad cop finally gets through. The suspect stumbles forward, still cursing, still shouting, but his fight bleeding out into tears. In a blur of motion, the officer seizes him, shoving him face-first into the siding of the house. Handcuffs click around his wrists, the man crying and thrashing as he’s pulled under control.

Kyle and Red sit quietly, watching it unfold. The cops pat him down for weapons, then drag him toward the cruisers. He’s still crying, his words slurred with booze, his body limp against the grip of officers who’ve done this too many times before.

The radio crackles again. “Medic 3, scene is clear. You’re good to approach.”

Kyle throws the ambulance into drive, pulling them closer. He parks near the curb, the tires crunching over gravel. Both he and Red hop out, doors slamming, each grabbing a go-bag as they stride toward the house.

The arrested man is still howling, tears streaking his face, the stink of alcohol rolling off him.

A female cop waves them off briskly. “Don’t worry about him. We’ll take him to the drunk tank.” She jerks her chin toward the house. “There’s a woman inside with a head injury.”

Kyle and Red exchange a glance, then head up the walkway. They step into the living room and are immediately hit with chaos - uniformed officers crowding the space, radios squawking, the air sharp with tension. On the sofa, a woman sits crying, her face blotchy and pale as an officer presses gauze against a bleeding wound at her temple.

Red moves straight toward the patient, crouching low so she’s at eye level. Her voice is calm, practiced, the same tone she’s used countless times before.

“Hi, I’m Red. We’re with EMS. We’re gonna take care of you, okay?” She begins a quick assessment, checking airway, circulation, and mental status. Her gloved hands work with quick precision as she replaces the soaked gauze, asks the woman her name, and coaxes simple responses to gauge orientation. “Can you tell me what day it is? Do you know where you are?”

Meanwhile, Kyle steps toward one of the officers nearby. “So, what’ve we got?” he asks.

The officer, still keyed up from the confrontation, lowers his voice. “Male suspect came home drunk, escalated fast. He threw something - looks like a lamp. Caught her on the side of the head. Lots of yelling, neighbors called 911. She’s been conscious the whole time, bleeding controlled for now.”

Kyle nods, absorbing the information. “Any altered LOC? Nausea? Vomiting?”

The cop shakes his head. “Not that I’ve seen. She’s been A&O times four… crying, a little disoriented but responsive. Sitting up since we got here.”

“Alright, thanks.” Kyle pats him lightly on the shoulder before returning to the sofa. Red glances up briefly, already pressing a fresh pad of gauze and securing it with tape while continuing to talk the woman through each step. Kyle kneels beside her, unzips his go-bag, and pulls out the BP cuff and stethoscope. The two of them fall into their well-practiced rhythm.

Kyle wraps the cuff around her arm, inflates it, and listens carefully. “BP one-forty over eighty-six,” he calls out.

Red nods, flicking on a penlight to check the patient’s pupils. “Equal and reactive. Laceration at the left temple, about three centimeters. Superficial, but it bled heavily. No deformity, no depression. Minor to moderate. She’ll need staples or sutures, but nothing emergent.”

“Gotcha,” Kyle says, moving on. He checks her radial pulse, then counts her respirations. “One-twenty-six. Respirations twenty, even.”

Red squeezes the woman’s hand gently. “Can you squeeze my fingers? Good. Now push against my hands. Perfect.” She crouches lower, testing sensation in the legs. “Can you feel me touching here? Both sides?” The woman nods shakily and answers, motor and sensory intact.

Kyle glances at Red. “Neuro looks good?”

Red nods. “So far, yes. No deficits. Just shaken up.”

Kyle turns back to the woman. “Ma’am, you’re doing great. We need to see if you can stand and keep your balance, alright? Can you do that for me?”

The woman wipes her nose with a trembling hand and nods quickly. “I can stand. I don’t need a stretcher,” she insists, voice shaking but firm.

Red offers her hand. “Let’s take it slow, okay?” She helps the woman rise, watching as her knees lock and she steadies. Red glances over her shoulder. “She’s holding her weight. A little wobbly, but nothing major.”

Kyle hums, weighing it. “We could bring in the stretcher, but if she’s this insistent…”

The woman shakes her head harder, tears streaking her cheeks. “No stretcher. I can walk.”

Red keeps her hand under the woman’s elbow. “Alright. We’ll walk you out. But if you get dizzy or lightheaded, we stop. Deal?”

The patient nods quickly, clutching Red’s arm. Kyle gathers their gear, clearing a path as they prepare to move her out.

The three of them make their way carefully out of the house. Red stays close, murmuring encouragement, while Kyle hovers at the woman’s other side with the go-bag slung over his shoulder. Their talk is calm and professional, the kind of steady reassurance that keeps patients grounded. “Almost there. Just a few more steps. You’re doing great.”

Outside, the night is broken by the glow of streetlights and the endless flash of cruiser strobes. The ambulance washes everything in red and white, shadows stretching long across the lawn. Cool air bites after the cramped heat of the house.

As they cross the sidewalk, Kyle’s boot catches on a deep crack in the concrete. He stumbles hard, momentum pitching him sideways into a wall of muscle. The broad officer he’d noticed earlier grunts as Kyle slams into him, both of them staggering.

“What the - ?!” the cop snaps, a shocked curse following as he steadies them both.

“Shit - sorry - ” Kyle mutters, but the officer’s voice cuts in, sharp and scathing.

“This your first day on the job, or what?”

The words hang for a beat before both men freeze, locking eyes under the streetlights. Recognition strikes in an instant.

The broad cop is Eric Cartman.

Kyle’s breath tightens, a sharp jolt of disbelief flashing through him. Cartman looks the same in some ways - round face, sharp eyes, mouth curled in a permanent scowl - but now his bulk is carved into muscle, the uniform stretched taut across his shoulders. Time had made him imposing, yet his expression is still pure Cartman: smug, irritated, daring Kyle to react.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Kyle mutters, half under his breath.

Cartman’s lip twists into a smirk. “Out of all the idiots in this county, it had to be you. Jew boy in an ambulance - what is this, some kind of sitcom?”

Red flicks her gaze between them, one brow raised, but she keeps her attention locked on the patient, holding the woman’s arm as they walk toward the rig. Kyle stiffens, jaw clamped tight, refusing to give Cartman the satisfaction of a rise. This isn’t the place to dig up old battles.

“Still running your mouth, huh?” Kyle shoots back, his tone sharp but quieter, weighted with a reluctance he doesn’t care to name. He moves back to the other side of woman as he and Red guide her forward, strobes painting the night in red and white.

Cartman lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Some things never change.”

Their eyes hold for a second too long, and the air hums with animosity and disdain.

Kyle clears his throat and breaks away first, forcing his attention back to the task at hand. He helps Red assist the patient in entering the ambulance via the side door.

Cartman lingers where he stands, watching them take her inside, his smirk still etched in place - an unspoken challenge left hanging in the cool night air.

Stan’s basement still smells the same - old carpet, a little dust, the faint tang of beer soaked into the floor from years of teenage mistakes. The two of them are sprawled on the worn couch, bottles in hand, a small pile of empties already building on the floor.

Stan adjusts his prosthetic leg as he leans back, stretching out with a satisfied sigh, beer bottle dangling from his fingers. “Man,” he mutters, smirking faintly, “this couch still sucks ass.”

Kyle takes a swig of beer, shaking his head. “Yeah, but it’s our couch. We’ve practically molded into it.”

Stan chuckles, tipping his bottle toward him. “Damn right.”

Kyle’s expression sharpens suddenly, the alcohol loosening the leash on his words. “You know who I saw yesterday? Cartman.”

Stan groans, already amused. “Oh god, here we go.”

“No, listen,” Kyle presses, leaning forward with wild energy. “He’s a cop now. A cop, Stan! Can you imagine? Eric Cartman, of all people, gets to walk around with a badge and act like he’s the authority.”

Stan nearly spits his drink, cracking up. “Holy shit, that’s perfect. That’s… that’s so wrong it circles back around to perfect.”

Kyle waves his arms, beer sloshing. “It’s not perfect! It’s fucking insane. This guy has been a manipulative, racist, lying sack of shit since we were kids, and now he’s supposedly out there protecting people?”

Stan can’t stop laughing, his cheeks flushed. “God, dude, you still hate him so much. It’s like… impressive at this point.”

“I should hate him!” Kyle fires back, pacing a little before collapsing back onto the couch. “You remember in sixth grade when he tried to convince the whole class I had leprosy? Or when he spread that rumor in middle school that I had head lice so nobody would sit near me for weeks?”

Stan is doubled over, tears in his eyes from laughing. “Oh my god, I forgot about that. Half the class wouldn’t even share a pencil with you. Absolutely legendary.”

“Legendary?!” Kyle yells, half furious, half grinning. “It ruined my life for months!”

Stan just shakes his head, still cackling. “You’ve gotta admit, the dedication was kind of amazing. Like, psychotic, but amazing.”

Kyle points at him accusingly. “You’re not helping. You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I am on your side,” Stan insists between laughs. “I just… I love how much he still gets under your skin. It’s been years, dude, like – at least eight since we last saw him, and you’re still ready to strangle him the second his name comes up.”

Kyle groans dramatically, dragging his hands down his face. “You don’t get it. He hasn’t changed. Same smug face, same stupid voice. And now he’s bigger, like he’s been training just to piss me off. It’s like the universe is setting me up for failure.”

Stan snorts into his bottle. “Bigger, huh? You checking him out now?”

“Shut the hell up!” Kyle barks, flushing as he glares at him. “That’s not what I meant!”

Stan laughs so hard he nearly chokes. “Dude, relax. I’m just saying - you can’t even talk about him without sounding obsessed.”

“Obsessed?” Kyle huffs, taking another long drink. “I just… I can’t stand him. Every word out of his mouth makes me want to punch a wall.”

Stan smirks, leaning back. “Yeah, and yet here we are, an hour later, still talking about Cartman while we drink ourselves stupid.”

Kyle throws a pillow at him, laughing despite himself. “Screw you, it has not been an hour. If you had to deal with him for five minutes, you’d be ranting too.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Stan admits, catching the pillow and tossing it aside. “But I’m enjoying this way too much. Drunk Kyle going off about Cartman might be my new favorite pastime.”

Kyle shakes his head, but a smile tugs at his lips. “You’re such an asshole.”

Stan grins, lifting his bottle. “And you’re still the most entertaining when you’re pissed.”

Kyle groans and waves a hand like he’s cutting himself off. “Alright, alright. Enough about Cartman. Tell me something else before I lose my mind.”

Stan grins into his bottle. “Same old shit, dude. Classes from morning till night. I still suck at tests - takes me forever to write because my hand doesn’t wanna cooperate. You’ve seen me try to take notes, looks like chicken scratch.”

Kyle smirks. “Yeah, your handwriting’s a crime scene. At least your professors cut you slack.”

“They have to,” Stan says, shrugging. “Extra time, all that. Still a pain in the ass.”

Kyle tilts his head. “And you’re still FaceTiming Wendy every few days, right?”

Stan chuckles. “Yeah, man. She talks my ear off about New York, but I like it. Keeps us close.”

Kyle rolls his eyes fondly. “Bro, you have… always been whipped for her, even if you two aren’t together anymore.”

Stan flips him off without heat. “Shut up. Anyway, I just realized – I don’t think I told you,” Stan says with a grin. “I finally nailed down my specialty - physical education. If I can’t play, at least I can teach.”

Kyle studies him for a moment, expression softening. “That actually makes perfect sense, dude. You’d be good at that.”

Stan lifts his bottle in a half-toast. “Yeah. Might as well put the scraps to use.”

Kyle clinks his against Stan’s. “That’s not scraps, man. That’s just you. And you’ll kill it.”

They both drink deep, the room filling with the easy silence before Kyle sets his bottle down with a thud. “Alright, so besides school, what else? Music? You’ve been picking up the guitar again?”

Stan shrugs, a little sheepish but smiling. “Yeah. Helps with the motor skills. Even if I’m nowhere near as good as I used to be, it keeps my hands moving. Good therapy, you know?”

Kyle leans back, nodding. “You’re so underselling yourself. You’re still solid. Way better than most guys who pick up a guitar after three beers.”

Stan laughs, shaking his head. “Not like before. Last time I really played? Bebe’s graduation party. Remember? Backyard, shitty acoustics, us doing that half-assed rendition of ‘Dancing Days.’”

Kyle bursts out laughing. “Holy shit, yeah! You on guitar, Kenny and Tweek doing backup - ”

“ - and Bebe and Clyde dancing like total idiots while everyone else just clapped and sang the chorus,” Stan finishes, grinning wide at the memory.

Kyle wipes his eyes from laughing. “They were so fucking gone. I swear Clyde almost fell into the fire pit.”

“Yeah, and Bebe just yanked him back by the collar and kept dancing like nothing happened,” Stan says, chuckling. “God, that was a night.”

Kyle smiles faintly, leaning back into the couch cushions. “You killed it, though. Everyone said so. You had the whole backyard in the palm of your hand.”

Stan shakes his head but can’t hide his grin. “Not sure about that, but it felt good. Haven’t played like that in a long time.”

Kyle raises his bottle again, his grin fading to something smaller. “Yeah… it really did feel like old times.” He swirls the drink, staring into it for a second before adding quietly, “I miss them. Clyde and Bebe.”

Stan’s own smile softens, eyes dropping to the floor. “Yeah. I do too.” For a moment, the noise from the phone fills the space between them, a distant chorus to memories neither of them want to press too hard on.

The memory of that night flickers through Stan’s head - brief flashes of being half-conscious in the backseat, the twisted car frame driven into his shoulder, his right leg crushed beneath the seat that had slammed back into him when Clyde’s side collapsed.

Stop.

Don’t think about it.

Stan pushes himself up with a groan. “Bathroom break. Don’t drink all the beer without me.”

Kyle rolls his eyes but hums an agreement, leaning back into the cushions as he scrolls through the playlist on his phone.

There’s a half-bath tucked in the corner of the basement. Stan slips inside, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. The muffled thrum of music seeping through the thin door is a reminder of Kyle sprawled outside waiting. Stan crouches slowly with a grimace as his right knee flares with pain and opens the cupboard beneath the sink.

From behind a stack of toilet paper rolls, he pulls out a pint of whiskey hidden in the shadows. He stares at it for a beat before twisting the cap off, the metallic crack of the seal echoing in the cramped space. He tilts it back, gulping half the bottle in one go. The burn scorches his throat, makes his eyes water, but the familiar heat spreads fast and steady through his chest and stomach, grounding him in a way beer never could.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, grimaces, then carefully slides the bottle back into its hiding place, tucking it out of sight. The cupboard door shuts with a muted thud, like sealing away a secret.

Stan washes his hands, splashes cold water on his flushed face, and braces against the sink. His reflection stares back - red cheeks, glassy eyes, the faint tremor in his fingers as they clutch porcelain.

He can see Clyde’s head covered in blood, his body still from how he’d died on impact.

He can see Bebe’s beautiful blond curls tangled with glass and blood where she’d slumped over the steering wheel after she’d bled out.

Stop. It.

Stan laughs once under his breath, humorless, then shakes his head like he can shake loose the weight pressing down. He lingers, breathing slow, then straightens, smoothing a hand through his hair. With a hard exhale, he pushes down the memories and heads back out.

The basement greets him with sound and light - the speakers rumbling with bass, Kyle’s phone glowing in his hand. Kyle sprawls across the couch, cheeks pink, eyes half-lidded, clearly drunk but buzzing with energy. When he sees Stan, his grin widens and he waves the phone like a trophy.

Stan drops onto the couch with an exaggerated sigh, sinking deep into the cushions. He turns his head, meets Kyle’s gaze, and they both break into wide grins before cracking up, laughter spilling out of them until their sides ache.

The burn of the liquor is helping him get to Kyle’s level of intoxication.

Kyle wipes his face, still chuckling, and lifts two cans of beer, holding one out to Stan who makes a face at.

“Oh, c’mon,” Kyle says with a roll of his eyes. “This is the good stuff, man. Nine and a half percent. Don’t judge me.” He cracks the can and takes a swig, his nose wrinkling at the taste. “Still tastes like shit, though.”

Stan smirks, pointing at the can. “Only reason I put up with that garbage is ‘cause it gets you drunk twice as fast. Otherwise, I’d chuck it out the damn window. Can’t believe you actually like that stuff.”

Kyle shrugs lazily, words slurred just enough. “I don’t like it, I respect it.” He scrolls through his playlist again, then whoops as the opening strums of Heaven Beside You by Alice in Chains fill the room. He throws his free hand in the air. “Yes! This one. This one.”

Stan’s grin spreads wide, recognition flashing across his face. “Bro, yesssss. Jerry Cantrell, man. Those riffs - nobody’s ever touched that sound. Heavy and sharp but somehow smooth, like barbed wire made into silk. Gives me chills every time.”

Kyle nods so hard his beer nearly spills. “Layne’s voice, though. That haunted, broken edge. Every word sounded like it clawed out of his soul. You can’t fake that. You feel it in your bones, dude. That’s why it hits.”

Stan tips his can in the air, gesturing wildly, his words tumbling out like a sermon. “That’s why they were untouchable. It wasn’t just grunge - it was doom and beauty colliding. Every song sounded like it crawled out of hell but still pulled you toward the light. Ugly and beautiful at the same time. Who the hell else could do that?”

Kyle groans with a drunken grin, leaning his head back until it thuds against the couch. “God, the whole Seattle scene. Pearl Jam, Nirvana, Soundgarden, Alice… what the hell were they putting in the water up there? One city, and they basically shaped an entire generation. People just don’t make movements like that anymore.”

Stan chuckles, pointing at him with his can. “Yeah, but Alice had the edge. The harmonies, dude. Jerry and Layne weaving together? It was like listening to two ghosts argue and fall in love at the same time. Dark poetry with distortion. Nobody’s come close since.”

Kyle’s eyes are heavy but still burning with passion. “They weren’t just sad, they were brutal. That’s what set grunge apart. Here’s the ugly truth - deal with it. No gloss, no pretending. Just raw, guttural truth laid out in three chords.”

The song swells, the chorus crashing through the speakers, and without even glancing at each other they both erupt into song, voices ragged, drunk, and too loud.

“Like the coldest winter chill - heaven beside you, hell within…”

Their shoulders knock together as they lean in, singing with abandon.

 Kyle clutches his phone like it’s a microphone, eyes squeezed shut, while Stan pumps his can in the air, shouting the words with his whole chest. They pretend they’re on stage, serenading an imaginary crowd, every other line punctuated by laughter. The basement walls absorb their off-key harmonies, shaking with the energy of two men who - for a moment - feel like kids again.

When the chorus fades, they collapse into laughter, doubled over, gasping for air. The sound bounces off the low ceiling, mingling with the fading chords.

Stan wheezes, coughing between laughs. “Jesus Christ, we sound terrible,” which only sets them off again.

When the laughter finally ebbs, they notice just how close they’ve leaned in. Faces inches apart, breath mingling, eyes locked in a silent beat that stretches long and heavy. The room shrinks around them, the music reduced to a hum under the pounding in their ears.

A beat passes. Too long. Too charged.

Kyle lunges forward, lips crashing against Stan’s.

Stan responds instantly, one hand gripping Kyle’s shoulder, the other threading into the hair at the back of his neck. He leans back into the cushions, dragging Kyle with him until they’re sprawled longways. Kyle presses down, mouths moving together in a kiss that’s hot, urgent, searing - like fire pressed to skin. Nothing like the tentative kisses they’d shared years ago. This one is reckless, desperate, unforgettable.

Stan moans once into Kyle’s mouth, fingers clenching in his hair, before reality cuts through the haze.

He tears his lips away, gasping. “Wait, wait. Stop.”

Kyle blinks down at him, flushed, chest heaving, confusion muddling his drunken haze.

Stan turns away, cheeks burning. “Sorry, dude.”

Kyle shakes his head quickly, sitting back just enough to break the pressure between them. “No, man - it’s cool. We’re wasted. We don’t gotta make it a thing.”

Stan nods slowly, exhaling hard, sinking back with his eyes shut like he’s begging the world to stop spinning.

When he opens them again, Kyle isn’t laughing anymore. His face is serious now, gaze pinned to the floor, his jaw tight like he’s grinding words he doesn’t want to speak.

The silence stretches until Stan clears his throat, quieter this time. “Hey… can you help me get this thing off?” He taps his prosthetic leg.

Kyle startles, blinking as if snapped back to reality.

“Oh - yeah. Of course.” He leans over clumsily, fingers fumbling as he rolls up the fabric of Stan’s right pant leg. The denim bunches awkwardly, exposing the prosthetic where it meets scarred skin. Kyle’s hands work carefully, peeling at the seal where the socket suctions tight around the stump just below Stan’s knee.

The air grows heavier - not with music or laughter this time, but with the reminder of how close they are, of what just happened, and of everything they’re trying not to feel.

The song clicks over to Cream’s White Room. The opening riff fills the basement, vibrating low and heavy through the speakers. Stan, leaning back into the cushions with his eyes closed, lets out a soft chuckle.

Kyle looks up from where he’s still adjusting the prosthetic. “What?”

Stan shakes his head, a grin tugging at his lips. “Nothing. Just… Kenny always loved this song. He’d put it on every damn time we got drunk together. Though, to be fair, with Kenny it wasn’t just drunk - we were usually crossfaded, completely baked and toasted, lying around this same basement with the lights off.”

The memory makes him laugh under his breath, though there’s a thread of wistfulness in it. The music hangs in the air, filling the spaces between them with nostalgia.

Kyle nods, his expression softening. “Yeah. I miss him too.”

Stan tilts his head toward him. “You heard from him at all?”

“Yeah,” Kyle says quietly, sitting back. “A few texts here and there, but not much. I’ve tried calling a couple times, but he never answers. Only thing that lets me know he’s still out there are the random messages I get every few months. Far as I know, he hasn’t been back to South Park since he left.”

Stan hums thoughtfully, letting the guitar riff wash over him. He keeps his eyes shut for a moment, listening, before turning his head to look at Kyle. In the warm light, Kyle looks closer to his lighthearted self from before the kiss, less wound tight, more like the friend Stan knows.

“We should try to get him to visit during the holidays,” Stan says. “When everyone’s back for winter break. It’d be good to have him here again.”

Kyle considers it, then nods. “Yeah. That’d be perfect. Only problem is, I have no idea how to get him on the phone for it.”

Stan chuckles softly, tilting his head back again as the music pours over them. “We’ll figure something out.”

Kyle finishes working the prosthetic loose and sets it carefully on the coffee table with a small clunk. He sinks back into the couch, the two of them quiet now, letting the buzz of alcohol and music wash over them. Stan stretches his right leg out with a small hiss, the relief plain on his face, as if the prosthetic had been bothering him for hours. The soft liner sock is still pulled snug over the stump.

Stan shifts in his seat, smirking to himself, then sticks his stump out and nudges Kyle in the side with it.

Kyle just stares at him, expression flat, not giving him the satisfaction.

Stan does it again, pressing a little harder this time. They keep staring at each other, both dead serious, until Kyle snorts and loses it, breaking into loud, helpless laughter.

“Dude, you can’t just poke at me with your goddamn amputated leg!” Kyle manages between laughs, clutching his stomach.

Stan grins, laughing too as he keeps prodding at him. “Can too! I’m disabled - you should feel sorry for me!”

Kyle laughs harder, shoving at Stan’s side. “You can’t use that line, man. That’s not how it works.”

“Yes huh,” Stan shoots back, his grin sharp and mischievous. “I get social security now, bitch. I can use whatever card I want.”

Kyle doubles over, nearly spilling his beer as he howls. “Jesus - you're such a dick.”

Stan keeps poking at him with his stump, both of them laughing so hard the couch shakes beneath their weight, the music rolling on in the background like a soundtrack to their drunken banter.

The tiny studio glows with warm lamplight, shadows softened by the flicker of half-burned candles scattered across the shelves. Stacks of books lean against one another like familiar companions, and the air carries a faint sweetness - vanilla from a thrift-shop candle he picked up the week before.

Butters sits at a thrifted vanity tucked into the corner, its mirror speckled with age. Leaning in close, he tilts his head from side to side, fingers combing through strands of blond hair as if the boy in the glass might offer some new truth back to him.

His hair has grown longer than it ever has before. Not the clipped, rigid undercut his parents demanded year after year, the one that left him looking sharp, but something softer, shaggier - his own.

His fingers slide through it easily, fringe brushing low enough that he can tuck it behind his ear. He does just that, watching his reflection as a grin tugs at his lips. Longer still, he thinks. He wants to feel it brush past his jaw, graze his collar.

Maybe it will just make him look like himself - finally. The thought lifts something in his chest, a bubbling excitement he never used to let himself feel.

He glances down at his pajamas: a button-up patterned with cartoon cats, the fabric thin and soft from too many washes, sleeves rolled sloppily up his forearms.

His smile lingers.

The thought rises unbidden - he could actually get a cat now.

There’s no one left to tell him no.

No father snapping that pets are filthy, no mother insisting he isn’t responsible enough. No rules carved into him by the walls he grew up in.

He imagines it: a small body curled on the windowsill, tail flicking lazily in the sun; a warm weight stretched at the foot of his bed, purring softly; maybe even two of them, blinking up at him with slow, steady affection.

He pictures buying bowls, a litter box, a toy that jingles with every swipe of a paw. The image feels so right, so simple, that he lets out a small laugh, the sound bright against the quiet.

For the first time in a long while, he feels like he could give love to something without fear.

The sudden buzz of his phone startles him. Once - then again - where it rests facedown on the vanity. His heart gives a little jump as he flips it over. Two messages glow on the screen, both from Kenny.

The first is a photo: a selfie of Kenny leaning against the side of his car. Behind him, the Grand Canyon sprawls wide and jagged, carved into the earth in streaks of rust and gold. The sky above stretches endless, sunlight pouring over stone like fire. Kenny squints into the light, grinning wide, blond hair tousled by the wind.

The second message is simple.

Kenny: check out this view, dude!

His chest tightens as he stares at the photo. Kenny’s skin is tanned, his blue eyes startlingly bright against the desert sun, his features alive in a way Butters hasn’t seen in years.

He looks happy.

He looks whole.

Nothing like the last time Butters saw him, when shadows pooled under his eyes and silence pressed heavy over every word. Relief and longing twist together inside him, sharp and sweet all at once.

Without realizing it, Butters rises from the vanity, phone clutched tight in his hand. He drifts to the bed and drops onto his stomach. His feet kick absently in the air behind him, just like when he was a kid sprawled across the floor with comic books.

Only now it’s Kenny’s face on the screen - sunlit, smiling, proof that he’s still out there, still moving, still breathing.

It’s been so long since they really talked. His thumbs hover uncertainly over the keyboard, mind cycling through greetings, jokes, questions - everything and nothing at once.

He wants to say it all, but no words feel right.

Before he can decide, another buzz jolts through his hand.

A new message flashes across the screen.

Kenny: how have you been?

Chapter Text

Craig wakes to the sour taste of vodka thick on his tongue and the sharp ache of a hangover rattling his skull.

The kitchen tiles are cold under his cheek, his body twisted awkwardly on the floor. His stomach lurches as he blinks blearily at the two empty bottles tipped onto their sides near his head, clear liquid stains darkening the grout.

He can’t remember lying down here.

Can’t remember much of anything beyond pouring another drink until the night dissolved into black static. The silence of the house presses in, heavy and stale, broken only by the ringing in his ears.

A pounding rattles the front door, splitting through the migraine haze in his head. He groans, dragging his arm over his eyes, wishing the sound would disappear. The pounding doesn’t stop. It grows harder, sharper, until the scrape of a key turning in the lock cuts through, the heavy door swinging open on its hinges.

“Craig?”

The voice carries easily through the house. Open concept - no walls to shield him, no corners to hide behind. From the kitchen floor he hears footsteps crossing the hardwood, steady, purposeful, too close too soon.

He doesn’t lift his head, doesn’t need to. He knows that voice. Knows the rhythm of those boots.

“For fuck’s sake.” The words drop like a blade, followed by the scrape of glass as a bottle is kicked aside. “Are you kidding me?”

Craig forces one eye open, squinting against the daylight filtering through the blinds. Tolkien stands there, tall and rigid, taking him in with a look equal parts fury and disappointment. Craig tries to sit up, his palm sliding clumsily against the tile. The room tilts, his stomach flips, and he catches himself against the counter just to keep from collapsing again.

His hair clings sweaty against his forehead, his shirt rumpled and sour with sweat. Every breath tastes like liquor. His voice scrapes out low and cracked when he groans.

“S’fine. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” Tolkien snaps, louder than he means to. He straightens, running a hand over his face, and sighs through his teeth. “Jesus, Craig. I have exams tomorrow. Midterms. And instead I’m here because you couldn’t answer your phone or do your job.” His eyes soften despite the anger, the disappointment layered with care.

Craig leans back against the counter, unsteady, his head pounding. He hates the way Tolkien looks at him - equal parts pissed and protective, like he’s both the problem and the responsibility.

He hates it more because part of him knows Tolkien is right.

Tolkien moves in closer, sliding an arm under Craig’s and half-carrying, half-dragging him down the hall toward the master bedroom. Craig’s weight sags against him, each step unsteady, his body reeking of stale liquor. Tolkien’s jaw tightens as he takes in the house: clothes draped over chairs, cigarette smoke clinging to the walls, an expensive telescope dismantled and abandoned on the dresser like Craig forgot what it’s even for.

The whole place feels hollow, like a shell. For someone so admired, so photographed, his life behind closed doors feels like an abandoned set.

Tolkien thinks briefly of the boy he knew growing up - quiet, cuttingly sarcastic, unshakable.

That boy would never recognize this version of himself.

When they finally reach the bedroom, Tolkien lowers him toward the edge of the bed, his voice clipped. “Go take a shower, man. Get cleaned up… I’ll make a pot of coffee.”

Craig stumbles toward the ensuite bathroom, catching himself on the doorframe, on the edge of the dresser, on whatever furniture he can to keep from pitching forward. He flicks the light on and fumbles with the shower handle, water sputtering to life in the background.

Leaning heavy over the sink, he sways as he grips the porcelain until his knuckles go white. His stomach heaves; for a minute he thinks he’s going to vomit. His reflection in the mirror is pale.

He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to collect himself, but the room tilts, spinning.

He’s still far too drunk.

His hand drags up to the medicine cabinet, slow and uncoordinated. He clumsily pops it open, pushes aside bottles until he finds the small aspirin container he’s been hiding. The lid twists off, revealing not pills but a glass vial with white powder tucked inside.

Craig taps out a small spot of powder onto the back of his hand with fumbling motions. The coke burns his nose, sharp and chemical, but the jolt is immediate. He does two more quick hits before dropping the vial back into the bottle and stashing it away.

His heart races faster, his nerves buzzing with artificial clarity. It’s a dangerous trick, but one he knows too well - a trick he’s leaned on more times than he wants to admit. When he finally strips down and steps under the spray of the shower, the cocaine surges through him. The water beats down, washing away the sweat and grime, and for the first time all morning his vision sharpens. The fuzz in his head recedes, the heaviness loosens its grip.

Craig feels sharper, less sloppy - like he can almost pass for put together. Steam curls around him, and he stands beneath it longer than necessary, letting the illusion of control soak into his skin. He presses his forehead against the tile, the hot spray pelting until his skin reddens.

In the kitchen, Tolkien sets water to boil and starts looking through Craig’s cabinets for coffee.

Everything looks unused, almost staged, like props in a show house. The mugs sit in neat rows - sleek, pristine designer brands, every one of them spotless.

Except for one.

On the far side of the shelf sits a handmade ceramic mug, chipped slightly at the rim, its glaze swirled in deep purples and blues and flecked with silver stars. Tolkien recognizes it instantly - the same one Craig insisted on taking with him when he’d dragged him out of South Park years ago.

Tolkien’s throat tightens, but he doesn’t touch it. He chooses one of the perfect cookie-cutter mugs instead, pulling it down carefully.

When he opens the fridge to find milk, his chest sinks lower.

No food. No leftovers.

Nothing but bottled water and random ingredients in the fridge, and only ice and five full vodka bottles in the freezer.

The sight makes his stomach twist.

Tolkien pictures Craig living on this diet, nights blurring into days, and wonders how long until his body gives out completely. He shuts the door harder than necessary, the sound echoing too loudly in the silence. He exhales slowly, a hand dragging down his face.

Craig isn’t doing well. Not at all.

The thought weighs on him as he thinks of the countless times he’s had to drag Craig up from the floor, the times he’s covered for him, and the countless times Craig has sworn he’d do better. Tolkien doesn’t know how many more times he can believe it - but he knows he’ll always try, because someone has to.

Craig won’t survive if nobody cares enough to check on him.

The coffee is ready when Craig pads into the kitchen, clean and dressed, hair damp from the shower. He looks more collected, but there’s a jitter in his movements, a wired energy that clings to him. Tolkien pours a cup and pushes it toward him without a word.

Craig takes it with a sigh, as if he’s aware of how pathetic the whole scene is.

They carry the mugs into the living room. Craig sets his on the coffee table without a coaster, not caring in the slightest, before sinking into the couch. He drops back, one arm slung over his eyes. Tolkien settles into the armchair near his feet, leaning forward.

He reaches out, pats Craig’s leg lightly.

Craig grunts in annoyance. “Don’t.”

“Are you alright?” Tolkien asks anyway.

Craig sighs long, exasperated, his voice muffled under his arm. “Yes. I’m fine.”

Tolkien rolls his eyes. “Dude, we’re not doing this again. You’ve lost weight. You’re not eating - don’t bother denying it, I can see it. And now you’re getting so fucked up you’re missing work and not answering your phone. You’re circling the drain again, Craig.”

Craig lowers his arm, staring at the ceiling. His jaw shifts before he finally speaks. “I saw Tweek. He came out here last week. For my birthday.” His voice dips softer. “I really miss him. I miss seeing him all the time.”

Tolkien nods slowly. He’s heard this before. He knows how much of Craig’s silence is filled with Tweek’s absence.

“Did you two fight?” Tolkien asks after a moment.

Craig shakes his head faintly. “No. It was a really good visit.” His chest tightens as memory flashes - Tweek smiling across the table, the intimacy of their closeness, the way his hand had brushed Craig’s arm without hesitation. “It was good. Really good.”

“Then what’s the problem?” Tolkien presses.

Craig exhales slowly, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. “He asked if I’d ever consider coming back to South Park. Just for a visit. He’s going home for winter break, and he asked if I wanted to be there too.”

Tolkien frowns. “And? Why’s that a problem? Sounds like it’d be good for you.”

Craig only shakes his head, frustration flickering in his expression. “It’s hard to explain.”

“So try."

Craig lets out another long sigh, his voice flat. “South Park is just… it’s… too many bad things happened there. Every street, every corner - it’s all cuts I don’t want to reopen. I don’t want to go back to that.”

Tolkien narrows his eyes with quiet resolve. “Maybe you should come stay with me again. Back at Stanford. At least there you’ll eat. You’ll have structure. I won’t have to worry about you drinking yourself half to death on a kitchen floor.”

Craig’s head rolls lazily to the side, annoyed. “I’m not moving back in with you, man. I’m not your responsibility.”

“You don’t do well on your own,” Tolkien shoots back. “You never have. And when you’re left to your own devices, this - ” he gestures around at the empty bottles, the stale air, the mess “ - is what happens. You fall apart.”

Craig’s lips twitch faintly. He doesn’t look at Tolkien - just keeps staring at the ceiling, his face unreadable. Then, slowly, a soft chuckle escapes him, low and under his breath.

Tolkien blinks, caught off guard. “What? What’s so funny?”

Craig only shakes his head, still staring upward, the faintest hint of a smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. He doesn’t answer. What Tolkien said had lined up almost perfectly with that stupid ass Taylor Swift song - Anti-Hero. The one that gets stuck in his head for weeks. The image of Tweeks smiling face flashes in his mind again - Tweek as he plays Love Story on the piano for the millionth time while Craig pretends to be annoyed about it.

Sighing, Craig rolls onto his side, turning toward the back of the couch, his spine facing Tolkien. He presses his cheek against the cushion.

“Conversation’s over.”

Tolkien doesn’t move. His voice sharpens instead. “If this keeps going, I’m making you go to the hospital.”

Craig snorts. “Yeah, right. As if you can make me do anything.”

“I’m serious,” Tolkien says, his tone edged with steel. “I’m not letting this slide. I’m not going to sit here and watch you killing yourself.”

“I’m not suicidal.”

“Could’ve fooled me."

Craig shuts his eyes, the words pressing into the silence like a weight he can’t shake.

“You need to get your shit together. Start eating food again  -  real food, not whatever you down in a bottle. Get proper sleep, not just passing out on the floor. And for God’s sake, lay off the fucking drugs.”

Craig’s body stiffens at that last sentence; a muscle ticks along his jaw.

“Yeah, I’m not dumb, Craig,” Tolkien says. “I know you’ve been doing shit. That’s not what I’m pissed about. I’m pissed because you’re out of control with it. You’re not even trying to be in control. You’re surrendering. Me being here is proof of that: I had to come. You couldn’t be trusted to keep breathing, so here I am to force you - just like last time.”

Craig’s hand curls into a fist at his side, nails whitening against his palm. He opens his mouth, something sharp on the tip of his tongue, then closes it again. He tastes the acrid bitter of shame more than resentment.

Back at Stanford, Tolkien had come home to find Craig collapsed on the floor of the living room, his body limp and cold against the hardwood. Panic had ripped through him as he dragged Craig upright, calling his name, trying to shake a response out of him.

Craig hadn’t eaten in days - Tolkien could see it then, the jut of bone where weight had dropped off too fast. He’d taken him straight to the emergency department, terrified something permanent had already broken inside him.

The doctors had murmured words like malnourished, like anorexia.

Tolkien had been shocked while Craig, on the other hand, had rolled his eyes at the fuss, brushing it off like it was a melodramatic overreaction.

He looked annoyed while the IV dripped into his arm, muttering that everyone was making a bigger deal than it was. Tolkien had never forgotten it - the gravity of that night, the sight of Craig on the floor, the anger and fear.

Tolkien doesn’t soften. “If you don’t get it together, Craig, I will take you to the hospital. I will make every call, fill out whatever paperwork, sign whatever they need me to sign. I’m not bluffing. This isn’t about threats  -  it’s about the only thing that gets results when you’re acting like this.”

Craig turns away even more, burying half his face against the cushion. His shoulders hunch like he’s trying to disappear.

“I’ve got a life of my own,” Tolkien continues, relentless. “School, responsibilities, people depending on me. And you - ” his voice tightens -  “you need to respect that. Because every time I drop everything to come here, I’m putting my own shit on hold. And I’ll keep doing it, but don’t you dare act like it doesn’t cost me anything.”

Craig mutters into the fabric, muffled. “I never asked you to show up here. Or even care, for that matter.”

Tolkien’s head snaps, eyes narrowing. “Of course I care, you dumbass. What the hell does that mean?” His voice rises, raw and sharp. “You’re my friend. That’s not optional. You don’t get to decide that for me.”

Craig shifts, shoulders tense. He doesn’t look up, but the smallest flinch betrays him.

“And I knew exactly what kind of responsibilities I was taking on when I stepped up to be your agent,” Tolkien presses, calmer now but no less firm. “I wasn’t naïve. I knew there’d be nights like this. I knew you’d push me away and tell me to fuck off. But I also knew you’d need me. And I’m not walking away just because you think you don’t deserve it.”

Craig squeezes his eyes shut, his throat working. Slowly, he pushes himself upright, shifting on the couch until he’s sitting. His knees fold in, arms loose at his sides. Finally, he meets Tolkien’s gaze, blue eyes ringed with exhaustion.

“You’re right,” Craig says. He swallows, forcing the words out. “You’re… yeah, you’re right. I’m sorry for being such an ass all the time.”

He drags a shaky hand up to smooth his hair out of his eyes. The tremor is obvious, fingers jittering against his temple. Tolkien notices, his jaw tightening, but before he can say anything Craig catches it too. 

Embarrassed, Craig drops his arm at once and folds both hands in his lap, tucking his legs tighter under him like he can make the shaking disappear. His gaze flickers down, shame radiating off him in waves.

Tolkien exhales slowly, then levels with him, voice softer but still firm. “Please. Just stop with all the drug shit, man. You’re killing yourself.”

Craig only nods, not lifting his eyes. The silence stretches between them, weighted and raw.

After a beat, Tolkien breaks it. “Are you… addicted to anything?”

Craig’s head snaps up, defensive in an instant. “Fuck no.” His tone is sharp, clipped, more reflex than thought.

Tolkien doesn’t flinch. He just leans back slightly, hands spread in a gesture of calm. “I know, dude. I know. Just - if you ever need help with that shit, we can do that too. We’ll figure it out. Whatever it takes.”

Craig swallows hard, gaze darting away again. His shoulders curl inward, the fight draining just a little from his posture.

But inside, his thoughts splinter in a dozen directions. The Xanax he’s been using recreationally, just to blur the edges. The alcohol he drinks until blackout, pretending it’s sleep. 

The stashes of cocaine tucked away for emergencies, the kind he tells himself will sober him up - like tonight, when Tolkien walked in and he needed to look less wrecked than he felt. 

He doesn’t say any of it aloud. 

“I’ll slow down,” Craig says. “I’ll… pull the reins in.”

He still won’t look at Tolkien, but the words are out there. A concession, however small.

Stan’s dream crashes into him like the impact all over again.

Metal screams as it crumples around him, a deafening shriek that drills into his skull.

Glass shatters, exploding into glittering knives that slice across his skin.

The world spins upside down, his ribs grinding against the seatbelt as the car flips. His ears ring with the crushing silence that follows impact, only broken by the hiss of leaking fluid and the groan of warped metal.

He feels the jagged stab of steel tearing through his shoulder, hot blood soaking into his shirt, his chest locked in a vise of pain. His lungs seize - he can’t draw air, can’t expand against the crushing pressure of the wreckage. His vision flickers, black edging in at the corners.

His leg - God, his leg - is pinned beneath twisted metal, fire licking up his nerves until his whole body arcs with agony. Every attempt to move feels like tearing himself apart.

The air reeks of gasoline, sharp and chemical, thick enough to choke him. Smoke clings to his throat, each inhale burning like acid. He hears Kyle’s voice somewhere distant, distorted by ringing ears and blood loss, shouting his name, begging for help that won’t come fast enough. The sound of sirens bleeds into the night, warping, bending. The world narrows to pain and choking darkness.

The weight of dying presses in, pulling him under, and then -

Stan wakes with a shout, his body snapping upright like a wire pulled taut. His heart hammers against his ribs, pounding so violently it feels like it might split them open. His breathing is fast, ragged, every inhale sharp and shallow, every exhale a gasp that scrapes his throat raw. Sweat slicks his skin, soaking the collar of his shirt, his entire frame trembling as he scrambles to orient himself.

His eyes dart wildly in the dark.

He doesn’t know where he is.

The shadows blur, strange and foreign, refusing to align into safety.

 His hand claws at the blanket - where is it, where’s the rest of his leg? His body jerks with the panic surging up his throat, bile burning at the back of his tongue.

The phantom pain tears up from his thigh to his chest, convincing him for a split second he’s still there, still trapped in the wreck, still dying.

“Stan, hey - hey, it’s me. It’s Kyle. You’re alright, dude. You’re home.” Kyle’s voice cuts through the chaos, urgent but controlled. He’s already at Stan’s side, hands hovering just above his shoulders, ready to help without pinning him down, careful not to make the panic worse.

Stan thrashes, gasping, confusion tearing through his expression.

“Where - where’s my leg? Where - what - ” His voice is jagged glass, shredded with terror.

“You’re home,” Kyle insists, firm but gentle. “You lost your leg in the crash. Remember? You’re not there anymore. You’re here. With me.”

Stan’s chest heaves, his breathing frantic as his hands grip the sheets and his own arms like he can ground himself. His whole body shakes, as though the bed itself can’t hold him.

Kyle inches closer, talking him through it step by step, his voice low and even, the kind of tone meant to guide someone back from the edge.

“Breathe with me, okay? In through your nose, slow. Out through your mouth. That’s it. Just match me. You’re not alone, Stan. I’m right here. Right here.”

Kyle’s own pulse spikes, fear crawling down his spine, but he keeps it buried, hidden behind calm persistence. He can’t let Stan see his panic - not when Stan is drowning in his own. He watches the rise and fall of Stan’s chest, his own breaths exaggerated to guide him, counts the seconds until the frantic gasps begin to slow.

Gradually, the jagged edges dull, replaced with shaky inhales, uneven but no longer desperate. Each breath feels like a fragile thread tying Stan back to the present.

Stan leans forward, elbows braced on his thighs, sweat dripping down his temple, his whole body vibrating with aftershocks. His hands tremble so violently they blur in the low light, like he can’t force them still no matter how hard he tries. His skin is clammy, flushed, his hair sticking damp to his forehead.

Kyle sits beside him on the bed, shoulder pressed to his, grounding him. He lets his hand rest lightly between Stan’s shoulder blades, a warmth that says more than words. After a beat, his voice softens, low enough to steady the air.

“You’re okay,” Kyle repeats. “You’re safe. You’re not there anymore.”

Stan closes his eyes, his chest still shuddering, but the sound of Kyle’s voice and the weight of his touch give him something to hold onto.

“I remember it. Fucking... all of it. The crash. The blood. The metal - I can still smell the gas, Kyle. I feel it like it’s happening right now. I can’t shut it off - goddammit.”

Stan’s words tumble out in a rush, his voice breaking as though dragged raw through gravel. His hands tremble where they clutch the blanket, knuckles white, shoulders curled in tight. The room feels too small for the memories pressing in, the ghosts that slip in through every crack in the dark. His chest heaves like every breath is a battle against the phantom weight of twisted steel still pressing down on him.

Kyle closes his eyes briefly, steadying himself. His stomach knots at the sound of Stan’s voice cracking in a way he’s never heard before. He doesn’t have answers - he never does - but he forces his voice to remain calm, even as his own pulse races with the memory of sirens and shattered glass.

“We’re not there anymore,” Kyle says again, firmer this time. “We survived, man. You’re here with me. Right now. Not there.”

Stan shakes his head violently, chest heaving. The memories claw at him, sharper than any nightmare, more real than the ground beneath his feet.