Thirty-two minutes after 9:00 AM, Craig's shoes squeak against linoleum as he finally shoulders his way in through the office doors. He's late, which is unusual, but then again Craig's never actually dreaded coming into work before. His stomach had been twisting in ways that had kept him up late last night, staring up at the ceiling as he tried not to think about just how badly he'd fucked himself over for the duration of his employment—that is, if he was still even employed. So to say that Craig is just a bit on edge when Kyle calls him into his office before he even has a chance to set his things down would be an understatement.
"Close the door."
Craig does. Kyle nods at the empty seat across from him. Craig really doesn't feel like sitting right now, but he's not about to make things any more awkward than they already are. Kyle forces one of those weird half-smiles at his decision, which only makes Craig all the more uncomfortable about what's to come.
"If this is about me being late—"
"No, don't worry," Kyle's quick to assure him. "It's like, what, your first time ever coming in late? So what? Everyone has those days. You're fine."
Craig wishes that he weren't. "Then what is it?"
"We need to talk."
"About what?"
"Friday."
Aside from worrying about a surprise phone call from Wendy and having to buy new shoes since the ones Clyde had puked all over were unsalvageable, the weekend had been nice and quiet, with plenty of time for Craig to think about and reflect on what had happened Friday night. Which he did. A lot. He also thought about the repercussions that were sure to come Monday morning, but since those were less than enjoyable and nearly impossible to work with in the shower, he tried not to. There was no point in stressing over it. Craig already knew that it wouldn't end well, whatever the outcome; all he could do was enjoy the last two days before the storm touched down and his life as he knew it was uprooted. Granted, that had been easier said than done.
"What about Friday?" Craig asks tentatively. Kyle doesn't answer right away. He pulls his desk drawer open and takes out a sleek, black cell phone that Craig immediately recognizes as his own.
"You left this here last weekend. Figured you might want it back," Kyle says, holding it out. Craig notices how it just barely trembles in Kyle's fingers.
"That's not what you called me in here for," he says. Kyle sighs.
"It's not."
"It's about the kiss."
"It was a mistake. We had a little too much to drink—"
"I didn't drink."
"Well I did," Kyle suddenly snaps. He drops his hand when it's clear that Craig doesn't plan on meeting him halfway. "I was drunk, okay? And I came onto you, and I—I don't know. I don't know what I was thinking. Honestly, I shouldn't have even been drinking. I told you, I hate not being in control."
Craig calls bullshit. Kyle was barely drunk; a little tipsy, sure, but nothing like the sentence-slurring, kiss-first-and-ask-names-later intoxicated that he's trying to make himself out to have been. Kyle knew exactly what he'd been doing when he dragged Craig into his office and kissed him without warning. But Craig's not trying to argue.
"Is that all?"
"What? Craig, I'm—" He stops, exhales sharply. Craig watches through hooded eyes as he composes himself. "Listen," he tries again, this time looking calm and collected with his fingers laced together. "I'm sorry, okay? About everything. Just… forget it ever happened."
"Are we done?"
Kyle blinks. He falters. "Oh. Ah, yeah. Yeah, you can go. Sorry for keeping you."
Craig stands and starts to leave.
"Wait—Craig?"
He stops.
"I'd, uh. Really appreciate it if you kept this from HR."
"Sure. Whatever."
"One more thing?"
"What?"
"Here."
Craig turns around to see Kyle holding out his phone. "I think you might want this," he jokes sheepishly. Craig doesn't laugh. He takes his phone and leaves.
Despite his calm and collected exterior, Craig's heart is pounding harder than it ever has before—harder, even, than when Kyle had asked to speak with him alone—which is odd. He should be relieved. It's easier to breathe without that ominous sort of cloud suffocating him that seemed to billow out from underneath Kyle's office door, and it doesn't feel like he's trying to swallow sandpaper under Kyle's equally-as-anxious gaze. But he's not.
"Everything cool?" Clyde asks, spinning around in his chair to greet Craig with concerned brows. Craig drops his bags on the floor next to his desk and flops back into his seat with an affirmative grunt. "What'd he want?"
"Nothing."
"Really? He was asking about you earlier. Seemed pretty freaked out if you ask me."
"I didn't ask."
"Oh, ha-ha. Very funny." Clyde rolls his eyes. "Seriously though, dude. You alright?"
"Why wouldn't I be."
"I dunno. You look kinda pissed."
"I'm not."
"Riiiight," Clyde drawls. He goes back to reading over his working rough draft for a total of five seconds before swinging back around. "Okay, but, like—he didn't say anything about me, did he? About Friday? 'Cause Wendy hasn't—"
"No, Clyde, we didn't talk about you."
"Cool." Clyde nods. Craig sighs and reaches down to unpack his things. "Oh, dude, new shoes? When'd you get those?"
Craig stops fumbling with the buckle of his camera bag to glare up at him.
The next fifteen minutes are spent getting his workspace set up for the day, uploading Jimmy's raw interview footage into his editing program and responding to emails while it finishes finalizing; he drowns out Clyde's noisy typing with his headphones until then. Craig's nagging thoughts, however, are too loud to be silenced.
Of course Kyle would want to pretend as if nothing had happened. Why wouldn't he? There's nothing between them worth breaking the status quo for. He'd even said so himself, that last Friday had been a mistake. Sure, Craig would beg to differ on semantics when Kyle seemed pretty intent on shoving his tongue down his throat, but whatever—it doesn't matter. It's better this way. Safer. Craig still has his job, his 401k, his free Amazon Prime subscription; if anything, the odds had turned out in his favor. The grim reflection that stares back from the black loading screen of his monitor does not seem to agree.
"Are you covering the Broncos game from this weekend? Stan? Dude, hello?" Craig catches Clyde ask over the partition during a bout of silence while equalizing the interview audio. He doesn't look. Craig is not a paranoid person by any means, but he's well aware that Stan has been watching him ever since he came in, and now more than ever does he want absolutely nothing to do with him.
Turns out the reason Stan looks so familiar is because Craig has seen him before. A lot, actually. This realization had dawned on Craig at a less than ideal time, while swiping through Kyle's publicly-tagged Facebook photos late Saturday night for—ahem. Inspiration. Seeing the two sitting side-by-side, both shirtless and laughing on the edge of a pool, probably should've annoyed Craig more than it actually had; but after the series of unfortunate events that had unraveled the night before, having to block out Stan's nipples was but a minor inconvenience, not unlike his entire existence. Of course, when Craig was back in his right state of mind fifteen minutes later, Stan's status of "minor inconvenience" was bumped back up to "obnoxious," then further up to "pain in the ass" when he remembered how Stan had chased after Kyle out of the office like he was some damsel in distress.
Slack, the company messaging app that Craig hardly ever uses, chimes in the background. It's a direct message.
smarsh
We need to talk
They really don't.
Craig minimizes the window without a second thought and goes back to editing Jimmy's interview. Slack chimes again, this time twice. Craig does his best to ignore it until it chimes a third time. He caves on the fourth.
smarsh
Hey
Look up for a second
Are you getting these?
Craig?
ctucker
No.
smarsh
Look up
ctucker
No.
Stop bothering me.
smarsh
Dude, what's your problem?
Why are you ignoring me?
Craig can't figure out how to mute the conversation so he logs out. Two minutes later a desktop notification pops up for a new unread email. Craig reflexively clicks on it without reading the preview.
Stan Marsh
(no subject)
Are you free after work?
Craig finally looks up, if only to shoot Stan an exasperated glare. Stan looks right back, albeit with less malice and more curiosity in his ocean-blue eyes. His brows are raised expectantly as if he's waiting for Craig's answer. It comes in the form of a middle finger and his email address being blocked.
A long day spent avoiding Stan more than actually working ends with Craig in his usual spot at the cafe. It's empty, save for a few teenagers huddled up in one of the corner booths trading insults over a game of Magic, and part-time busboy full-time flirt Kenny McCormick is taking full advantage of the downtime to have an introspective quarter-life crisis while draped dramatically across Craig's table.
"Do you like your job?"
"Could be worse." Craig carefully pulls his Birdwatching magazine out from underneath Kenny's arm when he shifts before it can get any more wrinkled. He puts it on the chair next to him. "Why?"
"Just asking. You never really talk about it."
"Am I supposed to?"
Kenny doesn't answer, just props himself up on a fist with a sigh. He looks out the window with a sort of wistful sadness about him, the light flurry outside adding to the illusion. "Do you ever feel like you're just wasting time?" he eventually asks. "That you should be doing something different? Something more—fuck, I dunno. Ambitious?"
Craig imagines himself in charge of his own film production studio. "Like what?"
"Selling drugs. The hard stuff, though," Kenny says without missing a beat. Craig just looks at him. "What? Do you have any idea how much an ounce of coke costs? People are willing to pay for that shit, man, especially in a city like this."
"Yeah, we definitely aren't on the same page." Craig goes back to tapping away on his laptop, a signal that he doesn't want to take this conversation any further. Kenny doesn't get the hint.
"I told you about how I used to sell ecstasy back in high school, right?"
Craig does not usually care for Kenny's ridiculously hard-to-believe childhood stories, but Kenny's pointless rambling on about his unofficial title as the school drug dealer and his first night ever spent in jail help keep Craig from over thinking, so today he welcomes them. He pretends not to listen as he discreetly google's how much an ounce of coke costs until Kenny stops mid-sentence to check his phone when it beeps.
"C'mon, man. Not right now." He groans when his phone beeps again with another incoming message before he can even scroll down through the first massive block of text that Craig can't quite make out. "Can't this wait till I get home?"
"What's up?"
"It's my roommate," he explains while thumbing out a reply. "He's freaking out."
"The vet who got fired?"
"Vet tech. And no, he's fine now."
"Oh." The gay one, then, by process of elimination. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. Everything. It's complicated." Kenny sighs. "I guess something happened with that guy he's into and—honestly? I don't know. I've been working doubles all weekend so I've barely had a chance to catch up on the whole situation, but he's been pretty, uh. You know, these past couple of days. I guess whatever happened wasn't so good."
Craig quirks a brow. "What happened?"
"Well unless you feel like reading this fuckin' book he sent, I told you, I dunno. But—" Another message. Kenny deflates. "He's asking for my advice."
Craig patiently waits for Kenny to finish reading through the messages, watching as Kenny's expression twists from one of mild inconvenience from having his story interrupted to something akin to pity. Kenny winces when he reads the last line.
"Well, he fucked up. Big time."
"That bad?"
Kenny sighs. "You have no idea," he says. "The way he makes this guy out to be seems like he doesn't like him. He sounds like a dick. I dunno what to tell him without hurting his feelings." Kenny scrolls back through the messages once more with knitted brows as he worries his bottom lip. Then he hold out his phone. "You wanna weigh in on this, maybe?"
Craig might be uncharacteristically interested due to wanting to be distracted by his own shitty circumstances, but by no means is he desperate enough for that. "I have enough problems of my own."
Kenny chuckles and withdraws his phone. "Yeah, I hear ya."
When Kenny decides that the best course of action is to call his roommate and talk things out, he disappears into the supply room with what he tells Tweek are intentions to "stock up for the evening rush." Craig decides to pack up and head home, where Clyde should most likely be on the couch playing video games as long as Bebe hasn't already snagged him. Craig hopes that he's not too late.
As Craig heads towards the door while shooting Clyde a quick text telling him to stay put because he's bringing pizza home for an impromptu movie night, he bumps into another person on their way inside.
"Whoa! Sorry about—Craig?"
Looking up from his phone, Craig sees the stupefied face of Stan Marsh, who still has one foot outside of the shop. Craig makes an attempt to maneuver around him and leave, but Stan sticks out his arm to stop him.
"Move."
"No way, dude. We need to talk."
"There's nothing to talk about," Craig insists. This time he tries to duck under Stan's arm but Stan blocks him again. "What, did you follow me here? Are you stalking me now?"
"What? No, I came to see my friend."
"Good for you. Now move."
"Not until we talk."
"Do I have a choice?"
"C'mon, man, don't be like that. Just five minutes, okay? And I'll leave you alone. Promise."
Craig simply stares at Stan, but Stan doesn't budge. Craig groans and shoves past him with a mumbled "fine." Stan follows suit, close on his heels as Craig pushes through a small congregation of people standing around on the sidewalk beneath a streetlight. It's not snowing anymore, but the small amount of new snowfall has already been muddled and filthy.
"Did you block me?" Stan asks. Craig keeps walking. "Hey, do you think we can stay around here? I don't wanna go too far. I'm waiting for someone."
Craig stops. Sighs.
"Fine," he concedes but makes no effort to meet Stan back near the cafe. Stan makes up for this by joining him on the corner. He seems a bit miffed but that's not Craig's problem.
"Did you block me?" Stan asks again.
"What do you think."
"Look, Craig, I don't know what your problem is with me, but—"
"You're wasting my time. That's the problem."
"I said five minutes, didn't I?"
"Unfortunately."
Stan rolls his eyes and heaves a painstakingly-labored sigh; he's definitely miffed. Craig can't help the sense of smugness that courses through his veins at so easily exposing Stan's true colors when Kyle's not around. Craig never trusted him for a second.
"Whatever. Just—I wanted to talk about what happened last Friday. Okay? It's—well, uh. It's kind of important."
"Sorry to burst your bubble, but nothing happened."
"I know what happened with you and Kyle."
They look at each other.
"I said nothing happened," Craig reminds him bluntly. Carefully. But Stan apparently isn't in the market for bullshit this evening because the subtle warning goes right over his thick skull.
"Kyle already told me everything."
"Then there's not much else for us to talk about, is there."
Stan watches him with an expectant brow, as if waiting to catch the smallest giveaway that he's hiding something. Craig can't figure out what Stan's angle is here. Is he trying to be threatening? Intimidating? Craig's not sure, but Stan's doing a horrible job either way.
"Are you gay?"
"Don't ask questions you already know the answer to."
Stan scoffs. "Well I dunno, dude. You could be, like, bi or something. Like Kyle, you know?" He shakes his head. "You don't have to be such a dick about it."
"Broflovski's bi?"
"Yeah?" Stan blinks. "Does it matter?"
"No."
"Oh. Are you sure?"
"What's with the interrogation?"
"Nothing. I just wanted to talk—about what happened," Stan says with a shrug. Craig wants to tell him to hurry up and spit whatever he has to say out already, but he holds his tongue. He can practically see the dusty old cogs in Stan's head struggling to get a start, and interrupting Stan's neanderthal-esque thought process would probably only end up dragging things out longer than necessary. Craig would prefer to get home sometime within the next six hours.
"Kyle's a really good guy, you know," Stan eventually says, which is just as random as a starting statement as it is redundant because everyone already knows this; it's common knowledge.
"Your point?"
"That he's a good guy?"
"Are you telling me that, or are you making a suggestion? Because I can't tell."
"Listen," Stan says. "I'm just looking out for him, okay? He deserves the best, and last week—that was really shitty. You know? He was really upset. Kyle likes to act tough and, I mean, yeah, he is, but—" Stan purses his lips. Exhales. "Look, I'm not trying to start anything. Kyle already told me to just leave it alone. All I'm saying is that he might not be important to you, but he is to me, and I'm not going to just stand around and let some unappreciative jackass jerk him around and take advantage of him. Understand?"
Craig would be surprised at Stan's sudden growth of a backbone if he weren't too busy trying to decipher just what exactly Stan might be insinuating. Regardless, unlike Stan, he can take a hint. If Stan wants Kyle, he can have him.
"You don't have to worry about me."
Stan relaxes his shoulders, transforming back into his usual unassuming and oblivious self. "That's good to know. I'm glad." It's hard to believe that just a second ago Craig might've actually found him even the least bit imposing. Pathetic. "Sorry again, dude. Like I said: no hard feelings. Right?"
"Sure."
"Cool. See you tomorrow?"
As much as Craig would love for that not to be the case, it's not like there's anywhere else he can go. So he gives an acknowledging hum when Stan nudges him goodbye before dashing back to the warmth of the cafe. Kenny's shit-eating grin when Stan steps inside is hard to miss, even from two shops down.
Since Craig never managed to finish sending Clyde that text, Craig returns home to an empty apartment with a large supreme pizza in hand. He spends the rest of the night alone browsing the jobs board on Craigslist while the pizza sits on the counter, untouched.