The older you get, the shittier everything appears to be.
Kenny's thankful, in a way, that's he's aware of how shitty his life is. He could've turned out like Butters, after all, and kept pretending that this life is good, this life is comfortable.
This life isn't good, this life isn't comfortable. It's sick and exhausting and ultimately meaningless, like a long, long road that never seems to end. But it's not intolerable. Especially not on nights like this.
These nights are far too long for someone like Kenny, though he hates when they come to an end. They're meaningless, all of them, just talking and smoking and lips and tongues and roaming hands. Still, Kenny muses, that sums up his life pretty well.
But tonight is one of those nights.
One of those meaningless, horny nights that makes Kenny's life not good, not comfortable, but just tolerable. And as meaningless as that seems to him, it's enough to put him on top of the world for a few hours.
He spots Craig, as he turns the street corner, outside the Bijoux cinema. He's sitting on the pavement, underneath the neon lights, smoking one of his shitty Marlboro superslims.
Just waiting for Kenny. Of course.
"Yo," Kenny declares his presence, as he slaps his boots down into the puddles in the dips of the sidewalk. "What's happenin'?"
"Waiting for your faggot ass," Craig grumbles, taking a drag on his cigarette and exhaling in Kenny's direction. "What took you so long, McCormick? Been freezin' my ass off out here."
Kenny slams himself down next to Craig, as close as he can get, and reaches out for Craig's hand. He's inspecting it closely, running his fingers across the skinny wrist and the scraped knuckles and the dainty fingertips. Craig raises an eyebrow but doesn't say anything, and Kenny slips his fingers through Craig's and takes his cigarette, before sucking on the edge like a lifeline.
Craig is silent, stone faced, and the air around him is somewhat melancholy, as per usual. "You sure do things by halves, Kenneth."
"Mm," Kenny finally breathes out, and a long trail of wispy white smoke floats through his lips. "They showin' anything tonight? Or are they closed?" He gestures towards the cinema doors with his head.
"It's Friday, they always show late night stuff on Fridays. Classics an' shit."
"You say that like I should know, Tucker." Kenny flashes a childish grin. "What'd you say they were showin'?"
"Didn't," Craig sighs, glancing forlornly at the cigarette dangling from Kenny's mouth. "Rocky Horror, I think."
"Not bad," Kenny mumbles, and removes the cigarette from his lips. "Hate these fuckin' things, you know. Why can't you smoke something decent?"
Craig smiles softly, very softly, so softly that it's barely noticeable.
He looks wrong without a cigarette in his hand, Kenny thinks.
Kenny thinks about Craig a lot. He thinks about his family and his hair and his shitty taste in cigarettes, his jacked up teeth and his baggy skinny jeans and his favourite movies, the ones they've fucked and kissed and cried to. Craig's a phantom, in many ways, haunting Kenny's tiny, white trash brain and turning it into a place of 11PM, streetlights and monster movies from the 50's. And Kenny has never been more thankful.
It's not Craig's fault that he only smokes shitty cigarettes.
Just like it's not Kenny's fault that he's got it bad for a socially aggressive, confused, hispanic foster child.
"This is your last one, right?" Kenny is cautious of the drags he's taking.
Craig narrows his eyes. "You been goin' through my shit, McCormick?"
"Nah, just figured you'd have another one out by now."
"Maybe I'm tryin' to cut down."
Kenny snorts. "Call bullshit on that, Craig."
Craig's eager to retort, Kenny notices, but he doesn't.
Kenny's shut him up, with an outstretched arm and a still burning Marlboro superslim.
"You're a bitch for withdrawals, Tucker." He grins.
"Fuck off, Kenny," Craig looks down at the arm, and the arrogant little boy it's attached to, and sniffs. "Least you could do is take me back to yours and buy me a pack on the way."
"Be seen buying those fuckin' things? Tucker, you mean a lot to me, but that's one thing I'm not willing to do for you."
Craig grins at that one and takes the cigarette that's balanced precariously in between Kenny's fingers.
"You wanna share it then?" He asks, and the question lingers in the air as he places it back between his lips, flicking the shit out of his lighter and giving the cig one last burst of energy.
"I'd be honoured," Kenny licks his lips, and Craig yanks onto a fistful of sandy hair, pulling it – him – close, lips touching but not kissing. And Craig exhales that same white, wispy smoke from his mouth, letting Kenny breathe it in. It's still floating in the atmosphere long after Kenny decides that Craig's a bad tease and latches onto the faded New Order shirt, closing the couple inches between them.
Somewhere, very far away, the film has started, and the opening song is floating through that scatty little street, at 11PM, with the streetlights and the monster movies close behind but still not quite there.
And Kenny likes to think that these moments aren't as meaningless as they could be.
Even if they were, though – that wouldn't be a big deal.
Meaninglessness is good, comfortable, tolerable. And Craig Tucker is the most meaningless being in this world.
They pull apart a few minutes after, the brutal, stereo saxophone of the opening number still in the air, and Kenny's tired, moreso than usual. It's raining too, not very heavy but still raining, and Craig's nicotine stained hands are warm in Kenny's.
"Can we, like, do somethin'?" Craig's asking. "I don't feel like going home."
"You wanna go inside?" Kenny shrugs. "Never seen Rocky Horror, and we can always make out in the back row if it's shit."
"Very romantic of you." Craig smiles, and pulls Kenny from the wet slabs of pavement.
"I'm a genuine Casanova, Tucker, believe it."
"Oh, I do, Kenneth. I do."