AN: I've been wanting to play around with a somewhat yandere Craig for a while, so now this exists.

There's something exhilarating about being responsible for another person's life.

"I always knew you were a sick fuck," Stan spits venomously, and it's the sweetest compliment Craig's ever heard. Well, maybe not as sweet as the one Kyle paid him the other morning about his new shirt, but it's close. "Hey—!"

Craig grinds the heel of his palm into Stan's throat.

"You might want to be careful, Marsh," he says. "Wouldn't want you running out of breath."

Stan glares down at him through glossy, hooded eyes as he gasps for air. His face is beet red, like he'd gotten a bad sunburn after falling asleep on the Miami shoreline, and the veins in his forehead seem about ready to burst. Craig thinks he's never looked better.

The sound of the curtains flapping gently in the breeze from the open window remind Craig that he can't stand there and admire his work forever; neither can he snap a picture to save for later since both of his hands are preoccupied. It sucks, because when would he ever get another opportunity like this? But Craig also knows that if he plays his cards right, he'll have an even greater reward aside from simply squeezing the life out of Kyle's Super Best Friend—which, to be honest, is already a pretty top-shelf prize.

"You're not gonna get away with this," Stan sputters hoarsely, and Craig decides that, actually, Stan would look even better with duct tape over his mouth. When he's had enough of Stan coughing spittle all over his face he loosens his hold on Stan's throat just enough to quickly slide his hand up and over his mouth instead. He watches boredly as Stan rejoices in the ability to breathe once again, at least through his nose.

The faint amount of stubble along Stan's jawline is irritating on Craig's hand. He thinks a straight razor would be ideal right now because then he could give this depressed, alcoholic slob a close shave and a slit throat, but quickly discards the idea when he realizes the sort of mess that'd make. Kyle—who's not shy about chewing people out for not taking off their shoes at the door—would not appreciate a blood-stained carpet, and Craig doesn't want to displease him.

While Craig is distracted, Stan lurches forward in an attempt to bash their heads together. Craig barely manages to dodge the attack.

"You don't learn, do you?" he asks, digging the tips of his fingers into Stan's face until the skin of his cheeks give way to his blunt, chewed-down nails. Stan doesn't give much of an answer, but his muted yelps of pain make up for the trouble.

Craig observes as Stan's wide, panicked eyes relax and narrow when he eases up on the punishment. They're blue, similar to his own but a few shades darker, and Craig wonders what would happen if he were to suddenly drive his thumb into one without warning. Well, he knew what would happen—he'd seen more than his fair share of gory B-rate horror movies—but what would it feel like?

He drags his thumb roughly along the concave of Stan's right eye. He remembers something from a documentary he'd watched on old abandoned psychiatric wards; something about ice pick lobotomies and the frontal lobe, which is supposed to be located just inches behind the eyes. That meant that Stan's brain, or whatever he had, was right there, located just inches behind the eyes. If he angled his thumb just right, he could probably dig it in pretty deep.

Craig wets his chapped lips as he continues to molest Stan's features. He wonders how it would feel; like playdough? Spaghetti? Those fifty-cent squeeze toys from outdated department store capsule vending machines? He has no clue, but at the very least it'd probably be interesting; not to mention a lot less messier than a slit throat would be, but still ten times more fun.

A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips as he watches Stan's eyes widen again, full of anger and fear for the unknown. If seeing Stan writhe uncomfortably just at the threat of having his eyes gouged out was enjoyable—which he must've realized was very real, if his knitted brows and muffled shouts were any indication—then Craig could only imagine how delightful his tortured screams would sound. Someday he'd have to find out.

Stan's breath is hot on the palm of his hand. He mumbles something indistinguishable, then twists and turns a bit more beneath Craig's hold before settling down, keeping his eyes focused narrowly on Craig's own without once breaking contact. Craig doesn't have to ask; he knows that Stan would love nothing more than to snap every single bone in his body right now, but Craig's already made plans and he needs to make sure that he looks good when he hears the unmistakable sound of Kyle's boots scuffing along the linoleum in the hall outside. He loosens the hold he has on Stan's wrists and braces for impact.

Craig doesn't attempt to stop Stan when he rips his hand away from his mouth, nor does Craig try to move when Stan throws himself forward, bashing his forehead into his nose. It hurts like hell, and Craig is more than certain that it might be broken, but before he has a chance to even fully process what just happened, Stan's shoving him to the floor and crawling over him.

"I told you," Stan says between clenched teeth, and Craig doesn't get to ask 'what' because apparently it's his turn to be choked out and Stan isn't shy about using both hands.

It's not nearly as fun being on the receiving end. Craig tries to push Stan's arms away, but he knows it's futile; Stan might be shorter than him, but he's bigger in every other sense of the word, and with the kind of leverage he has there's no point in putting up an actual fight because Craig knows that he's not going to win. If circumstances were different, Craig could probably hold his own and even outsmart Stan; but pinned under the weight of a tipsy college quarterback while darkness begins to line his vision isn't exactly a prime predicament to find one's self in, and all he can really do is struggle to stay conscious.

The blood rushing to his head lessens to the point that he can actually hear again when Stan thankfully decides that using both hands to strangle him is a bit overkill. Unfortunately, it's because Stan needs a free hand to beat the shit out of him with.

As Craig lays there on the ground taking punch after punch, he wonders if maybe he might've been wrong about hearing Kyle in the hallway, until the hits suddenly stop coming and the weight holding him down disappears. He cracks open an eye just in time to see Kyle dragging Stan off of him like an owner would a disobedient dog. Stan does not go willingly.

"For fuck's sake—I said stop!" Kyle shouts, trying his hardest to hold Stan back with one hand on his arm and the other tangled in the collar of his shirt. It takes a few seconds but Stan does eventually relax, and when Kyle is certain that Stan's not going to bolt away he lets him go. Craig pushes himself to sit up on the floor. "Would someone like to tell me what the hell is going on?"

Craig finds himself staring up Stan's arm like the barrel of a gun. "He's fucking insane!"

"What?"

"He's dangerous, Kyle!" Stan says vehemently. "All this time you thought I was just being a dick when I said I didn't trust him, but see? I told you! I told you he was a fucking psychopath!"

Craig doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to. The warmth of the blood trickling down over his chin is enough to secure his confidence in knowing that he's in the clear. Instead, he silently basks beneath Kyle's dissecting gaze while Stan watches on.

Kyle reaches out a hand. "Are you alright?"

"Wha—hey, don't ask him if he's alright!" Stan erupts. He shoves Craig away before he has a chance to take Kyle's hand, falling back to the floor with dull thud. It doesn't hurt, but Craig winces anyway. "He tried to kill me!"

"Really, Stan? Because that's not what it looks like."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Kyle heaves a sigh and tears a few tissues from the bedside table above him. He kneels down next to Craig. "It looks more like you tried to kill him," he says, dabbing at the corner of Craig's mouth.

"You don't believe me? You seriously think I'm lying right now?"

"It's not that I don't believe you, Stan—it's just that you currently reek of alcohol and you're not exactly the most amiable guy when you're drunk."

"But he started it!"

"You still didn't have to go this far!"

"He fucking rushed me the second you left the room!" Stan shouts exasperatedly from somewhere behind Kyle. Craig can only imagine the look on Stan's face since his line of sight is eclipsed by a mess of wild, red curls—not that he's complaining. "What the hell was I supposed to do? He was choking me! He tried to poke my fucking eyes out, Kyle!"

Kyle turns his attention from nursing Craig's split lip to meet his dazed stare.

"Is that true?"

"No."

"Bullshit!"

"Stop it, that's enough!" Kyle barks. He drops the blood-soaked tissue in Craig's lap and stands up straight, whips around to face his best friend, and points a finger at the door. "Get out!"

"Seriously?"

"I said out!"

"I'm not leaving, Kyle," Stan says firmly. Craig locks eyes with him for a knowing, fleeting moment while wiping at his bloody nose with his wrist, making more of a mess than anything, really. No matter; it was all for effect, anyway. "This is my room too, you know."

"Yeah, well maybe right now it'd be best if you just left for a while. Go back to whoever you felt was more important to hang out with rather than actually show up to study for our biology midterms like we all agreed on doing," Kyle says. "I'm sure they won't mind if you crash at their place for the night."

Stan blinks. "Wait, what? I thought you told me that we wouldn't be meeting until eight o'clock."

"You were supposed to be here at six-thirty; you're an hour and a half late."

"No, you definitely said eight, otherwise I would've been here on time," Stan says, fumbling around his pockets for his phone. "You texted me earlier this afternoon when I was at work, remember? To remind me about tonight? Here, let me—"

"Honestly, Stan, I don't even care at this point because it's not the first time you've completely forgotten about our plans," Kyle says, visibly exhausted with the whole situation. "I mean, I understand if you're going to be late sometimes, but this late? And to not even give me some sort of heads up so that I'm not sitting around, waiting like an idiot? Worst of all, this has become a recurring thing with you, and I'm just tired."

"Hold on, is that why you've been so touchy lately? Because I've been late?"

"You mean when you decide to actually show up? Yeah. Maybe." Kyle folds his arms over his chest. "It doesn't matter, though; at least Craig doesn't forget about our plans. Hell, he's usually even early. He was today."

Craig finds himself the subject of Stan's scrutinizing glare once again, this time sending chills down his spine like never before at the prospect of being caught. He thinks that maybe Stan's finally put two and two together and figured everything out, that he'd been tampering with the both of their phones at any chance he got, but that doesn't seem to be the case. Stan apparently has more pressing matters on his mind.

"Are you two fucking?"

Kyle nearly chokes on his spit. "Excuse me?" he manages to ask in between coughs.

"Ever since Craig started hanging around after moving in down the hall you've been different, dude. Like, it's always 'Oh, Craig said this,' and, 'Craig's coming over after class tonight,' and I mean, I swear, it's like he's been up your ass this whole semester, man. What gives? Are you fucking him or something?"

"What the hell would make you think we're sleeping together? We're just friends!"

Stan scoffs. "Might want to tell Craig that."

"He knows!"

"Then why are you always defending him?"

"I do not defend him," Kyle says, "but if you're always going to find ways to start shit with him for no reason just to make him out to look like the bad guy because you're jealous then of course I'm going to say something! It's not his fault that you can't seem to handle the fact that I have other friends aside from you!"

"Make him out to be the bad guy?" Stan asks incredulously. "He is the bad guy! You literally just saw what he was capable of less than five minutes ago!"

"What I saw was Craig about to lose consciousness from a certain inebriated someone beating his face in," Kyle corrects him. He turns back to Craig, studies his bloodied mess of a face and frowns. "Are you alright, Craig? Can you see? Jesus, that's gonna swell up."

"Wow. Just—wow." Stan forces out a laugh and shakes his head. "This maniac decides to choke me out for no goddamn reason and my best friend thinks I'm lying. Incredible. Fucking incredible!"

"Alright Stan, that's—"

Stan slams his fist against the wall, startling Kyle. "How could you seriously take his side right now? Look! Look at how smug he is!" he shouts wildly. Craig has to work to keep his lips pressed in a thin, unassuming line. "This is exactly what he wants!"

"You're being ridiculous," Kyle says. "Seriously, just go right now, okay? We can talk about this later after you've sobered up and calmed down; please don't make me have to call the RA."

"You know what, Kyle? No. You can go fuck yourself," Stan seethes. "When this crazy asshole decides to slit your throat and wear your skin as some sort of fucked up suit, I don't wanna hear shit. I'm through with being called a liar. Have fun being locked up in his parent's basement or what the fuck ever. I'm done."

"Stan—!"

It's so hard for Craig not to smile right now.

"God dammit." Kyle sighs. For a moment he just stares at the wide-open door that Stan had stormed out of, before grabbing a couple more tissues and dropping to his knees next to Craig, who'd moved to lean against the bedside table in the midst of everything. "Asshole."

"Sorry."

"Not you. I meant Stan."

"Oh."

"There's no reason for you to be sorry," Kyle assures him, which is pointless because Craig definitely doesn't feel bad at all. "You didn't do anything."

"But I'm causing problems for you guys."

"No, Stan's causing problems for us; and trust me, he doesn't need any help. Never has." Kyle tears a tissue into smaller pieces and rolls one up. Craig takes it without question and shoves it up his left nostril. "Do you wanna go to the hospital and get checked out? I can drive."

"No."

"Are you sure? I really think you should."

"I'll be fine," Craig says, milking the pity card for all it's worth. He feels like he'd just been hit by a truck but it's nothing that a couple aspirin and a good night's sleep can't fix. Probably. "Don't worry about me."

"Alright, well, I'm not gonna take that chance; you very well may have a concussion and someone needs to keep an eye on you for at least a few hours. But if you really don't wanna go, then let's at least go down to the bathroom and clean you up, okay? No offense, but you look like shit." Kyle cracks a wry smile to show he means well, then makes a face as if he'd just remembered something important. He pulls a candy bar out of his pocket. "Oh, by the way, here's the Snickers you asked for. They were out of M&M's."

Kyle is too close. Craig can see the smattering of light freckles painted across Kyle's nose, and all he can think about is what Stan had said earlier about skinning him alive. Craig would never do that. The thought of physically maiming Kyle to such a degree is not a welcome one, especially when it'd be a complete and absolute waste: Nobody could wear it quite as well as Kyle did.

Craig takes the Snickers without so much as a thank you.

"It's melted."

"Sorry—I didn't wanna look ridiculous carrying all this stuff back to the room," Kyle explains sheepishly. Then he dumps out the rest of his vending machine spoils from his hoodie pockets and pushes them into a pile on the floor next to their class notes. He takes Stan's requested Coke and bag of chips and tosses them onto his roommate's bed. Craig thinks he should've just tossed them in the trash.

"You know, as much as this sounded like a good idea twenty minutes ago, I'm kind of thinking that maybe we should just go get some Chinese food instead of eating all this junk," Kyle suggests like the rational adult he is. "If you're feeling up to it, I mean. We can stop at the store and grab an ice pack for your eye while we're at it."

Craig shrugs. "Sure," he says, because that doesn't sound like such a bad idea, getting some real food and fresh air after being holed up in that dorm room all evening. Besides, they should probably get out of there before Stan decides to come back and ruin all of Craig's hard work or something. Not good.

Craig uses Kyle's offered hand as leverage to pull himself up, and he instantly regrets doing so when the room starts to spin. He digs the fingers of his free hand into his temples and grunts in pain. Maybe he shouldn't have gotten up so fast.

"Maybe we should go to the store first so we can get Tylenol."

"Yeah."

"C'mon—can you walk?" Kyle asks, then lifts one of Craig's arms up and slings it across his shoulders before Craig even has a chance to tell him that, yes, he can walk just fine, it's just his face that's broken. Craig tenses for a moment from being so close to the object of his sick affection, but ultimately decides that this isn't such a bad deal. Getting his nose busted was totally worth it. "Let's go get the rest of that blood off your face."

Craig thinks that Kyle is too precious for his own good, fussing over him when he's the one who'd single-handedly sabotaged his and Stan's lifelong friendship over a matter of weeks. Too easy. Craig really might have to take Stan's suggestion of locking Kyle up in a basement someday—it's the only real way to keep him safe, after all.