South Park © Matt & Trey.

Kenny's POV

When I arrive to Craig's house after visiting Tweek, I see him sitting on his front porch smoking a cigarette. How familiar.

"I visited Tweek earlier," I say, slumping on the steps next to him.

He nods, but doesn't say anything.

"He isn't really doing any better," I continue.

"Well, you sure don't sugar-coat anything," he mumbles, exhaling.

"There's no point in lying," I shrug, and he passes the cigarette over to me.

"You should visit him again," I say, inhaling. "I've told the others what was up and they all went to see him – Bebe, Clyde, Token… I think their visits cheer him up, but they aren't what he needs most. He needs you, his best bud."

Craig shakes his head.

"Why won't you talk to him when you visit?"

"I make things worse," he mumbles.

"How?"

He steals the cigarette back, finishing it off before finally answering me.

"Do you know what the last thing he said to me was?" he asks after exhaling the last bit of smoke.

"Yeah," I say. "He said he hated you."

"Exactly." He throws the cigarette on the ground and steps on it.

"Do you think he actually meant it? I don't think he actually meant it. He was just angry, and probably a little ashamed."

"I hurt him."

"Yeah, I know… And he hurt you, too. You guys are even."

"Whatever."

I roll my eyes, "Not whatever. Clearing this is bothering you if you are telling me, of all people, about it."

"It's not," he insists, standing up.

"All right, fine," I relent, following him inside.

Craig gives his parents the middle finger as we make our way upstairs. They both return the gesture from their place in the kitchen. Such a loving family… Well, still more loving than mine is.

When we get into his room, we fuck loudly. He's probably hoping his parents will hear. I think he wants to get a rise out of them, but they're the type of people who don't really care what or who Craig does. But still, I'll humor his intentions.

"Jesus Christ, you're fucking tight," he mumbles, resting my calves on his shoulders and holding me in place by the hips.

"Yeah..ahhh… well," I say shakily. "I j-just died the other day… s-so, you know, I have a new virgin body and all that sh-shit… Shit! F-FUCK! Tucker, s-slow down!"

"No."

I bite my lip and groan each time my skull smacks against the bed's headboard, reminding me of the bruise that should be there, but isn't. At least there is one positive thing that comes from the constantly dying. I come back completely unblemished.

I don't let Craig see me naked if I'm all banged up. If my dad just had a go with me, then hell no. I'll keep my clothes on, thanks. Bruises aren't flattering, in my personal opinion. Some people might like 'em, but they aren't my thing. I mean… maybe I wouldn't mind if I was just clumsy, but my bruises are never from falling down the stairs or anything like that.

Craig never asks why I'm not "in the mood" during these times because I think he already has a pretty firm idea what I'm hiding under my clothes. So yeah, I won't have sex with Craig after my dad beats me up, mostly because of the bruises, but also because I feel pretty damn awful altogether after that kind of shit happens. Can anyone blame me? Craig never pushes me if I'm not into it, which is cool of him, considering how rough he can be. You know, I usually pride myself in knowing what people are thinking, but I rarely know what Craig Tucker is thinking. No one does, and I think he likes it that way, but still... It's weird that I can't look at him and almost read his thoughts like I can with so many other people.

Craig grunts his release shortly after I do and pulls out, collapsing on top of me between my spread knees.

"I thought I told you to wear a condom," I sigh, wrapping my arms around him possessively. "Now you'll have to change the sheets."

"Whatever," he says, panting into the crook of my neck.

"Wear one next time," I mumble, though he probably still won't.

I guess if I'm going to be honest with myself, I'll admit it. Yes, I love Craig, but I love him in a different way than I love Kyle, Stan, and even Eric. Maybe that's why I've been finding myself in his bed for the past five years. He doesn't love me, that much is obvious, but if I can have this little piece of him, then I'll take it without complaining. It's selfish of me to keep him on a thread and refuse to move on, but part of me wants to make this last as long as possible, even if it'll make the end more painful. I guess I'm repeating what's happening with Stan, Kyle, and Wendy; however, I think in this case it's going to end a little differently.

"Craig?"

"Hm?"

"…Nevermind," I mumble.

He doesn't pry. He never does. It's because he doesn't really care. He doesn't care what makes me tick, what makes me happy, what makes me cry or whether I cry at all.

"When we do this, do you pretend I'm someone else?" I ask.

He never looks at me, so maybe he does. Maybe pretending is the reason he keeps coming back… because he can't have what he truly wants.

"What the hell do you care?"

"I don't," I lie, "I'm just curious. Humor me."

"Fuck off."

"You're an ass-licker."

"I'm not an ass-licker," he says. "You're the ass-licker."

I don't even bother responding to that. We just lay here in silence for a long time until Craig decides to speak.

"I like Tweek."

"What?" I ask, biting my lip. Of course, I knew that already. Tweek is one of the few people I do know Craig thinks about.

I knew it, but I pretended not to. Craig never said anything about it, so until he did I could at least pretend otherwise. He just broke that illusion. It really sucks to hear him finally say it out loud.

By "like" he really means "love", not that his stubborn personality would allow him to actually say that part out loud.

"Tch," Craig sounds somewhat annoyed at having been asked to repeat himself. "You heard what I said," he mumbles.

I force a laugh, but it probably sounds more like a sob. "So Craig Tucker has feelings? I was beginning to think you had a heart made of stone."

"Shut up, man," he says, rolling off of me so we're side by side.

I feel myself tearing up as the reality of it all sets in.

Now I can't deny it anymore.

Fuck, this really sucks…

I get up and hurry to put my clothes back on, ignoring the mess between my legs and trying to hide the fact that I started crying.

Me, crying…

Jesus Christ this is pathetic to an embarrassing extent.

"What're you doing?" Craig asks, sitting up.

I don't answer. I can't answer.

I rush out of his room and I hear him let out an irritated sound before he gets up and follows.

Still stark nude and covered in spooge, he yanks my arm, dragging me back into his dim lit room.

"What the hell, man?" he growls, forcing me to look at him. As soon as he sees my face, his expression changes, "Ah… you're crying."

"I'm not," I say stupidly, looking away.

"McCormick," Craig growls, sighing with frustration when I don't answer. "Kenny?" He wraps a hand around my arm and drags me down onto the bed with him. He doesn't say anything, but I can tell, in his own Craig kind of way, that he is trying to make me feel better.

"Why are you crying?" he asks, sounding exasperated.

"I'm not," I say again.

I can practically hear him rolling his eyes.

"I can see and hear you crying, dumbass retard," he drones, but pulls me closer nonetheless.

I suddenly start to cry hard. I can't help it. I'm always embarrassed by my own tears. I turn away from him and make breathy, gasping sounds in a failed attempt to quiet myself. Craig is probably at a loss, but he whispers comfort-words to me nonetheless. I bring my knees to my chest and cup my shaky palms over my face. Craig touches my hair and doesn't force me to talk like everyone else would. He just lets me stay quiet.

Let's get one thing straight. I really hate crying. I especially hate crying around other people, and it usually takes an awful lot to make me cry. Sometimes I'll cry during an especially painful death, but that's all fine because no one ever remembers it.

However… I've never cried about something like this before. This is new. I guess everything I've kept bottled up is coming out. I guess it was inevitable.

"So… Why were you crying?" Craig asks awkwardly, long after I've gone quiet. By now, he's spooning me and it's something he's never done before. I'm pretty embarrassed if he was freaked out enough that he ended up spooning me. Craig Tucker does not spoon. If I wasn't so humiliated, I'd probably actually enjoy it.

"No reason specifically," I pull out of his hold, sitting up and looking at him.

He raises an eyebrow, but I just smile, "I'm fine now, really."

"You hardly look fine," he says tersely. "You look like shit, but whatever, I won't pry."

Craig is being Craig again. I guess that's a good thing.

"You should wash yourself," I snicker. "You have dried up jizz on you and that's pretty gross."

"It's your jizz, moron."

"Still gross. It's all crusty."

He makes a face.

I chuckle, "Nice look."

He shrugs, asking, "Wanna take a bath with me?"

"I showered at Kyle's yesterday."

"We just had sex," he states dryly. "I'm sure you could use a bath… Besides, most people shower every day."

"Yeah, well, I can't really afford to shower every day."

He looks annoyed.

"Fine, fine," I relent.

"I'll go fill it up," he says, leaving the room.

I know how weird this looks, but it's not really that weird. Then again, it's like Craig said… We did sleep together.

Craig has a pretty big bathtub and we first decided to put it to use when we were overheated on ecstasy pills a few years ago. I heard it was good to sit in a cool bath when you got overheated, so we both stripped down and got in the tub. In a way, it helped.

Soon enough it just became something we did. He fills the bath up with warm water and it always goes like this: we sit across from each other and his mind wanders, but he still pretends to listen as I speak about pointless things.

When I finally drag myself to the bathroom, Craig's already sitting in the tub.

I discard my clothes and sink into the water across from Craig. His legs are spread wide apart in this welcoming sort of way, with his knees resting on each side of the tub.

It's bright in here and I can see the scars on his thighs. There they are: little lines of raised, white and pink skin. Some are straight and some are more crooked and desperate looking. This isn't the first time I've seen Craig's scars. Far from it. You'd think I should be used to seeing them by now, but I'm not. I still feel a little bit sad when I see them.

But he stopped that a long time ago and now that's all they are. Scars.

It started when we were fifteen. I asked him about it many times, but I never told him he should stop. I had no right to tell him what he could and couldn't do to his body, even though I didn't understand it. It must take a lot of self-hatred to harm your own body. If I had the choice… If things were a little different, I would never let any harm come to my body.

I asked him many times why he insisted on cutting up the thing that gives him life. For a long time, he didn't answer. Maybe there is no simple answer to questions like that. I have a feeling that if I asked Tweek the question when he first went to the hospital he would have told me something like, "Because of that reason exactly: it's the thing that gives me life."

It took a long time, but he finally told me the story behind the marks.

"I wanted attention," he admitted bitterly. I knew he was talking about his parents, but I also knew there was more to it than just that. There always is, but I was content with knowing at least part of the secret.

"Did you get any?" I had asked.

"No."

The whole situation is pretty damn miserable. Maybe upon realizing that his parents weren't going to give him what he wanted he just gave up altogether… The thought of the complete and utter defeat he must have felt is even sadder than the thought of him alone with a blade.

I hear Craig let out a loud sigh, snapping me out of my thoughts.

"Stop," he commands, looking me directly in the eye.

"Stop what?" I ask, not breaking contact.

"You're thinking about it again," he says. "You always do… It's fucking annoying."

"What am I thinking about?"

"You deny it, but I know you were disgusted."

"No, I wasn't."

"Yes, you were. You were disgusted that I was so easily capable of doing something like that."

"Craig, I –"

"You were," he snaps. "Don't bother trying to deny it. I saw the look on your face when you first seen them, fresh and red. I see the look you're wearing now, even after they're fading. I don't blame you though, I'm pretty fucking disgusted, too."

"I'm not disgusted," I insist, and it's the truth, but Craig only hears what he wants to hear.

He shrugs. "I didn't seem like the type, did I?"

"Craig, there isn't really a type when it comes to people who hate and hurt themselves."

"So it's self-hatred, is it?" he asks, probably rhetorically.

"To purposefully hurt yourself, you would have to at least hate yourself a little bit," I say.

"I don't hate myself."

"Okay," I smile.

"I don't," he repeats, sounding annoyed.

"Okay," I say again.

"Stop looking like that then."

"Like what?"

"You're smiling."

"Aren't I allowed to smile?"

"Not like that."

"Like what?" I laugh.

"Like you're a fucking God," he says distastefully. "Like you know every little damn thing about everyone. Stop kidding yourself, you're no God."

"I never said I was."

"Then stop acting like it."

"Fine, fine," I relent, not in the mood to pick a fight with the ass-master, "But you know what?"

"No, and I don't care."

"Well I'm gonna tell you anyway."

"Great," he says sarcastically.

"It's okay if you don't love yourself, because I love you enough for the both of us!" I say making kissy faces at him.

He grimaces, "Don't be creepy."

I chuckle a bit before sobering, "But you really should learn to love yourself."

"I don't hate myself."

"I know, I know," I say holding up my hands. "But just because you don't hate yourself it doesn't mean you love yourself."

"So?"

"Everyone should love themselves… Otherwise they can't expect to be loved by someone else."

"Do you really believe that?"

"I don't know, to be honest," I laugh.

"Well, do you love yourself?"

"Not especially," I admit, "I think it's hard to love yourself, and when you don't love yourself it's hard to accept love from someone else because maybe you think you don't deserve it."

And maybe that's how it would go if Craig actually did love me instead of Tweek. Maybe I'd be fucked no matter what because this is just the kind of person I am. So maybe it's better than I'm not the one he wants.

"Yeah."

"I don't really love myself, but at the same time I've never truly hurt myself with the intent of hurting myself. I've hurt myself to save myself from experiencing worse physical pain, I've sacrificed myself for others, but I'm not seeking it out. I don't hurt myself on purpose with those intentions."

"Liar."

I raise an eyebrow.

"You've hurt yourself," he says, "Just not physically." He taps his head, "You're constantly hurting yourself up here."

"Wow, you're so deep and intellectual, Craig," I say cynically. "Should I call you Dr. Tucker?"

He gives me a dry look before standing up and getting out of the tub.

I guess he's right.

It hurts. It hurts worse than dying. It hurts worse, knowing the person you love won't love you back and even if he did…

Fuck, I don't even know anymore.

So here I am, back home, lying face-down on my mattress and listening to my sad-song playlist.

But you know that old saying: time heals all wounds, even the ones you can't see. So I'll shrug off the sad feelings for now.