South Park © Matt & Trey.
I've been lazy as hell with posting.
Kenny enters the chubby teenager's bedroom and grins as he unzips his parka. "Hey," he greets, spotting Cartman sitting in a chair in front of his desk. Arctic Monkeys' "Arabella" starts playing from his iTunes playlist and Kenny bites his lip.
"Hey," Cartman echoes from his seat. "What's up?"
"I like this song," he announces, tossing his parka onto the floor. "It makes me wicked horny."
"Everything makes you horny," Cartman points out.
"True," the blond admits.
Cartman snickers at that, watching as Kenny begins to sway back and forth to the music. "Ken," he says the blond teenager's name. "What are you doing?"
"Sh, sit still," Kenny whispers, closing his eyes and reaching for the rim of his t-shirt. "I'll give you a show."
Dry mouthed and turned on, Cartman watches as the hoodrat begins to give him a strip tease. It's times like this that make Cartman truly appreciate Kenny. He hasn't had to watch porn in a long time thanks to his availability. It's almost as if the blond's entire existence were created for the sole purpose of fucking. It's his greatest talent and the thing he likes doing most… but Cartman also knows that Kenny is so much more than that; however he wouldn't say it aloud. He doesn't want to sound too faggy.
As Kenny's final article of clothing is removed, Cartman feels his dick twitch. The blond approaches him and turns around, dipping low and grinding his ass against the chubby teenager's crotch.
"Damn," Cartman murmurs hoarsely.
When the song stops, Kenny stands and turns around, staring at him. Cartman brings a hand up and touches the flat plane of Kenny's stomach. "What now?" Kenny asks. "Take what you want, Eric."
"I'm hard," Cartman mentions. "You gonna take care of it and finish what you started?"
"If that's what you wish," the blond says with a little smile. He turns and opens one of the desk drawers, reaching inside. He's done this enough times by now to know where Cartman keeps all the supplies – condoms, lube, dildos and other fun things. He grabs the lube and walks across the room, jumping onto Cartman's bed. He opens the cap, pouring a small amount on his fingers before setting it on the nightstand.
Cartman watches as the shameless blond lies on his back and spreads his legs, allowing his fingers to travel further and further south. Cartman unzips his pants, getting his dick out and stroking his erection.
Kenny lets out a soft moan, digging his fingers deeper and deeper inside of himself. "Eric…" he whines, biting his lip. "Eric… hurry…"
"Want some cheese with that whine?" Cartman asks before standing up and finally approaching the needy blond.
Meanwhile, Stan and Kyle are at a party. They came together, yes, but Kyle got pretty drunk and wandered off. Stan let him, not wanting to seem clingy. He finds it strange because Kyle has been drinking a lot lately – something he hardly ever does. Stan is the drinker. Kyle is the smart one – taking care of his boys when they go overboard. Now it seems that Stan has taken on that role.
"Where is he…?" Stan murmurs to himself, hesitantly checking rooms and hoping he won't walk in on anything raunchy.
As Stan makes his way up to the third floor, Kyle stumbles through a door at the end of the hallway. His jeans are undone and Stan immediately notices the stain on his black t-shirt. It doesn't take a genius to understand what just happened. "Kyle?" he says the redhead's name.
Kyle lets out a drunken laugh. "Hi, Stan," he coos at the brunet, nearly tripping on his way down the hall. "Fuck…!"
"You have come on your t-shirt," Stan tells him flatly once they're standing in front of one another.
"Oops," he says, staring down at the stain.
"Your jeans are undone," Stan adds.
Kyle groans, fumbling to do it back up with shaky fingers and drunken movements. "Fucking fuck…"
"Christ," Stan mutters, slapping Kyle's hands out of the way. "Just let me do it." He reaches for the button and does it back up with ease. "There you go."
"Thanks, super bestie," Kyle says, patting Stan's head, much to the brunet's annoyance.
A split second later, Rebecca leaves the room and Stan's jaw tightens. "Hi," she greets him coolly.
"What were you guys doing in there?" he asks shakily.
"What do you think?" she laughs.
"He's drunk," Stan bites. "He's really drunk."
"So?" she shrugs carelessly.
"He hates you!" Stan explains bluntly. "He wouldn't go near you if he were sober."
"Boo-fucking-hoo, suck my clit," she says carelessly, walking right past the boys and back downstairs.
"Jeez," Stan mutters, staring up at Kyle's face.
"Why d'you look upset?" the redhead asks him in a drunken slur.
"You'll be upset, too… once you have a sober minute to think," Stan murmurs, curling his fingers around Kyle's wrist. "Come on, let's get out of here before something even worse happens." He drags Kyle down the stairs and out of the house. Once they reach the end of the driveway, they turn onto the main road and begin walking. Kyle stumbles and Stan says, "Here, put an arm around me to help steady yourself."
The redhead does as he's told, drunkenly obedient. "Kin we go t'yer house 'stead of mine… Ma'd kill me…"
"Sure, dude," Stan says with a sigh. It's true. Sheila would flay them both alive for getting drunk. Then again, Stan isn't quite drunk. He's sober enough to know what's what.
When they finally arrive at Stan's house, Kyle shoves the brunet away and pukes on himself as they're walking up the driveway. Then he starts crying.
"Shit," Stan mutters, grimacing. He ditches the redhead and moves to the side of the house to get the hose, washing away the evidence before dragging the crying redhead inside. "Be quiet, Kyle…"
"Why'm I crying?" he asks Stan, as if he holds all the answers.
"I don't know," Stan says. "Only you know that. Think about it for a minute."
They go into the basement, where the guest room is located. Stan pushes Kyle into the bathroom and helps remove his puke-drenched clothes. Once Kyle is left in his shorts, he sinks to the floor while Stan opens the glass doors of the shower and turns the tap on.
"Stay awake," he murmurs to Kyle, who looks like he's only half conscious as he leans against the wall.
"Mm…" Kyle lets out a pained moan, eyes closed.
Stan lets out a sigh, staring at him as they wait for the water to get warm. Even now, with tear tracks and having just puked on himself, Stan can't help but think he looks damn good. He sticks his hand under the shower nozzle and says, "Kyle… the shower is ready."
"Mm…" Kyle moans again, forcing himself onto his feet. His movements are groggy and heavy. Unceremoniously, he pushes his boxers down past his hips and lets them fall. He steps out of them and then steps into the shower. Dry mouthed and grossly horny, Stan watches. Once Kyle is inside, he closes the glass door and Stan stares at the shape of his body move from the other side. Just his luck – he gets a boner. He lets out a longing sigh, ignoring it before turning around and going upstairs to get the redhead a glass of water to sip on once he gets out.
Upstairs, Shelly is there to greet him. Her arms are crossed and she looks pissed. "Turd!" she seethes, hissing out Stan's childhood nickname.
"Sh-Shelly," Stan stutters, trying to hide his stiffy.
"What are you dumb turds doing down there?" she asks. "I heard you come in. You definitely weren't quiet."
"Damn," Stan murmurs. "Kyle got really fucking drunk and sick…"
She rolls her eyes. "What a stupid turd."
"Yeah," Stan agrees dryly.
"Keep that idiot quiet and I won't tell Mom and Dad," she warns, jabbing him in the chest with her pointer finger.
"I will," Stan promises, not wanting his parents to find out. Then again, it's better than Sheila finding out. Then again, Sharon would likely spill the beans either way.
Shelly returns to her room and Stan gets Kyle a glass of water before returning to the basement. Back in the bathroom, he sets the cup down on the counter before noticing Kyle is no longer standing. He sighs, opening the door and staring down at the unconscious mess that is his best friend. He turns the taps off and shakes Kyle a few times. "Hey…" he says softly. "Kyle, wake up…"
No such luck.
Stan groans to himself before bending down and dragging Kyle out of the shower and onto the cold bathroom tiles. He's heavy. Stan releases another groan as he lets go of Kyle. Still, the redhead doesn't budge. "Come on, Kyle…" Stan pleads with him, getting irritated. He flops onto the floor next to Kyle's unconscious, naked body and puts an ear to his wet chest. He's breathing evenly. Stan sits up again and, unable to help himself, puts his palm on Kyle's abdomen, grazing his hands over the muscle and stopping at the trail of hair beneath his navel.
The redhead stirs a moment later and shivers. Stan quickly removes his hand, standing up and fetching a towel. Kyle sits up, bleary and dizzy. "Why'm I nak'd…" he mumbles.
"You took a shower," Stan explains, handing him the towel and helping him stand.
"Oh… right… got sick," he recalls, sloppily drying his limbs.
"And passed out… You'll probably get sick again in the morning," Stan tells him, bending down and picking Kyle's pukey clothes off the ground.
"Prolly…" Kyle admits.
"Here," Stan says with a sigh, handing the redhead back his shorts. "These aren't covered in puke. Wear them to bed. You can try to squeeze into some of my clothes in the morning."
Wordlessly, Kyle takes his underwear and slips them on.
"Also," Stan adds, pointing to the glass of water, "sip on that." Kyle simply nods in response and Stan leaves the bathroom, entering the laundry room and throwing Kyle's vomit covered duds in the washing machine. "What a fucking night…" he whispers to himself before entering the guest room. Kyle is sitting on one side of the bed in his boxer shorts, sipping on the glass of water. The digital clock on the nightstand reads 11:30. It's not even midnight yet and Kyle has succeeded in wrecking himself for the second weekend in a row. It's a new record. Hopefully he won't try to shoot for three.
"Staaaan?" Kyle says the brunet's name in a whiny, high pitched voice.
"What?" Stan asks.
"Are you mad?"
"No."
"Yes, you aaare," the redhead insists.
"No, I'm not," Stan insists in return, though it's a lie. He's mad, but not because of this. He's mad because he wants Kyle and Kyle wants girls… but he can't exactly say that. He knows how selfish it would be.
"Why are you mad?" The questions keep coming.
"I'm not!" Stan hisses out in a whisper.
Kyle is looks taken aback at the blatant anger.
"What parts of tonight do you remember, Kyle?" Stan asks, turning the lights off before shrugging out of his clothes. Once he's left in his shorts, he gets into bed with Kyle.
"I don't know," the Jewish teenager slurs.
"Think," Stan urges.
"Why?"
"Because you're good at it," Stan says lightly. A moment later he hears a clunk, which he assumes is Kyle setting the glass down. Another moment later, Stan feels the bed indent as Kyle lies down.
"I'm not good at anything," Kyle murmurs.
"Don't be retarded," Stan snorts. "You're the smartest person in this crummy town."
"Whoopie shit," Kyle says sourly. "Like anyone here even cares about that kind of thing."
"Since when do you care what people think?" Stan asks.
"I don't…" Kyle says, growing tired. "I don't, but sometimes… I think it'd be nice… to get a little recognition…"
"From your parents?" Stan guesses, but the redhead doesn't reply. He's already passed out.
"I wonder what Kyle and Stan are doing?" Kenny muses aloud, rolling around on Cartman's bed. They just finished round two and they're both sweaty messes.
"Probably licking each other's assholes," Cartman snorts.
Kenny frowns at that.
"Kidding," Cartman cackles. "They're at a party in Cherry Creek."
"Oh," is all the blond says.
"Stan wants the Jew," Cartman mentions. "Did you know?"
"Yeah," Kenny's frown deepens, his eyebrows drawing together.
"Of course you knew," the chubby teenager says knowingly, "and you still went and seduced him. You're nastier than I thought you were, princess."
"I don't want them to be together… but I'm still trying to convince Stan to make it happen."
"Why do you even care?" Cartman mutters the question.
"I want them," Kenny says. "I want all three of you to myself. No one else gets to have you and you don't get to have each other." It's not a cocky sentiment; for the most part it's just childishly selfish.
"Why?" Cartman asks before calling him out on it, "That's selfish."
"I know," the blond admits. "I want everything to be mine. Mine, mine, mine."
"That's not normal," the other teenager points out. "Why can't you just settle for one of us?"
"People come and go… I don't want any of you to go…" he says.
"We won't," Cartman insists somewhat impatiently.
"Promise?" he asks.
"Yeah, promise," Cartman says, giving him a light slap on the cheek. "So stop being stupid." Kenny smiles up at him and Cartman puts a hand on the blond's head, touching his feathery hair. "Dipshit," he adds one final insult for good measure. "You worry about the weirdest things. It's not normal at all."
"I can't help it," Kenny whispers.
Either way, he is going to have to right his wrong eventually.
Come morning, the hangover hits Kyle like brick. He squeezes his eyes shut, moaning out in pain. His constant whining wakes up Stan. "Kyle…? You okay?"
"Mm…" Kyle groans in response.
"I see," Stan says with a snort. "Want some Tylenol?"
"No," Kyle sighs. "I deserve to feel like shit…"
"Why's that?"
"Last night was so fucking embarrassing…" Kyle states, rubbing his forehead. "Don't tell anyone what I did, okay?"
"What part?" Stan snorts.
"Well… any of it," Kyle says. "The crying, the puking… or the fact that my ex-girlfriend totally took advantage of me when I was acting like a stunned twelve year old who was at his first party."
"Why were you crying…?" Stan asks, raising a brow. "You never cry."
"I don't even know," Kyle mutters.
"Liar," Stan calls him out.
Kyle offers the brunet a small smile, but it's lackluster. "Sometimes I break down," he admits. "I just make sure only to let it happen when I'm by myself."
"Why?" Stan asks hoarsely.
"It's embarrassing," the redhead shrugs. "I don't like the thought of people seeing me when I'm vulnerable."
"Are you okay?" Stan asks.
"Usually," Kyle admits. "I take pills… or, I'm supposed to. I haven't refilled my prescription. I take them pretty sporadically anyway… which I'm not supposed to do, but I hate the fact that I'm on antis."
Stan swallows, his throat feeling dry. "I didn't know," he whispers hoarsely.
"Because it's a secret," Kyle says. "I didn't want people to know."
"Oh…"
"So, don't tell anyone," Kyle finishes, eying his best friend.
Stan simply nods.
"I just felt really bad last night," Kyle continues. "I felt bad for ruining your night and being annoying. I felt bad about seeing Rebecca… I felt bad about the Kenny thing. I guess I just felt lonely and pathetic and a little worthless. I could tell you were pissed, even though you kept denying it. Since I was drunk, everything seemed a lot worse than it was and it all just piled up and I guess it made me even more emotional."
"Sorry," Stan mumbles.
Kyle shrugs. "It's fine. I mean, hell… I'd be pissed off at me, too. I was being annoying."
"You were drunk," Stan justifies.
"Still," Kyle reasons, "I was pretty stupid."
"Are you okay?" Stan asks.
Kyle closes his eyes, giving a slow nod. For some reason, Stan doubts it, but he won't ask questions. He's beginning to see that Kyle Broflovski might not be as perfect as he acts.
"How was that party?" Cartman asks when Monday rolls around.
"Shitty," Stan murmurs.
"Yeah," Kyle says. Neither of them mentions Kyle's less than stellar performance. Cartman would eat up information like that. "What about you?"
"Kinny gave me a strip tease and a lap dance to the song 'Arabella' by The Arctic Monkeys," Cartman reveals. "Not gonna lie, it was pretty hot. He acts really stupid most days, but he can be fuckin' sexy when he wants to be."
"Good to know," Kyle mutters. "Where is Kenny, anyhow?"
Stan shrugs in response while Cartman adds, "Who the fuck knows? You know how he is… He comes and he goes."
"Yeah, but where the fuck does he go?" Kyle asks.
"Blow dudes?" Stan guesses with a shrug.
Cartman scoffs. "He ain't even as bad as you two think he is. That's not the only fuckin' thing he does, y'know."
"Wow, sounds like you care," Kyle points out in a mocking simper.
Cartman rolls his eyes. "I don't. I'm just saying you guys are wrong."
"Aw," Kyle coos. "Do you have a little crush?"
"No!" Cartman spits.
Kyle snickers, jabbing his friend in the side. "You're just as bad, you little shithead. You've told Kenny, to his face, that you think of him like a toy."
Cartman growls, grabbing a handful of the Jew's curly hair.
"Fucker!" Kyle yells and the fight ensues. Stan rolls his eyes, choosing to ignore them.
When Kenny comes to, he's lying in his bed without a stitch on. He sighs, getting up and stretching before throwing on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt – some of Stan's hand-me-downs.
It was a hit and run, but he's back now. Nothing less than typical. He checks the time on his phone – 5PM. School is already out. Kyle and Stan will be asking the usual questions – "Where were you?" and "What were you doing?" Kenny is good at making up stories because of this. He's learned to think up quick and convincing lies. It comes easily now.
Instead of calling the boys, he calls Bebe. She's easiest to talk to, even if he can't tell her about the most important things. Stan, though he might deny it, is still feeling a few negative emotions and Kenny isn't blind to it. Kyle is still iffy around him and Cartman? Well, Cartman doesn't really care about people's feelings. He just wants a hole to fuck and that's why he sticks around.
When the blond girl arrives, she greets Kenny with a hug. "You seem down," she mentions once they part.
They retreat to Kenny's bedroom and he finally speaks, "I'm not up or down… I'm just kind of in the middle and I think that's worse than being sad."
"Oh, angel," Bebe sighs, playing with his hair once they settle on his mattress. "You need to get this sorted."
"I know," he murmurs. "I'm tired. It's like… yeah, I get the right amount of sleep, but I'm still tired."
"Maybe it's a different kind of tired," Bebe suggests carefully.
Kenny lets out a bitter laugh. "Yeah… probably. I think it became a part of my personality. It won't get fixed by getting an extra hour of sleep."
"Do you talk to your friends about this stuff?" she asks.
"It's hard," he admits. "Cartman… he's kind of an ass. Stan is mad at me and Kyle is kind of awkward around me now. I've slept with them all, so…" he trails off, shrugging his shoulders lightly. "Things are different now."
"I see," Bebe says slowly. "Well, I think it would be a good idea for all of you to get together and have a serious talk. They're your friends. You should tell them how you're feeling."
"They'll just get pissed," he scoffs. "I know them. They'll get mad at me for keeping it a secret because it's not something recent. I've been like this since I was a kid. I just… it's hard to feel things. I just want to feel something."
"Is that why you're always sleeping around?" she wonders.
"Hm," Kenny muses aloud. "Part of it, maybe."
Bebe gives him a sympathetic smile. She's never been one for that kind of thing, but she won't look at Kenny poorly for being the way he is. While all the kids are screwing and drinking their thoughts away, Bebe prefers to keep her mind sharp. That isn't to say she's a stick in the mud. She'll have a drink now and again and she enjoys intimacy, but she doesn't feel the need to sleep with everyone like so many of her friends.
But Kenny… Kenny is different. He's an extreme case. Sometimes she feels like it might be his addiction. Sex. It pains her, but no matter how hard she tries to help him, it seems impossible. He'll laugh and brush off every single attempt, avoiding with practised ease.
"You shouldn't sleep with people to form connections," she tries. "You shouldn't let people use and abuse you. That won't make them stay. It won't make them respect you. In fact, it only creates disrespect. It shouldn't, but that's the way this crummy world works."
"I feel like I should know that," he sighs. "It just never sticks. Next thing I know, I'm out and about with another stranger."
"Yeah," she whispers.
"Eric, Kyle, Stan… and you. You all give me something different," he confesses.
"What do we give you?" Bebe asks gently.
"You're a girl, so being with you is just a completely different experience than being with a boy, even though the thing is going in the same place," Kenny says with a laugh. "You're the only girl for me. You're like… this cute little dominatrix. I don't know. Maybe I've got mommy issues. Stan… he's a romantic guy. With him, I feel like I'm with someone who really cares about me. I feel it. Eric is rough and you know me, heh… I like that. He likes fucking to music. Sometimes he'll put on something that makes me feel like we're competing in the anal Olympics. I think he does it so I'm less likely to talk. He says that shit ain't cute – talking during fucking. I guess he just wants me to look pretty and shut up."
"Jackass," Bebe mutters.
Kenny smiles airily. "I've only been with Kyle once. I was high on drugs and he was drunk, but I don't care… it still meant something to me, even if it meant nothing to him."
"I'm sure it meant something to him," Bebe tries to reassure him.
Kenny simply shakes his head. "He was drunk and lonely. I was there and I was convenient. He even said it… I mean, I don't take it personally… but he also said that he wasn't going to pretend it didn't happen and he wasn't going to pretend I was someone else. He knows it was me. He just didn't care, I guess. Oh, well. That's what I'm here for, right? Eric says it – it's like I was made for the sole purpose of being fucked. I'm a toy."
"No way!" Bebe says sternly. "Don't demean yourself, Kenneth McCormick. You're worth more than the way people treat you. You're worth more than the strangers who fuck you. You're worth more than the friends who find you expendable. You're not expendable. You're a fucking gem in a chest full of rocks and it pisses me off that other people don't seem to see it. Now repeat it."
Kenny rolls his eyes. "I'm not expendable," he says.
"Now once more with feeling," she sing-songs.
"I'm not expendable!" he repeats with the desired purpose.
"Right," she smiles, pinching his cheek.
"So," he starts, "What do you think about when you're fucking me?"
Bebe chuckles. "Well, I'm thinking good things. Plus… you're good with your tongue."
"Okay," Kenny says with a smile. "So, shall we?"
"You don't want to talk anymore?" Bebe asks. She always dreads this part of the conversation – the part when Kenny silences himself.
"Nah," he insists, taking his shirt off and tossing in to the floor.
"Are you sure?" she pries.
Kenny laughs. "Yeah, I'm fucking sure I'd rather have sex than bore you with my problems."
"You're not boring me, Kenny," she promises.
Kenny leans forward and kisses her. "You're the best," he says, drawing back.
"So are you," she replies sincerely.
Craig yawns, lying in bed. It's early, but Craig is bored and when Craig is bored, he sleeps. Tweek is at work – a late shift, so he won't be stopping by the Tucker house tonight. Craig hasn't been dating Tweek for long, but the blond already spread his legs. 'I guess what they say about him is true,' he muses to himself. The Tweak boy is loose. Not that Craig cares either way. He's not the jealous type. Tweek is his now and that's what matters.
There's a little, nagging voice in his head warning him not to get attached, but for once in his life he'll try to silence it.
Just as he feels himself drifting, his bedroom door swings open. He groans, sitting up and glaring at Clyde who hovers in the doorway. "Hey, pal," he greets cheerfully, not fazed by Craig's anger.
"What?" Craig snaps, wanting to know why he's here.
"I wanted to talk to you about something…" Clyde starts slowly.
"What?" Craig asks again. "Is it Bebe? If so, get someone else's shoulder to cry on."
Clyde rolls his eyes. "I don't cry about her."
"Lies."
"You're being a dick… and either way, that's not what I wanted to talk to you about."
"Then what the fuck?" Craig urges, lying back down.
Clyde wanders into the dim room, getting in bed with Craig. "You're acting different lately," he points out. "Are you okay?"
"A hundred percent dandy," Craig promises him, closing his eyes.
"Really?"
"Mhm."
"But something has changed," Clyde says knowingly. "Don't lie. Just tell me what happened."
"Christ, you're annoying," Craig murmurs. "I'm seeing someone."
"What? Who?" Clyde asks, surprised.
Craig lets out an irritated sigh, opening his eyes and turning to look straight into Clyde's. "You can't fucking tell anyone, yeah?"
"Yeah, I won't," Clyde swears.
Craig nods and then reveals, "It's Tweek."
"What!" Clyde nearly shouts.
"Shut the fuck up," Craig hisses, reaching and punching the loud-mouth in the shoulder. He elicits a whiny moan in response.
"Since when do you even talk to Tweek?" Clyde asks after recovering.
"He approached me a couple weeks ago," Craig starts. "He said he wanted to be friends again and I basically told him to go away, but he was persistent…"
"So, then what?" Clyde pries, wanting all the juicy details.
"I kind of guessed he was gay," Craig says. "I mean… It was forward of me… but I was right."
"Damn," Clyde murmurs.
"I'm no longer a virgin," Craig adds.
"Fucking hell," Clyde laughs. "Welcome to the club, then."
"Thanks," the black haired teen says dryly.
"So," Clyde sobers, getting a serious look on his face. "What did he say when he saw the scars?"
"Nothing," Craig shrugs it off.
"Nothing?"
"Nothing," he repeats. "He didn't see them. It was too dark and he only touched the older ones… they're fading away and they're no longer rough to the touch."
Clyde clicks his tongue. "Tsk, Craig, come on… You can't expect to have a real, solid relationship if you're hiding things."
"I still don't know if this is real," Craig admits. "I like him, yeah, but part of me can't help but wonder if it's because I genuinely like him or if I just like him for being the first person to give me this kind of attention."
"I don't think it matters either way," Clyde says, giving his bestie his honest opinion. "Just tell him the truth. Lies are toxic and they're hard to maintain." He reaches forward and grabs one of Craig's wrists, sliding his shirt sleeve up and lightly thumbing the bright scars. "Some of these are fresh," he notes with a frown.
"Boohoo, nobody cares," Craig says, ripping his hand out of Clyde's grip and giving him a slap in the face for not minding his own business.
"Ass," Clyde mutters, rubbing his cheek. "You're just mad because you know I'm right."
"I'm not mad," Craig says simply. "I don't get mad."
Clyde scoffs. "I know that's a lie. You get angry, you just don't show it. You don't show much of anything. You don't really know how to express yourself. You're stifled and that's probably why you're so disturbed. That's why you walk around like a zombie."
"Stop analysing me, you fuckhead," Craig mutters. "You don't know anything."
"Maybe," Clyde admits, "but that's just 'cause you don't fucking tell me anything. I thought we were best friends, but can I even call you that? I don't know anymore."
Craig is burning holes into Clyde's head – he can see it and feel it. There it is, that suppressed anger, but Craig won't let it out. He can't. He never does. Instead, he does other things.
"What do you want to know?" Craig suddenly asks, surprising Clyde.
"Promise you'll answer?"
"Mhm," Craig agrees with a sigh. "This is a once in a lifetime offer, though. So, take advantage of it."
Clyde smiles at that. "All right, fair enough. First question, when is the last time you hurt yourself?"
"Last week," Craig admits.
"Why?"
"I felt like it," he says.
"Were you upset?"
"No."
"Angry?"
"I don't know…" he considers.
Clyde shrugs, knowing that's about as good of an answer he'll get. Perhaps Craig doesn't know the real reason either… or perhaps his indecisiveness is the most honest answer. "When is the last time you cried?"
Craig scoffs at that question. "A few months ago."
"That long?"
"Yeah. I'm not like you. I don't cry every fucking day."
"Oh," Clyde shrugs it off. "Well, why'd you cry?"
Craig gives Clyde a look of distaste before admitting. "Stripe died. Again."
"Oh," Clyde says with a long nod. "Understandable. I bawled when Rex died."
"I got a new guinea pig," Craig admits, nodding towards the cage.
"Same name?"
"Naturally… anyway, no more questions."
"Dude, I asked like two…" Clyde says.
Craig shifts onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. "You asked more than that. What else is there to ask?"
"Are you okay?"
Craig rolls his eyes at Clyde's ever constant concern. "Yeah, Clyde, I'm perfect."
