Archive of Our Own ^beta

Life was meant to get easier the older you got. It was meant to start making sense. You were meant to learn your purpose. That’s what Craig Tucker’s mom had always told him.

It was all bullshit.

Nothing got easier. Nothing made sense. Craig had no purpose. Sometimes, he thought the world would be better off without him.

He didn’t like feeling that way. When he looked around him at his family or peers and saw them laughing and living, he wondered whether there was something fundamentally broken inside of him. They seemed to have been given a user manual that he’d never received. How was it they knew how to communicate so easily when sometimes even answering a simple question fried Craig’s brain? A better analogy would be that they were all playing a game, and everyone except Craig knew the rules. He’d just been added halfway through and was expected to catch up despite the rules being some of the most complex ones ever to have been created.

It was exhausting.

Craig was exhausted.

He stared at the week-old text message from Tweek and wanted to feel broken-hearted. He loved Tweek; he truly did. Tweek made things better, and Craig had thought he understood him—that if anyone did, it was Tweek.

It wasn’t the first time Craig had been wrong.

I’m sorry, Craig. I know this makes me the worst person in the world, and I hate myself for it, but I just can’t do this anymore. I can’t. I’m sorry.

Craig should have seen it coming. He always said the wrong thing these days, always tried to show support in ways Tweek didn’t appreciate. It wasn’t intentional. Craig always thought he was helping and that it didn’t matter that his way of thinking was far more logical than Tweek’s. Apparently, he had been wrong.

He stared at the message again. He’d left it on read, partly because it seemed appropriate and partly because he couldn’t riddle out how he was meant to reply, if he was even meant to at all. He’d thought he might get another message today, but the evening was crawling on, and his phone hadn’t pinged once.

Christ, what was wrong with him? Obviously, there was something. Something that made him profoundly unlikeable. Something that made everyone he cared about leave.

Groaning, Craig buried his face into his pillow. What did it matter anyway? He was better off alone. At least that way, he couldn’t hurt anybody else, and they couldn’t hurt him. It was better this way. Craig didn’t need people. He’d always been a solitary person, enjoying his own company over that of others. Without Tweek in his life, he wouldn’t have to force himself out so much. He could wallow in his room with nobody to chastise him for it. No one except his parents, but even they seemed to have decided he was a lost cause these days.

He didn’t care.

He didn’t.

So why did his chest feel like a volcano about to erupt? Curling his hands tightly on either side of the pillow, Craig pressed his face against it, ensuring there was no room for the sound to escape. Then he screamed. He let it all come tumbling out, yelling into the softness as if he could only scream loud enough, then it could fix all his problems.

When he came up for air, Craig still felt as lost as he had before.

Fuck.

His bedroom door swung open, and his twelve-year-old sister was suddenly intruding into his space. “Hey, Buttface. Mom says dinners ready.”

Usually, Craig would flip her off with a glare, snapping at her to knock first before telling her to get the hell out. Perhaps the lack of the usual song and dance they played tipped Tricia off, but she lingered in the doorway. Even though his face was still moulded firmly into his pillow, Craig could feel her eyes burning into him.

“…Are you okay?”

“Fuck off,” Craig said, his words muffled against the fabric.

“Mom said—”

“I don’t give a crap. Fuck. Off. Tricia.”

His sister hesitated, and Craig knew she was considering fighting him and bringing up the elephant in the room. He waited.

“Fine,” Tricia grumbled, deciding against it. She left his bedroom door wide open as she stormed off. He heard her yell down the stairs that he was being an ass but ignored his dad as he called for him to stop being a moody teenager and get his butt downstairs.

Nobody called again. Craig didn’t bother to get up and close his door.

Even his family didn’t care. Why would they? Craig had never fit in with them, either. Still, he thought that today, at least—

When the doorbell rang, Craig imagined his dad grumbling, complaining about the audacity of some people to interrupt their dinner, though it was probably for him. Probably one of his loser friends from Skeeters, dragging him to the bar. Was it embarrassing that even his middle-aged dad had friends?

He heard muffled talking as the door was opened, and a moment later, his name was bellowed up the stairs.

Craig’s shoulders tensed. Could it be his friends hadn’t abandoned him after all? Or maybe Tweek was there to put their difference aside just for one day…

Craig hated how quickly he sprung from bed. He took the stairs two at a time to see his dad had shut the door, leaving whoever had rung on the doorstep. If it were Tweek, his dad would have let him in. Clyde, Jimmy or Tolkien, too, probably.

Craig frowned and pulled it open.

Stan fucking Marsh was standing at his door, and Craig didn’t know why. They weren’t friends. Hadn’t ever really been friends if you excluded their circles occasionally merging to play games together back in elementary school.

“What are you doing here?” Craig demanded.

“Nice to see you, too, Tucker.”

“Answer my question, Marsh.” Craig was debating just closing the door in Stan’s face. It was easier than trying to figure out why the popular jock he hadn’t spoken a single word to in at least a year was suddenly knocking on his door.

“It’s your birthday, right?” Craig scowled at that, not only for the verbal reminder but because it brought back sour memories of another time Stan Marsh had come knocking on his door because he’d just had his birthday.

“How the fuck do you know that?”

“Dude, we’ve known each other since kindergarten. You know mine, right?”

“Nope,” Craig said, popping the ‘p’.

Stan laughed. “Ouch, you wound me, man.”

“Sure,” Craig said, still too defensively to come across as anything but an asshole. “I’m not giving you money, so you can just fuck off.”

Instead of offended, Stan looked confused. Craig waited. He was in no rush to help Stan Marsh out. Eventually, Stan grinned. “My bad, man. I promise you I’m not trying to rope you into a Peruvian flute band. Scouts honour.”

“You were never a scout.”

“True enough. Look, I don’t want your money, okay?”

“Then what do you want?”

“I saw your friends at Denny’s. It wasn’t hard to put two and two together when you didn’t show up. You’re clearly not sick, so.” The sick comment was obviously a reference to the fact that Craig had skipped school. He did it every year on his birthday. Tricia skipped on hers, too—their parents firmly believed birthdays were not a day you should have to work on. 

“So? Maybe I just didn’t fancy going out.” Craig kept his face passive, unreadable. Stan didn’t seem fooled for a second. “Why do you care, anyway, Marsh? We’re not friends.”

“Just thought you might fancy hanging out.”

What the actual fuck? Craig arched an eyebrow. “Why?”

Stan shrugged. “I’m bored.”

“You’re not lacking for friends, Mr Popular Jock. Why not bother them?”

Stan laughed at that, but there was something behind it that Craig couldn’t quite decipher. He’d never been very good at reading people. It was hard enough to decipher some of his emotions without decoding others, too. “You’re so unobservant,” Stan said but didn’t expand. Craig decided he didn’t care enough to press.

“Just go home, Marsh.”

“Can’t. Who would I share this with, then?” Stan opened his jacket to reveal a bottle of Jack Daniels not so subtly hidden beneath it. Craig sighed, glancing over his shoulder at his family talking and eating together at the dining table.

Fuck it.

Grabbing his coat from the rack by the door, Craig called over his shoulder that he was going out. His dad started to protest, but Craig had his shoes on and was shutting the door before he could finish speaking.

“Good choice,” Stan said, flashing him a grin. “Come on, let’s go to the park.”

“It’s February,” Craig said, shoving his hands deep into his jacket pockets.

“Like you’re not as used to the cold as I am. Come on, the pirate ship will offer some shelter, and there won’t be anyone around.” Craig considered protesting, but what else was he going to do? Go back inside and pretend he didn’t care that his friends had forgotten his birthday? Hunt them down in Denny’s and confront them?

He sighed. “Lead the way.”

The air was biting, but Stan was right; the old pirate ship offered some protection from the elements. The pair sat hunched, side by side, passing the bottle between them. Craig kept his head tilted skywards, watching the stars. He’d always loved space; the sheer vastness of the mostly unexplored world above appealed to him. He could float away up there and never have to deal with people again.

“I forgot you liked space,” Stan mused, watching Craig rather than the sky. “S’that what you wanna do, then? Get into NASA or some shit?”

Not tearing his gaze away from the sky, Craig laughed without humour. “You think I’m smart enough for that?”

“I figured Tweek and Tolkien mentor you or something.”

“What about you?” Craig deflected. He didn’t want to talk about Tolkien, and he especially didn’t want to talk about Tweek. “Broflovski tutor you?”

“Hah, no. I’m a lost cause.” Again, there was something in Stan’s tone that Craig couldn’t figure out. He finally turned to look at Stan, but his blue eyes were so intense that Craig couldn’t hold them for more than a few seconds.

“So, it turns out we’re both losers, huh?” Craig said, expecting Stan to argue. After all, he was star quarterback and almost certain to be prom king. That wasn’t loser material. Except, Craig still couldn’t figure out why Stan was out getting drunk in the park with him.

“I guess we are,” Stan said, taking a deep swig from the bottle. He seemed better at holding his liquor than Craig. Craig wondered if drinking in the park at night was a norm for Stan. Huh, it really was true that you didn’t know what was going on in somebody’s life behind the front they presented to the world.

Craig's phone buzzed before he could think of something to say. His group chat was alive, a new message from Tolkien that finally acknowledged his birthday with a well-wishing. Like the domino effect, Jimmy followed suit a few seconds later, and then Clyde. Craig watched the chat as Tweek’s icon marked him as having read the message, but no further notifications came through.

With a sigh, Craig locked his phone again without replying.

“Everything okay?” Stan asked.

“Fine,” Craig grunted, taking the bottle from Stan. His head already felt a little woozy, but what was the point of this excursion if not to get drunk?

When the bottle was just over halfway empty, and Craig was numb to the cold air, he got unsteadily to his feet, staggering slightly before holding out his hand to Stan. “Come on, Marsh. School night.”

“Didn’t peg you for the sort to care.”

“I don’t,” Craig said. His mom would kill him, though. Birthdays got a free pass, but his birthday only lasted one day. If he didn’t go to school tomorrow, there’d be consequences he couldn’t be bothered to deal with.

For a moment, Stan looked like he was going to ignore Craig’s hand and stay in the park alone, drinking. Finally, he shook his head and reached out. His hand was cold against Craig’s, and they were both too drunk to make the simple manoeuvre flawlessly, instead wobbling and leaning against each other and the play-ship to stay steady.

They walked in silence back to Craig’s. “You’ll be at school tomorrow, yeah?” Stan asked, sounding more sober than Craig expected—it made him wonder how often Stan drank to have built such a tolerance. They were only seventeen; Craig had drunk a couple of times at parties, but his tolerance was low. The street around him was definitely moving, despite Craig being almost certain he was standing still, albeit tilting a little and only not falling over thanks to Stan’s hold on his arm.

“Yeah,” Craig agreed, though he didn’t know why Stan was asking. Surely they would return to their respective groups and ignore one another in the cold light of day.

“See you then.” Craig staggered slightly when Stan released him but found his footing again before an embarrassing tumble could ensue. Stan offered him a nod, then walked away, hands in his pockets, head ducked down. Craig watched him go, unsure what had just happened. Unsure whether their entire time together had just been some weird dream. They hadn’t really talked that much, but it was so unlike them to hang out that Craig was having a hard time believing it. Only the fuzziness of his head that proved he’d definitely been drinking reassured him that, yes, that had actually happened. Stan Marsh had invited him out, and they had sat in the park, drinking like the teenagers they were.

Huh.

Craig kept his head ducked as he entered the house, kicking off his shoes and taking the stairs two at a time to avoid his parents asking questions.

He fumbled with his bedroom door for a moment before pulling it open, only to frown, frozen in the doorway as he noticed Tricia scowling from his bed.

“Out!” he demanded between gritted teeth. He was too drunk to deal with his sister's antics right now.

“Did you and Tweek break up?” she asked, ignoring him completely.

“None of your business. Out!”

“I asked him if he was coming over to celebrate your birthday, and he left me on read,” Tricia said. At least Tweek wasn’t just ignoring him, then. They’d been dating since they were ten, so Tweek was thoroughly part of the Tucker family. Of course, sooner or later, they were going to start wondering what was going on. That didn’t mean Craig was willing to supply answers.

“Tricia, get out.” He stormed over to her, fists curled like he really wished he could hit her. Tricia didn’t even blink.

“I’ll tell Mom you’ve been drinking.” Jesus Christ, little sisters were annoying. Craig was too drunk and too pissed off to deal with her. He just wanted her gone. He wanted to be alone to ruminate.

“Do it then,” Craig snapped. “Just get out.”

Tricia stared him down for a moment longer before sighing. “No wonder he broke up with you,” she grumbled, getting to her feet. Craig threw his pillow after her, a sudden fury and shame devouring him at her offhanded comment. He hated her. He hated what she’d said. He hated that it was true.

Striding across the room, Craig slammed his door shut, leaning against it for good measure. His legs quickly decided to give out, and he slid to the floor, his stomach churning, the alcohol sour in his stomach, and his throat burning in anticipation of throwing up. He swallowed deeply and pressed his forehead against his knees.

What the fuck was wrong with him? Why’d it have to be him born defective while the rest of his family and peers seemed to have their shit together? How was that fair?

Craig sighed and tried to find his feet. When that was unsuccessful, he crawled towards his bed instead, heaving himself onto it. He fell asleep quickly for once, still dressed, mouth sour and gross from drinking and not cleaning his teeth. When he woke up hours later, but before his alarm, his mouth felt like cotton wool. He blinked into the darkness, his eyes crusty and protesting his attempts at opening them.

Craig groaned. His head was pounding, and his stomach seemed to be doing somersaults. How much had he drunk the night before? On an empty stomach, too. Why had he thought that was a good idea? It was all Stan Marsh’s fault.

Blinking up at the ceiling as he tried to adjust to being awake without moving enough to want to throw up, Craig cast his mind back to the night before. There was something about it all that felt odd to him. Not just because Stan had randomly decided that, for one night, they should be friends. No, there was something more, but Craig couldn’t put his finger on it.

“You’re so unobservant.”

Eventually, the waves of sickness eased. Craig still felt gross, and that didn’t feel like it would pass any time soon, but the immediate threat of vomit had gone. He got up, groaned as his body protested like he was one hundred years old and not freshly seventeen, then made his way to the bathroom. The house around him was silent, reminding Craig that it was still so early that his parents' alarm hadn’t even sounded.

A piss and a shower helped Craig feel a little more human, and by the time he ventured downstairs, his mom was up and bustling around the kitchen, the radio playing quietly as she made lunches for the day.

“I thought I heard you,” she said. “You’re up unusually early.” Craig shrugged, but his mom was unbothered; she was now used to her teenage son and his lack of responses. A small part of Craig hated that his parents had just gotten used to it. He hated himself more for making them have to. “Want breakfast?”

“Just toast,” he said, moving to prepare it himself. Laura shook her head with a tut, ushering him into a chair. Craig watched her, trying to find the words to apologise for the day before. It had been his birthday, and he’d done his damn best to ignore his family, not even eating the special meal his mom prepared for him. It hadn’t felt like a big deal then, but now that he was watching everything she did for him without asking for anything in return, Craig felt terrible. He didn’t have the words to explain, though—Craig never seemed to have the right words.

“Is everything okay, sweetheart?” Laura asked as she placed two slices of plain toast before Craig. “Has something happened between you and Tweek? It’s been a little while since he came over.”

Craig chewed his lip, staring at the perfectly toasted bread before him rather than meeting his mother’s concerned eyes. He wasn’t sure he wanted to tell her, but either way, she’d find out sooner or later. “He broke up with me,” Craig said, quiet and hesitant.

“Oh, sweetheart,” his mom said, squeezing his shoulder but thankfully not trying to hug him. Craig didn’t think he could deal with that right now. “I’m so sorry. Is that why you didn’t go out with the boys yesterday?” Craig shrugged. It had been hard enough telling his mom about his breakup. He couldn’t bring himself to add that his friends had all gone out together without extending an invite his way. “I’m sure things will work out. I’m happy to see you making new friends, though,” she said, and again, Craig chewed his bottom lip, deciding against contradicting her. Stan Marsh wasn’t his friend, but he’d been there last night when his actual friends couldn’t be bothered. That was something.

Craig took a bite of toast to fill the silence. It was plain, not even coated in butter, but his empty stomach thanked him for it. He took it slow, nibbling at the edge until he started to feel a human again—or as much as Craig ever felt human, that was. If his mom noticed he was hungover, she tactically decided against bringing it up. Craig wondered whether that was because she was giving him a break because he’d been dumped or because she’d already long since given up on him.

Craig ate both bits of toast and drank the orange juice his mom gave him before slinging his bag over his shoulder. When his mom looked up, surprised, Craig shrugged. “I’m gonna walk today,” he said. He needed the fresh air, and he wanted a little longer before he had to deal with his friends. If he could even still call them that. He guessed they’d picked Tweek in the breakup. Given the choice, he wouldn’t have picked himself either.

It was almost a forty-minute walk to Park County High, but Craig left early enough that he arrived at the same time as the buses. He ducked his head and upped his speed, still not ready to see anybody.

At his locker, Craig reflected on what Stan had said again. ‘You’re so unobservant.’ He wasn’t sure why that was sticking to him like a staticky plastic wrap, but he couldn’t shake it. It made him turn to watch his peers as they filed into the building, talking and laughing within their groups of friends.

Craig had long since tuned them out, but they were still like clockwork, and so it wasn’t hard to miss them. Wendy Testaburger was up front, arms linked with Bebe Stevens. Craig’s cousin, Red McArthur, followed close behind, chatting emphatically with David Rodriguez and Millie Larson. Craig could barely remember the names of the teens bringing up the rear of their little clique, and he couldn’t say he cared, either.

What he did notice, however, was that Kyle Broflovski trailed behind them, his face sullen.

Stan Marsh was entirely absent.

Interesting.

Usually, Craig wouldn’t have cared. He didn’t really like their little clique or the drama that followed them around, and he certainly wasn’t interested in it all. After last night, however, Craig couldn’t help but wonder what had happened. Why didn’t Stan, Wendy and Kyle lead their silly little possie like they always used to? What had happened to have Stan Marsh seeking out his companionship while his best friend walked around looking like a sad puppy and his girlfriend marched with a face that looked like she was raring to fight?  

Craig was so busy staring that he didn’t realize that Clyde had sidled beside him until he spoke.

“Hey, dude. Um, so I’m sorry about yesterday, man. I was gonna text you earlier, but—”

Tearing his eyes away from the departing group of popular kids, Craig turned to Clyde. He was short and stocky, and as a member of the football team, by all rights, he should have been in Stan’s group. Clyde was a hopeless crybaby nerd, though. It created a wedge between him and the popular kids.

Craig sighed and shook his head, not wanting to have the awkward conversation. “It’s fine,” he said, though it wasn’t fine. It had hurt, feeling like an afterthought. “I don’t like birthdays anyway.”

“Exactly!” Clyde smiled in relief. “You always get so—”

“What’s going on with Marsh and his friends?” Craig interrupted. They were on the football team together, and Clyde liked to know everybody’s business. It was likely he would have the answers Craig was looking for.

Clyde opened and closed his mouth, surprised. “Um. Yeah, okay, sure,” he mumbled, seemingly more to himself than Craig. Louder, he asked, “What do you mean?”

“Marsh. He’s not with his posse. Why?”

“Since when do you care about anything to do with Stan?” Craig wasn’t certain, but he thought Clyde might be annoyed. Perhaps because any time Clyde tried to fill him in on gossip, Craig told him he didn’t care.

“I don’t. But I noticed they weren’t hanging out.”

“Stan and Wendy broke up, like, two weeks ago,” Clyde said. “I don’t know how you missed it.”

“What’s that have to do with Broflovski?” Craig frowned, his mind trying to piece it all together even before Clyde answered.

“The official story is that Stan cheated on Wendy, and so all his friends—Kyle included—hate him.”

“And the gossip?”

“Wendy and Kyle are dating.” Craig snorted at that. He couldn’t see it. Wendy Testaburger and Kyle Broflovski were essentially the same person and wound each other up too much for that to happen. He also didn’t see Stan cheating. It just didn’t feel right.

Craig had never been one to pay much heed to rumours, anyway. If he were going to get to the bottom of this, it would be through talking to Stan. However, last night was a one-off, and Craig didn’t care either way. He shook his head, trying to push the thoughts away. He didn’t know why his brain had decided to become invested, but it was annoying.

Without another word, Craig walked off, heading in the direction of his first class. He only knew Clyde had called after him because his friend caught up a moment later, elbowing him in annoyance. “What’s got into you, dude?”

“Huh? Nothing.”

Clyde chewed his lip, looking like he might cry. “I really am sorry about yesterday. I felt bad, but Tweek—” Craig didn’t want to hear it. If Tweek wanted their friends all to himself, he was welcome to them. Craig didn’t care. He didn’t.

“Just drop it, Clyde. It’s fine, okay?”

“But—”

“Why don’t you go find Tolkien to annoy and leave me alone.” He kept walking, even as Clyde stopped, staring at his retreating back, bottom lip wobbling. Craig hadn’t meant to be so harsh, but he’d never been very good at dealing with feelings or coming across as he had intended. Sometimes he said the wrong thing. Sometimes, he didn’t even realize he’d done it. It was just… Craig didn’t know how to talk to people. He didn’t know how to come across in a way that the rest of the world deemed acceptable, and he was so exhausted from trying that he’d given up. Better to be intentionally hated than to try his hardest and still be rejected, right? 

By lunch, Craig thoroughly regretted coming to school. He was in a bad mood anyway and wasn’t sure where he stood with his friends, so he felt too awkward to seek them out at their usual table. Instead, he went outside, shivering against the cold, as he found some abandoned steps and planted himself down on them.

Despite his promise, he hadn’t seen Stan. He’d not been in English that morning, so either he’d woken late, or he’d just plain skipped. Once again, Craig wondered why he cared. Maybe it was because it seemed their situations were more similar than Craig could have ever guessed; both were abandoned by their friend groups and were now lonely and lost. There was solace in that, Craig supposed, in knowing that somebody else knew how he felt. He pulled out his phone.

Thought you said you’d be at school.  

They didn’t have each other’s numbers, but somehow, they followed each other on Instagram. Craig didn’t know why he reached out. It wasn’t like they were friends. One shared evening of underage drinking didn’t change anything between them. Craig hated Stan Marsh, hated everything he stood for.

Right?

Too hungover

Stan’s reply came quickly, which surprised Craig as his frantically beating heart and brain full of regret the moment he hit send had tried to assure him that Stan wouldn’t reply at all.

Wanna go for a drive later?  

Craig blinked at the second message, too stunned to fully comprehend it. They weren’t friends. It didn’t make sense. He didn’t understand what was going on.

Craig typed out ‘no’ but hesitated before sending. After a moment, he deleted it, instead sending a different single word.

Sure.

It became a routine for them. Things were still weird with his friends, though all but Tweek were talking to him again, but Craig found he cared less and less. Tweek could have them if he wanted. Craig didn’t need the headache of trying to decipher how they felt or what he was doing wrong to make them drift apart from him.

It was easier with Stan. There weren’t years of carefully cultivated friendship that could shatter with a wrong word, so Craig didn’t overthink anything. If Stan said something, Craig just responded with whatever came to mind. Sometimes, Craig even initiated the conversation. He didn’t even feel judged when he did—Stan didn’t look at him like Craig had opened his mouth and had insisted the sky was silver and the moon pink.

“You look at the sky a lot,” Stan noted one evening about two months after they had started hanging out. They didn’t meet every night—Craig’s social battery wouldn’t have allowed for it even if they’d both wanted to—but it was more frequent than Craig had expected. He didn’t mind. There was something so low effort about Stan, almost like they were on similar wavelengths.

That said, Craig still hadn’t asked him about his friends. Stan hadn’t asked Craig about his—or Tweek—either.

“Yeah. I like space.” He distantly remembered that Stan already knew this. Hadn’t they talked about space the first time they’d hung out?

“Do you know anything about… anything?” Stan asked. He was tipsy. The only times Stan didn’t drink when they hung out was when he was driving. Despite not having Stan’s appetite for alcohol, Craig appreciated that. Sometimes, he thought the world would be better off without him, but most of the time, he didn’t want to die in a car crash.

“You mean like the star names and shit?” Craig asked. He was holding a beer, but he’d barely drunk anything. His mind was clear, even if his head was up there in the stars.

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Yeah,” Craig nodded, “And I can point out a fair few constellations and whatnot.”

“Go on then.” Craig’s gaze returned to earth, and he scrutinized Stan, trying to work out whether the other boy was poking fun at him. Craig had done this with Tweek before and with Clyde a couple of times at sleepovers when they’d been younger, but most people thought his obsession with space was weird. Especially as he wasn’t seriously aiming to go up there. It wasn’t that Craig didn’t want to, but he was being realistic. He knew he wasn’t smart enough to get anywhere close to the stars and was destined to be forever earthbound, staring up. That was okay—the sky was still pretty from the soft grass that chained him.

“Okay then,” Craig said finally, deciding that if Stan was asking, then that probably meant he was interested, or at the very least, curious. He pointed at the sky. “You see those really bright ones?” Stan nodded. “That’s Orion. Those three really bright ones in a row are the belt. You’ve heard of that, right?”

“Uh, I think?” Stan squinted up at the sky, and Craig realised he didn’t really know what he was looking at. Craig huffed a laugh; he liked it when people shared his interest, but he knew most people his age didn’t. It was appreciated that Stan was trying, even if his gaze was definitely pointing slightly off, showing that, despite Craig starting him off easy, Stan had already failed the test.

“It’s fine, Stan. Just look at the stars. They’re pretty, right?” Stan snorted gently at that, returning his eyes to Craig, who flushed, sure he was about to be mercilessly teased.

“They are kinda pretty,” was all Stan said. “But go on. Give me another one to try and spot. There’s a Dipper, right? The, uh, Big Dipper?”

It only took Craig a moment to locate it. It was a clear night, the sky full of bright stars lighting their tiny planet, making Craig feel like an ant. “There,” he said, pointing again. Stan followed his finger, squinting up at the sky. He stared for a long time, tilting his head as if it would offer a better view. Finally, he shook his head, smiling.

“I can’t see shit. There’re loads of stars, but I don’t see any shapes in them. Don’t disown me, Sensei.” That startled a laugh out of Craig. He was used to Stan being the future prom king and star football player. He’d all but forgotten Stan had been a massive nerd, constantly playing Warhammer and D&D as a kid. The thought that Stan might still binge anime and play tabletop was oddly comforting.

“Do you?” Craig asked, forgetting that Stan wasn’t privy to his thoughts. When Stan tilted his head, confused, Craig flushed and hurried to clarify.

“Not as much as I’d like. I paint miniatures all the time, though. Sometimes, Kenny comes over for a skirmish.”

“I didn’t realise you guys still hung out.”

“You know Kenny. He flits about, is friends with everyone and no one.”

“Poetic,” Craig deadpanned, and Stan laughed again. As the silence fell between them again, Craig forced himself to speak up despite the comfort the quiet provided. “You should play with Tolkien again. He’d like that.”

“He still plays?”

“He goes to a Warhammer group once a month in Denver,” Craig said. “But I reckon he’d like to find someone local. He used to enjoy hanging out with you. Before you became too cool.”

“I never—” Stan started to protest but cut off, looking down guiltily. He lifted his bottle to his lips but didn’t take a swig; instead, he just rested it against his mouth, suddenly quiet and withdrawn. Craig panicked, not entirely sure what he’d said wrong. He’d been joking—surely that was obvious?

Stan sighed and seemed to deflate. “I didn’t mean to leave people behind,” he admitted. “I was just going the motions, y’know? Trying to appear alright.”

“Trying?” Craig arched an eyebrow, and Stan let out a short, humourless laugh.

“I haven’t been alright for a very long time. How about you?”

Craig thought about it. When was the last time he felt truly happy and carefree? He figured he was about twelve when he first started to really notice that he didn’t know how to relate to anyone. Even his own family felt like strangers—people Craig had been shoved together with and was expected to make conversation despite never being taught. He started to become aware, too, how hard it was to keep up with his friends. It seemed so easy for them, and Craig swore that sometimes they looked at him like he was a burden they’d been saddled with and didn’t have the heart to discard.

Instead of answering, Craig asked, “When did you start drinking, Stan?”

“Tonight?” They both knew that wasn’t what Craig meant. Craig thought Stan might deflate soon from all the air he kept expelling from his lungs. “When I was ten.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah.”

“And no one’s noticed?”

“They notice when I’m properly drunk, but I’ve gotten very good at hiding it and drinking just enough to make the days bearable.”

“Why are you telling me all this?” Craig couldn’t understand why or how they had gotten to this point, some secret friendship where Stan seemed to trust him more than he’d trusted his real friends.

“Because I think you get me,” Stan admitted. “You might not use alcohol as a crutch, but you feel just as lost as I do.”

It was Craig’s turn to sigh. There was a lot of sighing going on that night. “I don’t get people,” he said. “I don’t understand how the world makes sense to everyone else because it just seems so…” Confusing. Frustrating. Demanding.

Exhausting.

Craig didn’t finish his sentence. Stan watched him for a moment while Craig picked at his nails nervously, wondering what Stan thought of him. It probably wasn’t good—someone as popular and outgoing as Stan must surely be appalled by Craig’s lack of social skills.

“Dude, I’ve been wondering… Do you think you could be autistic?”

Craig’s blood ran cold. That wasn’t what he expected, and he didn’t like it. “…What?”

“When I was ten, I got told I had Asperger’s. It turned out to be bullshit—I was just depressed as fuck. Still, I’ve done a lot of research and from what I’ve seen and what you’ve told me… I dunno, man. It fits.”

“I’m not… I—You’re wrong.”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Stan said, picking up on Craig’s defensiveness. “It just means your brain is wired a bit differently. At least look into it a bit, okay?”

Craig grunted in what he hoped would be a satisfactory way. Stan didn’t roll his gaze away from the sky, so he assumed he was in the clear. They just lay there together in silence for a while, each contemplating their own problems. Craig couldn’t help but reflect on what Stan had just said. Craig’s understanding of autism wasn’t great—he could only conjure up the idea of somebody nonverbal who refused to make eye contact. Judging from Stan’s question, there was a lot more to it than that. He wondered if it was more like a spectrum. He wondered whether he’d actually bother to look into it. It seemed like a lot of effort, though, so probably not. He was pretty sure he was just broken, anyway, with no explanation for why.

Eventually, Craig broke the silence. “Have you really been depressed since you were ten?” He tried to cast his mind back. When they’d been ten, they’d been sometimes friends. Craig didn’t remember noticing anything, but then again, he’d always been a little oblivious. He hadn’t noticed anything was wrong with his relationship with Tweek until the moment that horrible little text had come through, changing everything.

“I mean… I have good days and bad days,” Stan said a little defensively.

“Yeah, I mean…” Craig trailed off. He didn’t know what he meant. His mind was reeling, noisily simultaneously contemplating what Stan had suggested about autism and trying desperately not to think about it.

It was all too much.

Craig stood abruptly, not meeting Stan’s eyes when he said his name questioningly, etched in hurt.

“I need to go,” Craig mumbled, already walking away. Stan watched him go without trying to stop him, but Craig was sure he could feel the disappointment burning into his back. Another person to add to the long list of people disappointed in Craig. He wasn’t sure he had the energy to care.

When Craig got home, he went straight to his room, ignoring his mom’s attempt to get him to eat the dinner she’d left for him. Craig wasn’t hungry. He just felt blank, like an empty body waiting to be filled. Like he should have had his character poured in by now, but the employees at the human factory had simply forgotten about him and sent him out into the world incomplete.

He landed face-first on his pillow, letting it mould to the shape of his head, and he stayed there for a while, struggling to breathe but fine with it because surely his breath was as much of a waste as he was.

A hesitant knock on his door stirred some sense into him, and he twisted his head just in time to catch his mom open the door. She didn’t step inside—he hadn’t given her permission—but hovered, a look of concern across her face that made her look older than she really was. Just another thing that was Craig’s fault.

“Craig, sweetie, is everything okay?”

Craig’s first instinct was to scream and shout until she left. He didn’t want to drag her down with him. He didn’t want to hurt her, either, so he took a calming breath, trying to steady his rattled nerves. “I’m fine, Mom,” he said, though it was obvious to anyone with eyes that he wasn’t.

“Have you spoken to Tweek yet? Maybe—”

“Mom,” Craig interrupted bluntly, struggling to keep his temper. He hadn’t spoken to Tweek in just over two months, and when they ran into each other at school, Tweek froze, made eye contact and then ran away like Craig was a monster he should fear. Craig hated feeling like a monster. He didn’t understand what he’d done to deserve it. “Let it alone.”

“I’m just worried about you, Craig.”

“I’m fine.”

“At least eat something.” His mom sighed, running a hand through her hair. It wasn’t as shiny as usual—Craig wondered if that was his fault as well.

“Later,” he said.

“Maybe go down and see Stripe? That always cheers you up.” That was true, at least. Stripe never failed to briefly quiet the constant chatter in Craig’s mind. He nodded, thinking of bringing his guinea pig upstairs so they could hang out in his room and forget the rest of the world existed.

His mom lingered for a moment longer, looking like she wanted to say something else. Craig was glad when she didn’t. He didn’t know how to talk to her, even if he wanted to. He wasn’t ready to talk about Tweek yet, though. He’d shut off everyone who had tried. If Tweek himself didn’t want to speak to him, then what right did Craig have to talk about him? Besides, it hurt thinking about Tweek, and he did plenty enough of that. Repeating the same conversations in his head as if they would really happen, filling in the blanks for Tweek with what he assumed the other boy would say. It was never good. The Tweek in his head hated him. The Tweek in his head called Craig selfish and horrible, always making everything about himself and not caring about Tweek enough to be precisely what he needed Craig to be without ever telling Craig what that was.

Sometimes, Craig tried to remind himself that that Tweek—that angry voice in his head—wasn’t really Tweek. He didn’t know how the real Tweek felt, didn’t have the first clue what had gone through his head to make him push Craig that far away and refuse to allow him back. That logic was hard to listen to, though.

Maybe it would help to talk to someone after all. If he couldn’t speak with Tweek, maybe somebody else who might understand?

Not yet, though. Craig wasn’t ready yet.

With a sigh, he got out of bed and sought out Stripe. At least he loved Craig, even if it was just because Craig was the bringer of food. Maybe he could tell his problems to Stripe? It wasn’t like the guinea pig could tell anyone else.

Craig had gotten used to hanging out with Stan at the weekends. It had become routine for Stan to message him out of the blue (or not so out of the blue if Craig was expecting it, he guessed), and they’d go out together, most of the time just wandering around South Park with no destination in mind.

To that end, when Craig didn’t get his usual message asking if he was about on Friday evening, he started to worry. His mind went straight for the kill: He’s fed up of you, just like everyone else. It’s cute that you really thought you were friends.

Craig sat on his bed and debated typing out his own message. Maybe Stan got distracted. Perhaps he was busy. In the end, Craig overthought it too much and didn’t end up sending anything.

We might still hang out tomorrow, he thought. They’d probably pretend that the blip of contact hadn’t happened.

Used to his Friday evening walks with Stan, Craig still slipped on his shoes and a jacket that night. He didn’t bother calling out to say he was leaving; he wasn’t sure anybody cared about his comings and goings at this point.

Outside, the night was fairly mild. April was coming to a close, and with it, the snow was contemplating clearing for a brief spell. Still, Craig didn’t dawdle, finding himself heading to the park where he and Stan often ended up, squeezing together on the pirate ship or sitting side by side on the swings.

Craig was just reaching the basketball court when something caught his eye that made both his pace and his heart speed up.

The familiar flash of orange would have had Craig turn on his heel, but it wasn’t just Kenny McCormick kneeling in the sandpit. It looked like Stan had come out after all, but he hadn’t messaged Craig to see if he was about. That likely had something to do with the fact that he was hunched up, gasping for breath, an empty spirit bottle smashed at his feet.

“Fuck,” Craig said, freezing as he spotted the blood staining Stan’s fingers wound tightly into his dark hair.

From his heaving shoulders and gasps, it looked like Stan was having a panic attack. Craig didn’t know what to do. He stood frozen, eyes fixed on the blood. It was hard to tell if it was a lot. There were smears across his fingers and a trail sliding down his wrist that looked almost black in the moonlight.  

“Tucker, get a grip. I can’t have both of you freaking out on me!” Kenny snapped, momentarily glancing away from Stan to glare at him. Craig hadn’t even realised he’d been noticed. He wanted to help, he really did, but what was he meant to do? He was just as big of a mess as Stan—he couldn’t help him. Craig couldn’t even help himself.

“Kenny, please don’t leave,” Stan gasped, his hands flying from his hair to catch Kenny as if he feared he was moving away. Kenny, who hadn’t moved an inch other than to glance Craig’s way, gripped Stan’s hand, clutching it tightly.  

“I won’t, I promise,” he said before turning to Craig again. “Seriously, Tucker, get the fuck over here and help me.”

Craig glanced between the drunk boy having a panic attack and Kenny, eyes darting in fear. A part of him wanted to bolt. The situation reminded him so much of Tweek, and thinking of Tweek right now was dangerous.

Thinking of Tweek took him to horrible places—lonely depths that Craig didn’t know how to escape.

Stan was his friend, though. Stan was bleeding.

Stan was crying.

Craig didn’t know how to help himself, but maybe he could help Stan? Maybe helping Stan would even help himself.

Craig’s feet were moving even before his brain had made the decision. He knelt next to Kenny and reached out, putting a hand lightly on Stan’s shoulder.

“Stan,” he said, his voice surprisingly calm. “I need you to take a deep breath, okay? Can you do that?” Stan’s eyes were flickering around in his sockets, darting between the two teenagers before him and something else, something only he seemed to see. “What happened?” he asked Kenny while Stan attempted to do as requested.

“I don’t know. I found him like this just before you showed up.”

So Stan had been drinking alone. He was in their spot (was it their spot?), so maybe he’d expected Craig to show up. Perhaps he hadn’t even realised he hadn’t messaged Craig. Had this all been Craig’s fault?

No. He wasn’t allowed to make this about him right now. He wasn’t allowed to spiral. He needed to be there for Stan.

“How hurt are you? McCormick, how hurt is he?”

Kenny examined the hands still clutching him tightly, his face pinched in concern. He pulled a tissue out of one of his pockets and wiped at the gloopy blood, trying to search for its source. Eventually, he declared, “Nothing serious. I think he cut a couple of his fingers on the glass, but they don’t need stitches.”

That was a relief, at least. Craig turned back to Stan. “How much did you drink?” Unfortunately, Kenny couldn’t answer this one for him. Stan’s breathing still hadn’t calmed enough for him to answer. Craig moved his hand from Stan’s shoulder to his cheek, cupping it softly while encouraging Stan to meet his eyes. He was cold. Craig shrugged his jacket off and draped it around Stan’s shoulders, adjusting it slightly so that it covered him. Somehow, his hand found Stan’s face again. Craig didn’t consciously put it there. “Breath with me like this,” he said gently, inhaling deeply and exhaling through his nose. “That’s it, slowly.”

Stan’s eyes were fixed on his as they breathed together. Usually, such intense eye contact made Craig uncomfortable. As a child, he’d never lasted more than a few seconds in staring contests. Perhaps it was the situation, but Craig didn’t drop his gaze. He kept his eyes locked on Stan’s, offering what he hoped was a gentle, encouraging smile.

After a few minutes, Stan’s breathing started to calm. Craig brushed a thumb against his tear-stained cheeks. He’d almost forgotten Kenny was still there. “Are you okay?”

Stan sniffed. “No,” he admitted. “’M so worthless. Don’ deserve—” Stan started drunken rambling about how abhorrent he was. It struck a chord with Craig because he felt the same about himself. He disagreed with Stan, though. It made Craig wonder whether it was the same for him. Was it possible all the negativity was Craig’s own creation, and the people he forced those opinions of himself upon didn’t actually feel that way?

“That’s not true,” Kenny was saying—arguing, really. “You’re wonderful, Stan. You deserve so much happiness.”

Stan didn’t believe him.

Craig wouldn’t have, either, if those words were for him.

“How much did you drink, Stan?” Craig repeated softly. Stan’s eyes were unfocused, and his breath stunk heavily of the stuff. If he’d drunk the entire bottle, there was a chance they’d have to get his stomach pumped. Craig couldn’t save him here, only to have him die of alcohol poisoning later in bed. “Was it all the bottle?”

Stan shook his head. His unfocused gaze was still fixed on Craig, and Craig wondered whether it was him he was seeing or whether it was Kyle or Wendy—whichever one had broken his heart more. “Maybe half,” he slurred, which, to Craig still sounded like a lot of alcohol. He glanced at Kenny.

“He could do with throwing up. That’ll probably happen sooner or later anyway. With his tolerance, though, he should be okay. Hungover as fuck tomorrow.”

“With his tolerance?” Craig repeated angrily. “You knew he was drinking this much?”

“Sounds to me like you did, too,” Kenny said, unbothered by Craig’s fierceness. Craig opened and shut his mouth. He had, hadn’t he? He’d ignored it because he hadn’t wanted to think about Stan sitting alone, drinking. It was much better to mentally deal with when he was seated beside Stan, passing the bottle between them. For the first time, he considered whether Stan stopped after they parted ways or if he kept drinking until he passed out.

Fuck. He’d been a bad friend.

“Look, just help me get him home, okay?” Kenny said. “You’d like that, right, buddy? Nice toasty bed.”

Stan started sobbing again, and Kenny and Craig shared a slightly terrified look.

“You don’t want to go home?” Craig asked, turning back to Stan.

“I do,” he sniffed. He was drunk. Craig decided not to question the contradictory behaviour too much.

Between them, they got Stan to his feet, but as soon as he was upright, he turned a startling shade of green and twisted away from them, hosing the sand down with vomit. Craig’s stomach churned, and he looked away.

“Where’d you learn to help calm him down like that?” Kenny asked, coming up beside him. While he spoke to Craig, his eyes were sharply trained on Stan, checking to make sure he was okay.

“Tweek. Though sometimes I was more of a hindrance than a help.”

“I doubt that,” Kenny said. He was silent again for a moment as he watched Stan heave. “Do you know what’s going on with him?”

“What makes you think I would?” Craig shot back defensively. Had Stan told him they were friends? They only hung out privately, which was weird now that Craig thought about it. While Craig still sat with his friends at lunch, Stan didn’t seem to hang out with anyone. Craig wasn’t even sure where he went at lunch. Maybe he should invite him?

Kenny stopped the spiral of thoughts in Craig’s brain by speaking again. “I see you guys out together sometimes. I assumed you’re friends.”

“I guess,” Craig admitted, unsure why it was so painful to admit when it had become true. Somehow, over the past couple of months, they had become friends. “He still hasn’t told me what happened with Wendy and Kyle.”

“Same,” Kenny admitted. “Kyle won’t say anything either. I know they’re not talking, though.”

“And Stan isn’t handling it well,” Craig said, daring to glance at Stan. He’d stopped throwing up and leaned his face against the pirate ship, cooling it.

“Stan hasn’t handled anything well in his entire life,” Kenny said with a small laugh. “He’s always been sensitive. I don’t mean that in a bad way, but he doesn’t handle things well. When I was in hospital…”

“You were in hospital?” Craig asked when Kenny trailed off.

“Oh. Ah, never mind,” Kenny said, grinning sheepishly. “Looks like he’s done. Come on, let’s get him home.”

Stan wasn’t very mobile. They had to support his weight between them as they walked, moving slower than both of them were used to. As they passed through the park, Craig realised he didn’t even know where Stan lived these days. He’d been just down the road until he was ten, then he lived on the farm opposite Tolkien, but Craig was pretty sure he wasn’t still there these days. Fortunately, Kenny knew where he was going and happily chatted away while they walked. Craig missed the days when Kenny McCormick spoke as little as possible, and when he did, it was always muffled by his parka. He’d found Kenny more bearable in those days. Now, Craig just found him annoying. Maybe because Kenny tried so hard to be his friend. Craig had enough of those, or at least, he hoped he still did. The only reason he’d allowed Stan into his life was because they shared the same bleak disposition.

When they got to Stan’s house, just a block away from Craig’s, they hesitated by the mailbox.

“Do we knock?” Kenny asked.

“Fuck no,” Stan grumbled, apparently alert enough to realise he was home. “Ken, keys in pocket.”

“Which pocket?”

“Jeans.”

Kenny laughed. “If you wanted me to touch your ass, you just had to say, Marsh.” That comment left a sour taste in Craig’s mouth for some reason. He stayed silent, teeth gritted, as Kenny found Stan’s keys. They weren’t exactly quiet as they let themselves in, but no parents came running, so together, they made their way up the stairs and into Stan’s messy bedroom. It reminded Craig a lot of his own: unmade bed, empty plates and mugs piled around, and dirty laundry covering the floor. Kenny wrinkled his nose. “You should probably clean your room, dude.”

Stan just grunted, falling face-first into bed. Craig rolled him over, not wanting him to suffocate, then hesitated, watching Stan as his eyes slipped mostly closed. He was still wearing Craig’s jacket. It suited him.

“I might stay with him,” Craig declared, unsure whether he was telling himself or Kenny.

“Probably best,” Kenny said. “I’d offer, but I have shit to do. You’ll be okay?”

“I’m not the one wasted.”

“True. Make sure he doesn’t die, okay? Despite everything, I kinda like him. He’s like a sad puppy, y’know?”

“’M here, y’know,” Stan grumbled tiredly, not opening his eyes.

“Glad to hear it, dude. I hope you’ll still be here for a long time yet.” Kenny ruffled Stan’s greasy hair, flashed Craig a grin and left without another word, shoving his hands deep into his pockets as he walked away.

There was an empty glass on Stan’s bedside table. Craig picked it up and left to find the bathroom, which was, thankfully, located similarly to where his own was at home. He filled the glass with cold water and poked at Stan to sit upright so that he could drink. Stan drained it, so Craig filled it up again and left it on the table where Stan would be able to reach it.

He looked at Stan’s hands, then. They’d stopped bleeding but were smeared red. During his second trip to the bathroom, Craig had grabbed a washcloth. It was white, so he felt a little guilty as he used it to wipe Stan’s hands, inspecting the cuts already scabbing over. He was sure Mrs Marsh wouldn’t hold it against him.

“You worried me,” Craig admitted as he finished clearing the last smears of blood. He’d put Band-Aids over the cuts but didn’t want to risk waking anyone as he rooted around for the first aid kit. “When I saw the blood…”

Stan sniffed against his pillow but didn’t say anything.

“Is it okay if I stay?” Craig asked, almost nervously. It felt weird to invite himself, but he was worried about Stan choking on his own vomit during the night.

“Mmm,” Stan mumbled, sliding across in his bed so that there was space. Craig stared at the bed but didn’t move. “Get in.”

“Nah, it’s cool. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“Get in, Craig,” Stan repeated, almost sounding sober with his demand.

“Okay, Mom,” Craig teased, but a wave of discomfort hit him. He’d shared a bed with friends before. Hell, he’d regularly shared a bed with Tweek. But they were all people he’d been close with for years, people he’d been having sleepovers with since they’d been in diapers. Sharing Stan Marsh’s single bed made him nervous for reasons he couldn’t fully understand.

“You’re overthinking this. I don’t bite,” Stan mumbled sleepily. His words were still a little slurred, heavy with alcohol and sleep, but after throwing up and downing a pint of water, he definitely seemed more with it.

Shooting off a quick message to his mom to let her know he wouldn’t be coming home, Craig climbed into the bed, lying stiffly on his back, staring up at the dark ceiling. His jeans were uncomfortable, stiff and digging in at the waist. Craig had no intention of removing them, though.

“Do you always sleep like a plank of wood?”

With a sigh, Craig forced his body to relax. He shifted, turning on his side to face Stan, surprised to find the other boy had turned to face him as well. They stared at one another for a moment, the silence not wholly uncomfortable. “You stink,” Craig said finally.

Stan snorted. “I should probably clean my teeth. Guess you’ll just have to resist kissing me, Tucker. Think you can restrain yourself?” He was teasing, but Craig’s mouth went dry, and his eyes flickered to Stan’s lips without his permission.

“I would never take advantage of someone when they’re drunk,” Craig deadpanned back.

Stan huffed another laugh, turning onto his back. “Shame,” he said, and Craig had no idea if he meant it or not. He decided he didn’t want to ask. The answer seemed too loaded.

“How’re you feeling?”

“Stupid. Embarrassed,” Stan mumbled.

“Want to talk about it?”

“Not really.” There wasn’t anything to say to that, and Craig wasn’t one to press for information, so he stayed silent.

The quiet between them dragged on for so long that Craig assumed Stan had fallen asleep. He, himself, had always had difficulty drifting off. It blew his mind that some people could close their eyes, and that was enough. His mind didn’t shut up for long enough to allow sleep to claim him quickly, even when his body was heavy with exhaustion. Sleep time was the best time to relive every embarrassing thing he’d ever said or done over the years, apparently. Craig disagreed; he thought his brain was a bit of a dick.

“I tried to speak to Kyle,” Stan said quietly, and in the dimly lit room, Craig could see his eyes were open—awake after all. Craig didn’t really know what to say to that. As his brain tried to come up with something appropriate, Stan spoke again, “It didn’t go well.” That much was obvious.

“Uh, sorry?”

Stan bit out a laugh. “You’re terrible at this.”

“I know. Sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologise.”

“Sorry,” Craig mumbled again, to Stan’s amusement. Craig was feeling entirely out of his depth. This was new between them—not just the sharing a bed but talking about their other lives—and Craig didn’t do well with new. He didn’t know how to handle it and was sure he’d end up fucking up somehow or other, most likely saying the wrong thing. “I’ve always been bad at this… stuff.”

“That surprises me,” Stan said thoughtfully. He still sounded a little drunk, the scent of alcohol and vomit strong, but his words no longer slurred as they previously had.

“Why?”

“Well, you dated Tweek for so long, and—no offence—but Tweek’s always got something going on.”

Craig froze at the mention of Tweek and the use of past tense. It made sense that Stan had put two and two together with all the evidence facing him, but Craig had never explicitly confirmed it. He hadn’t needed to. Just because Craig didn’t see Stan at lunch, it didn’t mean Stan didn’t see him. Tweek hadn’t sat at their table since the breakup. Craig never mentioned Tweek if he could help it. Stan wasn’t stupid.

“I’m sorry,” Stan said, staring at him. Apparently, the pain was painted across Craig’s face in bold enough colours to be seen even in the dark.

Craig sighed, reaching up to rub his eyes. They were dry, but the urge to cry was there. “It’s fine,” he said. Maybe it was time to talk about Tweek? Stan would get it, and if not, there was a chance he wouldn’t remember their conversation in the morning. He had drunk a lot that night. “I just… It’s hard to talk about him. Fuck, even think about him.”

“Because he broke up with you?” Stan guessed.

“I don’t care that he broke up with me. I care that he didn’t want me in his life. Tweek was my best friend, my person. I loved him, platonically as much, if not more, than anything, and it fucking hurts like fuck that it’s not reciprocated. He pushed me away and shut me out, and I don’t understand why he hates me. I don’t know what I did that was so bad he can’t stand the sight of me.” Craig didn’t realise he was crying until Stan’s face softened, and he reached out but didn’t make contact, hesitating at the last moment.

“Oh, Tucker. I’m so sorry, man.”

“You get it, right?” Craig asked between sobs, meeting Stan’s eyes imploringly. He needed somebody else to understand how much it sucked. How much it hurt.

“Yeah, I get it,” Stan said quietly. “Losing Kyle…” He couldn’t finish his sentence. That was fine; Craig didn’t need him to. He was just relieved that somebody got it. Somebody knew how much it hurt and wouldn’t judge him for not being strong enough to take the pain.

“Jesus Christ, what a pair we are,” Craig said, his voice choked. Stan laughed at that.

“It’s healthy to have a good cry now and then,” Stan said, leaving unsaid how his panic attack at the park was less so.

Craig inhaled deeply, scrubbing at his eyes. He felt better, he realised. Not good, not even close, but better. He’d been holding that in for so long and saying it out loud, not keeping it imprisoned in his heart… It felt like a start. He still had a long way to go.

They still had a long way to go.

But it was a start.

“Can you sleep?” Stan asked after a long silence. Craig didn’t even know what time it was. He didn’t want to check.

“No. Can you?”

“No. Wanna watch a movie?”

“Sure. What do you fancy?”

“What’s your favourite film?” Stan asked.

“Uh,” Craig hesitated for a moment. He knew his favourite movie, but he felt nervous about admitting it. For some reason, he felt he should be naming an award-winning masterpiece, not a cult classic. “Evil Dead,” he finally admitted.

“I haven’t seen it. Put it on.” There was no judgment, no teasing for liking such an old movie. Craig hesitated.

“I mean the original,” he said.

“Sure,” Stan said, unbothered. “It’ll be on one of the streaming services, right?”

“Yeah. Okay.” Craig accepted the remote and opened Netflix. He’d watched the film recently, but that was nothing new. Craig watched it at least once a month usually. The TV was on the wall across from his bed. Next to a Nintendo Switch, a new PS5 was plugged into it, throwing Craig back to when they were children. Craig had forgotten Stan was team Sony. It made him smile, happy that they had another thing in common.

Stan, it turned out, was not a very good movie buddy.

“Is that tree raping her?” he asked, twenty-six minutes in. It wasn’t the first time he’d snorted or made comments.

“Shhhh.”

Stan did not ‘Shhhh’, his commentary continued throughout:

“Oh my God, the make-up!”  

“Why’s she suddenly a puppet?”

“The acting, man!”

“That was terrible!” Stan laughed once the credits started rolling. Craig felt his heart sink—he always hated sharing his favourite things only to find the other person didn’t love it too. However, Stan continued talking. In the glow of the television screen, he was beaming. “It was just what I needed, thank you. There’s a sequel, right?”

“You want to watch it?” Craig asked, surprised.

“Not right this second, but yeah. Maybe next Friday?”

“Yeah, okay,” Craig agreed, surprising himself. Sam Raimi’s work was sacred to him, but while Stan had laughed and poked fun at the movie, he seemed genuine when he said he wanted to continue the series.

“We should probably sleep. I’m wiped.” In the glow of the TV, Stan did look dead on his feet.

“How’re you feeling?”

“Gross,” Stan said. “Don’t worry. I think I threw up everything I’ve eaten for the past year, though.”

“And the rest?”

“Shitty,” Stan said honestly. “But it’ll get better. Tomorrow’s a new day.”

“Stan, if you ever want to talk about what happened—” Craig started awkwardly. Like he’d said, he was terrible at this.

“Yeah, thanks, dude. Maybe someday. I think I’ll clean my teeth before bed. My mouth tastes like a ninety-year-old ballsack.”

“Nice,” Craig said dryly as Stan got out of bed.

“Wanna borrow a toothbrush and pyjamas?”

“Sure,” Craig said, more at ease after the movie than he had been before. After getting ready and climbing back into bed, Craig scrolled through his phone as Stan slept beside him. He had a message from Kenny asking after Stan that he replied to, making a mental note to gently remind Stan that he had people who cared for him at some point.

Despite his better judgement, Craig opened his message chain with Tweek. He stared at the breakup text for a long time, his heart sinking towards his stomach.

Don’t I deserve people who care for me, too?

It was too painful to think about. Instead, Craig opened Google and typed in autism. He’d been avoiding it for far too long, but with Stan sleeping softly beside him, Craig finally felt brave enough. One website turned into five, then a bunch of Instagram posts and TikTok’s, and before Craig knew it, it was five AM, and his eyes were finally heavy, protesting the brightness of his screen and the fact that they’d been open for far too long. Craig put his phone down and was asleep within minutes.

Things returned to a sense of normal between Craig and Stan. Stan, he noticed, was drinking less during their hangouts which was a good sign. About a week after their impromptu sleepover, Stan showed up at Craig’s lunch table, hovering awkwardly until Tolkien slid across on the bench with a smile to make room for him. Clyde and Jimmy shared a confused look, but nobody said anything, and by the end of lunch, Stan and Tolkien had arranged a Warhammer session, and Jimmy was trying to talk both Stan and Craig into joining his D&D campaign. Craig took more convincing than Stan, who was game pretty quickly. Honestly, Craig didn’t know how he’d fared so long as a jock—Stan really was a massive nerd.

Their first Dungeons and Dragons session came the following weekend. Tolkien had to help Craig create his character and figure out the dice, and while Craig didn’t really have a clue what was going on, it was nice to spend time with his friends and feel accepted by them again. Not having Tweek there was strange, but Craig hadn’t realised how much he’d missed Clyde, Tolkien and Jimmy. He’d convinced himself that his friends hated him, that they sat with him at lunch because they pitied him, and all sorts of other ridiculous things, but in truth, if anyone had been pulling away, it was him. He’d been distancing himself to save on the hurt he'd been sure was coming, but fortunately, his friends were good enough to wait for him to bounce back.

After Stan’s Cleric saved them from a particularly tricky battle that almost killed Craig, whose D20 seemed to love nat 1s, they decided to call it a night.

“Who were you hanging out with at school before us?” Clyde asked Stan tactlessly as they were clearing away their belongings. Jimmy elbowed him in the ribs.

“N-not cool, man!”

“It’s alright,” Stan said, surprisingly relaxed. “I was hanging out with the Goths.”

That seemed to confuse Clyde’s tiny brain. “Why?”

“Because I like them?” Stan said, posing it as a question as if he was just as confused at Clyde for different reasons.

“So, are you really not coming back to the team?” Craig had only known Stan had quit the team because Clyde had been complaining about it for weeks.

“Football was always more my dad’s thing than mine,” Stan said casually, although Craig got the sense he was becoming slightly uncomfortable with the interrogation. He couldn’t blame him. Craig could be clueless, but at least he usually had tact—Clyde lacked both.

“But—”

“Clyde, can you help carry these upstairs?” Jimmy interrupted, stuttering on the word ‘help’. Stan shot him a grateful smile. Clyde pouted, tearing his attention away from Stan to help Jimmy carry the dice box, miniatures box and collection of Player's Handbooks to Jimmy’s bedroom.

“Sorry about him,” Craig mumbled once they were out of earshot. “I think he’s mistaken you for a celebrity.”

“Aren’t I?” Stan asked, sounding so sincere that Craig faltered, trying to come up with a reply before Stan barked out a laugh. He turned away, oddly embarrassed, only to spot Tolkien watching him thoughtfully.

‘What?’ he mouthed, but Tolkien only shook his head, the corner of his lips twitched upwards in a smile.

After they’d said their goodbyes, Craig and Stan ambled down the street together. They were heading to Craig’s; they’d finished the original Evil Dead trilogy and were about to start Ash vs Evil Dead. Craig had a feeling Stan wouldn’t have anything negative to say about the TV series in comparison to the 80s movies.

“That was fun,” Stan said, hands deep in his pockets.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I forgot how much I like your friends. I think as kids, we got so caught up in the rivalry between our ‘gangs’ that we convinced ourselves we couldn’t be friends. It’s bullshit. I missed playing games with Tolkien and laughing at Jimmy’s jokes.”

“And Clyde?” Craig teased.

“I’m sure I missed something about him, too,” Stan said lightly. Craig nudged him playfully with his shoulder. “He’s your best friend, isn’t he?”

“That’s Twe—” Craig cut off. It wasn’t Tweek. He hadn’t spoken to Tweek in months. “Yeah.”

Stan’s face softened. “Tweek can still be your best friend even if you’re not his. Kyle’s still my best friend.”

Craig wasn’t sure how to feel about that logic. He decided to ruminate on it in his own time.

“Why have you never asked me, by the way?” Stan said causally, his gaze skywards, staring at the stars as they walked.

“Asked you what?”

“About Kyle? About what happened.”

“I figured it was your own business.”

“Huh,” Stan said, falling silent for a moment. When he spoke again, his gaze had shifted to the footpath. “You wanna hear about it?”

“Only if you want to talk about it.”

“I think I finally do.”

“Then go ahead,” Craig said. “I’m listening.”

Stan didn’t stop walking. He rubbed his neck and hummed thoughtfully, as if deciding what to say. Craig supposed it was possible Stan hadn’t practised this story in his head multiple times over the past month. It was odd to realise that not everybody did that, but it was just one of the things his recent research spiral had revealed to him. “I guess it’s true that I cheated on Wendy,” he said finally.

Craig stopped walking abruptly. He’d been so sure that was a fake rumour. He’d never thought Stan capable of cheating.

Stan stopped a few paces in front of him, turning to meet his eyes with a mixture of sadness and pain across his face. He also looked resigned, ready to accept whatever judgment Craig threw upon him. It was that, more than anything, that made Craig catch himself, schooling his expression back into something more neutral. “What happened?” he asked.

Stan didn’t look relieved, almost as if he’d wanted Craig to hate him. Knowing Stan, he probably thought he deserved it. “I kissed Kyle.”

That, at least, wasn’t surprising. Craig had suspected Stan liked him.

“Kyle rejected you?” Why did asking that twist at his insides?

An array of emotions flickered across Stan’s face like a slot machine until he settled on resignation. “He didn’t reject me.” Craig bit the inside of his lip—it felt like someone was wringing his guts. What the hell?

“Then what happened?” he asked, his voice slightly higher than he expected. He cleared his throat.

“Wendy walked in.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah.”

“Wait. But why are they still hanging out?” If Kyle didn’t reject him, that must mean Wendy walked in on Kyle kissing him back. Why was only Stan being punished?

Stan scowled, the streetlights casting his face in shadows that warped his expression. “Wendy can be quite manipulative when she wants. Kyle’s not ready to come out—”

“And she threatened to out him,” Craig finished for him, horrified. Craig had never really liked Wendy Testaburger, but he’d never thought her so cruel.

Stan shrugged. “I doubt she’d really do it, but Kyle didn’t want to risk it. He’s at her beck and call now; won’t speak to me at all.”

“I’m sorry, Stan.”

Stan shrugged again. “It’s all I deserve. Y’know, it took me a long time to realise that I was so drawn to Wendy because she was a safe Kyle. No one would judge me for liking her.”

Kyle and Wendy had always been very similar—smart, righteous, stubborn. Craig could see why Stan would think that. It was sad that they lived in a world where he’d felt the need to lie, even to himself, it seemed. Stan deserved better, no matter what he thought.

“Anyway.” Stan shoved his hands into his pockets and started walking again. Craig watched him for a moment, wishing he knew what to say but unable to come up with anything appropriate. Eventually, he just jogged to catch up. Together, they finished the walk to Craig’s in silence, their previous high from a fun evening with friends souring at the edges until even Ash Williams couldn’t do much to draw them from their respective melancholy moods.

Stan’s dad had dragged him away for a "boys’ trip", so the following weekend, Craig found himself at a loss for what to do. He’d gotten used to Stan being a staple fixture during the weekends, and without him, he felt surprisingly lonely.

He woke early and spent half an hour propped up in bed, reading Reddit posts from people who had realised they were autistic later in life. Many of them wished they’d realised younger: it would have helped in school, it would have helped with friendships and romance, et cetera, et cetera.

Craig wondered whether knowing for sure would really make a difference. At the very least, maybe he wouldn’t feel broken anymore. Maybe he wouldn’t feel like he skipped multiple steps in the factory.

It was worth a shot, right?

Craig could hear his mom downstairs. She was singing along to the radio, and from the smell of burnt sugar wafting up the stairs, she was baking. His mom wasn’t a great baker; she usually burned everything she made but didn’t let it stop her. Laura was convinced she would bake the perfect batch of cookies one day.

Craig smiled, but as he reached his door, he faltered. What if she didn’t believe him? What if she rolled her eyes and told him he was just a lost cause? Even worse, what if she did believe him and was disappointed because she had a damaged son?

Craig curled his hands into fists and turned away from the door. He took a deep breath, back pressed into the wood, trying to find the courage. He’d do it, he would, but first—

Craig sorted his dirty laundry on the floor. Half of it turned out to be clean, so he put that away. He used a dirty t-shirt to dust the top of his chest of drawers and desk, wrinkling his nose at how grey the black fabric looked afterwards. His desk had accumulated a lot of junk, so he sorted that, too.

Once finished, Craig threw open his bedroom window, watching the blue curtains ruffle in the wind for a moment. Then, with nothing left except the dirty mugs and dishes, Craig finally ventured downstairs.

His mouth felt dry as he went to the dishwasher. His mom turned to smile at him, her eyes drifting to the mug he was loading. “I wondered where that got to,” she commented casually. “That’s my favourite.”

“Sorry,” Craig said stiffly. Things had been so awkward between him and his family since Tweek had broken up with him that he couldn’t tell whether she was mad or not. Fortunately, she smiled and flipped him off, and, just like that, all felt well again.

“Hey, Mom, can we talk?” Craig blurted before he could lose his nerve. He stood upright, leaning against the dishwasher. The smell of baking cookies made his stomach rumble. The caramelising sugar was especially tantalising.

“Of course, sweetheart. What’s up?”

Craig swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He just had to go for it, just like ripping a Band-Aid off. “I think I’m autistic,” he said, looking at her chin because it was easier than meeting her eyes and seeing the disappointment in them.

“Oh, Craig,” his mom said gently. “Is this what’s been bothering you?” Craig met her eyes. She didn’t look disappointed.

“One of the things,” he mumbled.

“I’ll look into where we can get you checked out. Dad’s insurance may…” She trailed off, lost in thought, her eyebrows pinching together. Craig felt guilty—there was a chance this revelation would cost his family money they couldn’t spare.

“We don’t have to—”

“Nonsense,” Laura said, the crinkle between her eyes smoothing out. “We’ll figure it out.”

“You believe me then?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” she asked, confused.

“I dunno… I…” Craig didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t really known much about autism before Stan had brought it up. His understanding had been zero eye contact and meltdowns. Craig could manage eye contact just fine as long as it wasn’t intense, and he didn’t scream and shut down, so he’d wanted to dismiss it as nonsense before he’d started researching. He’d half expected his parents to feel the same.

“You know, I looked into all that a few years ago. I thought I might have ADHD,” his mom said casually. Craig hadn’t seen that coming.

“And do you?”

“I don’t know. I never got tested. Maybe I should?”

“We could do it together,” Craig said, feeling a sudden and unexpected rush of affection for his mom. She smiled at him, but that smile faded abruptly.

“Fuck!” Without another word, she turned to the oven, ripping it open and letting a puff of thick smoke out. She started choking immediately, flapping her hands in front of her face. Craig watched, amused, as she withdrew a tray of black cookies and swore again.

The ever-persistent voice that tried to push Craig down, assuring him that he was a burden nobody wanted, got just that little bit quieter.

It was almost summer and a cool, comfortable evening. Craig and Stan were at Stark’s Pond, lying on their backs, staring at the sky. Like so long again, Craig was attempting to point out constellations. Stan was having better luck this time, squinting adorably at the stars, one hand stretched into the air, tracing the constellations as if to help see them better.

They weren’t drinking. Stan had been drinking a lot less since Kenny and Craig had found him that night in the park. Craig wasn’t sure he’d stopped completely, but he hadn’t seen Stan drunk in at least a month, maybe two—time had sort of blurred together since their unlikely friendship had begun in February. Craig wouldn’t want it any other way.

“Why did you show up at my door that day?” Craig wondered aloud before he could stop to consider his words.  

“Huh?” Stan’s hand lowered, and he twisted to stare at Craig.

“We hadn’t really spoken in years,” Craig said. He’d started now; he might as well continue. “I get that we’d both just gone through a similar crappy experience, but why did that make you think we should be friends?”

Stan looked hurt. “Do you wish I hadn’t?”

Fuck, that wasn’t what he’d meant to imply. “No!” Craig said too quickly. “I like that this is us now. I just… I don’t even know. Forget it.”

Stan’s gaze returned to the sky. “I always admired you when we were kids,” he said softly. Craig continued to stare at him. Stan’s face was soft—sometimes Craig wanted to reach out and touch it. “You never gave a fuck. You said it as it was and didn’t take crap from anybody.”

“You were like that, too.”

“Not really,” Stan said. “I cared too much about everything. Sensitive, my mom always called me. Cartman used the word ‘pussy’.”

“Cartman’s an asshole.”

Stan laughed. “I won’t dispute that.”

“I hated you guys,” Craig said bluntly. Stan snorted. It shouldn’t have been attractive, but Craig had slowly been realising recently that everything Stan did was endearing to him. Being with Stan was nothing like being with Tweek. He’d loved Tweek, he knew that, but over the past few months with Stan, Craig had started to wonder whether he’d ever actually been in love with Tweek.

Not that he was in love with Stan.

Not yet.

Craig wasn’t sure when he’d started to realise that he could be, should he allow himself. He’d become aware he was walking a narrow path he could fall from at any point, and yet he wasn’t scared. Sometimes, he even wanted to fall.

Sometimes it felt like Stan wanted him to fall, too. Other times, Craig wasn’t so sure. Craig was notoriously bad at reading people, and Stan was exceptionally good at masking.

“I know,” Stan huffed, smirking. “You never forgave us for Peru.”

“I never forgave you for a lot of shit,” Craig said, matching Stan’s smile. “You guys were assholes.”

“I miss those days.” Stan’s eyes seemed to cloud over, his smile becoming nostalgic.

“You miss me hating you?”

“Heh, no. I like being your friend. But I miss Kyle, Kenny, and Butters. Hell, I even miss Cartman. You wouldn’t get it. You’re still friends with your gang.”

“Not all of them,” Craig said quietly.

“Fuck, I’m sorry, man. I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s okay,” Craig said quickly. It still hurt to think about Tweek for too long. “You still have Kenny. I’m sure the others would be happy if you reached out, too.” Stan arched an eyebrow. “Okay, maybe not all of them. Sorry.”

“I don’t want to get sucked into Cartman’s world again. Butters still follows him around like a lost puppy, and I know it gets him into a lot of trouble.”

“He’ll think for himself one day,” Craig said, though he wasn’t too sure. Butters had always been a bit of a pushover.

“Maybe,” Stan said. He still seemed to be lost in thought. Craig wanted to ask what was on his mind but wasn’t sure if he could. Was that an okay thing to ask? Since when had he started overthinking everything that came out of his mouth around Stan? Since he realised he liked Stan as more than a friend, he guessed.

“You’ll always have me,” Craig found himself saying, glad it was dark, so the blush across his cheeks wasn’t completely obvious. Then, because he was overthinking, he hastily added, “And Tolkien, Clyde and Jimmy! We’re all here for you, so don’t go thinking you’re alone just because Eric Cartman isn’t in your life or whatever.”

Craig stiffened like a board when Stan’s hand found his wrist, squeezing. “Thanks,” he said. “That means a lot.”

Do it now, Craig’s mind screamed. Tell him that you’re developing feelings for him.

Craig was a coward, though. He said nothing.

On Monday, Craig was by his locker, getting ready to leave for the day, when he felt someone hover behind him. Smiling, he turned, expecting Stan, only to falter as he locked eyes with a startling familiar green pair. He dropped his gaze quickly, shuffling his feet and hoping the floor would suddenly open up and swallow him whole.

Tweek hadn’t looked at him in months, let alone tried to talk to him. What was going on?

“Can we speak?” Tweek asked, his voice high, nervous and heart-racing familiar. It was all Craig could do to jerk his head in a nod. He followed Tweek into the music room, his head spinning with different theories. It was making him feel sick, his palms sweating and his heart thudding loudly in his chest, reverberating through him.

He’d pictured this scenario so many times over the past few months. He’d had many conversations with Tweek in his mind, so many, in fact, that he should have been fully prepared for whatever Tweek was about to say.

Craig wasn’t prepared, though. Not in the slightest. His mouth felt dry.

“How’ve you been?” Tweek asked too quickly into the silence.

“…Fine.”

“Good.” God, it was awkward. It had never been awkward between them before. Craig hated it. He missed his best friend.

Risking a look at Tweek, he was stunned to see Tweek’s large eyes brimming with tears. His vulnerability pushed aside any other feelings Craig had, and suddenly, he just wanted them to brush past all the hurt and pretend the past few months hadn’t happened.

“I’m really sorry, Craig,” Tweek said, voice wobbling.

“Hey, no, it’s okay. You’ve nothing to apologize for.” It wasn’t true, but Craig had never liked to see Tweek upset.

“Jesus Christ, man! Of course I do. I broke up with you by fucking text, dude! And stole your friends on your birthday!”

“Our friends,” Craig corrected, though those things had hurt—a lot. At the angry look Tweek shot him, Craig sighed, accepting defeat. “Why’d you do it?”

“Which part?”

“I don’t know.”

“Still as infuriating as ever, I see,” Tweek joked, though it felt flat. He sighed, dropping his gaze and shuffling his feet. “I panicked, man,” he admitted. “I should have just talked to you, but…”

“But?”

“I think I’m Ace,” Tweek blurted, not quite meeting Craig’s eyes. “Maybe Aromatic, too.”

“Okay,” Craig said, nodding—honestly, that kind of made sense. Tweek had always shied away from anything physical. He’d been most comfortable when they hung out like Craig would have with Clyde or Tolkien. He hadn’t complained about the pet names Craig gave him, but he’d never responded with his own.

Dating Tweek had never felt like being with Stan, and Craig wasn’t even dating Stan.

“You don’t sound surprised.”

“I’m not sure I am.” As Tweek’s words fully sunk into him, Craig frowned. “Wait,” he said, “does that mean you didn’t break up with me because of me?”

“Huh? Jesus, no, Craig, you were great. Really great. I just had my own shit I was dealing with really badly. I’d suspected it for a while but didn’t want to accept it. When I finally decided to embrace it, I freaked out over having to tell you, and I was a coward. I’m so sorry.”

“I thought I was just fundamentally unlovable,” Craig admitted, surprised by the intensity of the sadness that consumed Tweek’s face at his confession.

“Craig, no,” Tweek said fervently. “Sure, you annoyed me sometimes, as I’m sure I annoyed you. Your calm, logical approach to everything wasn’t always what I needed. But I honestly would not have made it through my childhood without you there to support me.”

That was… Craig needed to hear that. He’d been on the road to self-acceptance for a while, but the Tweek thing had definitely been holding him back. His lack of closure had been especially tormenting—not knowing why Tweek wouldn’t speak to him, only having assumptions to work with, assumptions that ripped his insides to shreds.

“About all that. Uh, I think I’m Autistic,” Craig admitted. He hadn’t said the word out loud to anyone other than Stan and his mom yet. It wasn’t as scary as he’d expected.

“Oh. That actually makes a lot of sense,” Tweek said. “I’m really sorry I didn’t help you figure that out and support you through it.”

“That wasn’t your job.”

Tweek growled in frustration. “Yes, it was! I’m your best friend, man!” The fire in his eyes dimmed just as suddenly, and he added, “Am I still your best friend?”

“You want to be?” Craig asked, surprised.

“I mean, I need a bit more time apart to find discover who I am without you, but yeah, I want us to always be in each other’s lives. If you want that too.”

“I do,” Craig said. “And yes, you will always be my best friend.”

“Oh, thank god,” Tweek murmured, deflating in relief. It looked like Tweek had been just as cut up about everything as Craig. “Hey, so it’s not my business, so feel free to tell me to get lost, but are you and Stan Marsh—” He cut off, not finishing his sentence, his bottom lip caught between his teeth nervously.

“No,” Craig said, but then he smiled, surprising even himself. “But root for me, okay?”

Tweek’s returning smile was radiant. “Always,” he promised.

“I’m rooting for you, too. In your journey for self-discovery and in your life in general.”

“I’ve never deserved you, Craig Tucker.”

“That’s not true,” Craig said. “I used to think I didn’t deserve you, either, but now I think we both deserve happiness and love.”

“I like that approach.”

“Me too.”

Craig felt lighter as he left the school, unable to tame the happy smile that strained his cheeks.

Tweek didn’t hate him. Not only that, but he was rooting for Craig and Stan. Craig couldn’t bring himself to feel anything but happiness about that. Sure, the past few months had hurt, and Tweek could have handled things better, but as someone who also handled his problems poorly, he couldn’t hate Tweek, not even a little bit. It would take time for them to get back on track, but Tweek was worth it. Their friendship was worth it.

He dropped a message in the group chat he’d created with Stan, Clyde, Tolkien and Jimmy to let them know the good news. As the chat exploded, his friends going crazy with relieved excitement, Craig only paid attention to the fact that Stan read the message but only responded by giving Craig’s initial message a thumbs up.

Crap. Now what? Craig wasn’t sure he could survive another person he cared about suddenly and unexpectedly pulling away from him.

Perhaps that was jumping the gun, though. Craig had been wrong before—a lot—he couldn’t listen to his cruel brain when it jumped from two to two hundred.

Even now, with a better understanding of himself, though, it was hard not to. His brain could be incredibly persuasive when it wanted to be.

Craig’s shoulders drooped, and his smile faded. The walk home turned into a blur, his mind so busy suggesting ‘what ifs’ that before he knew it, he was opening the door and trudging upstairs, staring disheartened at his active group chat, suspiciously absent of the one person he wished to speak to the most.

Stan didn’t vanish, but he faded. He blew off their weekend hangouts and took longer and longer to reply to messages he’d previously answered within minutes.

Craig felt lost. It was like his breakup with Tweek all over again—something seemingly good being snatched away without any explanation. Craig didn’t know if it was him or Stan. Had he done something wrong, or was Stan just going through a rough patch? He wanted to be there for him, but Craig didn’t know how.

He tried not to let it get to him. His overthinking usually turned out to be wrong and only hurt himself. It was hard, though, when another week passed with almost no contact. School had broken for summer break, so Craig couldn’t even speak to him there.

Craig just wished he knew what was going on. If he’d done something wrong, he wished Stan would tell him so he could try and fix it. If he hadn’t done something wrong, he wished Stan would communicate, even if it were just a ‘I’m going through some shit right now, but I’ll reach out again when I’m ready.’

The not knowing was driving him insane.

When Stan bailed from their next session of D&D, Craig took drastic measures, reaching out to Kenny McCormick to see if he’d heard anything. Instead of replying to his text, Kenny phoned him, which threw Craig out of sorts, and he spent a full twenty seconds panicking before finally answering the call.

“You couldn’t text?” he said stiffly in the way of greeting.

“Hi to you, too, Fucker.”

“What do you want, McCormick?”

Kenny huffed an amused laugh. “You reached out to me, remember?”

“Fine,” Craig said. “Do you know what’s up with Stan or not?”

“I don’t like to gossip—” That was a lie; Kenny McCormick loved to gossip from what Craig had witnessed “—but I saw Stan and Wendy together a couple of days ago.”

Craig’s blood froze in his veins. Stan and Wendy? Were they getting back together? It was a colossally stupid idea, but it wouldn’t be the first time the sure-to-be prom king and queen had broken up and gotten back together.

He was jealous, Craig realised. He’d thought—he’d hoped—that maybe Stan felt the same about him. He should have known it wouldn’t be, that he’d gotten caught up in an idea and let reality slip through his fingers like water.

Why would Stan Marsh like him?

No. No, Craig couldn’t do this to himself again. Okay, Stan might not like him back, but it wasn’t because Craig was deeply unlovable. He wasn’t broken, not damaged goods that nobody would ever care for. Stan had his own things going on; perhaps that was reconnecting with Wendy, or maybe it was something else. Craig just had to wait, and hopefully, their friendship would survive this blip, even if it could never be anything more.

Easier said than done, though. Despite his best efforts, Craig’s mind wouldn’t shut up. He tried watching Evil Dead to quiet it, but he barely paid attention to the movie that usually gripped him, instead wondering all sorts of possibilities for why he hadn’t heard from Stan and what that meant for their future. Even Stripe failed to quiet his chatty brain. It all made Craig feel rather hopeless.

That feeling continued until the following evening, when Craig answered the doorbell and was stunned to find Kyle Broflovski, of all people, standing on his doorstep.

“Hey, uh, Craig?” Kyle looked just as uncomfortable to be there as Craig felt seeing him. They hadn’t spoken in years, and Craig was feeling particularly sour towards him these days due to Kyle’s poor handling with Stan.

“What is it, Broflovski?”

“Kenny told me you’ve been asking about Stan, and, uh, I just got this message from him…”

“He messaged you and not me? What the fuck.” It shouldn’t have hurt so much. Stan was back in touch with Wendy, why wouldn’t Kyle be next?

“Why wouldn’t he message me?” Kyle shot back defensively. Despite his fair point, Craig gave him a pointed look.

“Gee, I don’t know. Let me count the reasons.”

“No need to be an asshole.”

Craig sighed. He was ready for this interaction to be over. “What about it, Broflovski?”

“Here.” Kyle shoved his phone at Craig, the angry gesture at odds with the worried look pinching his face.

The screen showed a message chain between the pair. All the messages on screen were from Stan, and Craig longed to scroll up, sure he would see that was the case for a while. It wasn’t his business, though. Instead, Craig focused on the newest message, sent only twenty minutes ago.

I finaly feel frere. Lookafter urseklf Kyle x

Stan was clearly drunk, but that wasn’t the most worrying part. Kyle seemed to share his sentiment, biting his lip and worrying it between his teeth. “It looks bad, right?”

Craig felt the blood drain from his face. It read like a goodbye. Craig knew Stan well enough to understand that if he was drinking a lot, he wasn’t in a good place. Just what the fuck had happened? And why hadn’t Stan felt like he could talk to Craig about it?

“Should we look for him together?” Kyle asked when Craig didn’t reply. Craig snorted at that.

“Go home, Broflovski. I’ll find him,” Craig said, an icy edge to his voice that left no room for arguments. Kyle looked like he would try regardless, but eventually, he deflated, his shoulders sagging. He looked resigned, like he knew how badly he’d fucked up when it came to Stan and hated himself for it. Craig couldn’t bring himself to feel sorry for him.

“I get that you hate me, and that’s fine. I don’t particularly like you either. This is about Stan, though, so I’m going to search, but I’ll do it alone. I’ll message you if I find him first. I hope you will extend the courtesy back.”

Craig nodded curtly, then shut the door in Kyle’s face. He rushed for his phone, pulled on his shoes, and was out the door before Kyle had even vanished from view.

As much as he preferred texting, Craig understood that if there was ever a time for a phone call, it was now. “Pick up, Stan,” he murmured as he pressed his phone to his ear and jogged towards the park. Stan picking up would have been too easy, though. Stan being at the park would have also been too easy.

Craig didn’t expect Stan to be at home, but he tried just in case. He decided against worrying Sharon Marsh when she informed him Stan had gone out a couple of hours ago and just thanked her and left.

Craig had no reason to believe Stan would be at any of their usual haunts, but he honestly didn’t know where else to check. With the park a no-go, Stark’s Pond was the only other place he knew Stan liked to frequent, so Craig beelined there, jogging despite the burn in his lungs that reminded him he was a nerd, not a jock.

It took Craig longer than he’d like to reach Stark’s Pond, all the while hyper-aware that he might be too late. It had been nearly an hour since Stan had sent Kyle that text. He hadn’t answered a single one of Craig’s non-stop calls, either.

Craig wasn’t sure if he wanted to live in a world without Stan Marsh in it.

He upped his pace, ignoring the painful stitch in his side and how the air burned cold in his throat.

It was a bright night, making it easy to see that Stark’s Pond was empty save for one person. They lay on their back, facing the sky. Craig swore his heart stopped beating in his chest. He froze momentarily, staring, trying to determine if he could see movement—trying to prepare for if he didn’t.

Stan was breathing. He offered Craig a sheepish smile as the other boy loomed over him, his fear overshadowed by sudden fury.

“You didn’t answer your phone, douchebag.”

“I was gonna,” Stan said softly. “I didn’t know what to say.”

“How about ‘I’m alive. I didn’t send a suicide text and then blow my brains out’?” Craig growled. God, he was angry.

Stan looked taken aback. “Is that what you thought?”

“What was I meant to think? That text you sent Kyle—”

“You saw that?” Stan asked quietly. He tried to sit up but was too drunk to succeed and flopped back hopelessly on his back.

Craig was too angry to take pity on him, but he did sit down, folding his legs underneath him as he stared at Stan. “What’s going on, Stan? Was that a… goodbye?” And why didn’t I get one?

“Not how you’re thinking,” Stan said quickly, his words a little slurred. “But yeah.”

“What does that mean?”

Stan tried to sit up again. This time, after a slight struggle, he managed it. “It means,” he said slowly like he was consciously aware of how much he’d been drinking and was making sure not to slur his words, “that I was saying goodbye to Kyle.” He empathised the name, locking eyes with Craig to make him understand.

“Yeah, I get that,” Craig said, not understanding. “Why only him, though?” He shouldn’t be hurt by Stan not wanting to say goodbye to him—it was such a stupid thing to be upset by. He should be more hurt by Stan wanting to die at all.

Stan rolled her eyes and slapped Craig’s arm, getting a sudden and furious glare in return. “Not that way, dumbass. Look, I drank because I was feeling too chicken to do it, but it took more than I expected before I plucked up the courage, so maybe it didn’t come across how I intended,” Stan said, running his sentences together. “It wasn’t a suicide goodbye, though! It was a ‘I’m not in love with you anymore, but I wish you well’ goodbye.”

Craig took a long moment to digest that. It did funny things to his insides as the words sunk in, even though he knew it wasn’t for him. “Because of Wendy?”

“Huh?”

“You’re back together, right? I guess you decided it was her, after all.”

Stan’s eyebrows were pinched together tightly, his eyes squinting up at Craig in confusion. He hiccupped, then swallowed deeply, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Dude,” he said slowly. “What the fuck? Why’d you think I’m back with Wendy?”

Now, it was Craig’s turn to be confused. “Isn’t that why you were with her the other night?”

“You saw that?” Stan asked, his voice cracking.

“Kenny did.”

“You guys are friends now?”

“I just asked him what was going on. You’ve been ignoring me,” Craig said, his words coming out unfortunately harsh. Stan winced.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I panicked.”

“Because of Wendy. You thought I’d judge you?”

“What? No. Fuck! Craig, I’m not with Wendy! I won’t ever be with Wendy! Jesus Christ!” Stan pinched the bridge of his nose, frustrated. With himself or with Craig, Craig wasn’t sure. Both, he assumed.

“You’re not?” Fuck, his heart was racing, his mind already daring to hope. It was stupid; he was just setting himself up for disappointment.

“She wanted to apologise to me! She told me she would fully support me and Kyle if we wanted to be together.”

There it was—the disappointment.

Stan was flustered now, trying and failing to find the words he needed. “I think I already knew, but when she… when she said that, I realised! I don’t want to be with Kyle. Maybe I never did. Maybe I confused platonic feelings with romantic because, shit, it never felt like this with Kyle. It—”

Craig was struggling to keep up. Stan was rambling, his words quick and slurred. His meaning was lost on Craig, his words echoing around his head but not making any sense.

Stan didn’t want to be with Wendy or Kyle?

Stan faltered, staring at Craig for a moment, his expression fierce. “Fuck it,” he announced, then he crashed forward, practically knocking Craig out in his haste to reach him. Stan fisted Craig’s shirt in his hands and crushed their lips together. Craig’s brain went suddenly, blissfully silent. Stan tasted of sweet whiskey—he’d probably been at the JD again. His lips were soft, though, and while the kiss was clumsy, it stirred something in Craig he’d never experienced before. He’d only ever kissed Tweek, but it had never felt like that.

Despite every part of him screaming objections, Craig pulled away. Stan chased his lips and pouted when Craig moved out of reach. As the moment wore away, his pout turned to fear, and he stared nervously at Craig, his uncertainty written plainly across his face.

“I’m sorry!” he said quickly. “I thought—”

Craig shook his head, and Stan fell silent. Craig chewed on his words for a moment, contemplating them. “You’re not suicidal?”

“No!” Stan shook his head fervently.

“Why did you ignore me these past couple of weeks?”

“I was jealous when you said you and Tweek spoke. I thought you’d take him back, and it took me a while to figure out why that hurt so much.”

“Because you like me?”

Stan swallowed noisily. He still looked terrified. “Yes.”

Stan had been dealing with his own issues while he ignored Craig. It was simply that the problems he was dealing with weren’t what Craig had expected. Craig fought to contain his smile.

“If you really like me, go home, sober up and tell me again tomorrow.”

Stan frowned, staring at Craig like he’d grown an extra head. “I might not be completely sober, but I know what I feel—!”

“And I want you to tell me those feelings tomorrow. Sober.”

“Are you planning to reject me?” Stan asked quietly, dropping his gaze. Part of Craig wanted to stay mysterious, leaving Stan waiting almost as a sadistic punishment for scaring him so much recently. Craig wasn’t that cruel, though, and he was frightened it would only succeed in pushing Stan away.

“You don’t need to worry about Tweek. Or about me rejecting you,” he said softly, taking Stan’s hand and squeezing it. “I would still appreciate doing this when you’re sober.”

Stan’s wide eyes watered, and he nodded enthusiastically, a smile stretching across his face. “Okay,” he said. “Okay!”

“Come on,” Craig said, climbing to his feet. “Let’s get you home.”

Craig sent a quick message to Kyle, letting him know Stan was okay, that it wasn’t what they’d thought, and that, maybe, Kyle should stop being a pussy and speak to Stan in person. Once that was done, he held out his hand. They walked back to Stan’s in silence, gripping each other's fingers tightly and both smiling softly.

Stan was prompt the following day, knocking on the Tucker’s front door at eight AM sharp. Craig had struggled to sleep, anticipating their conversation too much for his mind to shut off, so he was up. He was in the kitchen, listening as his mom filled him in on the progress she’d made in regard to getting Craig diagnosed with autism. The ball was rolling, and Craig was as nervous as he was excited for it all to happen and be done with.

Craig answered the door, expecting it to be the postman. His stomach fluttered like there were a hundred tiny butterflies inside it when he saw Stan Marsh standing there instead. The smile Stan offered him was radiant.

“Want to go for a walk?” Stan asked. He didn’t seem hung over—Craig wondered whether he’d drunk less than he’d thought the night before.

“Sure.” He toed on his shoes and yelled goodbye to his mom. They walked in silence, their hands close enough to brush. Craig didn’t realise they were walking towards Stark’s Pond until they were halfway there. He assumed they were avoiding the park because it was daytime, and the little kids would be out in full force.

“About last night,” he started to say but trailed off, unsure how to continue.

“Have you changed your mind?” Stan asked quietly.

Wanting to be brave, Craig closed the distance between their hands, twining their fingers together and squeezing Stan’s palm. “No,” he said. “Have you?”

“No.” Stan smiled at him, shy but certain.

“Good.”

“Good,” Stan repeated. They continued walking, the quiet between them fizzling with nervous energy. “I’m sorry about how I handled things recently,” Stan said finally as the pond started to come into view. “I knew I liked you, but I don’t think I realised just how much until I was faced with the thought of you and Tweek getting back together.”

“Never gonna happen,” Craig assured him.

“Then Wendy reached out wanting to talk, and that gave me a lot to think about. Suddenly, I realised I could have what I wanted. Except I also realised what I wanted had changed.” Stan ran his free hand through his hair. “Honestly, I’m not sure I ever really wanted it in the first place. I think I just wanted to want it, y’know?”

Somehow, that made perfect sense to Craig. He stopped walking, Stan coming to a stop just in front of him, their hands still twined. “I get it. I think that’s how it was between Tweek and me, too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Craig said. “But Stan. If you want to try this—try us—we can’t keep enabling each other. You need to stop drinking. Get help if you need it.”

Stan nodded sadly. “I think I do need it,” he admitted. “And what about you?”

“I have an autism assessment booked,” Craig said. “Mom sorted it for two weeks time. I think once I have an answer there, it will help me figure out the rest of my shit.”

“I’m glad.” Stan squeezed his fingers and smiled. “Do you really think we can do this?”

“Get better?” Craig asked. “Or do you mean us?”

“Both, I guess,” Stan said nervously. He didn’t let go of Craig’s hand. Craig took that as a good sign.

“I’d like to try.”

“I’d like that too,” Stan murmured. They were standing so close now, their feet sandwiched together. Craig closed the distance first, his nose brushing Stan’s gently, questioningly. Stan tilted his head, offering his lips. Their second kiss wasn’t clumsy, but it set off all the same fireworks in Craig’s stomach that the first had. He drew Stan closer to him, never wanting to let him go again.

They had work to do, but they’d strive towards it together. Craig was confident that they’d make it.