A/N: Hey folx, just wanted to try writing a note that would somehow encompass an apology but also gratitude in the same vein. I apologize for the infrequent updates (once a month basically). I work with my hands a lot and I'm still having issues with wrist pain. My hand often stiffens quickly. In addition, I've just been depressed. Like so, so many people right now, I too have been feeling very hopeless, and tired. Loss of appetite, motivation, etc. There's also a nagging voice in the back of my head who tells me to quit whenever I'm sitting down to write. The physical pain of my wrist just gives the voice more reasoning for their cause.

Despite all that, I've loved writing this story so far. I love Cryle, and I love that other people who love Cryle have been enjoying this story so far. Even if it's "just fanfiction," (as I've been told) I don't want to give up. Writing is writing, no matter what form, and it brings joy to see a project all the way through. I'm trying to let myself feel joy.

Thank you so much for reading, whether you're just now stepping into it or have been reading since April - thank you 3

So, here's to switching to my left hand, and here's to giving Kyle the character arc he deserves.

Cheers,

Kyle, Your Local Garbage Gay

I hummed an old song to myself, I couldn't remember the name (I think it was "Sonny Came Home"? I must have heard it at the barbeque). But the melody was caught in my brain, in the background of Craig's soft laughing as he held my hands, looking up to me as I walked backward up the stairs, leading him up as if he were a giddy, smiling lamb. He wasn't drunk or high. He was happy. I had to shush him with my own mouth.

It was 2 am and I could hear Cartman's snores all the way from the end of the hall.

Both of us passed out as soon as we touched my bed.

There was a day in July where it rained from sunrise to sundown, and anyone who lived on a dirt road in South Park was fucked if they wanted to leave thier house. Mud was fucking everywhere.

I left my parents' house that morning in rainboots and an old hooded windbreaker that made swishing noises when I moved my arms. All of us, miffed by the mugginess and miserable, smelled like wet, hormonal dogs.

Clyde and I watched his friends - a group of four brothers, the oldest just graduating from college, and the younger triplets who went to Columbine- put chains on their father's truck tires, put the truck in park and hit the gas just to watch it spray mud. It was either that or do drugs, but someone had cut our last bag of cokecaine with laxative and we were still store from the experience. After three hours in the bathroom, Clyde sought out the guy who sold it to us and held him over the bridge at Stark's Pond until he gave us our money back.

I went home that night, and when the rain tapered off, snuck out at midnight. Our boots squelched in the cornfields of McCreary's Farm, around a dilapidated barn and a club of grazing cows.

"Look at them. They don't even know what's about to happen," Clyde said, squatting next to a rusty tractor and lighting up a cigarette.

I stood close to him, hoping the cigarette smoke would mask the manure fumes.

"I think those are the dairy cows," I said. One of them looked up at me. "Hi, buddy."

The cow started, unblinking, then mechanically bent down and resumed chewing grass.

"Wow, that's like, exactly what happened when you asked out that girl at 7-11," Clyde said.

"Shut the fuck up."

Clyde just laughed, which stirred more cows to leer at us.

I shifted, shoved my fists in my pockets. Clyde slid into the dirt.

"You're going to get muddy."

"It's fine."

I don't often miss my hometown, and I doubt it misses me, but I still think of those nights where you could see the entire night sky, unencumbered by light pollution. It was black. Just us and the cows under a net of dotted stars and cotton streams of white. All I could see was the shining cow eyes, he tractor that looked like a boxy, shadow monster, and the red, glowing end of Clyde's cigarette, not frantically bobbing like how it did the night he died, but still, as if i were his own small sun.

"When Mom died-"

It wasn't unusual for him to begin sentences this way. Soft segues into a memory or line of thinking was not Clyde's specialty. I was used to it, even adopting the language myself ("After Clyde died…"). I can't say passed away, because he'd never want me to.

"Passed away? Yeah, I passed through a fucking windshield. Jesus Christ, just say I fucking died, Kyle." That's what I imagine him telling me. I'd say the same, had the roles been reversed. Just say I fucking died.

"When Mom, died, my dad said she'd be watching down on me." He drew circles in the air with smoke. "I believed him because I was a stupid kid, but I shouldn't have. There isn't shit up there."

I couldn't gauge if he wanted me to say something or if he only needed to be listened to. I waited. I shivered.

"If Mom is up there, she's probably turned her face away from me now."

I stepped over and slumped down next to him. The gound was still damp and the tractor was warm against my back.

"I doubt that," I said softly. "I doubt that very much."

"Guess I'll never know. I don't even know if I want to think about it anymore. It makes me tired, thinking about it."

We sat there until sunrise, dozing in and out, watching cows graze, passing cigarettes, and enjoying the silence.

My headache woke me up. I was shivering, cold sweating, too wet to be comfortable, but my back was warm. I remembered my dream and realized I must have had a minor episode in my sleep. The wet grass, the warm tractor. Did I speak? I could still smell the manure.

A massive dragonfly hovered outside my window. Craig was gone. Or so I thought until I heard a snore. I peeked over the bed to see him on his stomach, one arm bent behind his back like a collapsed marionette. I rolled down to the floor, pulled my knees to my chest and watched for some time as he breathed. I was (I am) in the same clothes as yesterday, as was he, shirt lifted so I could see the bumps of his spine. We were sacrosanct, untouchable, framed in another moment I wanted blown into glass. My mouth on my arm, wondering if that warmth is what it's like to kiss me. I closed my eyes, waiting for him to open his, listened to my heart beat in sync witht he dragonfly tap tap tapping on the window.

Summer was halfway over.

I nudged his shoulder.

"Hey, pretzel boy."

He awake with a sharp inhale, eyes wide. "Ah, fuck."

Groaning, he rolled over onto his back.

"Why are you on the floor?"

"You don't know?" His face was scrunched as he stretched out his arms. "You kicked me off."

"Really? Shit, I'm sorry."

"Eh, it's fine. You've got some strong hams though, damn."

"You didn't have to stay on the floor…"

"I was too tired to get back up. Though, next time I stay over, I'm bringing a sleeping bag."

"I feel awful now."

"Oh, stop. Really, it's okay."

I looked down at my socks and smiled to myself. Craig turned on his side, propped up on his elbow.

"What did you dream about?" he asked.

"What did I dream?"

"Do you remember? You were talking in your sleep."

"What did I say?"

"I couldn't understand all of it, but I remember hearing I don't want to think anymore."

It was Clyde talking through me and my memories. I knew that as soon as Craig said it. It's a very Clyde thing to say.

"I was talking to some cows," I said.

"Did the cows talk back?"

I snorted. "No? Of course not."

"Well, it's a dream, cows can speak in those."

"Not in mine, apparently."

He laughed to himself, tracing his finger in the carpet for awhile.

Then, he said, "I did something tacky."

"Tacky?"

"Kind of."

I watched him grab his phone, thrown askew by the nightstand, and tap around for a few seconds, then turn the screen to me. It was a playlist he curated… for me. The name: "for him."

Scrolling through, I noted some of the bands. Some I knew, some I had never heard of.

"This isn't tacky… this is sweet."

"You think so? I… I don't have the best music taste but I know you like pop-punk so I tried my best."

"I love this. When did you do this?"

"The night after our fist date."

"I didn't realize you liked me this much."

Again, he laughed softly to the floor, face turning red. The carpet marks on his temple were fading.

Tissue box on my lap, I tried to tell Dr. T'Soni what happened, that first time she asked. I could only speak of him for five minutes. Vignettes of incoherent whines came out. Sounds that my father would smack me in the back of my head for making.

Eventually, we stretched those whines to ten minutes, then fifteen. Anything I forget, I can write here.

She asked me if I believed I could love someone again. I said Maybe. Maybe, But It'll Have To Be A Long Time From Now.

Truth is, I don't know. I don't want to. I have nothing to give that anyone would want.

There are things here that I will not read to her.

A memory I'm not sure is real or not:

He comes outside in an oversized tee-shirt, sleeves rolled up to the shoulders and paint-stained (or bleach?) shorts.

"I did it again," he says, and shows me his finger, spliced at the seam of his knuckle. I'm on my hands and knees, shoveling away dirt to make steeper holes for a cobblestone path that I want, so he has to bend down slightly to show me. I suck in air through my teeth to sympathize. He tilts back up and sucks away the blood, the smack of his lips like he's wine tasting.

"I'm a liability," he says.

"One of these days you'll cut your whole damn finger off."

I've dropped my small shovel and nicked the inside of my arm. Now I'm bleeding. Craig sucks air through his teeth.

A memory I know is real:

Craig. Nervous.

Nervous as I was, hanging around his family, but taking it in stride and getting along with Stan, Wendy, Kenny, and even Cartman! Turns out they have more in common then they thought (love of breakfast food, right down to stacked crepes and the new jingle that plays from the chip reader at the grocery store). I never told Craig why Cartman went to juvie, but Cartman proudly volunteers, says ARSON with his chest, spells out the word in the air as if the invisible letters themselves will catch fire, and Craig says Wow very coolly, not impressed at all but fascinated, maybe a bit scared.

Kenny chirps into the conversation and asks Craig if he'd ever get a tattoo. Craig says he'd maybe get one or two, but can't picture himself being as covered as I am. I say that I won't stop until I reach my face, give me all the colors. Kelso purrs in my lap.

Stan flips through the channels, eating a brownie, while Wendy is dragging a feather across the floor for Donna. All of us are high.

I can't tell how high Craig is, he's mellow all the time anyway. Cartman has informed us he's been blocked by his Kelly Clarkson doppelganger girlfriend and tries to freestyle rap about how it made him feel (from "babe" to "blocked"/ got my love gun half-cocked). Stan's mouth hangs open, watching the back of Cartman's head as he tries to spit verse and drops the remote. He's too high to pick it back up off the floor so we're stuck on this channel with a loud AAA commercial. Out of nowhere, Kenny whips out a sketchbook and flips to a drawing of a clown fisting a shocked balloon animal, and asks if he can tattoo it on Craig for his portfolio and Craig politely declines, explaining that it's not his style. I say I'll do it if the drawing looks more consensual.

The volume of the resuming TV program jolts us, and we see two teenage boys - white, gross, awkward, and in the front seat of a speeding car. What looks like behind them is a green screen effect with flashing police lights. The passenger is panicking, turning every which way. He's holding a knife to the driver.

"Turn it off…" I say. No one does anything.

Dramatic, quivering music. The passenger grabs the wheel. The screen goes black and there's a car crash sound effect. Scraping metal and oh fuck, I can't. A deep-voiced narrator speaks but we don't know what he says because my mugshot glows on the screen and it makes me scream.

I stand up. The cat runs and hides under the couch.

I'm screaming: "TURN IT OFF! TURN IT THE FUCK OFF!"

Wendy fumbles, finds the remote and switches it the fuck off. Crackling in the back of the TV. Everyone is staring at me. I wipe my eyes with my sleeves. "What the fuck…"

Craig touched my hip. "Hey-"

"-don't touch me! God, please don't touch me!"

My breath is ripped out. My brain is somewhere else, sucked into celestial figures, and I wish my body was there, too. I…

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