A/N: I am so very deeply sorry for how long it took me to put this out. But I bet you're all still here! Ready for another chapter. Right? Heh. Heh. …Heh. O_O

So this chapter picks up the pace a little. I really wanted to start a dynamic between them that was believable and realistic, so hopefully it worked out that way.

Thank you all for your reviews on the last few chapters!

"So how long have you worked here?"

I take a lengthy drag off my cigarette. Things are still a little fuzzy for me. I'm not sure how I ended up sitting on the ass-end of my truck, having a conversation with Trevor Tweak. I haven't spoken to the guy since grade school, and even then—we were never really all that close. I can remember a time when I'd actually wanted to kill the little fucker, for saying all that horrible shit about Stripe. The fond memory of my first pet makes my ears itch a little. I'd loved that thing. Hardcore.

"A while," I reply, because I've never been overly committed with time. Time is shady for me. One day it's Christmas and the next it's Fourth of July. I've always experienced life that way. All my days just sort of blend into this monumental blob of colorless nothing, and I can't ever seem to account for what I was doing the day before last, or where I went this morning, or who I fucked last September. It all feels pre-established. Like I'm in a movie and everything that happened before and everything that will happen after is superfluous. I live in the moment, with the only downside being that I hate the moment I'm living in.

I watch him. He isn't as twitchy as I remember. In fact, if I didn't know better, I'd say he was mellow. But that doesn't sound right at all. Trevor Tweak? Mellow Yellow? That'll be the fucking day.

He's still kind of hot, I notice. Especially with a fucking cigarette. Smoking one of my Lucky's, I would even say he looks like a normal guy. A typical teen. A really narrow, big-eyed typical teenaged dude, with a libido and an affinity for extreme sports and dark beers and all that other manly man crap.

"Is it fun?"

I can't help but think is what fun? But then I realize he's talking about my job, and I shrug one shoulder. Work has never occurred to me as fun, but I suppose if I had to pick I'd stick with what I've got. Vinyl Solutions is easy and low-key.

"Yeah. I get a lot of albums for free."

"Oh? Employee perk?"

"Not really."

He looks at me a long time. Like seven million years. He looks at me until I can't stand it anymore, and I look back at him in the hopes that I might scare his eyes away. But instead we just end up having a no-blink competition, and as expected, I lose.

We spend the next hour talking about tunes.

I'm kind of bummed when he leaves, and I'm not entirely sure why that is. I don't say hello when we pass each other at school the next day. He doesn't try to say hello, either.

Sometimes, I lay in the dark and think about death. Not the frilly, superficial notion of one person passing away, either. It's not like that. No, what I think about is the end. The end of existence, the apex of life, the grinding halt of perception coming to a finite and complete close. Like the final note of a song, or the last page in a book. Done, and then nothing. Ended. Such and such and never after, the end. Period. Gone.

The universe, at the end of time's expansion. Hanging, dead and brittle in the symphony of utter silence. Finished.

I think about that sometimes, when I'm laid on my back in my bed. And then sometimes, I light a cigarette and let it hang from my lips, and I think about it some more. Sometimes, I get so caught up with thinking that I forget to breathe, and my breath catches in my chest and I feel the sharp pain of my existence, lashing out against my bones. My life, struggling to continue onward. My life. So easily snuffed out, like a match in the gutter.

I got the job at Vinyl Solutions almost two years ago. I was barely sixteen, and I needed a reason not to be at home in the afternoons. I needed to get away. I needed to not see anyone I knew from school. I needed to get out of South Park.

It had been a coincidence, my walking into the record store. I'd gotten a tip-off from Kenny McCormick that there was a guy there who sold an ounce on easy credit. I'd been broke, and I'd been bored. I'd wanted to feel high, to get that familiar tingling sensation in my hands that made me feel fragile. That made me feel tainted, like a white feather dipped in black ink.

I'd walked into that shop without a drop of humility. I've never been brave. Just stupid.

Don had liked something about me, I guess. I'd made him laugh with my fuckass attitude, and he'd packed me a bowl and handed me the keys to his shop.

"I need a closing manager. You're it, kid. Don't let people jack my shit."

And that had sort of been that.

My dad likes the fact that I never come home as much anymore. Gives him some quality time with our booze cabinet.

I can't help but feel a little bad for my sister, though. Ruby's kind of got this good fuck bad girlfriend attitude going on. She's beautiful, like my mother used to be. Ruby is my best friend in the world, and I don't think I'd be able to function properly without her. I know she understands where I go when Dad's awake. I know she doesn't hate me for it.

Ruby's brave, unlike me. She's tough. She's the kind of girl you can count on to stick up for herself. She's got balls, you know what I'm saying?

But sometimes I think that I could have done better. That I could do better, as a big brother and all that shit.

It's four o'clock, and I'm sitting on the counter at work, having a cigarette. Trevor's come back, and this time he's brought his entire collection of vinyls. So we're sitting there listening to Tin-Tin and I wonder I he thinks I look good. Because I can't seem to stop thinking about how good he looks. He's cut his hair a bit, and the flyaway blond has receded into a tousled nest of soft looking hair that I kind of just want to run my fingers through. I know I probably shouldn't look at him like that. I know that there's a big reason why I want to, and that reason has nothing to do with who he is and everything to do with who he looks like.

I wonder what Thomas is doing, and take a drag.

"Did you know cats have nose-prints? Like how you and I have thumb prints," I say, and Trevor smiles, revealing two rows of straight white teeth. I wonder when he got braces. I wonder why I never noticed. But then I decide that that's just how people are, and that's how I am, too. We don't pay attention to anyone until they're dead.

I blink as my cigarette is plucked from between my lips. I look down and Tweak's got this 'So shoot me' look on his face and I swear to god it gets a little hot. Like maybe I could take my fucking jacket off, because the room just upped itself like a hundred degrees. He takes a drag of my cigarette, looking all coy and thoughtful.

"Do you think they've got like a nose-print database? Like the Kitty Identification System? To keep track of the cat delinquents."

He's crazy. I've already figured that out. He's totally fucking insane, but he likes good tunes. And he's got nice teeth. And he kind of looks like—oh, fuck off.

"Someone's gotta keep tabs on those punk ass cats who eat their dinner out of garbage cans," I reply, an easy smirk on my face. I don't remember when I last smiled so much. But it's kind of nice.

Trevor grins, popping my smoke back in my mouth.

"Strutting by with their tails in the air. It's devious."

I shake my head and stub out my cigarette. I think I actually like him.

"Incorrigible," I say, amused.

He moves, and sits next to me on the counter. I kind of like how close he is. He smells like soap and my cigarettes. I light another and he takes it out of my mouth.

Trevor and I spend most of the evening bullshitting and listening to all his records, and I don't end up closing up shop until well after eleven. The drive back to town is long and quiet, and I don't take the shortcuts. I watch the pet cemetery out my window, but my mind is elsewhere.

Somewhere in the past, where Thomas Tracey had fallen into my lap at a party and I fell in love. We'd been fifteen and stupid, and I'd been drunk as hell. Jessie Thompson had stuck her hand down my pants in the kitchen, and I'd only barely escaped with my dick unchaffed. Jessie was a whore, and she could never figure out when enough was enough.

Thomas had dropped onto my knees. Maybe someone had pushed him. Maybe he'd decided to sit there, just to break the ice. I didn't really care. All that mattered was he was warm, and he had a nice smile. I'd touched his hair and asked if he still needed his laundry done.

We'd stumbled down the street later, singing 'California Dreamin' and laughing at the stars. He'd taken off his shoes.

It's after midnight by the time I sneak open my front door. It's dark, and I think my dad must be passed out on the couch by now. But I've never really been what anyone would call lucky.

His lips around my name make me shiver. I look over my shoulder, one foot on the bottom step. He's got that angry look in his eyes, like he wants to hit me. And when he asks where I've been I know he's going to. And when he does I'm not really surprised. Just tired.

I put some ice on my split lip and pass out.

I dream about Trevor, and kitty espionage.

The next day at school I eat lunch by myself. I don't really have a group anymore. All the people I used to call my friends have found new friends. Even my old group eats without me. Craig and those guys, minus Craig. So maybe just 'those guys' now. I catch Token's eye and look down at my peas. Token, Clyde, and I. Best friends for life. A short-lived experiment, a little blip on their record. Clyde, who used to sleep over at my place. Clyde, the first person to ever get me blazed off my fucking balls. Clyde who I made out with once when I had too much to drink at Bebe's house. We haven't spoken in a year, and it's funny because if you asked him he'd say we were never friends at all.

"You look like you've just seen a ghost."

Trevor's sitting down before I can tell him it's okay if he does. I guess it really doesn't matter. I push my peas around my plate, not really surprised to find him looking at me.

"A spooky ghost," I reply, stabbing one of the peas with my fork and bringing it carefully to my lips.

"Chains and blood?"

"Everywhere."

"Maybe it's your dead business partner, come back from the grave to tell you Christmas is going to happen whether you like it or not."

"Maybe."

"Ruined the life of any crippled toddler's recently?"

"All the crippled toddlers. Every last one."

He spins a bottle cap on the table. I watch it go, vaguely impressed as it bounces across the table and onto the floor.

"You know, Dr. Seuss coined the word 'nerd'. It's true."

"So I'm a nerd?"

"No, you're a nerkle."

"Thank god."

We sit there for a while longer, and then Tweak leaves for class. I feel the lack of his presence like a slap across the face, and I wonder if I'm losing it. Then I think about it for an extra second, and I know that I've been losing it for a long time. I push my peas away, and rest my head in my hand.

Maybe it's not just who he looks like.