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There’s a running joke in Craig’s gang that if Clyde is crying somewhere, Token will be able to pinpoint his location.
Craig and Tweek have held onto the theory that he’s capable of a sort of echolocation, with Clyde’s sobs emitting a specific enough frequency that Token picks up on it. Jimmy, on the other hand, has discarded that hypothesis in favor of claiming it’s a psychic link, their spirits in tune after years of playing Guitar Hero together in Clyde’s basement.
Token, being one of the most logical members of their group, is inclined to disagree, but he knows they’re right to an extent. When Clyde grows upset, Token has almost always been the first person to find him, offering him a soothing pat on the shoulder or a hug. And as the years have passed, Clyde’s fits of tears have become less and less frequent, but Token always knows when they happen, usually via a gut feeling.
Even with the rush of incessant chatter of partygoers and the bass thrumming so hard he feels it under his feet, Token can sense that something’s amiss. At one in the morning at a Friday night party, he would find Clyde either living it up on the dance floor or playing beer pong in the basement. And Token was just in the basement; all he found was the overwhelming stench of weed and several seniors, all high as a kite, crowded around a Ouija board.
Now, standing in the main hall with a half-finished plastic cup of beer in his hands, it’s apparent to him that Clyde isn’t on this floor, either. The sweaty, writhing bodies sliding and grinding around one another show no sign of his friend being among them. Token takes one last glance back at them, wrinkling his nose, and heads towards the stairs.
Token wouldn’t call himself a shut-in or a spoilsport by any means. But really, he doesn’t understand how anyone can consider these wild parties to be the definition of a good time. That might be because, as someone who’s hosted them before, he understands the pain of having to clean up all the spilled beer and vomit and questionable stains the morning after. It comes down to the basic facts, though. After so many times of getting blackout drunk, gyrating in a crowd of horny teenagers while listening to the same fifteen songs on repeat, and waking up on the floor with a splitting headache, parties get old.
His friend group is split on it. Craig and Tweek, both being introverts, rarely attend any sort of rowdy neighborhood get-togethers, instead opting to stay at Craig’s house to marathon and criticize whatever Netflix show they’ve decided on that week. Jimmy’s a more frequent attendee, though he prefers a laid-back approach: sitting on the couches with some friends and having a drink or two. Every now and then, though, he’ll let loose, and when he does it’s a real treat to see him grooving and spinning on the dance floor, breakdancing with his crutches.
The novelty hasn’t worn off for Clyde, though. He often gets blackout drunk at parties like these, wiggling his arms and legs like an inebriated worm on the dance floor until either Token drives him back home or Bebe takes him upstairs. Token knows better than to interrupt his friend when the latter happens. When he was fifteen, he had walked upstairs in search of Clyde only to hear his deep, breathy moans coming from another room along with Bebe’s soft, teasing murmurs. It had taken a solid month for Token to wipe the noises from his memory.
The white, pristine carpet of the upstairs floor is so clean that Token almost feels bad for stepping on it with his sneakers. He has only half a clue of who’s house he’s in; Clyde brought him to this party as an extended invitation from one of his football teammates. He considered turning down the offer, but he’d been cramming for several exams all week and decided that a party might help him unwind. It’s apparent to him now what a terrible idea that was. He tosses his cup of beer in the trash and keeps walking.
Moving further from the pounding electronic music downstairs is a relief, but his peace is disturbed again when he hears several thumps coming from the first door down the hall. He stiffens, hand going to his phone, in case he needs to call the cops. It wouldn’t be the first time a serious fight has broken out at a party.
But he relaxes when he hears a girl mumble, “Oh yeah, God, yeah please—” from the other side. Just someone and their girlfriend getting it on, no big deal. Token, like any decent person, won’t ruin their moment for them, so he continues down the hallway.
He stops at the second to last door on the right. Most of the doors are either swung open completely to reveal an empty room, or closed, suggesting they are occupied by busy couples. But this one is just barely ajar, and from the other side he can hear quiet whimpers. They’re all too familiar.
Token swings the door open as slowly as he can. A lone figure sits on the bed, facing towards the window and staring out at the dark sky. He knows it’s Clyde even before he sees his face; the signature jacket is a dead giveaway. He moves the door more quickly, and the hinge creaks, making him wince.
Clyde turns. He doesn’t look surprised so much as exhausted. “Oh, hey. How’s it goin’, man?” he says, wiping at his nose with his arm. His eyes are raw red, lids drooping. It’s clear from the slump of his shoulders and his shuddering breathing that this is one of his worse meltdowns.
Token closes the door and rushes over, taking a seat next to his friend on the bed. The only source of light in the room is the lamp on the nightstand, which sends a warm glow across Clyde’s face and highlights the tear tracks on his cheeks.
“I— Dude, what happened?” He knows better than to ask ‘are you okay’ when he already knows the answer. Token lifts a hand and rubs circles into Clyde’s back, right between the shoulder blades. It’s a familiar, comforting habit dating back to when they were kids. Sometimes when they’d play superheroes, they would go through narrow alleyways together, and since Clyde couldn’t turn around too well in his costume, he used to worry that, when he exited the alley, he would finally look behind himself only for Token to be gone, kidnapped by villains. So Token would place a hand on his back to let him know he was there. It became synonymous with that message, the soothing reminder of it’s okay, I’m here even after they stopped playing pretend.
“Bebe and I— we, we came up here, and things were going… you know, going like they always do. But then when she was taking off her shirt, she looked kind of sad.” He pauses to let out a deep breath, one that rattles in his chest, then continues, voice trembling. “And I asked her, like, ‘Hey babe, what’s wrong’ and she—” He buries his face in his hands, a tremor shaking his shoulders.
Token says nothing but keeps pressing circular motions into Clyde’s back. Pushing Clyde into answering is never a good option. He’s found that comforting his friend without using any words is often enough to calm him down to the point where he can talk freely, although in this case, he thinks he has an idea where Clyde’s rambling is going. Token wishes he could do more, though, to soothe these fits. He entertains the idea of combing his fingers through Clyde’s hair—after all, he’s always liked it when his past girlfriends did that—but decides against it.
Most folks don’t expect a big, burly football player like Clyde to even be capable of crying. And that’s one of the reasons why Clyde doesn’t tend to break down in public anymore; he worries about his image, worries what people will say when his back is turned. To see Clyde vulnerable and open is a privilege reserved exclusively for his childhood circle of friends.
Clyde pulls his hands from his face. His expression speaks of nothing but misery, from the tears welling up in his eyes to the way his bottom lip won’t stop twitching, his grimace straightening and reforming over and over as he tries to come up with words.
“She broke up with me,” is all he says before choking out another sob and collapsing into Token’ arms.
Token wraps his arms around him and whispers into his ear, repeating phrases of “I’ve got you” and “it’s okay” to reassure Clyde, anything to lessen the torrent of tears. Clyde smells like cheap beer and sweat and, under that, cinnamon. Strands of light brown hair tickle the side of his jaw. Token closes his eyes, leaning closer, and doesn’t let go.
Clyde’s always been a touchy-feely kind of guy, handing out high fives and shoulder pats and hugs since they were kids. Midway through middle school Token watched him wrap Jimmy in a bone-crushing embrace, picking him up off the floor, after he won the talent show. It only occurred to him then that it was how Clyde showed his affection, his appreciation, all the things he could never quite put into words. Since then Token has tried to reciprocate.
And by the looks of it, it’s working. Clyde’s ragged, desperate breaths gradually slow until he’s calm, the warm air from his exhales tickling the side of Token’s neck. His fingers are hooked into the fabric of Token’s shirt like he’s scared he’ll disappear. Every muscle in his body is relaxed.
“I’m so sorry,” Token says.
“S’alright,” Clyde slurs out.
His hands relax, sliding down until they hit the bed. He’s more exhausted than upset now. Token isn’t sure whether or not he should be grateful for that. “Can we, like… Just talk ‘bout it tomorrow?”
“Of course. I can drive you—”
Clyde pulls away from the embrace. His hair is mussed up, sticking out at odd angles, and his eyes are unfocused, lids drooping. He wipes a hand across his face to dry any excess tears. “No, no. Don’t… don’t worry. My buddy won’t care if we just—” he yawns— “if we just crash here.”
“Like, here?” Token asks, gesturing to the bed. Back when he let himself pass out at these parties, he’d usually wake up on the couch or the carpet, curled into a ball that left his joints aching. A bed sounds nice, but he can’t tell if the room belongs to a guy or a girl based on the décor, and regardless, it rubs him the wrong way to sleep in a stranger’s room. “I mean—If you want to, dude, then I guess. I’ll go look for a sleeping bag.”
Token starts getting to his feet when a hand grasps onto his wrist. Clyde’s grip is loose, casual, even gentle against his skin. He looks up at Token and gives him the easy smile he sometimes wears after football practice: he’s worn out, but he’s happy.
“Stay here, man,” he says.
In that moment Token’s resolve crumbles. He feels it crack open in his chest, an outpouring of heaviness like lead seeping into his limbs and pulling him to the ground. The expression on Clyde’s face is one of contentment, even after his breakdown. Token did that for him. And he can keep that smile around if he stays.
He slips off his left shoe first, and after that his right, careful to untie and unlace them before pulling them off his feet. The drowsiness drags at his fingers like invisible weights. Clyde blinks, surprised, then grins wider. He pulls back the covers and gives each pillow a good old swat to fluff them up.
When Token looks up from his shoes, Clyde is already curled up in bed, all the covered pulled towards himself like a nest. He props himself up on a hand, cocking an eyebrow, his hip jutting out at an awkward but pronounced angle. “Draw me like one of your French girls.”
Token quietly laughs and gets into bed, tugging parts of the covers towards himself. Clyde acquiesces. Token still has the feeling he’s going to wake up cold, though, considering the fact that Clyde has been a blanket hog for as long as he can remember. He switches off the lamp on the nightstand and settles his head on the pillow, facing away from Clyde and towards the window.
His body is relaxed, muscles all loose from both exhaustion and the alcohol in his system. But his heart is thudding like a drum, loud and erratic in Token’s ears. He feels his mind going a million miles per hour, thoughts reaching a breakneck speed worthy of shattering the sound barrier. He wants to turn around, wants to look Clyde in the eyes. None of this is a big deal. He’s had sleepovers with Clyde before where they slept on the same mattress. Yet the thought of rolling over sends goosebumps prickling across his skin.
How many times has Clyde laid in this bed? Token visualizes his best friend curled up under the covers, shirtless and snoring to his heart’s content. And next to him, in the same spot Token’s in, is Bebe. Her blonde hair cascades around her shoulders in waves as she rolls over and wraps her slim fingers around Clyde’s bicep. Red acrylic nails trace swirls and patterns Token would never know but Clyde would understand, waking up with a drowsy smile to kiss his girlfriend.
Ex-girlfriend. It’s odd that there’s no one around for Token to compare himself to anymore.
“Hey, dude. You still awake?”
Token’s almost tempted to feign sleep, but on instinct he rolls over. “Yeah. What’s up?”
Clyde’s got that sleepy smile he imagined on, but it’s for him this time instead of any girlfriend. One of his hands is tucked under his pillow, while the other is curled into the covers. With him on his side, it’s obvious how broad his shoulders are. Token feels a twinge of fondness in his gut. He’s safe here.
“How d’you always do it?” He talks quietly, in the sort of voice reserved for late night conversations during sleepovers. Which Token supposes this is, now that he thinks about it.
“What do you mean?”
Clyde brushes a strand of hair from his face and shrugs. “It’s like the rest of the gang’s been saying. You’ve got, like, a sixth sense of when I’m upset. And then when you find me, you just—” he pauses, squinting at the blankets— “you put up with it. Every time.”
“You think you’re bothering me?”
He sucks in a breath and glances away, eyes distant. “I mean, I—I guess? God, it sounds dumb as shit now that I’m thinking about it.”
Token shakes his head, brow furrowing in worry. “It’s not stupid if it’s how you feel. Even if it’s wrong in this case—you’re not, like, inconveniencing me or anything. You never have.” He pauses. “Except for that one Thanksgiving party where you put your cup right on my seat. And then I sat down without realizing it was there, and it got all over my pants, and everyone kept saying I’d pissed myself—”
He’s cut off with a laugh. Clyde is chuckling softly, his face scrunching up in the way it does when he’s genuinely happy. Token’s seen him fake it before, during parties and football games where he’s bummed out over something and not buzzed up or distracted enough to forget, but he tries to hold it all together anyway. But the laugh lines around his eyes are present, and his giggling is in bursts, interspersed with snorts and low exhales. It’s real.
“In my defense, it was kind of fucking hilarious,” Clyde says, only a hint of remorse in his voice.
“But really,” Token adds, “You talk about this friendship like it’s a one-way street when it’s not. I’m more than happy to talk to you when you’re upset. You always do the same for me.”
Clyde snorts. “Yeah, but you don’t break down, like, every other week. It just looks like you’ve got it all put together.”
“…I get that a lot, actually. But trust me when I say I’m a lot less composed than everyone seems to think I am.”
“Oh, really?” Clyde’s eyes glow in the dim light of the moon, like amber lit by a flashlight. He yawns. “And what exactly is bothering Token Black today?”
Token tries to think of something, but all that comes up is the glaring problem that’s been in his head for quite some time, burning bright like a bonfire—loud, obnoxious, difficult to ignore. He swallows and looks away. “It’s not important.”
“You just told me things aren’t stupid if it’s how you feel. And I just got my gross ass tears all over your Gucci sweater. Let me let you do the same.” He stops. “Hypothetically, that is. This isn’t a Gucci sweater, you—you know what the hell I mean. Talk to me, man.”
Token digs his teeth into his bottom lip for a few seconds. He doesn’t want to take a glance back up at Clyde’s expression. Though he’s sure his friend will look concerned, the nagging, dark corner of his imagination makes him imagine a scowl of disgust. It puts a pit in Token’s stomach. “I think we should go to bed. It’s late.” He turns back around to face the window, pulling a section of blanket closer to himself.
The silence is too loud. It rings in Token’s ears like a reminder of how close he’s bringing himself to the edge. How close he is to fucking everything up. Day after day he puts his ass on the line in this friendship despite knowing it could be destroyed with a few simple words. It’s borderline agonizing to go through this tightrope walk for every interaction with Clyde, and the ground seems to get further away with each performance. But if he had a chance to do it all over, to choose safety over this lingering sense of dread and tension, he knows he’d pick the latter every time. Anything to see his friend smiling.
Clyde speaks. His voice is a whisper, subdued and missing its usual humor.
“You know you can tell me anything and I won’t give you shit for it, right? Dead serious right now… I mean it. Anything.”
“Yeah. I know.”
It’s difficult to talk past the growing lump in his throat, a vague sense of hollow guilt lingering in his chest. He feels stupid, getting choked up over a simple conversation, just because he’s too much of a coward to admit things. Especially after telling Clyde how important it is to express feelings. God. He’s such a hypocrite.
“’Night, Clyde.”
“G’night, man.”
Token stares at the moon and stars until his vision blurs, then gives way to peaceful darkness.
/ / /
When Tweek and Craig first started dating all those years ago, Token briefly had a small-scale sexuality crisis, thinking that if they had just discovered they were gay, maybe he was gay too and didn’t know it yet. But he had reassured himself soon after that, remembering how he’d dated Wendy and Nichole before, but he’d never liked or gone out with a guy. So there was no way he could be into them.
It turned out that it wasn’t that he didn’t like guys, but rather than the right one hadn’t quite come along yet. In his freshman year of high school, Token met an exchange student from Europe that was, to his shock, attractive to him, despite being a guy. Token had tried to stay level-headed over it, researching if it was some typical adolescent phase or if he was suffering some kind of drop in testosterone, any sort of reasonable explanation for these strange, terrifyingly unfamiliar feelings. It had ended with Token taking several of those online ‘Am I Gay?’ quizzes, which only made him more confused considering the variety of answers he had received.
And then Butters came into school one day with Kenny’s arm around his waist, grinning like God himself had descended from the sky to personally bless him. Cartman sneered at the two of them, asking “What, are you two gay or something?” albeit with several more slurs. And Butters had only given him a small smile, leaning into Kenny’s side, saying, “Well gosh, Eric, kind of. I’ve liked girls before, though, remember? I’m just bi.” Kenny said nothing but stood up on his tiptoes to give Butters a quick peck on the cheek.
Just like that, Token’s problem was solved. He could like girls and guys, and it was no big deal as long as he didn’t out himself. But then came the realization—the sudden, crushing, painful knowledge that he liked his best friend of all the people.
It was the football championship game. Clyde, being one of the most popular guys in the grade, had asked all his friends to come, so a decent section of the crowd was roaring with people Token knew. Jimmy sat to his left, waving a flag emblazoned with the team’s logo, his face painted with the team’s colors. Tweek sat on his right, with his boyfriend on his right, holding hands and drinking their matching blue raspberry Slurpees.
The game kept Token on the edge of his seat with the type of plays that made him watch with ardent concentration and jump up hollering the moment South Park High School’s football team got closer to a touchdown. They were neck and neck up until the fourth quarter, but even then, the opposing team was in the lead.
And then South Park High kicked it up a notch. They scored two more touchdowns with little time to spare, leaving them with more points. When the timer ran down and they were declared the victors, the whole stadium let out screams so loud Token later worried his eardrums had been damaged. Then, though, he had yelled along with them, pumping his fists and stomping his feet, his heart swelling in his chest. He and Jimmy hugged with a fierce enthusiasm, cheering all the while.
When Clyde and his teammates took off their helmets, he waved at his friend. It surprised him that Clyde saw him out of all the people in the crowd and actually waved back, his face still red from exertion. In that moment—with sweat pouring down his face in buckets, his hair all mussed from his helmet and a grin as bright as the sun itself on his face—Clyde had never looked more handsome.
And when Token realized it, a sudden guilt like a five-ton weight dropped into his chest. He felt dirty for infringing on his friend’s moment with these feelings, for crossing a line he’d never been aware of until it was too late. It made his stomach twinge and his thoughts tell him, You’re a creep. Throughout the whole night of celebration, the feeling nagged at him, settling in his bones like a disease.
He felt like everyone’s eyes were on him, though logically he knew it was the opposite. There was the paranoia that they knew, somehow, that he was betraying his closest friendship with his stupid goddamn feelings. His skin wouldn’t stop getting goosebumps. He would have to distance himself from Clyde, maybe leave town without saying goodbye and change his name just to avoid the humiliation.
It was only after a few beers that he started to mellow out. The panic was replaced with a sense of quiet resignation as he began to realize there was not much he could do. In his drunken state he tended to get more sentimental. Clyde once told him that he acted like a philosopher, like a half-baked Socrates, all wise and reflecting on the past. And he was right. Token knew, even inebriated, that ditching Clyde would be like a stab in the back. It would be selfish to make someone else hurt, especially someone he liked—he winced at the recognition of it—when he could hide the problem with relative ease.
He would wait for the feelings to pass.
He would hope they leave.
He would hope they stay.
He would be patient, as always, and hope. For what, he didn’t know yet.
/ / /
Token is wrapped in warmth.
It covers him like a blanket, curling into every part of his body. Laying in it, he’s drowsy, content, wrapped in a cocoon of safety that smells vaguely like cinnamon and beer. He feels tempted to go back to sleep. Still, though, something nags at the back of his head, telling him to do a double check.
He opens his eyes.
Sunlight streams through the windows and cascades in shapes across his face. He squints into it. The curtains are a different shade than he’s used to, and they’re open, while he always leaves his closed. He’s not at home. So where…?
Token tries to scoot forward, only to freeze as a gust of hot air hits the back of his neck. Slowly he glances down. There are arms wrapped around his waist, the fingers interlaced loosely. He recognizes the pattern of freckles on the hands. His breath hitches.
Clyde’s touchy-feely even when he’s asleep. Token is no stranger to this, having woken up at sleepovers and late-night video gaming sessions and long car rides with Clyde leaning on his shoulder or clinging to his arm. But the touches were never this close, never this dangerous. Now he’s outright spooning him, for God’s sake, his face in the crook of Token’s neck and his chest up against his back. It’s not something friends do, at least as far as Token knows.
Does he do this with Bebe? Token wonders.
And then he remembers.
For a brief moment a sense of hope flickers in his chest. He wants to curl in closer, make the most of the moment, listen to Clyde’s soft breathing and feel the tickle of his hair on the side of his jaw. He wants to sit in this peaceful quiet and pretend that he’s in a different world, one where when Clyde wakes up he’ll scoot closer with a low greeting of, “Morning, babe,” before pressing soft kisses into his neck.
Token squashes the fleeting daydream back down again. No. No, no, no, God no. Just because Clyde is single doesn’t mean he has a chance. That line of thinking is the beginning of a steep slope to a very perilous place. He can’t afford to let himself dream like that.
Though his whole body protests, Token extricates himself from Clyde’s grasp with a degree of careful slowness so as to not wake his friend up. The last thing he needs is to try and explain a situation like this without giving himself away. Now is not the time for taking chances, especially considering the fact that Clyde has just suffered a painful break-up. He’ll probably be suffering a hangover soon, too, depending on how drunk he got last night. Token needs to be a good friend. He should grab some painkillers and a glass of water for Clyde. And then he should help clean up the house, considering how most people have either left by now or are completely disoriented by their own hellish hangovers.
Looking down at his friend’s sleeping form, Token says nothing but lets out a low sigh. He leaves the room. His footsteps are quiet in the hall and fade after a couple seconds.
Clyde opens his eyes.
He stares at the empty place where Token was. Without him there it feels too cold, too empty, like he’s missing something. He squints, unsure of what to do, then pulls the covers closer to himself and shuts his eyes again.
/ / /
It’s amazing how quickly Clyde seems to recover, both from a hangover and a heartbreak. By ten in the morning he’s scooping up the red plastic cups laying askew on the ground and tossing them into the trash with all the panache of a professional basketball player. Token washes dishes in the sink before drying them and placing them quietly in the cabinet so as to not wake people up.
It's quiet. The house is larger than Token remembers, likely due to how claustrophobic the rooms once felt, jam-packed full of people last night. Now it feels less like a cage, the tall ceilings and airy marble countertops giving the impression of modernity and openness. Token, having an eye for interior design, admires the décor until he notices a polka-dotted bra hanging from a light fixture by one of the straps. He grimaces. He’ll let the host deal with that.
But even with the mess the partygoers have left in their wake, he feels at ease. It’s easy for him to ignore the several girls passed out on the couch and the guy laying facedown on the floor snoring. In this moment it’s just the two of them, like old times.
“We should go to my place once we’re done,” Token offers before he can stop himself. He half regrets it and half doesn’t—he needs time to process all that’s happened, on one hand, but Clyde still needs some comforting.
“Yeah?”
“My mom texted me and said she made breakfast. Blueberry pancakes. Your favorite.”
“Maybe a psychic sense for knowing when I’m in deep shit just runs in the Black family, huh?” Clyde laughs under his breath. He looks up from a broken cup and grins. The sun hits his face just right so Token can see every freckle, every line, every shift of light in his irises. “I’d like that, man. I’d like that a lot.”
They continue tidying up in an amicable silence. The trash bag fills quickly with napkins and crushed cans of light beer and condoms Token is only willing to pick up with a pair of tongs he found in a kitchen drawer, which he promptly washes afterwards. Soon they stand over a full trash bag, the kitchen counters and floors clean apart from a small stain of beer on the living room carpet.
“That’s about all the work I’m willing to do,” Clyde admits, raising his arms upwards into a stretch. “Thanks for… for last night, man. I really appreciate it. I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t shown up then.”
“Of course. I’m glad to have helped.”
He ties the garbage bag shut, fingers twisting to pull the loops and knots. “And I mean what I said. If you’ve got something to say, I’m all ears.”
Token’s shoulders sag. There’s the guilt in his stomach again, swirling around like a corrosive acid. “I know, but—”
“You don’t have to tell me if you’re not ready,” Clyde interrupts, his voice soft. “I can wait. However long it takes, dude. You’re not the only one who can be patient.” He rests a hand on the small of Token’s back. I’m here, the gesture says, only this time it’s Clyde’s turn to express it.
Something unspoken goes between Clyde’s gaze to Token’s. They both smile.
“Well, what are we waiting for?” Clyde says. “Those blueberry pancakes are probably getting cold by now.”
“We can warm them up. We have all the time in the world to get there.”
They leave the house of sleeping people behind and trudge outside. As they walk, their feet squish softly in the slushy remnants of last night’s snow and leave prints behind. The March sky is overcast with puffy clouds apart from the occasional sliver of pale blue. A group of scraggly crows fly overhead before perching on the telephone poles, chattering among themselves. Shreds of soggy wrappers and cigarette butts lie on the curb.
The bitter wind bites into his nose and ears, and Token pulls the collar of his sweater further up his neck. The snow is sinking into his shoes with each step, leaving his socks wet and his toes cold. Clyde hums under his breath. He has one hand stuffed deep in the pocket of his jacket, the other hanging at his side.
Token exhales. It comes out in a puff of fog.
He wants to freeze this moment in time and linger in it, just him and Clyde and the birds and the big blue sky. As a kid he imagined his greatest memories would be of the dramatic sorts of events: grand birthday parties with all the neighborhood kids; the final senior ceremony, hundreds of graduation cap being thrown in in the air; New Year’s Eve celebrations full of pomp and fanfare. And he still thinks they will be important to him.
But it’s time like these that make him appreciate the still moments, the ones where he walks with Clyde along an endless path of slush and garbage, living in a shitty town but still living together. Just the two of them.
“You coming, man?”
He doesn’t realize he’s stopped until he glances up and sees Clyde several steps ahead, tilting his head at him like a confused puppy. His face is flushed slightly from the cold, cheeks pink and eyes bright. His eyes dart to Token’s hand. Then he extends his own, slowly, hesitantly, like he’s afraid it’ll be slapped away.
Token steps forward and takes it without hesitation. He grins. Clyde’s face melts into relief, like winter turning to spring.
“Yeah.”
They walk off, hand in hand, in the crisp March morning.