Stan Marsh died on May 17, 2014, at 01:48 am.

Stan had an addiction. He knew he was probably the world's greatest asshole, and it started when his girlfriend walked in on him cheating on her. He started with simple things, drinking at the bar until he passed out, and spending money out of his college fund on drugs. The influx of doctors, paramedics, and police couldn't seem to come to a consensus on whether it was suicide, or accidental.

Kyle hadn't talked to Stan in roughly three years, but Kenny checked up on him every now and then. Craig tagged along usually. He had fallen into the wrong crowd, and refused to give either of them any straight answers as to what was truly going on.

Wendy was sobbing in the emergency room, ugly tears streaming down his face, while Kyle tried to calm her down. Kenny, the closest to Stan, was given the responsibility of helping his parents plan the funeral.

"It was an overdose," Stan's doctor tried to explain, "a suicide. There were traces of medication in his system. Advil, Tylenol, NyQuil, children's cough syrup."

"You didn't know him," Kenny's voice was emotionless, "it wasn't a suicide. He wouldn't do that."

"According to his parents, you didn't know him that well either."

If Kenny had the energy, he would have punched the doctor out.

They all wore black the day of the funeral. Classical music played from the hidden speakers, and friends of Stans family weeped for him, while whispering insults about everyone else. 'They were always hypocrites,' Stan had told Ken once, 'every last one of them.'

"Stan would've hated this," Kenny muttered to Craig, raising his glass of white wine to his lips. Stan's mother slipped it to him, to help with the pain, she said. Kenny thanked her, but didn't expect himself to drink it.

Craig pulled the drink from his fingers, "Hey, don't drink it all, you have a speech," he took a sip for himself, "and I can see why anyone would hate this."

Kenny nodded, but his eyes told Hoseok he wasn't really listening, "When I die, cremate me, then dump my ashes into Starks Pond."

"Don't talk like that," Craig said harshly, gripping the neck of the glass, "you're not dying any time soon."

"Yeah, but I'm dying."

"Yeah, but you don't have to talk about it now, do you?"

"Now is as good of a time as ever."

"Kenny, please, I can't handle this right now."

"Fine."

Kenny pressed his lips together in a straight line, sauntering off to the room with no windows, where Namjoon was lying peacefully. Criag finished off the wine, cringing at the taste, and set the glass on a table next to a vase that held a dozen white sympathy flowers. Sympathy flowers were bullshit. They were for people who didn't care about the dead, who bought the dead ugly flowers and dressed them in ugly dresses and tuxes two sizes too big.

Craig absolutely hated funerals. He cried seven times, he counted. Kenny wasn't there for at least four of the times. After all, he cried the most during Kenny's speech, and judging by the way his voice cracked, Craig could tell Kenny was on the verge of tears too.

In the burning hot seats of Kenny's 1995 Toyota, they sat in utter silence. Craig felt hot- too hot- and loosened his tie, until it was completely undone, along with three of the buttons on his shirt.

"I fucking hate this, Craig. I almost cried in front of what? Two hundred people," Kenny hit his palm against the steering wheel. Craig grabbed his hand, and held it within his own.

"I know. It's awful."

"You don't know. You don't know what it's like."

"I'm sorry."

"I hate this."

"I'm sorry."

"I still want to die, you know."

"You've told me."

"I might do it, too."

Craig held his hand tighter.

"Don't."

"Why?"

"Because I might die too."

"No, you'll live. I know you'll live."

"It'll hurt."

"Not for long."

"I love you, Kenny."

"I know."

Craig's voice wavered.

"I don't want you to die. I don't want you to hurt yourself. I love you so much."

"You're too good for me."

Craig was quiet. For once, he didn't have a response.

"Do you want to go lie down?"

Kenny shook his head.

"I want to forget."

"Maybe you should start drawing again."

"Maybe I should."

"You were happy then."

"Yeah."

Out of the corner of his eye, Craig noticed a convenience store.

"Do you want anything? There's a corner store just over there- I can go buy you something."

"No. Craig?"

"What is it?"

"Kiss me."

Craig kissed kenny hard. There was no room for tenderness, for love, for anything. It was all for Kenny.

Kenny wanted to forget.

Craig was a good distraction.

"I could drive us off a cliff."

"Mm."

"I could poison our dinner tonight."

"Yeah?"

"I could lock us in the garage and leave the exhaust on."

"Huh."

"We could pull a Romeo and Juliet."

"Double suicide?"

"Yeah. Star crossed lovers. One too happy. One too sad."

"Kind of uncreative."

Kenny bit down on Craigs's tongue, "I could drive us into the Starks Pond and we could down."

"Ngh."

"I could push you off the roof of the apartment and jump after you."

Kenny pulled down Craig's zipper, kissing down his neck, until he was leaving hickeys on Craig's hips.

"I could," Kenny worried Craig's skin between his teeth, nipping slightly at the flesh, "eat you alive."

Craig was unable to stop the laugh that bubbled out of his lips, "That's hot."

Kenny bit harder. He didn't break skin, but Craig was sure the bruise would be darker than usual.

"Craig?"

"Yeah?"

"Fuck me."

Craig didn't make love to Kenny. Craig fucked Kenny. In the back seat of Kenny's car, on his hands and knees, cheek pressed into the grey upholstery, Craig's hips snapping at a rapid pace, fingers twined in Kenny's hair. Kenny was loud. Kenny begged. Craig used words like slut, and whore, and he gave Kenny's ass a sharp slap when he didn't respond.

He supposed that fucking Kenny was better than funerals. He fucked Kenny until he couldn't see, couldn't form proper sentences, and watched him unravel. Watched him forget.

Because Kenny wanted to forget.

And Craig was a good distraction.