It didn't take Craig long to hear back about the pie; Stan Marsh himself came by the next night to announce personally that it would be his honor to make a pie for the Tucker family for Christmas.

"I wasn't asking for your charity," said Craig, arms crossed against the doorframe. "I said I'd work up a color scheme of paint swatches for you. Like, in exchange."

"That's cool." Stan had flour in his hair and looked a bit worse for the wear, but he smiled like he meant it. "Are you guys gonna come to the New Year's party?"

"What guys? Oh. You mean, me and Clyde. You know, I don't really appreciate Kyle horning in on my personal life."

"Hey, he said you knocked on our door."

"He literally told me flat-out he was going to masturbate."

"That's — okay." Stan shrugged. "Look, you should come. It's gonna be a cool crowd."

"What, like, restaurant people?"

"Some restaurant people, some friends. Old friends. Family. You know, a party."

"I'm familiar with parties," said Craig, though only in the most basic sense.

"Yeah, so, it'll be fun." Stan slapped Craig on the shoulder. "No worries about the pie. I need a shower."

"Well, I need a cortado." After Stan had gone back into his own apartment, Craig went to the kitchen to make one for himself. Against his better judgment, he called Clyde: "Do you want to go to a party?"

"I'm feeding my dogs dinner," said Clyde, "so not right now."

"I meant on New Year's Eve. At Stan and Kyle's, like, new restaurant."

"I would, yeah, that sounds nice."

"It sounds pretentious and grating," said Craig, though he was actually quite looking forward to it.

"If it sounds pretentious and grating, don't go."

"No, we're going. I just don't like those guys."

"They're nice," said Clyde.

"Are they really?"

"Yes."

"Do you have evidence of this?"

"Well, it sounds like they invited you to a party?"

Craig sat down, mumbling, "Us, actually."

"We invited you to a party?"

All of Craig's doubts about Clyde's intelligence came roaring back. "No, Clyde. I mean, Stan and Kyle invited us, me and you, to this party. Together, as a couple."

"Well, that's the first I've heard of it!"

"Because I have the invitation, and — look. When do you go to Phoenix?"

"Well, soon—"

"Come over tonight."

"The dogs—"

"Fine, then I'll come over," Craig practically shouted, hanging up the phone. He scrambled to get on his shoes and coat, by which time Clyde was already calling him back. Ignoring it, Craig set off into the night, aware too late that his suede loafers were going to be bad in the snow, and that if he was going to Clyde's he should have brought a toothbrush or a whole overnight bag. Yet adrenaline propelled him forward, keeping him from turning back for his stuff.

Practically running through nasty weather, Craig's jeans were soaked when he knocked on Clyde's door. There was barely a moment for Clyde to say, "Gosh," and then Craig was on him, feeling reckless and out of his mind and they groped in the doorway, one dog eating noisily and the other spying from the kitchen.

"Give me that dick," Craig demanded, hopping inside the house and out of his shoes. "I want it."

"Not in front of the dogs," said Clyde.

Craig said, "Fuck those dogs!" Yet he didn't really want to fuck in front of them, either. Clyde pulled him upstairs; they failed to make it to the bedroom.

Rug burn on his forearms and the fronts of his sinewy thighs, Craig wondered just what the fuck he was doing. Clyde was on top of him, panting wetly and pressing his lips to Craig's hair. "Okay, stop it, stop it," said Craig. "You're gonna fuck up my hair."

"It's already wet."

"Look, this is insane." Craig couldn't sit up with Clyde's body atop his, but he did roll onto his side and gaze up at Clyde's face, his hair all mussed and his lips swollen. Pants still around their ankles, shirts lightly doused with an application of Craig's come, he stared up into Clyde's brown fucking eyes as Clyde stared back, the expression on his soft features baldly asking, well, what about this is insane?

Clyde said aloud, "I've never done this before."

A dog came upstairs, its muzzle covered in dog food, dripping with water. He began to lick at Clyde's naked feet. "Snowy, good boy," Clyde said, his voice warm. "Good, good boy."

Clearing his throat, Craig asked, "Am I a good boy?"

"Yeah," said Clyde. "You're okay."

"What have you never done before?"

"Oh, you know. This whole — thing." Reaching back, Clyde petted the dog at his brow. He whined, shook his head, and returned downstairs.

"You've got to get off of me, please. I've got to have dinner."

"You didn't eat?"

"Did you?"

Clyde gave a noncommittal grunt and got up, buttoning his pants again. He helped Craig up, too, and then fastened Craig's jeans for him as well, sliding the zipper up over Craig's softening dick with the reverence once reserved for — what? An infant's swaddling, your date's dress the morning after the prom, a body bag? Clyde patted the closure with his warm palm and leaned in for a kiss. But it was a far reach with his bulk, and Craig hunched to meet him, the nearby sound of barking dogs very far away in that moment.

"Let's get a pizza," Clyde said, in their parting.

"I haven't had a pizza in ages." Not since that hotel room; he now associated it with Acoma pottery. Craig was trying to think of a good place to get a pizza. He'd once enjoyed a Neapolitan pie at a place in Denver, all bleached wood and bare bulbs as interior. The décor had been better than the pizza, which was jarring, a soup in the middle, sauce like running water until the crust tore. Was that place still open?

"I'll call Shakey's." Clyde paused. "They deliver?"

"What? I don't know if they deliver."

"Well, they do. What do you want on your pizza?"

"My pizza?"

"Yeah, like, your pizza." It turned out that Clyde ordered each of them a separate pizza. His had pepperoni and cheese stuffed into the crust, injected maybe, with ground beef and green peppers and double cheese. Craig didn't mind the lack of access to this pizza because it turned him off so thoroughly he barely ate two slices of his own plain cheese.

The delivery came with a two-liter bottle of Pepsi, a giant cookie in the guise of a pizza itself, and antipasto salad strewn with bits of shredded capicola and hunks of fontina. In a bewildering move Clyde picked these deli meats and cheeses from the salad and sprinkled them over each slice before eating it, folded up New York style. "It's good," he said through a full mouth.

"I don't doubt it," Craig replied, though he seriously did. He matted grease off of his own pizza with paper towels until Clyde rolled his eyes and shook his head at this dispiriting treatment.

"Seriously, eat some salad or something. Your hipbones are everywhere."

"I do not eat iceberg lettuce."

"Why not?"

"Because it's mostly water. Look, I'm eating pizza, see?" Craig took a bite, chewing it.

"I actually think you're really hot," said Clyde.

"That's flattering. That's nice."

"But you're too skinny."

"I don't know what you want me to say in response to that."

"You don't need to say anything. Just, I like you a lot."

In front of them the TV was blaring. Nothing special, just some shitty HBC sitcom. Every interior on the show was the same set, just sloppily redressed; Craig could tell.

"I like you a lot, too." Craig said it slowly, as if Clyde were an animal he'd come across in the woods.

Clyde's tone was low and tentative. "When I go down to Phoenix, can I tell my dad I have a boyfriend?"

"You're an adult, Clyde. Tell him whatever you want."

"But I'm not going to tell him that if it's not true. I'm not just going to make something up to get him to think I'm okay."

"Are you not okay?"

"I'm fine, I just want to know if I can tell him that. I want to know if I do."

"You can tell him," said Craig. "It wouldn't be lying, I guess."

"Can I tell him that it's you?"

The sound of the fucking laugh track seemed to be cheering Craig on. "Sure." He was surprised at how loud this came out of his mouth: "Tell him that it's me."


Driving Clyde to the airport, Craig was embarrassed by his car. Clyde had been in it lots of times; Craig had owned it since his dad had passed it down to him in high school. His sister had gotten a new one with the pale excuse, "I already gave you my old one." It was a 25-year-old Toyota that sputtered up the on-ramp as a lump grew in Craig's throat. Would this fucking Toyota finally die somewhere between Fairplay and Denver International? Maybe Craig didn't want to drive Clyde to the airport. Maybe he didn't want to spend Christmas alone, with his family. Maybe Craig didn't want Roger Donovan to find out he and Clyde had been boning, or that they were "an item" or that they were going to Stan and fucking Kyle's New Year's party together in the city. Clyde was almost certainly driving. Craig planned to fucking drink. The night before, the evening of the 22nd, Craig had run into Kyle waiting for the elevator, both of them with huge bags of groceries. Kyle had leaned over and said, in a voice that sounded a little too pleased for comfort, "So I see you and Clyde are an item now?"

"Where did you see that?"

"The internet!"

"Ugh," Craig had said, "excuse me, but I'll be taking the stairs."

They met again in front of their apartments, where Kyle was waiting to greet Craig with an overenthusiastic cheer of, "Happy Hanukkah!"

Craig had spat a terse, "Same to you," then put away his groceries feeling like the absolute worst, biggest asshole in the universe, until Clyde had called him for some bedtime phone sex, a new and upsetting development. Clyde was weirdly good at describing his own dick.

"The consequence of a lot of time thinking about it," he said, sheepishly, after they'd both come.

The car didn't stall out on the way to the airport anyway. "Say hi to your dad for me," said Craig, feeling this was a rather magnanimous gesture.

"Thanks." Clyde leaned over, kissing Craig on the lips. It was a hard reach over the gear shift, but Craig came forward enough to make it work. "Thanks for the ride to the airport."

"Well, it's no problem."

Cars began to honk at them.

"Have a nice trip."

"Have a nice Christmas with your family."

"They suck, but thanks."

A woman in a traffic control vest came over to wave her arms at them through the windshield.

"You'd better go," said Craig.

"Yeah." Clyde leaned over to kiss Craig a second time, leaving him with a loose embrace. "I love you," he said. "I'll call you."

"Okay."

"I'll text you from the plane."

"Okay, you should."

The traffic cop was knocking on Craig's driver-side window. "Time to move along, sir!" she shouted. It was muffled through the window.

As Craig merged into airport traffic he turned to glimpse at Clyde, dragging his large suitcase into the terminal. If he was only going for a few days, why did Craig feel so sad?

Craig came home to an e-mail from Token Black, imploring Craig to call, as he was in town for the holiday. So Craig did. "You're in town, huh?"

"I'm in town?" Token asked. "I come to town to see my parents twice a year. Every year for Christmas since I was 18. Where the hell have you been?"

"Just sort of here," said Craig.

"Here, in South Park?"

"No, here on Planet Earth, just a citizen of humanity — yes, in South Park."

"For years, Clyde says."

"Oh, that Clyde," said Craig. He was staring out his window at the evergreen shrubs recently planted on his balcony.

"He's reported some interesting things."

"I can only imagine. Well, let's get together and compare notes."

"Skeeter's?"

"Fuck that, no, I am not going there," said Craig. "My place." He dictated the address to Token over the phone, hung up, and began scrambling to pull together some classy noshes, as Kyle might have called them: leftover white bean hummus, crab rilletes, a hunk of mediocre St. Agur, fresh-scrubbed radish slices with butter and maldon salt on the side. He pulled out the bottle of overly sweet Riesling he had gotten from Stan and Kyle as a holiday gift; as he stuffed it into his freezer he was reminded to reciprocate. But what did you get for the two worst people ever? He didn't even like them.

Token seemed impressed with the place. "I shouldn't have expected any less, though," he said, inspecting the hot-house flowers carefully. "It's a lot like you."

"How so?" Craig asked.

"A weird mix of vacant with human touches," said Token. He lived in San Francisco, apparently, and was a marginally successful poet when he wasn't at his desk in Palo Alto. "Privacy guidelines get boring," he said sadly, bending to sniff the flowers. "It's not like here."

"But you're raking it in, I bet."

"I've been there since college and I haven't seen snow once." After his BA, Token had gotten a master's in politics and a law degree. Stanford, followed by Stanford and Stanford. "But I'm more concerned about you."

"Don't be concerned about me, I'm fine. How do you feel about St. Agur?"

"Screw your St. Agur," said Token, pronouncing it like he spent a summer in Provence. "Just admit it's fucked up to disappear and then come back like this."

"Like what?"

"In the shadows, like some kind of local sleuth."

"Local sleuth?"

"You know what I mean." Token finally smeared some St. Agur on a water cracker, washing it down with the Riesling. "This isn't very good," he said, "and Riesling's very 10 years ago."

"Kyle Broflovski gave me that Riesling."

"Jesus, really?"

"Yes, because I made the mistake of not spitting it out dramatically after he offered me a glass."

"You don't think he's serving this at that New Year's party of his, do you?"

"I hope you're not going to that."

"I hope you're not! He called me on the phone," Token said, "and begged me to come. I was going to go back home to spend it out with my girlfriend, but he sounded so desperate. I changed my plans. I felt so guilty."

"Was she pissed about that?"

"Not really, I don't know." Token frowned, still handsome. He was like the one black guy Banana Republic put in their holiday ads: super clean, super sharp, the best amount of muscle. "She's passive-aggressive. It's never been serious."

"What's she like?"

"Forget her," said Token. "I'm more interested in you. Is it serious with Clyde?"

"Do you guys actually, like, talk?"

"We e-mail. We got lunch when I came in yesterday. He told me to get in touch with you, um—"

"Did he tell you it was serious?" Craig asked.

"Honestly, I don't know what the hell happened. He got wasted at the Red Robin at the mall, dissolved into blubbering tears, and said he loved you, like, five times."

"See, I'm weirded out by that. Wouldn't you be?" Sighing, Craig reached for a shiny pink radish.

"Honestly, on the whole I find Clyde one of the less weird people in this town. He keeps in contact with people. That's more than I can say about you."

"Oh, you want to keep in contact with people from school, do you? Because if so, go knock on the door next to me and say hi to Stan and Kyle. Just make sure you bring condoms."

"Do I have to tell them I liked the Riesling?"

In reply, Craig said, "Oh, those assholes won't take 'no' for an answer."

"Is anyone surprised that lasted?"

"I don't know, I'm a little surprised. Stan is so comparatively normal."

"No one's normal," said Token. "I mean, not in this town."

"I always thought that to be the case," said Craig, "until I had to come back here." He told the story, briefly, of his first relationship, carefully omitting the bits he was beginning to realize made him sound a little too much like a rape victim. The last thing he wanted was pity, least of all from staid, reasonable Token. It would have been too genuine.

At the end of the story, Token leaned forward and said, "Your professor shouldn't have taken advantage of you like that. That — it's not right."

"So if I wanted to tell this story in the future," said Craig, "which parts would you say I should omit if I don't want pity?"

"I'd get used to the pity," said Token, "or stop telling the story." They hugged when Token left, and Craig admired the manful way Token patted him on the back and said, "You know, I missed you."

"I missed you too," said Craig, surprising himself. It was reflexive, but not untrue.


Christmas proper left Craig in an awkward position, both in love with and annoyed by his family. The pie was a big hit, as it tended to be; his sister and brother-in-law got him an antique shaving kit. The razor handle was an absurd mother-of-pearl that gleamed to the point of distraction. It was useless and thoughtful, an unexpectedly delightful combination to Craig's mind. He thanked them all sincerely, hoping they didn't mind his gifts of gourmet pickled wax beans and artisan jam.

"What the hell is prickly pear preserve?" his sister asked.

"It's a jam made out of—"

"I got it," she replied. "It was rhetorical."

He somehow doubted it, but allowed her to hug him anyway.

On the other hand, the kids were greasy and noisy and Craig had never figured out what kind of role he should play for them. He didn't want to be slick bachelor uncle or kooky gay uncle or detached unfeeling uncle. Figuring kids didn't like fancy jam, he got them each a fifty-dollar bill. "Ulysses Grant says 'merry Christmas,' " he said, handing them each their money. The looks of confusion and disappointment on their faces were well worth the hundred bucks.

Then there was the fact that, though his mother had promised not to judge, she'd blabbed to Craig's father about the Clyde thing. "I really don't think you oughta be dating Roger Donovan's kid," Craig heard halfway through Christmas dinner. "There's something messed up about that guy."

"Who, Roger Donovan? He moved to Phoenix, how would you know?"

"I mean his kid. Something off about that kid. Those two dogs."

"What's wrong with those dogs?"

"What kind of adult man lives in his childhood home with two Great Pyreneeses and owns a shoe store?"

"A really weird one," Craig admitted, bored of this already. "Look, you can't tell me what to do."

"Like hell I can't."

"At least I didn't get married and have children at 18."

"I resent that!"

"Craig," said Laura Tucker, "lay off your sister."

"Look. I'm an adult. Adults make bad decisions. Is dating Clyde a bad decision? Yeah, I guess so. Will I end up regretting it? Probably. But I assume that's not why you don't like the idea of me dating him."

Thomas Tucker was a large man and when he spoke it was often unclear whether he meant his words with vulnerability or brusqueness. This year, over a dinner of dry ham, green bean casserole, and rhubarb pie, he leaned over a mug of tepid coffee and said, in all somber earnestness, "That kid is just so weird."

"Well, he's not a kid, he's a big fat adult."

Walking home alone on Christmas night, shaving kit in his hands, Craig pondered his own lingering existential angst. He had problems with stupidity and was not overly fond of pity. But, weird? Weird was Craig's element.

Weird, he could do.


It was snowing when Craig returned to Denver International Airport. Flight 204, direct service from Phoenix, had been delayed six hours now on account of the wintery mix. Being the week between Christmas and New Year's, traffic crept toward the airport at a frustrating snail's pace. Craig might have enjoyed it, were it a calm and tranquil experience; the din of traffic and the pulse of stop-and-go brake lights left Craig gritting his teeth. All this to get Clyde from the airport. It seemed not worth it, though the sight of sweat gleaming on Clyde's face as he lugged his bag out of the terminal weirdly gave Craig an erection.

"Let me help you with that." Craig barely had the trunk open before a traffic cop was screaming at him to get back in the damn car and drive away already.

"Hi again," said Clyde, as soon as the bag was in the trunk. "Thanks. I missed you."

"You too." Craig allowed himself to be kissed, a hand under his chin, the kind of intimate hi-again kiss that would have pissed him off on film. In real life it wasn't so bad, the snow falling gently. Then a car honked at them and Clyde nearly toppled over from shock.

In the car, Clyde announced that he had made a hotel reservation for the night of the 31st.

"For who?" Craig asked, "For you?"

"Well, no, I mean — for us."

"If I had to go to Stan and Kyle's fucking — whatever — the only compensation I'll accept is falling asleep in my own bed."

"But that's not practical, on account of the driving."

"Have you never had dinner in the city before?" Craig asked this knowing full well that Clyde had.

"It's just the drinking, and the roads aren't safe that night."

"Oh, that's such shit."

"You don't even want to know what hotel?"

"Does it matter?" Craig was then delighted to learn that, well, it sort of did, because Clyde had picked a nice one.

"I sort of think it's like a Christmas gift."

"The only Christmas gift I want is that dick."

"Well, I figured." It turned out that Clyde had actually brought Craig back a real gift, a potted cactus garden in a dish with a chintzy Southwestern motif. "See, I thought it went with your little things here," he said, placing the cacti near the window.

"Well, it does not! These are bromeliads — hothouse flowers, Clyde, okay, they are for wet weather, they love humidity. This is a cactus."

"Cacti."

"Cactuses like dryness. They are not hothouse flowers. They are very much the opposite."

"Well," said Clyde, "I tried!" Like it was amusing that he'd failed. He turned as purple as a beet and rifled through Craig's fridge.

The cacti planting went well on the coffee table, Craig figured, and he placed it there under a thickly woven mat. He did not know where the mat had come from and its rough-hewn look did not really go with the waxy, spiky plants, but the contrast looked good. He considered the match a success and sat at the counter, watching Clyde eat white bean hummus out of a container in great scoops with ancient grain crackers. "This is great," he said, through a mouthful. "I miss my dogs, though."

"Yeah, well." Craig shrugged it off. That was their deal: sex at Craig's, then dogs. Token had been dogsitting; would the dogsitter mind? The flight was delayed anyway. "Hurry up, okay? It's been like five days."

Afterward, feeling dopey and sated, Craig dropped Clyde off at home. The dogs were in the yard. Token had left a note inviting them to dinner.

"This is too much," Craig moaned. A dog was rubbing on his old jeans. They cost 130 dollars when he'd bought them in college, with his boyfriend's credit card. He used to pull that kind of shit all the time. The memory was partly depressing, like a symptom of a bad fall, this huge fucking dog slobbering onto his feet. Another part of him, a tired part of him, was sort of pleased. Who else was still rocking his college jeans? They were artfully frayed at the knees, but Craig's thigh gap had spared the usual wear-and-tears on the insides of his legs and his crotch.

"These looks so good on you." Clyde patted Craig on the ass and the dog on his head, pulling him away from the jeans. "Sorry," he said, sheepishly. "I think they smell me in you."

"Yuck."

"Not literally, you know, just — my cologne, or whatever. My deodorant."

"That's cute." Craig realized he was lingering, purposely not going home. This made him want to go home, but dinner was in an hour.

Instead he sat with Clyde, who looked at everything on Netflix and didn't play anything. "We could start a series," Craig suggested.

"I dunno, these all look silly."

"Have you ever seen Twin Peaks?"

"I don't know what that is."

"Well, I've never seen it, either, but it's supposed to be kind of artsy. Ambient."

"I don't know…"

"How about Weekend? It's a movie."

"What's it about?"

"Gay guys, but it's ambient."

"What if we watched something that wasn't ambient?"

"I don't know," said Craig. "Aesthetics are kind of my wheelhouse." Somehow this next-generation channel surfing ate up an entire hour.

On the walk to Café Monet, Clyde threatened, "I've got a lot of housewives on my DVR to watch after dinner."

"Great, then I'll go home."

Dinner was slow and trying, with the restaurant out of the choucroute garnie Craig had wanted. He settled for scallops baked in a cream sauce. After eating one of his four scallops he realized he couldn't do it, pushing it into the center of the table. "Don't you want that?" Token asked.

"I can't eat this, it's too much."

"Too rich?" Token asked.

"You'd know, I guess," said Clyde, to which he laughed, by himself.

"No," said Craig, "it's just too much. Too many things happening. I don't know." Uneasy with them staring at him, he ordered a mixed salad and watched Clyde finish the scallops off on top of his petite shell steak.

After receiving his salad, Craig looked up to see Token smiling at him from across the table. "What?" Craig asked.

"Nothing, sorry. I just think you guys are really in sync."

"We are?" Clyde asked.

"Yeah. It's sort of cute."

"What does that mean, though? 'Cute' is the worst aesthetic. It's so easy to fuck-up."

"What's with you and aesthetics?"

"He loves aesthetics," said Clyde, "he was just complaining about aesthetics."

"I'm sorry, but I can't just undo my interests."

"Don't apologize, man," said Token. "You do you."

"That's basically what he does." Clyde hid his grin behind his pint of Carlsberg.

"Honestly?"

"Craig Tucker doing Craig Tucker. That's an aesthetic."

"Fuck you, Token Black, that aesthetic is too meta. I hate meta as an aesthetic!"

"Animals wearing wide-brimmed hats close-up says differently."

"It was Animals Close-Up With a Wide-Angled Lens, Wearing Hats, and I was 9 and you're an asshole."

"Vintage Craig Tucker," said Clyde.

"And fuck you, too. I for one am curious to hear a reprise of your fourth-grade report on lesbian cheerleaders."

"I did not do that."

"Oh, I am pretty sure you did, Clyde."

"I think he's right," said Token.

Clyde was laughing so hard he spit up some beer.

"Ugh, that's disgusting." Craig wadded his cloth napkin into a point and dipped it into Clyde's untouched water goblet. Dabbing at Clyde's button-down shirt, he scowled. "It's nothing to laugh about. That said, this isn't a very nice shirt."

"Perfect," said Token.

"I know, right?"

Craig scoffed, and fanned the damp spot on Clyde's shirt until it was passably dry.


The new year typically didn't phase Craig. January 1 was another day, usually a cold one, 'amateur night' as some called it. For Craig, never a partier, the prospect of spending the evening out seemed less fun, more a chore. Clyde was enthusiastic, though. "I never do anything like this!" he enthused, inspecting all the touches in their hotel room: a towel heater in the bathroom, mints on the pillows, a TV with a channel that played piano concertos as information about downtown Denver danced across the screen. "Get dressed, get dressed," Clyde panted. "The car is coming at 6:45. I don't want to be late."

"Late to what?" Craig asked. "Have you never been to a party? They don't start on time, then you get there and have to wait around until midnight."

"I know, all night long!"

Craig couldn't argue with that. Instead he put on his nice black jeans and a tailored purple button-down, smeared sulfur-infused lanolin on his face, trimmed his nose hair a little, laced up his ankle boots, made sure he was clean-shaven, and got into the hired car with Clyde. The ride was shorter than he was expecting in holiday traffic, the city emptied. Maybe everyone was in Vail or something. Maybe they were all in Hawaii. Clyde tented his fingers and spent the ride with a stupid grin on his face, clearly pleased. Craig felt increasingly short of breath, a feeling of dread building up.

Getting out of the car, Clyde asked, "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Craig replied, though he wasn't.

The restaurant turned out to be smaller than Craig had been imagining, though it was in a cavernous old warehouse space in a new mixed-use development. The DJ was playing show tunes, which was the most Stan Marsh thing Craig could imagine, but the place was badly insulated and they bounced off the brick walls harshly, causing quite a racket. Voices carried and feet dragged on a cement floor and all the tables were natural wood, bolted with steel studs. The lamps dangled from meat hooks. Servers in plain clothes offered canapés from platters, each one a complex riot of colors. One girl with an angled haircut stopped them as soon as they'd checked their coats to offer a "seared Colorado lamb with bleu béchamel and watercress, on pumpernickel. It pairs great with our house Riesling."

"Fuck your house Riesling," said Craig. It was all he could get out.

"Um, I'll try the lamp." Clyde sheepishly accepted one of the tightly constructed squares. "I mean, lamb."

"Enjoy!"

Clyde inhaled it in one bite. "Sorry," he said, "I should have offered you some."

Everyone was there. Literally everyone, every last person. The guy from the café he let Stan and Kyle take him to brunch at, the one with the chia seed pudding. Stan's and Kyle's families, their stupid parents and Stan's sister and four kids who looked just like Stan's sister, all of whom were lingering in the corner on the phones, even the little one who looked about 3 years old. Every kid from town, every last kid Craig had known in elementary school, all of them older and fatter (except for Wendy Testaburger, who was the same, and Kenny McCormick, who was emaciated) and many of them hugging the arms of their significant others. Slowly Craig made an inventory of all of them. His mind reeled. He didn't know what to do.

"Do you want a glass of that wine, or?" Clyde hadn't swallowed his entire bite of food yet.

"I can't," said Craig.

"You can't drink? It's cool, I got a car."

"I can't."

"I'll take care of you."

"I can't, I can't do this, I have to — I'll go stand on the wall. Actually, I need to leave."

"We just got here!"

"I'm sorry, I have to—" Craig pushed his way out the door and left the restaurant. Outside it was freezing, his coat still checked. There was snow on the ground, half-melted with bits of chemical salt, little white bobbles that left a sickly smear under the sole of Craig's boots. The sky was a deep purple, the pitch-black mountain sky polluted with the lights of civilization, which gave it a sickly iridescence. He felt like crying, but wasn't going to. He was breathing heavily. This had never happened before.

Clyde came tumbling out after him. "I got your coat," he said. "We can go, if you want."

"I don't want you to go," said Craig.

"I'm not just going to let you stand out here alone. You'll be cold."

"I'm just a cold person."

"That's not true, and what's it got to do with this?"

"I can't do it, with all of them," said Craig. "I can't, too many people. I can't. I can't."

"It's okay."

"It's not okay, this is crazy, I can't do it—"

"Here, put your coat on." Clyde draped it over Craig's shoulders. "You don't have to. It's okay. We can leave."

"But you wanted to go to this party!"

"I just wanted to go with you."

"Well, we came, so now you should go in there and hang out with all those South Park assholes."

"Craig, you're a South Park asshole."

"Jesus," said Craig, "don't."

Guests were streaming into and, in a lesser sense, out of, the party. Some stood at the curb and smoked; some were on their phones. Those heading in mostly seemed well-heeled and well-dressed; many did not pause at the sight of Craig and Clyde. Among these was Token, who did.

"Are you guys leaving?" he asked.

"No," said Craig.

"Yes," said Clyde.

"Oh no, is this party terrible? Man, I stayed an extra week for this."

"It's fine," said Craig, "I just can't deal in there with all those people."

"We should go."

"Just let me stand out here. You guys go in."

"What kind of people?" Token asked.

"South Park people."

"Well, who else would be here?"

"I don't know, look, you guys, please go in. I'll just stand here. I don't want to have to talk to them."

"You don't have to talk to anyone if we leave," said Clyde.

"You know what?" Opening his wool coat, Token pulled a small prescription bottle out of his inner pocket. He opened it and shook out a small beige pill into a gloved palm. "Here," he said, handing it to Craig.

"What's this?"

"Xanax. Well, or, it's actually generic."

"Why do you have this?"

"That's not a polite thing to ask," said Clyde.

"I think it's perfectly fine to ask someone who's handing you drugs on the street where he got them."

"It's mine, it's for anxiety."

"What does it do?" Clyde asked.

"It just — I don't know, it helps you relax? Sort of stops you from caring about things, really. The worst thing that could happen is it won't work."

"Sounds fine. What do I take it with?"

"Water, I guess," said Token. "Sometimes if I really want it to work, like when I'm on a plane or something, I take it with a bloody mary."

"Quite baller," said Craig.

"I would prefer it if we just went to the hotel."

"Shut up, Clyde, I can't think. Or — sorry. Can you get me a glass of wine? Anything but that fucking Riesling."

"I guess. Um, Token, can you hang out here—?"

"I'd seriously prefer it if you both just let me stay out here alone for a sec."

Once they had left him, Craig huddled against the side of the building, cold and damp and feeling colossally stupid for even coming. He hoped the pill didn't dissolve in his clammy hand.

Then Kyle somehow found him.

"Oh no," said Craig. "No, please leave me alone."

"You could thank me for my hospitality," said Kyle.

"Clyde tried the lamb. He seemed not to spit it out in revulsion."

For once Kyle was wearing something normal, men's jeans and an argyle sweater, lapels of a collared shirt peeking out from the neck. Not flattering, not by a mile, but normal.

"Did you take a break from shopping in the women's section of J. Crew?" Craig asked.

"You're the last person from whom I'm going to accept homophobic shit."

"Oh really?" Craig stood up straight, somehow empowered by this exchange. "I should be the first, frankly."

"This unprecedented rudeness is really a downer. I just came out here to see if you were okay."

"What did Clyde say?"

"Clyde? I saw you freeze up and run out like you were having an anxiety attack."

"Oh, was I?"

"Well, here." Kyle was shivering now, but he pulled something out of his pocket. "I mean, assuming you don't have your own Xanax."

"What's with everyone and Xanax?"

"What do you mean, everyone? Stan's got shitloads of this so I swiped a pill from his purse."

"Stan carries a purse?"

"An overnight bag, whatever. Do you want this?"

"I'm got some already."

"Oh!"

"It's not mine," said Craig. "What is it with you people?"

"Well, when I see one of my friends go haywire and run out of my party I usually try to follow up with them. At the very least it's good hostessing!"

"I can't remark on that. It's too pure."

"Disappointing. I need at least one gay friend I can depend on for cutting remarks."

"Stop calling me your friend. It's making me feel weird. Well, weirder."

"We're friends," said Kyle.

"I think if you're friends with someone you don't need to discuss it. Just let it be."

"Whatever. Did you want Stan's Xanax?"

"I already have some." Craig opened his hand, revealing the tiny pill Token had given him.

"Well, that's convenient!" Kyle straightened out, returned the pill to his pocket, and said, "If you'll excuse me, I'm cold. And neglecting my crowd."

"Terrible hostessing."

"Yeah, I suck." Kyle rolled his eyes. "Well, I'm glad you came."

"I don't do hugs."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

"Well, you did try to get me to fuck you."

"Guess what, Craig? I find hugging infinitely more intimate." He hugged Craig anyway.

Clyde came back sweaty, with a glass of champagne. "Will this do?"

Snatching it away, Craig merely answered, "Mmhmm," gulping it down along with the little pill.

"Take it easy."

"You take it easy," said Craig. He finished the glass, breathing deeply. "Just give me a sec. I think I can do this."

"Well, I'm glad you're willing to try, but honestly — it's not a big deal, it's okay."

"I'm not going to be the grown man who can't face up to some elementary school losers I don't even like."

"Is that bravery or stupidity?" Clyde asked.

"Unclear." Craig stuck out his arm for Clyde to take. "I think I can do it. Stay with me."

"I'm not going anywhere."

They immediately bumped into the server from before; now she was offering slices of toasted baguette with a sliver of 'nut roast' and a dab of cranberry-sherry gelée, young pea shoots, and 90-day goat's milk gouda.

Clyde widened his eyes and said, "I don't think I'm going to like that."

"I'll take two." Craig accepted his hors d'oeuvres on a cocktail napkin embossed with the name of the restaurant, Une Crèche.

"What's a crèche?" Clyde asked.

"A nativity scene," said Craig.

"It's a nursery for baby animals," said the server. "Where baby animals are cared for when they're separated from their families."

"That's just about the biggest Stan Marsh bullshit I've ever heard in my life."

"I think it's sweet," said Clyde. To the girl, he said, "I have two dogs."

"Did you want one of these?" she edged the tray into his face.

"No thanks, I'm okay."

After she'd gone, Craig said, "Kyle came up with that, I promise you. Stan is not that smart." He placed the extra nut roast slice in Clyde's cupped hands. "Honestly, try this." When Clyde blanched, Craig added, "I said he was stupid, not a bad cook."

"He's not stupid, you know, he's a nice guy."

"Well, one doesn't preclude the other, exactly."

Having tried the hors d'oeuvre, Clyde admitted it was okay, but claimed to want a drink. In line, Craig realized it was a cash bar. The room was full of gregarious people, chatting and laughing and dancing ineptly. "What an incredibly odd party," he said. He then harangued the bartender for charging for drinks.

"I was just hired to serve."

"Well, you don't invite someone to a party and then make them pay for their own drinks. What happened to hospitality? What happened to congeniality? Conviviality?"

Clyde leaned in and apologetically said, "He is on some meds, so."

They got glasses of champagne ("Fuck your Riesling, that's swill," Craig informed the traumatized bartender) and then went to stand in the corner, where they accepted savory éclairs filled with dill-mascarpone and, soon after, more lamb. Craig was finally beginning to feel like himself, though also like someone else, someone much looser and less miserable: "The spread at this party is okay."

"What if we danced?"

"I'm not dancing," said Craig, "sorry."

"That's okay." Clyde had some béchamel on his lips. "I'm not a great dancer anyway."

Time slipped by as Craig realized the drug was affecting him, that he still didn't want to run into people he knew, but also, remarkably, he sort of didn't care. He let Clyde hold onto his waist until the idea of dancing began to feel like it wasn't so terrible. "These show tunes aren't the worst," he said. "Shit, that's probably the drinks talking."

"I'll suck your dick but I can't get into musicals, sorry."

"You've never sucked my dick, have you?"

"No."

"Are you gonna?"

"I don't know." Clyde sounded a bit drunk, too, his words thick and slow. "Do you want me to?"

"Do you want to?"

"I do, yeah, kind of. I've never sucked one before."

"That sounds like a serious oversight," said Craig. He could tell he was drunk from the hissing, snakelike quality of his tone. "Oh, lord."

Inevitably they were approached by some old classmates, and individually these people did not bother Craig nearly as much as the idea of all of them in one faceless mess. Bebe Stevens came to chat with her husband, who was stern-faced and has recently purchased a part of the Rockies for Bebe as a wedding gift. "You guys should come to a game!" she cried, smacking Clyde in the shoulder. "We have a box!" Her husband just shook his head, slowly, as if this had been happening all night.

"I hate baseball," said Craig, "and so does Clyde, and so does literally everyone."

"It's the national pastime," said the guy with the stake in the team.

"Craig's an interior designer," said Clyde.

"I'm shocked," said Bebe.

Her husband asked, "What do you design?"

"Um, interiors."

"Well, that's great," said the finance dude Bebe had married, and Craig knew that he'd blown a potential client acquisition opportunity.

Not long after Craig found himself saying to Kenny McCormick, "Rich people don't have any idea how hard it is to deal with their shit."

"Um, Kyle told me you literally live next to him in those fucking condos they converted Judson packing into."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

Kenny took a swig of Fat Tire and rolled his eyes. "If you don't get what that had to do with anything—"

"My ex gave me that 250 grand or whatever."

"Well, I never thought I'd be standing here having a conversation with Craig Tucker drunk on New Year's Eve, but, okay." Kenny shrugged.

"Why did you never think I'd be drunk? Why did you think you'd never talk to me? Is it because you think I'm ridiculous? I'm not ridiculous, okay, I'm just trying to get through shit. I'm just trying to get through this party."

"Well, aren't all of us?" Despite his thinness Kenny was good-looking, with thick yellowish hair and a boyish shape to his face. "I'm happy for my friends, I guess, but I think the musical numbers are a bit much."

"I know, right?"

"Right, yeah. Well, I guess the last, best thing I learned this year was that I missed out on some real deep party chat with you in high school. Don't be a stranger."

Craig stifled a strange laugh and gave Kenny the warmest look he could muster. "I'm the strangest."

"Well, I wouldn't argue with that." Clyde returned with fresh glasses of champagne, though, so Kenny added: "Or maybe I would."

By midnight Craig felt light-headed and giddy, far from himself at the other end of the spectrum, the polar opposite of his initial experience at the party. The countdown was messy and the crowd too uncoordinated to cheer in unison. At "Happy new year!" balloons fell from the ceiling. Clyde caught one after it bumped him at the top of his head.

"You don't want to kiss me in public, do you?"

"Public, maybe," said Craig, "just not right now, at this party."

"Would you kiss me back at the hotel?"

"I'd do more than kiss you."

Clyde perked up, drawing out his phone to call the car. He was interrupted by the voice of Kyle Broflovski saying, "Excuse me, excuse me," from a microphone. "We should hear this, I guess." Clyde slipped his phone away again.

"Do we have to?" Now that Craig was thinking about sex, he was not terribly interested in anything else. He trained his attention on Kyle, who was joined by Stan. They stood together awkwardly, side-by-side for just a few moments. Then, like they'd never been apart, Kyle melted into Stan's arms and they kissed.

"We're so touched," Stan said, his arms around Kyle's shoulders. He sounded like he was in tears, though as far as Craig could tell, Stan wasn't crying. He might have been cooking all night, for all Craig knew. "We love you all so much. We're honored that you're here with us. This year — this is going to be our best year."

Kyle then said something funny. Craig hadn't caught it, but most of the room laughed. "I guess so!" Kyle said, as a follow-up. More laughter.


In the car on the way back to the hotel, Craig slumped in his seat. "I'll be ready to kiss in front of everyone next time," he said. "Just get me drunker."

"I'm a bit drunk." Apparently not wearing a seatbelt, Clyde slid over. "Hey."

"Hey." Craig curled an arm around Clyde's stomach. "I never want to do anything like that again."

The makeout session began in the car and was paused in the hotel lobby, but resumed in the elevator and continued into the doorframe, against which Craig writhed while Clyde searched Craig's pockets for their key. "Did you put it in here? Stop moving, I don't want to do this in the hall."

"What's the difference? It's New Year's Eve."

"Just something weird about having sex in the hall."

"But it's kind of a hot idea, right? Can you hold me up against this doorframe?"

"Probably not." Clyde found the key in his own pocket and, after a stab or two, somehow got it into the card reader. "Okay, there we go, that wasn't so bad."

Falling on the bed, Craig tried, without success, to shrug off his coat. "This appears to be stuck," he said. "I haven't been this drunk since I was in college."

"Yeah?"

"I think so."

"I tend not to get drunk like this. I just feel kind of — reserved."

"Well, you promised to suck my dick."

"Yeah, I guess I did."

It had been years, or maybe never? No, years; Neville did it once, just once, in nearly a decade. After a long night and some Xanax and an awful lot of drinking Craig felt out of his mind with raw, unprocessed emotion. Looking down at Clyde, a fully undressed and vulnerable man sucking Craig's dick, the sight was nearly heartbreaking. Nobody'd ever done it for Craig before, and after everything, every last struggle of a particularly textured past year, he had to bite back tears. He didn't come easily, exactly, though it felt nice; Craig did like staring at Clyde long enough to catch Clyde's eyes in an upward flicker as he licked Craig's cock like it was a Unicorn Pop, up and down and 270 degrees around and then realizing, actually, he was going to have to go back the other way. Drunk time moved too slowly for Craig to really process, but he glanced at the clock and saw it was going to be 2 a.m. soon.

From his crouched position on the floor Clyde asked, "Are you going to come or anything?"

With a groan, Craig fell back onto the bed. "Just fuck me," he insisted. "Seriously. Come here." He patted the mattress. It was a nice enough hotel that he spared a thought for ruining the coverlet. But didn't people do this in nice hotels? Wasn't that what they paid for?

Clyde's weight collapsed atop Craig's body, clutching the stiff plastic of his colostomy with one hand. "I don't know about this position."

"Here," said Craig, "Let me." He held the fucking thing against Clyde's body while they fucked, slowly and awkwardly, much the way Craig liked it. He came, finally, with his spit-drenched dick trapped under Clyde's stomach, rubbing around in the trim layer of hair that crept from Clyde's crotch to his navel.

"Thanks for sucking me off," Craig whispered, against Clyde's strained expression. Apparently it was all that was needed to set Clyde off. Craig came too, painting a sticky mess between their sweaty bodies. It was freezing outside but the heat was on in their room. With Clyde snoring beside him, Craig passed out thinking that was the worst thing about a Colorado winter: everyone assumed you wanted them to blast the heat.

The next morning brought a hangover for each of them, a call to the front desk requesting a late check-out time, and a tray of room service breakfast. Over a 12-dollar carafe of swill coffee Craig gave Clyde a shaky, jerking hand job. "You look good like that," Craig said.

"Like what? Sick and tired?"

"No, just kind of sex-starved."

"I'm not starving. You're pretty good to me."

"Clyde, you've never been with anyone else." The revelation kind of stung, though it might also have been the sudden appearance of the sun, absent for the past week.

"That's true." It was tinged with a kind of longing, a bit far away. Yet Clyde pulled himself together by clearing his throat and saying, "I don't think I want to be with anyone else."

"That's stupid."

"What's stupid, wanting to be with you?"

"Not me specifically, no, I'm kind of great. But the idea that you'd never be with anyone else? I dunno, it makes me anxious."

"Why, who else did you want to be with?"

Craig was about to answer, "These two clients of mine, both named Dave, I call them the Daves," but he stopped himself.

"What were you going to say?" Clyde asked.

"I didn't have anyone in mind, and to be honest the idea doesn't appeal to me at the moment. But it hurts me a little that you like me so much, because it's not like we got together after you had a lot of experience with other guys? If I'm all you've had, how do you know I'm what you want?"

"If I don't know any better, what's the difference?"

"I guess there's no difference." Craig sighed and flexed his hand, which he'd neglected to wipe off. Now there was half-dried come on it, and he couldn't eat breakfast like that. "Hold up," he said, swiping his clean fingers against Clyde's cheek on his way to the bathroom.

Upon Craig's return Clyde appeared to be eating a Belgian waffle, but upon closer inspection he was eating pads of butter off of his waffle, each drenched in cheap table syrup. The butter had apparently been frozen when applied and was now half-melted, mostly around the edges, and still solid in the middle.

"Jeez, Clyde, don't eat that."

"Why not? It's butter and syrup, nothing's more delicious."

Craig sliced the tip off of a piece of breakfast sausage; it both smelled and tasted metallic, which hinted of sage. "The butter might be an improvement on the rest of the food, but, jeez."

"Jeez what, I can't do what I like?"

"It's just — who eats butter?"

"The Dutch do."

"Well, okay, when in Holland, I guess."

"The country is called 'the Netherlands.' Holland is just a region of the Netherlands." Clyde sniffed, setting his fork down. "I've never been there, but, my mom was Dutch. She was born here but my grandparents were actually from a town called Sneek — sounds like 'snake,' right, but it's spelled S-N-E-E-K. They were living in Amsterdam when the Nazis invaded and fled the country."

"Well," said Craig, "I knew the Nazis probably came into it somewhere, why not."

"You know what?" Clyde's voice sounded wobbly, like he might cry. "If you're going to make fun of my story you don't have to listen."

"I'll listen." Craig suddenly felt guilty, and was aware that he was naked. They both were. It felt wrong in light of the family history Clyde was about to reveal, but something — love or compassion or some gay shit like that — forced Craig to keep his mouth shut. "Please, continue."

"So they uh — my grandparents — were Dutch, and they raised my mother with some Dutch stuff, and I guess Dutch people eat this thing, sprinkles on bread, smeared with butter. You take the butter and you smear it on the bread, and it's got to be a thick layer so the sprinkles will stay on, okay, you should treat it like frosting, like you're frosting a cake. My parents went to the Netherlands once on a trip, when I was a kid, and they brought me back a box of it, the sprinkles — it had a funny name. It looked like little chocolate sprinkles, but it was better. So much better. Like if sprinkles were made from real chocolate. Anyway, sadly, we used that box up quickly, but it was such a nice thing because my mother made me buttered bread with sprinkles every morning for breakfast. Every morning when I came downstairs she was buttering a piece of bread for me. We had to use the shitty sprinkles from the grocery store, like Betty Crocker or whatever, you know. But she made the goddamn buttered bread with sprinkles for me literally every morning of my life, until she died."

Wishing he were a better person, or at least knew the right thing to say, Craig took a moment to gather his thoughts. "Look, I'm really sorry," was the best he managed.

"What are you sorry for? That my mother's dead, or that you made fun of me for eating butter?"

"That your mother's dead. I still think the butter thing is weird."

"Both would have been nice. But that's okay, I guess. Me too." Clyde's lips were slick and sticky when he pressed a kiss to Craig's cheek. He then, cautiously, ate the melted butter off the bottom of the plate with a spoon.