I'm really sick of the chapter, I've edited major plot holes out of it for ages. There used to be a pretty shippy scene in here that first was softened, and ultimately was cut in favour of appearing later. Sorry, haha. Enjoy!

Kenny spends the first three or four days adjusting and everything goes fine. He falls into the routine of the hospital; get up, have breakfast, go to private therapy with his nurse (they all have designated therapists; his is named Bridgette), have lunch, hang around with his friends, go to group therapy, have dinner, one more therapy session (with Dr. Kelly), hang around until he becomes tired. This isn't a normal routine for him by any means, but he thinks it's likely he won't be normal for some time. But, normal or not, it's everyday, and that makes it normal in some sort of way, some sort of sick-person-in-a-hospital way.

Therapy isn't that bad, to be honest. After the initial terror of it wears off, it turns out to be a fairly mundane hour or so of talking to Bridgette or Dr. Kelly, letting insecurities leak out while they gently prod at Kenny's past. In truth, it's rather calming, but Kenny isn't about to admit that.

He likes the sessions with Bridgette better. She talks to kids really well; she speaks the language and understands the slang, and she's really good at reading body language. She doesn't ask about how he's doing in the hospital, but about him, his interests, his past, his home life, his love life. If she has a clipboard, he can't see it, and she doesn't keep darting behind her computer. A bubble screensaver occupies the screen, and she doesn't take notes at all. She sits at her desk and plays with her hair or paints her nails, and when he asked if she was allowed to do that, she winked and said not to tell Kelly. On the first visit, she asked what his favourite band was, and when he told her, she downloaded a few albums. Now they play lowly while he visits with her. It's all a ploy to make him feel secure and safe, but god, it works. He mouths the words to Ludo and they talk about whatever feels right.

It's different with Kelly. He's definitely a doctor, definitely a therapist instead of just a lady who lacquers her nails orange and listens to him ramble. Bridgette is by far more comfortable, and he feels like his mouth just falls open and the words flood out when he's with her, but when he talks to Kelly, it feels like shit gets done. He doesn't talk about Kenny's life. He talks about his recovery so far, how he's feeling about group therapy, changes he notices in Kenny. That sort of professional drivel. Kenny doesn't mind the businesslike attitude, but he doesn't always like to answer Kelly's questions and instead likes to redirect their conversation to something friendlier.

Consider:

Kelly looks at him and says, "Tell me what's on your mind, Kenny. How were your other therapy sessions today? Did you have any triggers?"

Kenny says, "I don't know."

Kelly gives a wry smile and says, "Tell me what you'd tell your girlfriend if she asked the same thing."

He sighs. "I'd tell her I was fine, 'cause girls really like worrying about shit like that. I'd tell my boyfriend I was feeling awful, because I'm in therapy talking about how much my state of mind sucks. It's easier to talk to guys, because at least I kind of know what they'll say. I mean, I know what I'd say, anyway."

The look the doctor gives him alerts him to the fact that everything after boyfriend went in through one ear and out the other.

"Are you gay, Kenny?" He asks it in a way that manages to avoid sounding like a shocked demand from a surprised acquaintance and more like a gentle question from a therapist: unbiased, equitable.

"Guess it would come up at some point or another," Kenny mumbles.

"I see."

They redirect Kelly, at least. They catch him off-guard enough that he moves to something else, figuring Kenny wouldn't have brought it up if he didn't have something to say about it. Have you ever had a boyfriend that knew about your phobia is a comparably nicer question than Have you ever reacted in front of your friends.

These delaying tactics are what keeps Kenny through therapy. But, he's talked about being gay, and he's talked about his dysfunctional home, and he's talked about that one time he used his parents' meth, and now, he's finally running out of side roads to swerve onto when the highway becomes too bumpy. He talks to Bridgette about how much he hates Dr. Kelly, though in truth, he doesn't really hate him, and the way she nods lets him know she knows he's being melodramatic.

Group therapy is fun, albeit awkward. It's in another room, connected to the common area by another hallway. The room is big and feels like a classroom, with nondescript bluish carpeting, lots of plastic chairs, and several large tables. First, the group therapist arranges some chairs into a small circle, sits them all down, and then they all talk. Afterwards, they do something that supposedly reflects how they're feeling. Generally, it's something creative, like drawing or painting. Kenny likes it enough; it's like English class, where you get to read a short story and make up bullshit about symbolism.

When they talk, the nurse asks questions and leaves them open for anyone to answer. Innocent questions like "How did you sleep last night?" are answered by nearly everyone, and from there they chat for a while, but then she pulls out things like "If you were faced with the choice of facing your phobia or killing someone, what would you do?" and the whole room goes silent. Sometimes, someone answers.

Kenny's been to solitary therapy with Bridgette today. She did a cool paisley pattern on her fingernails and asked him about his first girlfriend. He rambled a little bit about Lola, who, in sixth grade, sent the word out that she liked him, so he asked her out and they were together for two weeks before they decided it was too weird. She laughed and told him about her first boyfriend in grade nine, whom she dated for three days before he said, "My friends don't really like you, so we're going to break up." God, he likes his sessions with her. Now he's in group therapy. They've already gone over the nice questions, the how-did-you-sleep-how-are-you-today. Now, the nurse pulls out her fucking clipboard and she starts dropping the A-bomb questions.

"What would the circumstances have to be for you to willing act against your phobia?" she asks. The group therapist is a gaunt, ash-blonde, lipstick-wearing lady named Victoria. She'd be pretty if she wasn't so skinny, with angular arms that have bones sticking out of them. Kenny guesses if she's not anorexic now, she used to be.

At first, there's a beat of silence, and Kenny expects that the question will fizzle and die like the rest of them. But, Wendy speaks up.

"Well, my phobia isn't really a tangible thing. How would that work?" she asks. Wendy is one of those kids that answers all the teachers' questions because she feels bad for them. She's one of those kids that says, "Well, this is quiet," when nobody speaks during a car ride. Kenny knows. He's driven her places. (Usually, he turns the radio on so he doesn't have to listen to her.) She can't stand silence, and even if it means throwing herself into an awkward place, she speaks. Of course, she's smart; she can tell the difference between a very tense silence not to be broken and an optional silence that only needs a conversational topic to be eliminated. She knows when to hold her mouth, and yet he's sure she hates doing it.

Victoria says, "Let's say you were taking a bus to New Mexico. You stop at a convenience store in the middle of nowhere. What would have to happen to make you actively do something that could result in missing the bus?" He thinks of her saying, "Guess nobody has anything to say, huh," to the patrons of the Greyhound.

Wendy slumps forward in her chair and rests her elbows on her knees. "Let's see." She pauses and thinks. "It would have to be something that would mean risking my well-being if I got on the bus. Like, if I knew there was a murderer on the bus, I wouldn't get on."

"But then what? Then you'd be stranded in the middle of nowhere."

"Yes, but I'd be alive," she says firmly.

"What if the guy on the bus wasn't actually a murderer? Or what if he was, but he honestly just wanted to go to New Mexico?" Kenny asks, eyeing her. Her nose wrinkles.

"Damn, I don't know. You know what? I'd probably end up getting on anyway because I'd be thinking just that."

"So what would happen if you missed the bus? What would you do then?" he urges.

Her hand slips into her pocket and pulls out a piece of gum. She unwraps it and starts playing with the wrapper. "I don't know. I guess I'd call somebody, or see if another bus would come, but more likely than not I'd flip my shit and cry in the bathroom."

"Okay, so it would take life or death to make you willingly be left behind," Victoria says, raising her thin, plucked eyebrows. "That's not uncommon."

"It wouldn't take much for me to go against that stuff. They're not that deep rooted for me," Stan says. "Like, if I had a friend in the hospital, I'd totally go see him. Or if Kyle started puking, I wouldn't just run away. But a snake would have to be physically hurting someone before I'd scare it away rather than run for my life."

"Well, that's alright. But if Kyle started puking, would you be scared?" she asks, scribbling something down on a clipboard. Kenny hates it when she does that, because it reminds him that she's not engaging in casual conversation with them out of the goodness of her heart; she's reporting on them.

"I'd be terrified. But I don't think I'd be useless, like I think I could get him a bucket or clean it up or something," Stan's brows are furrowed the slightest bit. He looks like he doubts the sincerity of his words. Kyle looks at him cynically, obviously doubting him as well.

"Alright." She grins at him and shows off slightly coffee-tinted teeth. "Does anyone else want to share?"

"I'd have to be totally reassured that a horse was safe, and in absolutely no danger at all before I'd get close to one," Kyle says.

"So what if you had to get out of danger really quick and a horse was your only mode of transportation?" Kenny suggests.

"I wouldn't do it," Kyle says mindfully. "I'd freeze up. I wouldn't be able to do it, no matter how urgently I needed to leave an area. I'd rather die before I'd go galloping off on some fucking stallion. Hell, I get uncomfortable watching horses in movies; I'd be awful in real life."

"What if all your friends were going to die? What if you had to deliver something that would save the whole world and you had to do it on a horse?" Kenny insists.

Kyle sighs in exasperation and runs his fingers through his hair. "Well, maybe then."

"But you said you never would and you'd rather-"

"That's enough, Kenny," Victoria says finally. He pulls a face and slouches back in his chair.

"Would you kill a horse?" Craig asks, tugging at the sleeves of his hoodie. Today, he's wearing a black one with a standout silver zipper. The elbows are a bit worn out, but it's new from September and could certainly be in worse shape.

"Excuse me?" Kenny looks back to Kyle, who's looking perplexed and a little disturbed.

"Would you kill a horse," he repeats flatly.

"I – Well – That's not really fair, Craig," he defends indignantly.

"How so?"

"I'm scared of horses, but killing one is an entirely differently matter! I mean, I'd have to get close enough to incapacitate it, for one, and two, I'd have to physically end its life, and while that would mean one less horse on the planet, it would also mean-"

"You're rambling," Craig points out.

"You asked!" Kyle shouts, turning red.

"You answered," he says simply. There are holes in his logic, but Kenny finds it entertaining enough that it doesn't bother him.

"That's enough," Victoria says firmly. "We're here to have a discussion about our fears. We're here to grow. There is no place for argument here."

"Sorry," Kyle mutters, and under his breath he adds fucking asshole. Craig follows suit and apologizes grudgingly as well.

"Does anyone else want to share?"

There's a silence in which they all wait for the other to say something.

She looks at him, and her eyes pierce right through his and out through the back of his skull. He rubs his head insecurely.

"Kenny? You haven't said much about yourself today," she says pointedly. "What would make you handle poisonous material?"

He stares at her for a second until something in him flicks on and he realizes he should probably speak.

He clears his throat and says, "I guess it would have to mean saving someone, like, saving-"

(saving her)

"Like saving somebody's life or something," he finishes. "I usually get my sister to clean and stuff. I don't like to."

She nods and writes something down. "Thank you."

"Can I go to the washroom?" Kenny asks on impulse.

"Right outside and to your right," Victoria says, pointing to the door. Kenny manages a thanks and skitters out of the room. He doesn't really have to go, but he needs a second away from nurses and buses and piercing stares, piercing questions. He slips outside and takes a second to breathe before he bumps the door open with his shoulder and walks into the porcelain room, all shiny surfaces and terrifically white sinks. The mirrors are nice, too; big and straight, no ripples. He leans in and scratches at a small red crater above his lip. His mom always said that big mirrors were a waste of time. She said it just made you pickier about all the shit on your skin. With a crooked smile, he thinks she might be right.

The hot water comes quickly, always a luxury. He splashes it over his face and collects it in his hands to drink from. Warm water is gross, everyone who's ever had to drink from a water bottle that's been outside for a while knows that, but it dampens his throat and slicks the tissue. Satisfied, he taps the air dryer and rubs his hands under the heat. Before he leaves, he glances again into a mirror and shakes his hair down.

And then he sees it; a bottle of cleaner, the sort that smells like lemons and scours like there's no tomorrow; the sort that requires an extremely fast call to the poison control center when ingested. The cleaning staff must have neglected to put it away.

(oh shit oh SHIT what if it was on the sink I definitely touched that sink touched my face)

His thoughts explode like popcorn.

(what if I ate some accidentally?)

(it's seeping into my skin)

(this is where I die)

The room starts spinning, spiraling, rocketing away somewhere much too far away. Something in this room must be solid, must be real. He reaches out and blindly grasps the counter.

(no)

Feverishly, he sticks his head into the sink, bumping his cheek painfully on the faucet in the process, and turns on the water. The cold water gushes over the little red mark and washes it out.

(it's coming back no)

He pulls his head out from under the tap, feeling water roll down his face. Holes form in his vision, oh god, his hands are so alien to him, and breath comes patchily.

(can't resist no god no I don't want to relive that)

Kenny faints, falls forward on the sink and then backwards on the floor. Water pools in his ear.

(here)

(we)

(go)

He's watching Karen in the backyard. She picks dandelions and turns them into chains and crowns. She says Allie at school taught her how. Kenny sips at a beer and tells her that's fantastic, she should make him one. Karen is all bright smiles and ten-year-old pleasure. She says she will. What's wonderful about this is that she's picking dandelions like they're roses, valuable, beautiful. Carol sticks her head out the door, says, Kenny, is everything okay, do you need anything? Kenny says No, thanks Mom. He doesn't know why she asked, but he likes it, he likes when his parents are happy.

Kenny, look! Karen cries, and she holds up a dandelion crown.

That's beautiful, baby doll, Kenny says. Is it for me?

Yeah, bend down, she says, and he does, and she arranges it on his head.

You're the king of everything!

I guess I am, he chuckles.

Carol's head comes out of the door again, and she says, Kenny, baby, I'm sorry, but could'ja spray the tree in the back? I been meaning to, there's so many bugs on it, I don't wanna lose that tree. Could'ja, baby?

Sure, mom, he says, and he trots over to the shed in the back. There's some pesticide in there, and it's old but it works. He picks up the jug – so old that what's left of the label is dirty and cracked and illegible – and pours some into a dirty plastic container and looks for a flat surface to put it on.

Karen, could you hold this? I have to get some water.

Okay. She takes it in her hands and looks at it. What is it?

Bad stuff. Not for kids, Kenny says. He turns the outside faucet on and nothing comes out.

Just a second, baby, I have to go inside a second. He carries a bucket in and fills it in the kitchen. When it's half full, he figures that's good enough and brings it out again. He walks out the door, not having bothered to close it in the first place, and Karen's still standing on the grass, making a face at the cup she's holding.

Something happen, baby? Kenny says, taking the cup and pouring it into the bucket. He shakes it slightly to stir it.

Pretty gross stuff, Karen says.

Yeah, it's gross, Kenny agrees. He doesn't think about it while he retrieves the sprayer from the shed and fills it. He doesn't think about it while she watches him spray the tree.

What's that stuff do, Kenny?

Hmm? He snaps out of a daydream to answer her. It kills bugs. See all the little dots on the leaves on this tree? They're a kind of bug that's hurting the tree.

So it's really bad? she asks carefully.

Really bad. Now, he cues in and stops spraying to look at her straight on. Karen? Did you touch it?

No, she says quickly.

He frowns, but nods. Alright. I want you to wash your hands anyway, okay?

Okay, Kenny, she says.

That evening, she starts shivering at the dinner table, while Carol spoons out Kraft Dinner. Her spoon hovers and she asks, Karen? You cold?

No, Karen answers. I feel really bad.

Bad how? she asks, handing the pot off to Stuart, who hands it off to Kevin, who puts it on the table.

Really really bad. My stomach hurts a lot, and my throat burns. It hurt a bit earlier, but I thought it would go away. She shivers violently, like it's January instead of July.

I think you should lay down if you're that sick, Carol says gently. She helps her up and leads her to the living room. Stuart abandons his beer to trail behind protectively. Kevin looks at Kenny and shrugs. Kenny shrugs back.

She lies down gingerly and Stuart fetches a blanket to throw over her. Then, they both kiss her cheek and come back to the dinner table. She finishes dishing out the food, but her eyebrows are crunched together in worry the whole time. They eat quickly and wordlessly. Kenny opts to clear the table instead of bickering about it with Kevin. He's rinsing the first dish when he hears Karen get up and run to the bathroom. He glances her way just in time to see her clobber her shoulder on the door frame and fall to her knees.

Karen? You okay? He runs over to her and she's facing the floor and gagging, making horrible noises he never wanted to hear his baby sister make.

Mom? Dad? he calls out. He can only watch in shock as she proceeds to vomit everything left in her. She hacks and coughs and weakly spits out half-digested bits and things into the puddle she's made. It's all spiraled with blood. The first thing he can think of is to wet a washcloth and crouch next to her.

Baby, lift your head, okay? he asks as steadily as she can. Carol and Stuart come around the corner and gasp. Stuart bends over and lifts her up, her small body looking more fragile than ever in his arms. Kenny stands and dabs at the spit around her mouth.

Open your mouth, okay?

She does, and he can see that it's red and burning and inflamed.

Karen, did you drink that pesticide? he snaps, and winces at the aggression in his voice.

Please don't be mad, I thought it would be okay, she manages, coughing and beginning to cry.

I'm not mad, I swear, he says quickly. I just wish you would have told me. He pets her hair back.

I feel horrible, she sobs.

Take her to bed, Dad, Kenny says. He nods and carries her off, murmuring nothings like Shh, baby doll, it'll be okay.

Kenny watches her through the next few days as she shivers and sweats and vomits. He watches her cry and moan as she spends another night throwing up the scraps left in her stomach.

And oh, it's all his fault she can't stand up for a week. It's his fault she was so, so sick.

It's his fault, and he can't change it, can't fix it, can't ever touch it again, can't can't can't

Kenny sits up and touches his throbbing temples. The water is still slick on his face; he couldn't have been out for more than a minute. But it had felt so long, so complete. He could taste the beer, feel the material of his sister's shirt.

(can't)

"Oh, fuck," he moans, standing up. He turns the mouth of the air dryer up to his face and blow dries it until it's acceptably dry. When he's finished, he regains some sort of composition and walks back to the common area. The group doesn't look up on his arrival, they don't say god, Kenny, you look like a train wreck, or Jesus Christ, what took so long? He looks at the clock and notices he's been gone for a bit over five minutes, a forgivable time. His place next to Butters is still open, and he sits down.

"Welcome back, Kenny. We've moved onto reactions."

"Oh, okay," he says. The faces around him are nervous and sick. Only Victoria looks at ease. She pushes the stands of hair that have fallen out of her bun behind her ears and continues.

"I want everyone to share for this one. It doesn't have to be long. Just state what goes through your head or what happens when you encounter your phobia," she says in her clear voice. Kenny watches her over-defined tendons contract and relax in her skin. "We'll go clockwise, alright? Starting with Kenny."

(aw shit)

"Well, I, um-"

(no more half truths)

"-I start panicking. I start thinking I've ingested the toxins, even if they're in a cupboard or something. Like, I start thinking maybe I blacked out and drank some even though I don't remember doing it." He glances around and smirks. "Yeah, it's stupid."

"It's not stupid. Leopold?"

Butters twists his fingers and says, "Ah, it's just Butters, ma'am." He's gone over it with her before, but she doesn't seem to get it. "I start, well, freaking out, I guess, I mean, I get all panicky, like I can't breathe."

"Good. Kyle?"

Kyle slumps back and sighs. "I dunno. I get scared. I don't ever go near horses, though, so I don't really know. I've only really been close enough to start feeling uncomfortable."

"That's fine, Kyle." She pauses to scribble on her clipboard again. "Stan?"

"It's different for all of them. For vomit, my stomach clenches up and I usually faint." He runs a hand through his hair out of habit. "Um, hospitals I can stand, it's just that I can't spend too long in them or I get kind of, you know, jumpy. More jumpy than the average person. They make me nauseous, though, and then that sparks the puke hang-up, and then it all snowballs and it's awful." He chuckles, but not humorously. "And for snakes, I scream like a little girl and run like lightning." This brings a couple of smiles.

She hums and clicks her pen. "Wendy?"

"I straight out panic. I can't think of anything besides the fact that I absolutely cannot be left behind," she says, rather properly. "I cannot be forgotten."

"Thank you. Craig?"

He scuffs his shoes on the floor. "Fog is constricting. I can't breathe."

"Short and sweet. Thank you." She slips the pen into the clip and stand up. "That's all for talking today. Let's move onto something a little more creative. Now, I want you to illustrate as best you can the most shocking dream you've ever had."

"Even if it's gory? Or R rated?" Kenny asks.

"Especially if it's gory or R rated," she clips. "I'll bring out some paper and pencils." She stands and walks to the back of the room, where there's paper and pencils. Her skeleton legs hardly look like they can keep her upright. When she comes back, she's carrying a box of pencil crayons, some regular writing pencils, and some copy paper. She hands them out and then goes to sit at her desk, tapping away at the computer..

They all move to the tables in the center of the room and stare at the blank sheets in front of them.

Kenny draws a haphazard cat.

"I can't draw kitties," he says.

"Kitties can't draw either," Craig says. He's drawing skyscrapers with a grey pencil crayon (why not just use a pencil, Kenny thinks). They're hardly better than Kenny's cat.

"Maybe I should take this seriously," he says gloomily, lifting his elbows onto the table.

"Maybe," Craig parrots.

"Big fat help you are," he mumbles. He nudges Butters. "What are you drawing?"

"Oh, I'm drawing the snake from The Jungle Book, if you remember that old movie." Kenny nods. "Well, when I was a kid, I'd have dreams that he'd sneak into my room and eat me, but really slowly and horribly. He chewed me to bits! I could feel my bones breaking," he says with a shudder. "Always scared me outta my socks. Still scares me, actually."

Kenny is a little surprised. He had expected something a bit less graphic. "Wow, that's, uh, horrible," he says.

"Yup," Butters says. For being traumatized, he seems pretty at ease with this. Kenny wonders if he is breaking their promise of no half-truths at all.

He picks up his pencil and starts trying to illustrate a nightmare he had one time, but it's hard, because the dream was terrifying more by sensation than visuals. Through it, he was under the impression that he should be scared and that he had to save someone (his mom? His sister? He still doesn't know) and that if he didn't hurry up, something awful would happen, but again, he didn't know what. The dream itself was mostly a blur of panic and terror, and from time to time he'd trip over something or someone would want to talk to him and delay him from getting home, but there was never anything particularly visually bad.

After a minute or so, he decides that he should draw himself running, but make it as doom-worthy and melodramatic as possible.

Victoria stalks around the room from time to time, then settling at her computer. He thinks she's probably playing cards. Hearts, maybe. Victoria looks like a Hearts person.

Kenny scrunches two pieces of paper before he gives up and looks at Craig's again.

"What'cha drawing?" he asks, tapping the corner of his paper.

"Buildings on buildings," Craig answers.

"What."

Craig leans back in his chair and twirls his pencil around his fingers. Kenny remembers all the Science classes he wasted spinning those stupid pencils and trying to get it right.

"I dunno. When I was a kid, I'd dream that I was lost in some city. I'd walk and walk until I found the edge of the city. It just stopped. The roads would just end. Sometimes cars would drive off and fall down. So I'd look over the edge and there'd be another city under this city. Usually I'd end up jumping off and killing myself." He seems a little disgusted with himself.

"That's kind of weird," Kenny says. "Doctors aren't going to like that there's no fog in it."

Craig snorts a laugh. "They think it's so cut and paste."

Kenny notices how ignorant this is, and he thinks Craig does too, but Craig's good at those sorts of spiteful, judgemental, no-fucks-given statements. He says this for the impact, the implication that the doctors don't know their own craft, rather than the truth of it. Kenny has always wanted an acid tongue, but he's never been able to properly develop one. He's too nice, always worrying about other people's reactions. The nicest thing to say about Craig in terms of caring about others is he just doesn't do it very successfully.

Craig doesn't seem to care that Kenny doesn't respond to his statement. He starts chewing on his tongue instead. He's got all sorts of destructive little habits, Kenny's noticed over the time they've been friends; picking his cuticles, biting his lips, scratching the insides of his palms, tearing off scabs. Craig's got a ton of little scars on his hands and arms from where he's just ruined little nicks and cuts.

"Stop that, I can't concentrate," he says, pushing Craig's shoulder.

"Who says you're concentrating? You've scrunched, like, five papers," Craig replies, eyebrows raised.

"Two," Kenny corrects sullenly. "Cut it out, though."

He does. But he twirls his pencil again instead. Kenny can live with this. He draws a minimal-effort version of himself running, and colours the background black and red. He also draws his sister in a cage, just so it was clear that he was going to save her. He also draws a torturer-rapist-murderer next to her for dramatic effect.

Craig looks at it with a sort of cruel humour playing around his features. Kenny feels vulnerable. "That's sweet, McCormick. You should save me someday."

"I wouldn't save your sorry, pessimistic ass if you paid me," Kenny bites back.

"Funny, I thought you liked me," Craig says.

"Would you stop fucking flirting?" Kyle snaps from the other end of the table. He's lucky that the hospital doesn't have a no-swearing rule. Victoria still looks up just to make sure they don't start fighting. Kenny takes the opportunity to try and look at what he's drawing. It looks like a lot of red and lots of wobbly structures that might be humans. Stan also looks up, probably to see this flirting that Kyle's speaking of. His eyebrows go down when he sees that they aren't holding hands or invading each other's personal space or whatever he was expecting to see. Kenny notices his piece of paper is blank.

"Calm the Jew rage, Kyle. If you're so hot to see some gay shit, hit on your own boyfriend," Craig answers, sounding maybe a bit too excited to have someone to argue with.

"We're not fucking, Craig!"

Stan nudges him and says, "Kyle, give it a break," as if he's very used to it – which he is. He glares at Craig and Craig sneers back.

"Be civil, guys," Wendy reminds them. She doesn't even look up.

"Good luck with that," Kenny says more to himself.

Kyle goes back to his drawing fretfully, leaving Stan staring into blank space, trying to summon something of an idea. Kenny wonders if he's had a nightmare in his life. Craig, devoid of a victim, also goes back to his page, colouring lethargically.

After a while, Victoria decides they've had enough time, and collects their drawings. Kenny's is way over the top, but he thinks it gets the feeling across.

Stan hands Victoria a picture of him being groped by his dad. Randy is labelled creepy dad just in case of confusion.

"It was really fucking creepy, man, but in the dream it seemed perfectly normal, and I even remember thinking, 'I wish he could fuck me later, I'm busy now,' as if it was a chore or something. But you know what's creepier? I can see him doing something like that," Stan explains, looking nauseated. Wendy hugs and consoles him, then hands in her own picture, a drawing of her trying to pack a bag to apparently catch a flight, but not being able to find everything. At the bottom of the page is a disembodied hand pushing a knife into her shins.

"Poor baby," she says to Stan. She kisses his cheek and says nothing about her own picture.

Butters has the most artistic talent of the six of them, but he draws in fast, cartoony sketches instead of utilizing his talent. There his is in his bed, being slowly and torturously chewed to death. The only real implication of artistic talent is that most of the proportions are correct, and the colouring is much better than a group therapy scribble should be. There's even shading. He tells them more or less what he told Kenny.

Kyle hands in a picture of him sitting in a red room with no doors and occupied by all of his friends' parents, who are all fucking gluttonously around him. Even the dogs are humping. To top it off, Kyle's femur is broken, as depicted by a flat-looking bandage wrapped unprofessionally around his pant leg.

"You asked for shocking, I give you shocking," he says flatly. If voices were gradients, his would be monochrome.

"My parents, oh my god, my parents," Stan whines in the background. "Kyle, you have a horrible, horrible mind."

"Shut the fuck up, Stan," Kyle says, knocking him lightly on the top of the head.

"That's kind of a shitty dream," Kenny says, attempting pity but sounding amused. Kyle glares at him.

Kenny gives her his own illustration with little comment from those around him. It's a pretty standard B grade nightmare. He's almost embarrassed by its blandness.

Craig hands his to Victoria and tells everyone the shortened version of what he told Kenny. She nods and says, "Are you guys noticing that your phobias don't necessarily have anything to do with your dreams? There are often elements of them within what's happening, such as Kyle's broken femur, or Kenny's drawing with the girl being threatened with a bottle of poison." Kenny really doesn't know what she was being threatened with, but he drew a bottle of poison for kicks. Apparently, there's symbolism in his dreams that he never even intended for.

Craig rolls his eyes. Kenny kicks his ankle and mutters, "Oh, stop," earning a sneer from Craig but nothing more.

She puts the drawings in a folder and closes it with a white and green striped paperclip. Then, she says, "That's all for today. You've got a couple of hours to yourself until the last therapy session of the day. Last one out, please shut the door. Thank you."

They herd out quietly. Butters shuts the door and they walk down to the common area, sitting around the room.

Kenny sighs and seats himself on the edge of a table. Nobody's talking, so he starts a topic everyone can relate to. "I fucking hate those sessions. It's different when you're around everyone."

"It makes you feel so open to attack," Stan agrees.

"What's the point of it, even?" Kyle groans. "It's like solitary therapy – which we already have two of per day, thank you very much – but with other people. It's fucking stupid, I think."

"Uh, I think it's to help screen out the lies from the truths," Butters says, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "You know, people act differently around their friends. They might say different things or paraphrase stuff. Or it could be the total opposite, you know, if everyone else is sharing all this stuff, you might as well too, right?" he adds.

"That's awfully simple-minded," Craig says with a hint of a sneer. "Assuming everyone is into teamwork and helping each other grow and all that cutesy-pie shit."

"You come up with something better, then," Butters snaps uncharacteristically.

"Guys, let's just go eat before we start ripping each other's heads off," Wendy says, raising an arm halfway. She looks over at Craig, exasperated eyes slightly shadowed with the wear of sleeplessness and stress. "And would you please fucking be civil? Nobody needs that kind of attitude."

Craig looks a little taken aback, as if he's not used to being seriously scolded. She ignores him and walks over to the doors leading into the dining area, and slowly, people start trailing along after her. Kenny considers grabbing Craig and telling him to be less of a downer, but he decides to just leave him for now to wallow in self-pity. He catches up to Kyle.

"Hey, Kyle."

"Hey," Kyle says.

"You know what's for dinner today?"

"I checked the schedule yesterday; it's like, stir fry or something," he replies.

"Oh, cool. The food here's kind of good, hey?" Kenny says, but in truth, when your meals are irregular, all food is good.

"It's okay," Kyle says with a one-shouldered shrug. He arrives at the buffet and grabs two plates, handing one to Kenny.

"Thanks, Kyle," he says, and in turn hands him a fork.

"Do they have chopsticks?" Kyle asks, eyeing his fork like it's a foreign object.

"Don't think so," Kenny says with a glance around. "You'll have to settle for a fork, princess."

"You'd be pissed off too if you actually knew how to use chopsticks," Kyle grumbles, scooping noodles and vegetables onto his plate.

"I do! Kind of," he retorts. He did learn at one point, but he's had so few opportunities to utilize his ability that it more or less slipped away. He remembers the theory, but he'd need a pair to retrain his fingers.

"You don't," Kyle scoffs. He takes a glass off of a tray and fills it with water. Ice cubes clink into the glass and splash droplets over the side. Kyle notices them, but makes only a half-hearted attempt to clean them up. Kenny opts for a purple drink that might be grape juice.

Plates and glasses full, they glance around the eating area, which is spattered with staff. Dr. Kelly sits at a table only ten feet away from where they're standing, chatting and laughing with Maria, the pretty nurse they met on the first day, and a male nurse well over six feet who Kenny hasn't seen before.

Kyle catches his eyes and they migrate away from the nurses and doctors to a farther-away table. Stan joins them in a minute, but Butters and Wendy sit at a table behind them with Craig, who seems to fine now, if his dignity ever was injured.

Stan eats quietly and quickly, constantly glancing over his shoulder to the other table.

"Stan," Kyle says, "let it go. Your girlfriend is talking to Craig Tucker. So fucking what."

Stan doesn't answer right away, but he turns around and sighs heavily into his hands. "It's just that-"

"Besides, I'm pretty sure he's probably gay," Kyle says casually.

There's something about the way he says it that tells them he's serious as opposed to just making fun of Craig. Kenny swallows and looks at Kyle, who is incredibly smug, as if he's just succeeded in carrying out some sort of massive revenge instead of making an educated guess about an acquaintance's sexuality. He says, "What makes you think?"

"I dunno. He just kind of seems, you know. Like someone who doesn't like girls."

Stan shakes his head and clicks his tongue. "I don't really think so, Kyle. He's a douchebag, but that doesn't make him gay."

"And you're right because?" Kyle prods, waiting for him to go on.

Stan huffs. "I don't know, he's had girlfriends and stuff. He just doesn't really seem gay."

"I'm kind of gay," Kenny throws in.

"But he was never super into his girlfriends. He dated Red like, twice, and the first time lasted a month and the other lasted three weeks. And then he dated Bebe, but-"

"I don't get how he did that. He's not even really good-looking," Stan sighs. "She doesn't just take anyone."

"Whatever, Stan, fact is, he did. But it only lasted what, a week?" Kyle points out, pointing his fork around as he talks.

"It was more like a month," Kenny says.

"Nah, it was like, a month, dude," Stan says.

"He made out with some guy at Annie's party last year, remember?" Kyle says.

"Oh yeah." Stan leans his elbows on the table and creates a defence. "Well, come on, man, there was beer and shit there. It's not like he was super sober. Do you know who that guy was?"

"Luke Peterson. He's in our English class," Kenny supplies, twirling a noodle.

"Luke or someone. You know, Luke? Our English class?" Kyle says.

"Oh, right. But anyway, it doesn't mean he's gay. I think he's straight, but just too much of an emotionally reclusive tool to show proper affection to anyone."

"I just really think he's gay," Kyle says, looking at the other table.

"I just really don't," Stan says, also looking towards them.

"I slept with a guy, once," Kenny says glumly, pushing his nearly-clean plate aside and slumping forward on the table.

"You really don't, huh."

"I really, really don't."

"Fuck you guys," Kenny mutters, getting up and taking his plate and empty glass to the bucket labeled dirty dishes. He's not sure if they even notice him leaving. They ask sometimes why he's friends with Craig, and he usually says something about mutual interests, but when they get caught up in their girly-gossip like this, it's obvious. Craig always listens when they talk, and Stan and Kyle can get trapped in their own little world faster than the click of a light switch.

By now, they're serving dessert, so Kenny takes a skinny slice of some sort of pie (it's red, which could mean raspberry or cherry or rhubarb or strawberry or) and sits down next to Wendy.

"Hey," she says as he duck over to peck her cheek.

"Hi, Ken!" Butters grins when he says this, and Kenny has to melt a little bit inside. Who can't love Butters' smile?

"Hey," Craig greets, and he even smiles, but quietly; a murmur of a smile. Kenny smiles back at all of them, at all the people Stan and Kyle just live to gossip about. He doesn't care who's gay and who's dating who and who's a loser. He just knows they all like him.

"What's that?" Butters asks, pointing to Kenny's pie. Kenny hands him the fork.

"Try it."

Butters does, and makes a bit of a face. "Cherry. I never much liked cherry."

Kenny laughs and takes the fork back. "I do, sometimes. My mom used to make good cherry pies, but she hasn't made one for a long time."

"I'll eat it," Wendy offers, and Kenny slides the plate over. She takes a bite and shrugs.

"How is it?" Craig asks.

"Mediocre. You want it?"

"Is that actually a question, or are you giving me the pie?"

"Astute inferring, Craig," she says, and pushes it to him, fork balanced neatly on the rim of the plate. He shrugs and starts twirling the fork.

"What made you move, Ken?" Butters asks, tipping his head over to the other table.

Kenny shrugs and takes Craig's fork and plate from him. "They got kind of over-involved in shit."

"Were they talking about us? They were looking over here and muttering and making faces," Wendy asks.

"Mm hmm. They do that."

"God, they're worse than the girls I know. What were they talking about?"

"I don't really want to repeat it, Wendy," Kenny says, taking a sliver of cherries off the end and chewing briefly before continuing. "It's not bad or anything – well, not really bad, anyway – I just don't like gossiping."

"Now you've got me intrigued," she says, her brows disappearing into her bangs.

"Stan got jealous that you were sitting with Craig and Kyle consoled him," he deadpans.

"Oh." She seems disappointed that it isn't something more than that.

"Can I have that back?" Craig says, and takes the fork from Kenny before he can answer.

"No problem, Craig," Kenny says, well after Craig starts eating the pie that nobody else wants. "Just go ahead and take shit."

"You took it from me first. Why are you so moody?" he asks, swallowing.

There are many answers; Stan and Kyle are drama queens; Kenny feels kind of worthless after having Stan and Kyle ignore him so blatantly; Craig might be gay, and the more he thinks about it, the more sense it makes. He's considered the idea before – one of Kenny's hobbies is to walk around the school and think, "Hey, what if those two people were dating?" whenever he sees pairs of friends walking together – but not seriously. It's dumb, but the first thought that pops into his head is Craig's gay and I'm gay and we could potentially date? He doesn't want to, really (there are several things that lead one to assume Craig's a pretty shitty boyfriend), but he thinks about it casually, the way he thinks about what he'd do if a tornado tore through his little town, in that this is a thing that could happen kind of way.

"Because this place is shitty and I'm feeling ignored," is what he eventually comes out with. Craig smiles a bit and slices off another forkful of pie.

"Don't worry, we love you," he says, corners of his mouth still tweaked upwards. It makes Kenny's stomach twinge, and he doesn't like that at all.

"I feel kind of sickish," he says, putting his elbows on the table and cradling his head in his hands.

"That's too bad," Butters says sympathetically, reaching across the table to pat his head. "You have a headache or something?"

"I just feel kind of overall gross," he says. He's not even sure if he's lying or not.

"You'll feel worse in just a sec here," Craig says. "Don't look up."

Kenny does anyway, and there's Dr. Kelly walking over to the two tables. He stop in front of them and smiles, them speaks.

"Could I have your attention, please?" Stan and Kyle, still caught up bickering about something (they may have moved on from Craig being gay, but Kenny somehow thinks not), jump at the sound of his voice and look towards him. Today his shirt is pastel blue, and his pants, beige. He looks like a dentist.

"Tonight, you're excused from evening therapy. We're going to spend this evening setting up the first round of treatment." Here, all the nurses and other staff clap and smile proudly. It's unsettling. "It will take place all through tomorrow. You'll be excused from all other daily therapy sessions, including group therapy. That's all, enjoy your evening." He goes back over to his table, smiling all the way. Maria and the tall nurse start talking in excited voices.

Kenny puts his head on the table. Shortly, he feels Wendy's nails brushing his scalp soothingly. She doesn't say it'll be okay. He waits for Butters to say something along those lines. It would be in line with his ever-positive personality. Seconds go by and he doesn't. Nobody says anything. There's just the heavy, all-encompassing silence sitting on top of the din of all the staff. Kenny wonders if maybe he should sit up and look at someone until he hears Craig say, "Hey, hey, it'll be fine."

He lifts his head to see Craig with a hand on Butters' shoulder the way someone who's not used to touching people does when they're trying to be comforting. Butters is rubbing his eyes and clearing away an explosion of tears. It strikes Kenny that Butters has learned to cry quietly. He hiccups and swabs his cheeks roughly.

"I'm okay now," he snivels. Of course he's not, but Craig drops his hand onto the table anyway, perhaps too quickly. He's an introvert's introvert.

Kenny wants to console him, but he's out of words.

Stan and Kyle get up and walk over to them.

"We're just gonna go into the other room," Stan says. His eyes are wide and nervous. Kyle looks normal, perhaps irritated, even.

"We're coming," Kenny says, standing up. He looks over his shoulder at the other at his table "Come on."

Wendy gets up and goes to Stan like a magnet. She wraps her arms around him, and for a while they just stand there in a tight embrace, the kind only lovers participate in. Kenny helps Butters up and watches them. It's been a while since he's held someone like that.

(if you had a boyfriend you could hold him like that)

Butters sniffles and wakes him up from his reverie. He finds his words and says, "Don't cry, you're too pretty to cry."

Butters smiles and says, "I'm trying." He wipes his eyes again with the sleeve of his sweater. "I'll be okay."

"You sure, sugar?" Kenny asks, wiping away a stray tear track with his thumb. A bloom of colour comes to Butters' cheeks, but it's not hard to make Butters blush.

"Yeah, I'm sure," he says more or less stably. He turns from Kenny's hand and says, "I just need a second by myself."

"Yeah, of course," Kenny says with nod, and pushes him lightly away. Butters falls behind, looking at his feet.

Craig comes up next to him wordlessly.

"Look who's being moody now," Kenny says.

"I don't really know what to think," Craig says, sighing out of the corner of his mouth. "It's a hospital, these are doctors, so I really doubt they're going to do anything really horrible and traumatizing, but this whole place is just creepy to a new extreme. Fucking treatment and therapy and drawing nightmares with pencil crayons. I gotta get outta here."

"Tell me about it. I wanna get high," Kenny comments. He ambles into the rec room and scans it for a place to sit.

"I wanted to bring Madeline, but I decided not to in the end," Craig mumbles. Madeline – Craig's bong – has been Craig's for a couple years, when he bought her from the pawn shop on Main Street, the one that Stan's uncle owns, and though Craig doesn't smoke a lot, he treasures her. She's made of blue glass, and when they get high together, all Craig can talk about is how the blue of Madeline's body is the same blue as Kenny's eyes. Craig talks a lot of shit when he's high, but Kenny's always liked that one thing; the way he says it while the smoke slips between his lips might be the prettiest thing Kenny's ever seen.

"Wow. You actually considered bringing a bong into a hospital," Kenny says flatly. "Dr. Kelly would probably take her away anyway."

"Just as well, then," he admits, shrugging. Kenny sits down at a table while Craig drifts over to a shelf full of books and other things. "Hey, cards."

"Cards?" Kenny parrots, looking up.

"Mm hmm. What can you play?"

Kenny leans back in his chair while Craig sits down. "Um, Hearts, Solitaire, Old Maid, Crazy Eights, Go Fish, Blackjack, Poker, I think, if you refresh my memory."

"Let's play Blackjack. I'm not really in the mood to explain Poker to you," Craig says. He shakes the cards out and starts shuffling, but not the way Kenny usually does, not the sloppy overhand shuffle that everyone uses. This is something different, more elegant.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

"It's called a Riffle shuffle. Not that hard," he says, but he says it in a sort of proud way.

"Whoa. Do you know any card tricks?" he demands, excited by the notion that Craig is good with cards.

"Uh, a few sleight of hand tricks. Nothing special."

"Nothing special my ass," Kenny snorts. "That's cool!"

"Could you guys get over here? We're having a meeting," Stan shouts before Craig can reply.

"Oh. Fine, ruin our card-playing," Kenny mumbles, grabbing Craig and towing him along to the couches, where the rest are sitting. Craig brings the deck with him and shuffles them absently. "So what's up?"

"Were you listening to Dr. Kelly at all?" Stan snaps. "We're starting treatment, in that fucking room he wouldn't show to use, through those fucking doors right over there!" He points down the hallway where none of them have dared to go so far.

"Oh, calm the fuck down," Kyle says. "It won't be so horrible. It'll probably just be a thing where you have to face your phobia so they can see exactly how you react."

"Think about it, Kyle: they're putting you in a room with the thing that scares you more than anything else in the world. Of course it'll be fucking horrible!"

"It sounds creepy. What kind of place separates therapy from treatment? Isn't it all treatment?" Wendy says. "I'm scared."

Kenny notices Butters standing a little ways behind Wendy. He's the kind of person who needs to speak or else people don't really notice him there. But now, his optimist brain has nothing to add to the discussion.

"God, what do we do?" Stan says, looking to the side. His mouth is flattened into a thin line.

"We wait for tomorrow," Craig deadpans. "At least we don't have to go to therapy."

"What time is it?" Wendy asks. Craig pulls out his phone.

"It's quarter to seven," he announces, stowing it away into his pocket again. Stan looks desperately around.

"What the hell do we do for the rest of the evening? I'm too uptight to think about anything else."

"Let's watch a movie," Wendy says. "Yeah, that's what we'll do. I'll pick a movie and we'll just watch it for the rest of the evening. No milling around being miserable. Just movie-watching." She gets up and goes over to a shelf near the large TV in front of the other couch, the one they didn't sit on that first day. Kenny watches her and wonders if making herself busy is just her way of masking any messy emotions.

"Do we want something light or heavy?" she calls.

"Just something long to eat up the evening," Stan answers.

She comes back with The Hunt for Red October, which maybe is not the most comforting movie to watch, but it's over two hours long and therefore fits Stan's request. She puts it in the DVD player and sits on a couch with Stan and Kyle and Butters. The lack of space is not bad enough for her to choose not sitting with her boyfriend, and she squeezes in on the far side between the arm of the couch and Stan's hip. Kenny and Craig claim the other couch.

When the movie is beginning to wind down, Kenny starts losing interest. He's seen it before; the plot is at its final bend and should be winding down soon. He looks down to see what everyone else is doing. Wendy again has her head on Stan shoulder and she's dozing lightly. Stan absentmindedly rubs her hands, concentrating on the screen the way someone who's seeing it for the first time does. Kyle smiles slightly while he watches; he's quite familiar with the film. It's one of his favourites. Kenny forgets when he told them that, but it's in his memory, somehow. He's not entirely sure if it's correct, but it seems right. On end of the couch, Butters twists his sleeves in his hands and watches with waning interest. He picks at his cuticles. Craig watches with his usual monotonous awareness, smiling at lines he finds witty, frowning occasionally.

(hey so Craig might be gay hmm? how do you feel about this?)

He looks at the screen and directs his thoughts away.

When it ends and the credits roll, he climbs off the couch and yawns.

"What time is it now?"

"Figured you'd ask," Craig says, and checks his phone. "Four after nine."

"Kind of early to go to bed," Stan sighs. "But I feel better now."

"We could watch something else while we wait for lights out," Wendy says, stretching. She woke up in the last few minutes of the film.

"Okay. I don't really have the energy for much else."

Kenny wonders if he should stay or go. Another hour and a half of fretting over Craig's sexuality between watching the movie doesn't sound exactly nice, but what else would he do? Read a book? Fuck it, he'll stay.

Kyle gets up and goes over to DVD player. He ejects the disc and puts it back into its case, then goes over to the shelf full of other movies.

"How about The Shining? Feel like something scary?" he calls.

"Are you crazy? With the shit that's going down tomorrow?" she questions with wild eyes. Kyle apologizes meekly and pulls out a different movie.

"Footloose?"

"No. I saw it a week ago."

"Fido? That zombie movie?"

"Ew."

"Uh. The Firm?"

"Oh, come on, Kyle."

"It has Tom Cruise in it!"

"Kyle, I don't like lawyer-y movies. Pick something else," she complains.

"I like lawyer-y movies," Kenny says. "And there's a sex scene on a beach. And a fat guy seducing a pretty girl. Then she poisons him. Also there's Tom Cruise, who's all suave and badass and sexy. Let's watch it."

"Yeah, let's just watch it, Wendy. Even if you don't like lawyer movies, you can just look at Tom Cruise and go, 'Ooh, I wish he was my boyfriend, ooh,'" Stan mimics.

She huffs in defeat. "Fine, whatever. Tom Cruise it is."

Kyle grins and sticks it in.

The movie is actually long – longer than The Hunt for Red October, and longer than Kenny remembers it being – and a few minutes before it ends, a nurse comes through and shoos them off to their respective bedrooms.

"Night, guys. Prepare yourselves for tomorrow," Kenny says just before he enters his quarters. It's kind of a dick thing to do, remind them of tomorrow's event last thing, but it slips out before he can stop it. The others groan and swear at him, and then tag a little goodnight onto the end of it. He sniggers as he goes in, stupidly pleased by his comment. Craig shuts the door behind them and leans against it, heaving a sigh.

"So, tomorrow," he says.

"Yup."

Craig bites the corner of his lip like he's going to continue, but he smiles and shakes his bangs out of his eyes. He keeps them styled up and out of his eyes, but by the end of the day, whatever gel or spray he uses gives up and they fall flat.

"You should leave your lips alone," Kenny says.

"I'll keep it in mind, Mom," Craig teases.

"I'm serious. They've just gotten worse since that first session. Leave them the fuck alone or they'll get infected." Craig rolls his bottom lip into his mouth. It slides out through his teeth.

(would you could you kiss those lips?)

Kenny looks Craig in the eye, and he looks back coolly. It's become a stare down over fucking lip-biting.

"Don't you have ChapStick or something?" he asks.

"No. I always end up eating it off." He licks his lips quickly. Kenny feels bad for attacking such an obvious insecurity, but he can't stop. Craig takes hold of his bottom lip again. When he releases it, a scab is gone and blood is welling up.

"Seriously," he says. "Stop."

"I can't fucking help it, Kenny." He licks it off. It smears over the rest of his lip.

(do you know how easy it would be to lean forward and lick the blood off his mouth?)

This is going somewhere bad with rapid speed, and Kenny opens his mouth and lets it go wherever it wants. God, anything to think about something else.

"Did you know Kyle thinks you're gay?"

(what a fantastic segue)

"Oh. Well, can't say I didn't see it coming," Craig says. He walks past Kenny and sits on one of the beds, the one he claimed to be his a few days earlier.

"No?" he asks.

"Nah. I'm sure he's thought that since I dumped Bebe," he answers, kicking off his shoes. One hits the wall with a dull thud and the other lands on the floor. "I mean, who dumps Bebe?"

"You dumped her? I thought she dumped you."

Craig makes a face and says, "No, she's kind of . . . hard to take, I guess. She was always like, 'Let's have lunch together, Craig,' and 'Come shopping with me, Craig,' and I kind of hated that."

"Yeah, you've told me before. Girls do that, man," Kenny says. He slips his old Vans off and lies down on his bed.

"I'm sure guys do too." Kenny looks up too fast and looks too confused. Craig holds up his hands and says, "Hey, don't assume so goddamn fast, I never said I'd dated one. Jesus, Kenny."

"Well, they kind of do, so," Kenny says, lying back down and feeling stupid.

"You'd know?"

He bites his tongue and regrets saying it. "Look, I slept with someone once and he texted me the next day so we could, I don't know, date or something. I told him to fuck off, and that's the closest I've ever been to dating a dude."

"Wow. That sounds like fun."

"Yeah, it was a fucking blast."

"He didn't live in South Park, did he? Nobody's gay in South Park."

"No, I went to a party when I was staying in Denver with my brother."

"I figured."

Kenny hesitates before talking again, because he doesn't really want to continue this conversation, but speaks anyway: "Do you remember when you made out with Luke Peterson?"

"Yeah. What about it?" Craig says through a sigh.

"Oh, I dunno. Were you drunk or what?"

"I was sober, if you'll believe that. I was the driver."

"No shit?" Kenny says. "Don't tell Kyle, he'll nominate you for Faggot of the Year."

"I'm not planning on it. But, I dunno, he was there and I was there and I was like, 'Hey, why the hell not, nobody remembers this shit anyway.' So I guess I just kind of did it? It wasn't really all that nice. I mean, it was nice – I guess? – but I don't think I'd do it again, like maybe I would if the situation was right. Oh, fuck, I'm rambling. Sorry for all the unnecessary info."

"No, it's okay, man," Kenny says carefully, eyeing Craig. He's flustered, which looks strange on Craig. Kenny's not sure if he's ever seen Craig anything less than blasé, and even in potentially awkward situations he just creates an escape for himself and takes it as soon as he can. The only reason Craig can do this so effectively is that he doesn't mind being rude. If he doesn't like a situation, he doesn't stick around until he can leave politely, he just says, "Oh, I have to be somewhere," and runs away. Kenny's seen him do this. His ability to not give a single fuck about the feelings of others is legendary.

He allows Craig several long seconds to regain composure and says, "Do you wanna make out?"

Craig frowns and says, "No, man."

He can't say he wasn't expecting that, but it still makes him a little disappointed. He thinks about what he could say next, but he's too late, and Craig gets up and walks over to his backpack and extracts some homework.

"I think I'll have a shower," Kenny says.

"Go for it," Craig replies. Kenny gets up and goes over to the bathroom, and when he shuts the door, he breathes a sigh of relief that he just prays Craig doesn't hear.

(now wasn't that a good time?)

(not really huh)

(you could have just been making out that whole time, hey hey)

Kenny claps his hands over his temples and swears under his breath, god fucking damnit can you just fucking stop, and then he turns on the water and strips down. His boxers fall to the floor unceremoniously, and he steps into the shower without waiting for it to get hot. There's a bottle of shampoo that might belong to Craig, and it might have been provided by the hospital, but honestly, he wouldn't know. It smells like peppermint and lathers really well, so he doesn't care. He thinks about all those endless bottles of shampoo for girls, and he hasn't the slightest clue why they would need so many kinds. Extra volume. Curl enhancing. Shine boost. Hydrating. He understands vanity – he's also spent much too long in front of the mirror – but he doesn't know why they would need so many different kinds of shampoo, and at the end of the day, are the results really that different? He's used hand soap before, and it's gotten his hair clean. It doesn't really make his hair the softest, but he doesn't get people beating down the doors to touch his hair that often.

Thoughts of the variety he's been living with through this evening go through his head from time to time (hey you think Craig has soft hair?) and he can't even stop them anymore. He stands pitifully under the showerhead and considers jacking off, but the way things are going, he'll probably imagine Craig while doing it, and that's enough to dissuade him. He turns off the water after a while and get out. White towels hang on the racks. He takes one and does a mediocre job of drying off, but he does do a slightly better job on his hair. He hates having water drip down his neck.

His clothes lie on the ground. He considers just walking out, skin and all, but his self-consciousness gets the best of him (there's a difference between being secure and being comfortable walking into a room with your dick out) and he dresses. His shirt sticks to his skin.

"Hey, I'm done," he says, walking back into the room. He stops by his bag to fish around for one of the books he crammed in there. Yeah, he doesn't really read, but you always bring books when you travel. It's an unspoken rule.

"I heard the water turn off," Craig says. He's sitting cross-legged on the bed, scribbling notes on a piece of paper. A few books are open in front of him, a Biology text and a binder.

"Doing homework?" he asks. He immediately regrets it.

Craig gives him the sort of look he deserves for such a stupid question. "No, I'm golfing."

"God, give me a break," Kenny mutters.

"No, that was way too perfect." Craig smiles to himself and his shoulders shake in a silent chortle.

"Maybe I'm way too perfect," Kenny says, flipping his damp hair and trying his best at a steamy, lusty look.

"Yeah, I'm sure," Craig dismisses, looking back to his textbook.

"Maybe you're way too perfect."

(what the fuck was that!)

His heartbeat picks up and he can feel his ears heat up, but he's the only one who's embarrassed. Craig snorts a laugh from the bed and says, "If I was perfect, I would have remembered to bring something to smoke. God, I'm dying."

"You didn't even bring cigarettes?" Kenny asks, desperate for normal conversation that doesn't change his pulse or redden his skin.

"No. I just didn't think of it, I guess. There're two in my jacket pocket that I guess I just left there before I left South Park, but I'm going to save them for when the shit hits the fan," he says. "God, I'm stupid."

"It's okay. I was going to bring some, but I didn't have any money, so I couldn't buy any."

They exist in silence for about half an hour, until Craig puts his things away and wanders into the bathroom. The water runs. He can hear him brushing his teeth, and it hits him that he forgot. He'll do it tomorrow; he doesn't much feel like leaving his safe little mattress.

Craig comes back in and says, "I'm going to bed. You can leave the light on, I don't care."

Kenny closes his book. "No, I'm going to too. Night."

"Night." Craig pulls off his shirt and climbs between the sheets in his jeans, and Kenny thinks it must be uncomfortable, but he thinks about it more, and he's pretty sure he's seen Craig do it before. He can't imagine it. Kenny's not the kind of person that can sleep in a lot of clothes; the most he can stand is boxers.

Kenny gets up and turns off the light, and in the dark, he undresses and slides in. It feels like a hotel bed; too fluffy, too soft. Too perfect.

(maybe you're way too perfect)

He rolls over and tries his best to sleep.