South Park © Matt & Trey.
Fake plastic trees lyrics © Radiohead.

Kenny's POV


"So," Eric deadpans. "Kyle is back where he belongs?"

Stan punches him in the gut. "Don't say shit like that, you dumb fuck. He doesn't belong in there."

"Riiiight," Eric drawls. "Slim hips, perky tits and he still thinks he's fat as a beached whale."

"Stop being insensitive," I say wearily. "Besides, we don't even know what Kyle thinks. He's never told us, so shut up... Then again, maybe it's best you get it all out before we get there. The last thing we want is for you to say something stupid or mentalist. Make sure you watch your tongue in there."

We're visiting Kyle since we're finally allowed to. The mood changes when we enter the hospital. It's pretty stereotypical and the visiting room is even more so, but Kyle looks himself and he appears to be in good spirits. He's wearing a t-shirt and I see a fresh, round scar on his forearm. I'd like to ask, but I know I probably shouldn't. He's sitting at a table by himself, writing in what looks like a coiled note book. When he spots us, he closes the book and stands up. "How's it been?" I ask, giving him a hug.

"Quiet," he says as we separate. "Pleasantly quiet… They let me smoke. I don't even have to go outside to do it."

"That's good…" Stan says, who is the next to wrap his arms around Kyle.

Kyle nods into Stan's shoulder. "I think I needed some quiet time. I've been reading about meditating. Jewish meditation dates back thousands of years… I never knew that until yesterday." Fortunately, Eric doesn't make any Jew jokes.

"That's interesting," Stan says. "Do you think you'll get into meditation?"

"Maybe," he considers, moving away from Stan. "I definitely want to learn about it… Might be a good idea, huh?"

"Yeah," Stan agrees.

Kyle nods before turning to Eric and smirking. "Your turn," he says, opening his arms. Eric grimaces, but hugs Kyle nonetheless.

"How cute," I coo at them and Stan snickers.

"So, has being in this shit-hole been insightful?" Eric asks distastefully, crossing his arms once they've parted.

"Well," Kyle starts, "I came in hoping it would be… I mean, I'm trying. I'm being honest with my doctors and I'm not making a fuss. I mostly just sit around and read when we're not doing group activities."

"Group activities?" I pry.

He nods. "Art," he wrinkles his nose. "I hate drawing and painting… but they make us do it every second day. They tried to get me to draw a self-portrait… I tried, but just ended up getting upset."

"That's gay," Eric says.

"Yeah," Kyle sighs, "but it's not so bad… I'm really trying this time. I'm sick of being… well, sick…"

"No shit," Eric snorts.

"I feel bad for putting you guys through grief," he adds.

"Ah, don't be," I insist. "Just focus on you."

"They told me to write things down," he continues. "When I make myself sick or I want to make myself sick, they said to get a journal or something and write down how I feel before, during and after… so that when I feel like that again, I might not go through with it. They also said I should get down my feelings when I have intrusive thoughts. So, that's what I've been doing. They told me to just… write out all be thoughts and feelings and when I feel numb, force myself to write and eventually things will start pouring out but it's hard and sometimes there's just a mantra in my head and I'll write the same fucking word down about two hundred times."

"Damn," I say.

"Mhm," he agrees, turning around and grabbing the notebook. He hands it to me, giving me free reign to glance through it. "I'm going to try to stop lying… They also said I should be more open, so… you guys can read it if you want to."

I offer him a sincere smile and simply nod as I open to the first page. There are no dates. Instead, the pages are just numbered and his perfect handwriting reads –

I'm really fucking tired. I have to eat a specific amount of food every day, but it's really hard and I feel sick. I feel full and I hate that feeling more than anything. We're put on a schedule – a routine, but when I have nothing to do I sleep and when I sleep too much I get headaches but I'm too tired. Always fucking tired.

The next page reads –

Sometimes Stan will start talking to me. He'll be saying nice things and I know I should look happy and smile at him. He'll tell me how much he loves me... things like that. I should smile at him and tell him I love him too and I should be thankful… but I'll have to try so damn hard not to space out because I can't help but feel like they're words I don't deserve to hear, let alone say. But I still do. I do say those words, even though they're hard to get out sometimes. I just want to sink into the floor and go away for a while and I feel sorry. I still hear that voice in my head – the one that tells me to hate myself. It's always getting louder.

The third page reads –

They wanted me to draw myself. I couldn't do that. I feel like it was stupid of them to even ask. Other people were drawing things, but none of the pictures looked like self portraits. Maybe I'll try later.

I feel like I'm holding my breath. I've been holding my breath since I stepped through the doors and leaving is going to be a sigh of relief. But I need to be honest, right? Otherwise nothing will change. At least, that's what everyone keeps telling me.

Sad sad sad day.

I flip to the fourth page and there's a picture of a sad face with big, curly hair, black holes for eyes and bags beneath them with a ridiculously long nose. Beneath the drawings the word "me" is written and then crossed out. I think that's fucking sad as hell. "Kyle…" I murmur his name.

He glances at me. "I couldn't do it when they wanted me to draw myself… but I tried later. I just didn't want to share it with a bunch of strangers."

"Is this really how you see yourself?" I ask weakly, staring into his bright, green eyes and then back down onto the dead, lifeless eyes of his self-portrait.

He sighs at me. "Don't give me sympathy. I can hear it in your voice. Just… keep reading if you want. Don't comment. I'm not trying to make you guys feel bad, I just feel like… you deserve to know what's going through my head."

"Okay," I say quietly. Fair enough.

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I guess this is what he was scribbling down when we walked in.

"Do they have you on any drugs?" Stan asks as I close the scribbler.

Kyle shakes his head at the question. "They wanted to put me on something to lift my mood but I refused it."

"Hm," Stan murmurs.

"Oh!" Kyle suddenly blurts out, sounding like he just remembered something important. "Did you check your mail recently, Stan?"

He shakes his head. "No… Why?"

"I got my acceptance letter from Boulder," Kyle says. "You might have yours by now, too."

"Oh!" Stan exclaims. "I'll check when I get home. Did you hear from any of the other schools you applied to?"

He nods and smiles. "I got into all of them."

"Wow, congrats," Stan smiles back.

"Smart asshole," Eric murmurs.

"I'm probably going to Boulder," Kyle says. "It's closest… and I think the closer I am to home, the better."

Stan nods. "If I get accepted, I'll probably do the same."

"God dammit," Eric mutters. "I guess we'll be spending the next four years together then because I'm headed there as well. And I was really hoping to get away from you assholes."

"Liar," Stan calls him out. "You love us."

I smile at the three of them. "Make sure you losers visit as much as you can, all right?"

"Of course," Kyle grins.

I hand the scribbler to Stan, who wears a poker face the entire time. I commend him for that. I continue chatting up Kyle while the scribbler is passed to Eric, just so Kyle doesn't get antsy.


"He's fucked up," Eric mutters after the visit.

"Don't say that," Stan elbows him.

"It's fucking true," he mutters. "We all read through his thoughts. He's fucked up. You know it, I know it… he knows it."

"Still," Stan reasons. "Don't be a dick."

"Everyone is fucked up," I decide to add. "I'm fucked up, Stan is fucked up, Eric is immensely fucked up. Hell, Craig is fucked up, Tweek is fucked up, Annie is fucked up... even seemingly sane people like Clyde, Wendy and Bebe have some shit buried. Everyone has problems. That's life. It sucks, but that's life. It doesn't make us an less whole or any less human. So you guys should stop saying it like it's abnormal. I think it's pretty exceptionally ordinary to be fucked up. Maybe the abnormal people are the ones that are completely sane... because to be honest, I don't think I know anyone who is perfectly sane. Everyone's got shit. Some are just better at keeping that shit buried."

"True," they relent in unison.


I spend the later portion of the day with Craig, just roaming around the town until we stop at Harbucks. Rather than getting coffee, we get tea. It's too late for caffeine and I doubt Craig needs more shit to keep him awake at night. Amirite.

Once we walk inside, I spot Tweek sitting at a booth with Kal. He's shaking and convulsing, gripping a cup of coffee like it holds the key to keeping him sane. Craig looks away, pretending not to notice. "Don't you miss him?" I ask.

"No," Craig murmurs.

"Don't lie," I call him out.

Craig lets out a sigh. "Shut up, Kenny."

"Fine." I roll my eyes and say, "Go sit down and I'll get you something that'll make you sleepy."

Craig nods, grabbing a booth at the opposite end of where Tweek is sitting. I roll my eyes before ordering two chamomile teas. I put sugar in mine, but Craig likes to keep things plain-Jane. "Here," I say, putting the drink down on the table before taking the seat across from him.

He nods his thanks, taking the cover off and letting it cool down.

"Go talk to Tweek," I suggest. "I know you want to."

"He's a fucking crack-head," Craig mutters before taking a slow sip.

"Meth," I correct, doing the same.

"Whatever," he shrugs. "It's all the same sick shit. He probably does it all. Sometimes when we'd hang out, he'd go to the bathroom and snort drugs. I've seen him cut lines in his bedroom. He gets seizures now because of it and his parents still keep telling everyone it's just ADD when they're the ones putting shit in their son's coffee to keep him alert."

"I know," I murmur. Tweek got a seizure in class once when we were sixteen and Eric took a fucking video and posted that shit on Facebook. The fat ass got suspended because of it, fortunately. "Stan told me Kyle did cocaine with Tweek once," I add.

"Shit," Craig snorts. "That's weird as fuck."

"Yeah," I sigh, "but when shit gets rough, you can't just abandon your friends. I mean, come on, Craig. I know that wasn't the reason you ditched him. I've spoken to him about it. You probably have a lot of regret, don't you? Well, look… He's right there. He's right fucking there! You can make things right again."

"Not everything can be fixed," Craig says simply.

"Sometimes friendships can be, though," I reason. "So, go to talk him."

Craig shakes his head, but suddenly Tweek turns around and stares at us both before standing up. Kal does the same, giving him a hug before leaving the cafe. A moment later, with his coffee in hand, Tweek turns down the aisle and approaches our table. "Fuck," Craig whispers.

"I can hear you both talking about me," Tweek says, bemused. "You're not being very quiet."

I smile at him. "Hey, Tweek."

"Kenny," he greets, shuddering slightly.

"Go to fucking rehab," Craig murmurs.

"Shame," Tweek sighs, "and I thought you were going to apologize."

"Why should I?" Craig asks, sipping on his tea.

Tweek lets out a hoarse laughs. "I guess I don't need one. Be my friend if you want, Craig… but don't try to tell me what to do with my life. It's mine… just like yours is yours. I never told you how to live your life, even when you were getting STDs from letting strangers gangbang you and face-fuck you t'their hearts content. That was your damn business, yeah? Well, this is my damn business."

I cringe at that, not bothering to cut in and tell Tweek to back off because I know for a fact he's just as sexually crazed as Craig is. He fucks like he's on acid. He's the definition of power bottom.

People are staring as they continue to argue with one another. I think they've forgotten that they're not the only ones in here.

"You're dying," Craig says. "Literally… you're killing yourself and I don't want to be friends with someone who is doing that."

For me, this is what makes it click. Craig's worst fear is the death of those he cares about and that is why he can't be around Tweek.

"Hypocrite," Tweek mutters. "Clyde told me about your suicide attempt. We all know he can't keep a secret worth shit. Token knows, too. That's why they're so fucking patient with you. They pity you. Boohoo, poor Craig saw his mom buy the farm and now he's all bipolar and depressed and shit."

"No, I'm not," Craig bites.

Tweek just scoffs. "My ass! It's obvious something is really fucking wrong with you. You fuck people and fuck around with people and you're self-destructive as hell. You're such a fucking cliché. It makes me want to throw up."

I listen to their exchange as I drink my tea. Craig looks angry, like he might start a fight. "Uh," I decide to cut in before things get heated. "If this is going to get loud or violent, we should probably take it outside."

"I'm fine with that," Tweek says, finishing his coffee before slamming the cup onto our table. "But I don't think it's necessary."

"Are you high right now?" I ask, staring at his pupils. Sober Tweek would never be such a blunt asshole.

"A bit," he admits, shrugging.

I let out a sigh, standing up and abandoning my half empty cup. "Come on," I urge Craig to his feet and drag the two of them out of Harbucks.

"Where are we going?" Craig asks warily.

I drag them to a nearby park. It's quiet and there's no one around. "Have at it," I say, letting them both go.

"I'm not going to –" Craig starts to say, but Tweek shoves him before he can finish his sentence. Craig falls backwards onto the grass and when he gets up, he gets angry. Since they clearly can't talk it out, maybe it's best they fight. Just like when they were little kids. Craig punches him square in the face and Tweek doesn't hesitate to retaliate.

I roll my eyes, sitting down on a nearby bench as they deck it out. I wait a few minutes… then a few more minutes… and then a few more. Eventually, they begin to tire. Once their hits get sloppy, I stand up. "You guys are really stupid," I say, staring at both their bloody faces.

Craig wipes his bloody nose off as he mean-mugs me. The fighting stops, but Tweek isn't quite finished with Craig yet. "Are you two an item now?" he asks.

"Yeah," I say, patting Craig on the shoulder.

Tweek laughs at that. "How funny…" he murmurs. "You guys make quite a pair."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Craig bites.

"Did Kenny tell you he fucked me?" Tweek asks Craig offhandedly and I pale somewhat, not wanting this to put a damper on anything.

"No," Craig says tersely. "It never came up."

"Well," Tweek shrugs, "it happened. Twice."

"How nice." Craig's voice is laced in sarcasm and Tweek can tell he doesn't want to hear anymore.

"Your boyfriend fucked me," Tweek announces.

"Shut up," Craig mutters.

"Your boyfriend fucked me!" he raises his voice.

"Shut up!" Craig does the same.

"Your boyfriend fucked me! Your boyfriend fucked me! Your boyfriend fucked me!" Tweek begins shouting.

"SHUT UP!" Craig screams and it's the loudest I've ever heard his voice go.

For a moment, everyone is quiet… and then Tweek starts to laugh again. "Ah…" he sighs. "You're jealous. I never thought I'd see the day… Hm."

"Fuck you," Craig sneers at him, he swipes at his nose again, but it just keeps bleeding.

"Come on… try talking it out again," I plead, cutting in. This isn't going how I wanted it to go.

"Not until he's fucking sober," Craig bites.

Tweek lets out a loud groan. "Come see me tomorrow, then. I'm going home." Without waiting for a response, he begins walking off, leaving the park gates.

I look at Craig and say, "We're going to see him tomorrow, whether you like it or not."

"Fine," Craig murmurs, not bothering to fight me on it.

"Hell, I wonder how high he was," I muse aloud. "The Tweek I know never would have said shit like that."

"Hm," Craig mutters. "He's mean."

"You can be worse," I reason.

"Whatever," he whispers.

I put my arm around him and say, "You're not mad, are you?"

"Why would I be?" he asks. "I'm not a hypocrite. You've fucked lots of people and so have I. It's not a damn secret…"

"I guess," I relent.

I walk him home after and we don't mention Tweek again once we leave the park. The walk is silent. It's dark by now and a little chilly outside, even though summer is almost here.

When we reach Craig's house, we still stay quiet. I go upstairs with him and sit on the counter as he washes his face in the sink. "You can go home," he says to me, drying his face with a wash cloth.

"You'll probably have a bruise," I tell him, grabbing his face and examining it closely. "He hit you pretty hard."

"Whatever," he mutters, taking a step back and moving out of my reach.

I hope off of the counter and he walks me back downstairs. I give him a peck on the lips before going and he lets out a pained sound. I draw back and he holds his nose. "Does it hurt?" I ask.

"Like fuck," he murmurs with a sigh.

I smile somewhat piteously, though I try not to.

"Go home," he says again. "I'm fine."

I nod, grabbing my parka and putting on my shoes before opening the door. I'm gone without another word.


The following day is a Sunday. Craig and me make our way to Tweek's house. His mother lets us in, seeming blissfully oblivious as always. Tweek's parents are both huge potheads. It'd be obvious even if you couldn't smell it.

We go upstairs and knock on Tweek's bedroom door before opening it. It creaks and as we step inside, we see him sitting on his bed with his head in his hands.

"Did you just wake up or something?" I ask.

"Mm…" he groans.

"Lay off the chalk, dude," I say lightly.

"Sh…" He rubs his temples a few times before reaching into his nightstand a getting pulling out a container of pills. He pops a few and lies back down. "So, what's up?" he asks us.

"Er, well…" I start. "You told us to drop by, remember? You said it last night."

"Ah, right…" he murmurs, pulling the blanket up to his chin. "I'm sorry. I was out of line… I was really out of line."

"S'fine…" Craig says.

"You said things I didn't want to hear," Tweek continues, "so I said things you didn't want to hear."

"Fair is fair," Craig mutters. He takes a few steps towards the bed. "How long have you been full-on addicted to the hard shit?"

"About a year," Tweek says with a sigh, "maybe more… I don't really know. The time kind of blends together… but I've always experimented."

"You can already see the physical signs," Craig notes cautiously.

Tweek smiles faintly. "I know…" He raises one of his arms and pulls up his sleeve, revealing a series of scabs where he's picked at his skin. I can't help but cringe. It looks painful. The thought of it makes me shudder.

Craig sits down on the edge of the mattress. "If you keep doing it, you'll get wrinkles and even worse sores on your face. You'll get meth-mouth and your teeth will rot out. Your hair will fall out, too."

Tweek sighs once more. "You're not telling me anything I don't already know."

"Then why do you keep doing it?" Craig asks, but Tweek only shrugs.

"Look," I cut in, approaching the two of them. "Kyle just signed himself into the hospital for help. You could do the same."

"Nah," Tweek dismisses the idea. "I prefer to rot away."

"Think about it," Craig says weakly.

"Fine," Tweek murmurs. "So, does this mean we're friends again?"

"I suppose so," Craig shrugs.

"Okay," Tweek whispers, closing his eyes. "Hey… if I did go to the hospital, would you visit me?"

"Yeah," Craig promises.

Christ, I feel bad for the both of them. They both need help, yet they refuse it. I don't think they'll ever accept what they desperately need.

I slip out of the room, allowing them to have time alone. I text Craig, telling him I'm gone home and a few minutes later, he replies telling me he'll drop by my place later on. I hope he spends the day with Tweek because, God knows, they both need it.


I spend most of the day in my room, surfing the net and listening to my music. Everyone thinks I have pretty bad taste in tunes, but I don't care. I like what I like.

In the late evening, I talk to Stan on Facebook for a little while. Apparently, he went to see Kyle again today.

KENNY MCCORMICK: How's he doing?

STANLEY R. MARSH: Good, I think! He seemed in good spirits, but I don't know if he's just trying to ease our worrying or if he's honestly doing okay.

KENNY MCCORMICK: Yeah, I guess there isn't a sure-fire way of knowing that.

STANLEY R. MARSH: Yeah… but anyway, how's Craig?

KENNY MCCORMICK: Your concern is cute. He's okay. We saw Tweek last night and the two of them had a pretty intense fist fight.

STANLEY R. MARSH: Just like old times.

KENNY MCCORMICK: Exactly. Tweek was pretty high, though. Anyway, Craig is with him now and they seemed to have patched things up. I think Craig has opened his eyes a lot this year.

STANLEY R. MARSH: Probably thanks to your constant annoyances.

KENNY MCCORMICK: Haha! Nah, bro. It's all Craig. A person can't change unless they're willing. I guess Craig, deep down, was willing. Someone just had to pull the desire out of him 'cause it was buried pretty deep.

STANLEY R. MARSH: Clearly.

KENNY MCCORMICK: It was buried deep… in his ass.

STANLEY R. MARSH: Dude, TMI. I bet you had no problem digging it out.

KENNY MCCORMICK: LOL.

STANLEY R. MARSH: He seems nicer these days.

KENNY MCCORMICK: I know. I hope it stays that way.

STANLEY R. MARSH: It will. The worst is over.

KENNY MCCORMICK: Yeah! I can't wait for summer! It's going to be so good.

STANLEY R. MARSH: Hell yeah!

I get giddy thinking about it. I already have it all planned out in my head. I'm being realistic about it, too. I know all my dreams aren't going to come true right away. My plan is to get a job. I'll probably have to work in crappy conditions for a while with a crappy pay to top it off, but that's okay. I'll keep the job and I'll work hard. I don't mind doing something a little undesirable. As long as I have things to look forward to and things that make me happy, I can smile.


Around 9PM, there's a knock on our door. Since Karen is downstairs, I let her answer it. A moment later, she shrieks my name. "Kenny, Craig is here!"

"Send him up!" I yell back. My laptop is still open as Craig saunters into my room and I immediately ask him how things went with Tweek.

He shrugs. "Good, I guess…" Vague answers, like always.

"Well, that's good," I say, not bothering to pry. I can tell he's being honest. If something went wrong, I think I'd be able to tell. I feel like I know him well enough by now.

He takes off his sweater and sits next to me on my shitty mattress. "What've you been doing?"

"Not much," I tell him. "Just surfin' the net a bit." My music is playing from my iTunes and Craig doesn't look too thrilled to be seeing what I listen to. "Don't you hate a shy bitch? Yeah I ate a shy bitch. She ain't shy no more. She changed her name to my bitch," I rap along to Lil Wayne's crude lyrics, just to annoy him.

"Gross," Craig grimaces.

"Heh," I snicker, bumping my shoulder into his. "Are you my bitch, Craig?"

"Nah," he says, straight-faced. "I'm everyone's bitch. An ass this fine can't belong to just one guy."

I feel my jaw drop. "Oh, wow." I can't help but laugh, even though the joke is kind of sad and it's at his expense.

He cracks a small smile, grabbing my laptop from me "You have a way different taste in music than I would've guessed," he murmurs, flicking through my playlist. "Classified, Drake, Eminem, Macklemore, Nicki Minaj… You're a rap fan, huh?"

"Yeah," I snort. "So, apart from Radiohead, who do you listen to?" I ask.

"I don't know," he shrugs. "I guess I also like Fleetwood Mac… I like more mellow stuff."

"Hmm… Y'know," I say, "I've never even listened to any of their shit."

"They're good," he insists, opening a new window on Chrome and YouTube-ing "Fake Plastic Trees" by Radiohead. He shuts my iTunes before pressing play. Closing his eyes, he says, "Listen to the lyrics."

I watch Craig. He looks thoughtful. A moment later, I force myself to close my eyes and concentrate on the song.

My fake plastic love
But I can't help the feeling
I could blow through the ceiling
If I just turn and run

I wonder if he's trying to tell me something by making me listen to these lyrics.

It wears me out, it wears me out
It wears me out, it wears me out
If I could be who you wanted
If I could be who you wanted all the time…

But nonetheless, I just open my eyes and smile. When Craig opens his eyes, he's smiling too. It's a strange, little smile. But still, I don't ask questions. The song ends and Craig puts on another song, once again forcing me to listen to the lyrics. I don't understand why. I don't know whether he just wants to show me something he connects with, or if he's trying to mind-fuck me again. I hope it's not the latter.

After a few more songs, he closes my laptop. "You look confused," he says.

"I am," I admit.

"Why?" he asks softly, looking almost mournful.

"Why'd you show me those songs?" I question.

He sets my laptop on the floor next to my mattress and for a moment he says nothing. He lets out a breath and glances at me. "Why do you think I showed them to you?" he asks. "To fuck with you?"

"I hope not," I say.

He laughs and it's just as bitter as every other time he's done it. "I'm not trying to mess with your head," he promises. "I'm done doing that… but I am trying to tell you something."

"Please don't say this is the end," I cut in weakly.

"No," he murmurs. "Just lemme talk for a sec, yeah?"

I nod, "Okay."

"There's a lot of romanticized bullshit about sex," he starts, staring at nothing in particular. "People think that when you're naked and exposed and spread out like that, you're vulnerable. People think it has to mean something… it doesn't, though. For me, that hasn't been the case for a long fucking time. When I was over or under someone else, I wouldn't feel vulnerable. I like being naked in that sense. I don't feel exposed. I don't really feel anything at all. Mentally, I liked to keep myself closed up. Physically, I did the opposite. By fucking people, I could fuck with them. That kept them away and in turn, I was able to keep myself closed off. No one tried to get to know me. Then you came along and tried so fucking hard to do exactly that. I didn't get why you tried the way you did. No one else bothered. But I guess that made you special. I decided I'd humour you for a while. Then I got attached, so I decided to end things before they started. I tried really fucking hard to hurt you, yet you kept forgiving me. I probably hurt you more than any other person… but you forgave me…" He pauses, eyebrows drawing together. "Why did you do that?" he asks, glancing at me.

"Because humans are weak," I say, hoping that doesn't offend him. "When they're scared, they do stupid things. They rarely think rationally. I know that you were trying to hurt me to protect yourself. It was a dick move, but I can forgive it. I can empathize."

He nods his head lightly, staring down at his hands. "The songs I showed you…" he continues. "They're important. They resonate with me, so I decided to show them to you. To me, that's vulnerability. It's... talking about things you don't usually talk about. It's showing somebody what you hold close and even though you're laying yourself out like that, you're not as worried as you might be if it was any other person." He pauses for a moment before continuing, "I don't talk to people. I never really have. Even Clyde... he's my best friend, but I never tell him things. You're different, though. I talk to you. Even though you force the words out sometimes, I feel at ease after I'm done talking. I now know you're not about to throw it back in my face."

I smile softly. "So…"

Craig sighs. "I'm saying that I don't want to keep disappointing you. I'm saying that I'll be good," he murmurs. "I'm saying I love you."

I open my mouth to reply, but the words get stuck in my throat. Instead, I grin at him. I know how hard it must have been for him to say it in the first place. "I fuck… I fucking love you, too," I say after euphoria subsides.

"I know," he insists. "Anyway, I should go home… there's school tomorrow."

"Since when do you give a fuck?" I snort.

He smiles wearily. "Yeah, you're right."

"Stay the night," I suggest. I don't want to let him go just yet - especially now that he was finally able to get the words out.

"All right," he agrees. He leans back and lifts his hips, shrugging out of his jeans and boxers before lifting his t-shirt off. Following his lead, I take my own clothes off and once we're bare I pull the blankets over our bodies.

We don't have sex. Instead, we just lie down and sleep together. Sleep, in the simplest sense of the word with our tired limbs tangled.