The sky is chalked with charcoal, a gradient of pitch and ash cast over the small mountain town, in these later hours of the night. All that can be seen of the scenery is darkened silhouettes, this musty window looking out the wall facing the woods and mountain range, showing a picturesque and charming image of the Colorado Rockies, the type of quaint nature scene that inspires elaborate paintings, depicting the glory of the simplicity of rustic life, the splendour of dwelling in a sylvan pocket of obscure Americana.
Or, maybe that's what it would be, if Craig wasn't seeing it through a musty window—mired with dirt now engrained in the glass, speckles of dust thick around the edges, a spider's destroyed and abandoned web strewn across the top—in the employee's only bathroom of the mom-and-pop pet supply store that, rather than surrender to the overbearing superstores with a –co or –mart tacked on the end, remains open just as late as the rest of them, staying in business out of the dying spirit of the American dream. That's what Craig figures, but the only thing he cares about is that someone signs a name on a handsome cheque and then hands it over to him at the end of the week. And, after his side business dealing weed went down the drain with the legalisation, his cash flow diminished and his parents told him to get a real job. Something he can actually put on a resume rather than a rap sheet, although no one looks two ways if it's a white boy selling grass.
His head casually lolls from side to side, craned upwards to gaze unseeingly out the slender window, listening to the continuous stream of piss as it leaves his cock and cascades into the faux porcelain urinal. Dark yellow splashes against eggshell white, streaking down the walls to the drainage. It pools around the Pearl Pink urinal cake, the waxy circular chunk sitting over the grate, making sure the smell of pee doesn't overpower the pervading pet store smell: the mixing stenches of kibbles, litter, and dried meat treats. It drains slowly, partly because the place is getting old, partly because Craig keeps clogging the drain with his cigarette butts, from when he smokes in the john despite the rules prohibiting. When has Craig Tucker ever really given a damn about the rules, anyway?
He sighs, listless and tired, shoulders drooping as his lungs empty, empty like his bladder. He keeps one hand on his dick, keeping his aim from wavering as he reaches in his pocket. He searches for his phone, to pull out and check the time, see how much more of his life he'd waste in a dead shop for minimum wage when he could be at home jacking off and grinding Xbox achievements. Even his thrills sound dull, though, so he might add a few doses of cold medicine to the list. Just enough to make living suck a little bit less.
When people describe South Park as a sleepy little town, he couldn't agree more; the ennui of life works better than a bottle of Tylenol PM. It's so boring he could nod off and kill himself from an overdose of tedium. And when people describe South Park as a crossroads of the strangest of the strange, he couldn't agree more; the amount of outlandish occurrences and bizarre phenomena stole all the fun out of life, with too much weird ass bullshit concentrated in one place to make anything distinguishable as normal. So everything became normal, humdrum, positively lame. Now the only thing that makes him interesting is his apathy and cynicism, but he's still a damn conformist. Because, to the goths and the girls and that collective of fucktards, he raises his middle finger, like it's a badge of honour, a flag of absurdism and defiance, a reason for them to remember his name.
Nothing like being seventeen and senile.
From the depths of his jeans, he rescues his iPhone, swinging it in his fingers. He thumbs over the cracks in the screen, cracks made from all the times Tweak borrowed his phone to make a call but then dropped it in a spasm, all the times Clyde walked past him and tripped over his feet knocking it from his hands, all the times Cartman threw a tantrum and out of everything on the table chose his phone to hurl across the room. Maybe, when he contributes to the smashed state, rather than it being someone else's fault, he'll consider replacing it. It's not like he can't still make calls and get drunken nudes on Snapchat.
Just as his finger pushes down on the lock button, Craig hears a deafening tone, an electronic mimic of a bell chiming. It's the dumb alarm system, which also acts as a shop bell, alerting him whenever someone enters or exits the store, or just cracks the door. It drives him crazy, when he works in the mid-afternoon, because the volume is set so he can hear it no matter what square foot of the property he was standing on, and some people who know about his job pass by and open the door so he has to deal with it blaring at him while they go laughing away down the sidewalk.
But footsteps rap the wooden floor, making the boards creak. As they draw nearer, he catches muffled sounds—a voice—no, two voices, caught in quick, minute paced conversation. He can't make out a word, even as the stream of urine thins and only a few final drops drip off the head of his cock. The damn place was built in 1950-something with bomb shelter thick walls, so it's impossible to hear anything beyond a looping sound clip of the adults on the Peanuts.
Not that what they're talking about matters. What really matters is that Craig actually has to deal with customers. And at—
He glances at the now lit lock screen, at the slender numbers glowing over an old Doge meme: so lock, much screen.
—Ten fifty-two at night.
Some people, he concludes, are just assholes.
Craig jostles, shaking off any little droplets still stuck to his skin, then zips himself up. Ignoring the All Employees Must Wash Their Hands sign, he wipes a hand on his jeans as he tucks his cell away. Then, with a silent grumble and roll of the eyes, he walks to the door. He uses his elbow to push the handle down, then shoulders it open. As soon as it cracks, Craig can clearly pick up the bantering exchange:
"C'mon, this one looks like it'll work fine on you!"
"Are you serious? I am not wearing studs and spikes."
"Ya want the pink one instead? The one with the bows and the hearts?"
"I'm not a leatherbitch or a pansyfairy, cumfuck."
He recognises these voices. Immediately. He knows them too well, who they belong to too well.
And, for a second, he's torn between dread, having to deal with them at the end of his shift when he wants nothing more than to crawl back home and blast Mindless Self Indulgence, and intrigue, presented with a particularly prime opportunity to relentlessly fuck with them when they want nothing more than to keep this quiet and sneak off without this being awkward. Of course, if they wanted to do that, maybe they'd have the brains to remember where he works and avoid it like the plague rather than stroll in; acting like they can do whatever they pleased, like the whole town is their playground.
Hell, this is serendipity, a stroke of chance that works in his favour. Because he's the only one working, this is the only shop open, and if they want what they want they'll have to deal with him. And, after how many years as their rivals—sometimes in the playful sense, sometimes with stronger tones of hostility—and just plain putting up with their bullshit, this is a great time for some good old fashioned payback.
A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips, touched with glee as he meanders towards the accessory aisle. It only takes a few steps, in such a small store, Craig passing the section for food, the section for medicine, the section for toys, and then pausing at the barrel of saran-wrapped bones poised at the end of the aisle. He waits, finger tapping on the plastic rim, out of sight. He'll enter when he hears his cue, determines the optimal time to interrupt; for now, he listens to each word exchanged:
"I just want something plain. We can always get another later."
"C'mon, it's a gift. For like… Yom Kippur or whatever."
"You fast and atone for Yom Kippur, not have your boyfriend get you a fucking dog collar for sex."
"Sounds close 'nough to me."
"Ugh, I'm not even sure if I'll like this."
"Oh, you're not sure but you're the one who fucking asked for one."
"I thought you'd have one lyingaround! I didn't think you'd drag me to a goddamn store for one!"
"Well I did, so suck it and help me pick out your first one… Why the fuck don't they have any in orange?"
"Just get the black one."
"This'ne?"
"Yeah, that's fi—what are you—?"
"Well, ya gotta try it on first."
Enter stage right, Craig Tucker. His lips purse into a flat line, reverting to his default, nonchalant expression to hide any inkling of personal interest, and reminds himself to enjoy the show he makes of this, savour it. He takes a step into the aisle, lined with racks of collars for animals of assorted sizes, where two orange idiots stand browsing the wares.
Kenny doesn't notice Craig; too busy grabbing a thick, black leather collar from a hook, with a label reading Large Dogs. No one in this town actually owned a large dog—a really big one, the type that often gets confused for a miniature bear, that slobber everywhere they go and act as steeds for shaky-legged toddlers and late-blooming kindergarteners alike—but this store still kept a healthy stock of collars for them. Which, in Kenny's book, is quite convenient, since one fun fact he picked up over the years is that collars designed for large dogs happen to work just as well for humans. Not to mention they cost much less than specialty-made sex-shop brands, and sustain much more wear-n-tear when it comes down to it. The only downside is it's harder to find matching cuffs, but they'll get to that another day, when Kyle weighs in his verdict on having something other than a Magen David around his neck. Though, considering their last venture, Kenny has a fairly positive outlook on how this will go.
He fiddles with the collar, moving the cardstock label and thoroughly examining the condition of the material, scanning for imperfections. He treats the ten dollar collar like a rare gem, and Craig can't remember a time he's seen Kenny looking so intensely and pensively at something in his life. Hell, it looks professional, a quality rarely seen in a white trash hoodrat from bumfuck U S A.
Kyle stands beside him, peering over, too engrossed in Kenny's actions to pay Craig any mind. He has his hands stuffed deep in his pockets and his teeth burrow into his lip. He taps his foot, light and swift, as his green eyes switch between black leather and observant blue. He isn't even aware how he wears his symptoms of impatience, how his whole aura is anxious. Not anxious out of uncertainty, more out of frustration. It's the way he stands when he hangs out by the janitor's closet, during his free period, when he checks the time and claims he isn't waiting for anybody, even though his demeanour changes entirely when he catches a glimpse of Kenny cruising down the hall. Yet he still thinks he's subtle and not suspicious or conspicuous in any way.
He shifts from the balls of his feet to his heels, letting out a sigh as Kenny flips the collar over. His eyes flit upwards, looking up at the tubular light fixture, counting the dead bugs and testing how long he can stare before he starts seeing fuzzy spots. He typically acts fairly cool, composed, contained, but that is not the case tonight. For whatever reason, it must have been a while. Craig wonders what counts as a while for them: a couple days or a couple hours.
While Kyle fixes on the ceiling, Kenny nods his head, finally finishing his inspection, deeming this collar fit for him. He curves the label with a few crumples, then holds the collar to Kyle's neck. He bends his knees, so he can be closer to Kyle's height, and loosely wraps the strap around. The metallic fasteners clink, the little clatter prompting Kyle's ears to perk and his eyes to return to Kenny. He reddens—slightly, just a tinge of colour added to the natural pallor—when he feels the leather against his throat.
"What?" Kyle snaps, voice sharp, serrated. He sounds that way either because of Kenny's abruptness or because of his own embarrassment. Craig can't determine which, and he's sure Kyle can't either, especially when his lips quaver, unsure whether to frown or fold under his teeth.
Kenny grins, one of those cartoonish smiles he wears whenever something really excites him, toothy and goofy, stupidly giddy. His eyes glow, sparkling like the 2-D Japanese girls in his pirated manga collection, as his eyes look to Kyle. He reminds Craig of an idiotic golden retriever, wagging his tail in hard thumps against the ground, with a drooling open smile; the Air Bud of sexuality.
He hums, a honey smooth sound, as a finger plays with the buckle. The clinking matches the tempo set by Kyle's foot. Kenny inches closer to Kyle's face, smile growing the nearer they are. They have magnetic mouths, charged to compliment and draw one another in. But Kenny finds a stopping point, then lets out a short laugh, taunting Kyle to speak. He never emotionally matured past age nine, according to Craig, so rather than hold a normal conversation he teases, jokes, laughs. He doesn't know why Kyle flashes a smile.
But he's quick to hide it, even if Kenny saw the corners of his lips tease up for a second, shrugging it off with a casual roll of the eyes. He sighs to Kenny's lips, then stares back into his eyes. His voice laced with light, playful sarcasm, he asks, "Do I look 'cute' enough?"
Kenny wraps the collar more tightly around Kyle's neck, so it clings to his skin, as he leans in. Their noses brush against each other, and even though he whispers it, Craig hears him reply, "Very cute."
And they kiss, without fail, a chaste and polite kiss. Well, chaste and polite by their standards, considering Kenny McCormick never learned to kiss without using his tongue and Kyle Broflovski has a terrible habit of sucking on anything put into his mouth. A taste-test, when they sample the espresso shots and beef jerky and Tic Tacs and Pabst still lingering on their lips. One of their warm-ups, that perpetual lead-up to whatever they do, whenever and wherever they end up doing it; always ready, taking the Boy Scouts motto too far to heart. Again, they think they're discreet.
Craig's stomach churns, the sweetness mawkish enough to make anyone a little sick. But, he assures himself, waiting for this makes his entrance all the better, knowing full well the fun of spoiling the mood. Not that he planned on singlehandedly ruining their night—he's not Cartman—but he does regret that the security cameras never got around to being repaired.
Otherwise, he'd rip the DVD and post it straight to YouTube. Video title: Doggy Kisses. Description: Ken rewards his Good Boy. Predicted view count: two-point-five million, or at least everyone at South Park High. Small town viral is still viral.
"'hem," He lets out a dry cough, the kind that hurts a little because of how the back of his tongue presses on his throat. Any evanescent hoarseness subsides with a swallow, saliva soothing the invisible wounds. He doesn't know how believable it sounds—whether it seems natural or overly fake—but decides that isn't the point.
The point is the couple breaking their kiss, remembering where they are: a pet store not a bedroom, or janitor's closet, or park bathroom, or wherever else they've been caught already. Their lips part with a smack—one of those obnoxious smacks that reminds Craig of old shows on TV Land with their over exaggerated sound effects—heads turning to look down the aisle. Two pairs of widened eyes meet Craig's ice stare, his eyes cold and blue, contemptuously reserved and quietly judgemental.
He watches alarm resonate through Kyle, reflected in a stressed and glassy glint appearing in the green. His leg twitches, stops tapping, a quick jolt that speaks the words trapped in his throat, behind lips pressed in a stern line. The red tinge lingers under his cheeks, light but present, although Craig can't say it's entirely because of his interruption. Actually, he starts thinking Kyle looks surprised more than anything, something dazed about how he looks at him, like he's coming down from the drug embedded in Kenny's lips.
Kenny first raises his brows, shocked, but that quickly washes away, replaced instead by annoyance. He doesn't do well hiding his emotions, not unless he tries, rarely exercising such finesse in social control when tossed into casual situations like this. So Craig doesn't react when Kenny furrows his brows, tugs his lips into a crooked line, glowers in that childish way, that you spoiled my fun way. The glow Kyle brought to the blue morphs into fires, Craig kicking the kindling and setting the forest aflame with malcontent and discord.
He loosens the collar around Kyle's neck, letting one end freely swing around, disconnecting the ring. The label crinkles in his tightening grasp, as Kenny pulls the leather from around his neck and into his pocket, shoving it into the deep parka pockets, as though it will deter suspicion. Make it look like they're shoplifting, the accusation of a criminal offense owning a better ring than having their exploits outed. Because their kink is a great inside joke, in their minds; even though people know Kyle didn't get rope burns around his wrists helping his dad fix up the roof and Kenny didn't get those scratch marks on his back from the stray cats loitering around his house.
"Craig," Kenny says, in a tone that could cut. He cocks his head to the side, as he straightens up, changing his air. He grits his teeth, forcing a simper, hoping it looks as artificial as it feels.
Craig knows Kenny's trying to act intimidating, mimicking what Kevin used to do when the McCormick kids got cornered by some middle-class thugs who thought their low socio-economic status made them weaker. That stance worked for Kevin, but when Kenny does it he just looks awkward, trying too hard. Maybe when he dons the cape of Mysterion it strikes fear into the hearts of his enemies, but not when he hangs around in a traffic-cone orange outfit that accents just how lanky and scrawny he is, all height and next to no mass.
Kyle's expression hardens, too, no longer caught off-guard, those feelings faded and his mind armed. Even though he's shorter than Kenny by roughly a head, he looks a lot scarier, with his piercing eyes that do cut. His posture stiffens, and his hands turn in his pockets. Craig sees his hands ball into tightly clenched fists through the material of his coat, ready to throw a solid right-left combo should anything go awry. Not that he takes slurs in the derogatory, all those bad words losing their meaning to him in second grade, but they do provide a great excuse to break the nose of someone whose guts he hates. And, lean build aside, Kyle knows how to really rock 'em sock 'em.
Craig blinks, allowing the agitation to stew inside them, boil up in their pupils. The atmosphere charges, leeching static from the furies awoken in the Kenny and Kyle, tension festering like infectious bacteria on an open, dirty wound. He bites back a smile, loving how much of a nuisance he is to them, watching their frustration—at his mere presence—consume them.
"How can I help you, tonight?" His nasal voice remains level, calm, unfazed. Each knifelike glare misses its target, Craig unscathed by their sourness and displeasure. He rolls his shoulders back, and his eyes wander from their faces to Kenny's pocket, where the buckle of the collar sticks out, noticeably. He leans back on his heels.
Kenny's chest rises and falls with his heaving sigh, in attempt to regain a semblance of composure. It might have worked, if Kyle hadn't been so adamant about fasting sexually for the damn New Year's Atonement and if Kenny hadn't found himself indisposed a day or so due to a little mishap involving the garage door and a lawn mower. All he feels after his deep breath is more exasperation, because for some reason the forces of the universe don't want them to fuck tonight, not that they've been ones to listen to words that disagree with theirs.
Kyle's teeth grind, making no effort to conceal his irritation. Partly because they're dealing with Craig, and he feels no obligation to feign politeness and courtesies; partly because he plain needs this, and he lost all motivation to explain himself into a state of relaxation as soon as Kenny said "I've got a surprise for you." Because if there's one thing Kenny provides him it's a break, when he can cut loose and not feel guilty about it, when he can get wasted and not worry over the outside responsibilities, when he can be whatever he wants and not require justification from others. And he'll be damned if Craig stands in the way of his release.
He elbows Kenny, jogs him out of the fixed gaze he has on Craig. Kenny looks at him, raising his brows and shrugging his shoulders, a quiet 'What do you want?' gesture. Kyle nods his head to Kenny's pocket, motioning him to take it out, since they planned on buying it anyway. For a moment, he flashes Kenny a smile, reassuring him that they can deal with this, quickly, and then get back to their plans. Something in his eyes suggests they may even speed them up. Kenny catches on to that, and Craig sees his lips tease a grin.
"Yeah," Kenny pulls the collar from his pocket, holding it. Craig's eyes follow, and Kenny doesn't continue until the blue looks back at him, "I wanna buy this."
Craig lightly bites the inside of his cheek, tilting his head back, "We don't take food stamps."
Kenny narrows his eyes, seeing that's how things are going to go. Well if Craig is going to be an asshole, fine: "I got cash."
"That collar's eleven forty-nine," He allows the slightest smile to slip, and drawls out, like a smooth drag from a cigarette, "Sure that's in your price range, McCormick?"
No, Kenny isn't that sensitive about his poverty-line existence, but he is on edge, and Craig is just pushing buttons. That's enough to warrant a snide attitude.
Kyle picks up on this, predicting a nasty showdown of words that, realistically, bring them no closer to their goal. And, realistically, Kyle wants them to get out and get to it. So, when Kenny opens his mouth to answer, he interjects, "We've got enough, Craig."
Craig turns his attention to Kyle, sparing Kenny no further mind. He just stares, blankly, for a long time. He watches Kyle bite the inside of his lip, his shoulders arch, unhappy with being observed. He looks no more at peace when Craig smiles, a flicker of suspicion in his eyes.
"Fine," He refuses to break from Kyle's eyes, even though he feels Kenny's gaze bore into him. But Kenny can glower and glare all he wants, like the overgrown child he is, Craig is going to relish this. With a casual shrug, he adds, "I just never knew Kenny had a dog."
Kyle opens his mouth, then quickly shuts it, too mad or too flustered. For the moment, he's too frustrated to feel fully offended. He can't even think about punching him. A low growl comes from Kenny, seething where he stands. He clenches his jaw, so much that it dully aches on one side. It takes a lot for him not to kick him, right where it hurts.
Craig, meanwhile, walks between them, his arms bumping both of them as he strolls down the aisle, towards the shoddy register. He stops walking just in front of the small swinging door to the employee side of the counter, then calls out to them from over his shoulder, "You getting' anything else? Or you paying?"
The two look at one another, both at a loss for words. Instead, they communicate through looks and expressions, each facial feature coded. Kenny purses his lips, asking Kyle how mad he'd be if he walked right over and slammed Craig's head onto the register. Kyle raises his brows, cautioning him against it if only because of the potential police report. Kenny frowns, begging him to reconsider. Kyle rolls his eyes, then grabs Kenny's sleeve. Kenny looks down, as Kyle gives a light tug, then back into his eyes. Kyle smiles, slightly, moving a step closer, fingers brushing the back of Kenny's palm, reminding him why they're there. Craig messing with them shouldn't get in the way of them messing around with each other.
Craig waits, though his smile fades a bit, disappointed at the comfort their mute conversation provides. He watches Kenny glance down at their hands, then back to Kyle. He puts on another goofy smile, the kind that says I could kiss you silly right now and then some, and Kyle returns the gaze readily; it makes him ill. Affection was never his cup of tea, and when they do it—in any form, however minor—it becomes insufferable.
When they tear away from each other, deciding to follow to the register, Craig pushes open the swinging door and crosses to the other side. He eyes them closely as they approach, rounding around the opposite side. They're still tense, with rigid muscles and harsh body language, but not as much. Their little exchange consoled them, to a degree. And Craig just can't allow that; that'd be getting off far too easily.
Kenny slams the collar down on the counter, disturbing the small plastic container filled with various catnip infused miniature mice and the bowl of leftover dog treats. The buckle screeches as Kenny drags it from his end to Craig's, barely suppressing a smirk at the unnecessary noise. A small play, in a passive battle, but one he finds pride in nonetheless. Call it immature, call it douche-y, it's far more satisfying than swallowing the crap shovelled at them.
Kyle watches, finding Kenny's show more on the overdramatic side, but lifting no finger to stop him. Instead, hidden under the counter, he laces their fingers together, into a neat clasp. He tilts his head to the side when he squeezes his hand, seizing his victory through the public displays Kenny always begs him to make more often. Tonight can be an exception to his usual stance against identifying as the more cuddly type, choosing to embrace it and show off the way the straight couples on the television do.
Craig grabs the leather, before Kenny finishes pushing it, snatching it from his hands. The collar dangles as he holds it up to his face, purposely ignoring the clearly printed price tag. As the leather sways, he catches out of focus glimpses at the pair. Whenever Kenny looks like he's about to bark at him, tell him to stop fucking around, Kyle tightens his grip. After a few times, Kyle's patience wears thin, noted by the drooping of his shoulders.
"So," He finally says, determining their level of aggravation sufficient. He places the collar back on the counter, right next to the register, then stares dead into Kenny's eyes, "Do you want a free tag?"
"Tag?" Kenny knows Craig is just killing their time, and makes no effort to elaborate.
"Yeah, name tag," His eyes shift from the blue to the green. The spark of fury in Kyle's eyes sends a surge of smug satisfaction through him, "Custom 'ne."
"I don't need a damn name tag," Kenny uses his serious voice, that stern tough guy tone he only puts on when they're playing superhero or when he's beating on bullies after Karen. Aggressively defensive, defensively aggressive, the protective manner that always turns Kyle on. Craig can't tell who he's using it for.
"You sure? I can whip one up quick 'nough," Craig smiles, his mask cracking. The grin makes Kyle uneasy, but he can't break eye contact. Craig's gaze bores into him too furiously for him to look away, no matter how much he wants to. Instead, he endures, as Craig goes on, "'Specially a short name. Like, S-L-U-T, or B-I-T-C-H, or K-Y—"
"Craig," The word echoes, in the small shop, like a boom of thunder. Kenny rarely loses his temper, rarely raises his voice, but the way Craig mouths off… Anyone would be beyond pissed off. But he can't hit him, no matter how much he acts like a bastard, just shoot a dark, dirty look, warning him that, at any other time, Craig would be eating shit right now; he's damn lucky they're on a tight schedule.
"Huh?" Craig looks back to Kenny. Those eyes could burn, but Craig loves playing with matches, "Hear one you like? Or you want something like 'If found return to' or 'Property of' or 'Likes big redneck bones and dirty hick ana—'"
Kyle slams two bills on the counter. Two tens, crinkled around the edges, one Hamilton looking like he'd been through a few washes and the other like a vending machine reject. His hand doesn't shake, but Craig sees his wrist quiver. He awoke the Broflovski temper, and for a split second he wonders if he went too far.
Kenny's mouth hangs open, about to interrupt anyway, but upon the bang promptly looks to Kyle. His eyes show concern, expression softening when his eyes fall on him, and he shuts his mouth. The hand holding his trembles, clings to the gaps in his knuckles. He and Kyle have been together—platonically, romantically, sexually, and otherwise—long enough for him to know when Kyle loses it. And, boy, is he about to. Kenny isn't sure if he should smile or not.
"Does this cover it?" Kyle asks, growls. His lips pull up, baring his teeth in a snarl, losing any reservation. He has a breaking point, and once he passes it, everything is fair game. He may scold Kenny for dropping hints about their sex life, but when Kyle crosses the line, he could go into detail just to scare people off. The hard stare he gives Craig, the eyes that look like a dwindling timer on a homemade bomb, acts as a heed of caution: hurry up or the collar will look like hand holding in comparison. And, God, can he think of a few stories.
Chills run down his spine, but Craig shows no reaction, refuses granting Kyle that privilege. His eyes flit to Kenny, whose simple smirk taunts him, and he knows he's cornered. He lets out a sigh; can't a guy score a few laughs these days?
He avoids Kyle's fingers, grabbing the money by the utmost edges. He slides the bills from under his hand, while his other hand punches the numbered keys into the register. He looks to double check the price, but Kyle snatches up the collar before he can.
Kyle puts the label between his teeth and rips it off, with a loud tear. The remains fall from the collar to the floor, and he spits out the piece in his mouth. Letting go of Kenny's hand, he reaches up, holding the leather in place as he weaves the end through the buckle. He slides the fastener through the last hole, ensuring maximum tightness. Some of the black strip sticks out, the collar a little too big, but he doesn't care.
Kenny gulps, but not out of nervousness. He bites his lower lip, as Kyle adjusts the collar around his neck, so the buckle presses to his throat. Every time he blinks, he only looks more dazed, more stupid. He only snaps out of it when Kyle grabs the collar of his coat, and starts dragging him.
"Keep the change," Kyle flashes Craig a self-righteous grin. The flare in his eyes screams what he scarcely holds back saying: I'm gonna lead this moron somewhere secluded, have him pet me sweet and rub me nice, then let him fuck me hard and sloppy against a wall until I scream and beg so he calls me a mutt and I'll love every second of it.
Craig stands frozen, blinks twice, takes it in. The words never left Kyle's lips, but he can visualise it, vividly. Kenny's fingers clutching crimson curls, Kyle's legs hooked around a thin waist, the cacophony of clinking and banging and screaming.
His eyes follow them, as Kyle tugs Kenny along, to the door. The realisation finally hits Kenny, just what he's in for, and his expression goes stupid happy. As Kyle pushes on the door, activating the electronic bell, Kenny glances back at Craig, winks. Craig swears he sees him mouth 'Thank you', just before the door shuts.
The store falls back to its typical, tranquil state, no longer disturbed by the presence of customers. The aisles sit empty, the merchandise still, and even the air conditioner stays quiet. It's a little shop carved out in the forgotten reaches of America, where most things stay unbothered by the larger, founded on the dreams of simple people who wanted little more than to make an honest earning in a tiny little mountain town with a name never found on a map.
It takes him a bit, to return from his trance, finally bleach out enough of the imaginations to manage one thought. He looks down, fishes his phone back out of his pocket, and clicks the home button.
Eleven o-six.
Finally, the end of his shift.
Author's Note: Remember when I said I was going to start writing really stories? Me neither. Thanks for reading and/or reviewing!