Chapter Text
When it started, there really wasn’t much to it.
Kenny liked to people-watch. He was always the quietest of the four of them, and had long since learned to tune out their constant, incessant bickering. It rarely involved him, anyway. The fact that he once spent almost an entire day lumbering around as a literal zombie, nonverbal and falling apart, before anyone noticed anything was astray was a testament to how little attention his friends gave him. Not all the time, though. Not enough for Kenny to feel completely forgotten, at least. He really didn’t mind. He was still their friend. He had his moments.
Lunchtime was prime people-watching hour. Or, forty-five minutes. In all the commotion of the cafeteria, it was easy to stare and there was always something to see.
He’d observe his friends, whether or not he was included in the conversation. He noticed how often Stan looked over at the girls’ table, and how Kyle clenched his jaw and ground his teeth like he was trying to chew his molars into dust when he got mad, and how Cartman’s face turned pink whenever he raised his voice (which was a lot).
He couldn’t really observe the girls’ table. Girls have an uncanny ability to sense when you stare and have no problem calling you out for it, and Kenny didn’t like to be on their bad side if he could help it. That, and it was embarrassing to have Bebe march across the cafeteria, slam her hands down on their lunch table, and yell at him.
He looked at the other boys’ table a lot. They talked and laughed the same way he and his friends did, but their dynamic was so different. They didn’t fight as much, Kenny noticed early on.
Every once in a while, that would send a pang of jealousy through him, but he’d try not to think about it.
When he got bored of people watching and sick of the smell of everyone else’s food, he’d slip out into the hallway and out one of the side doors– usually not the one by the dumpsters though, because that was where the goth kids hung out. They weren’t very welcoming, even in passing. Which, admittedly, was disappointing– they knew Mysterion, but they didn’t know Kenny. He thought they were cool, so much so that he could overlook the fact they helped kill him– Mysterion, technically (though they definitely didn’t remember).
Usually the other side of the school was a safe bet. There, Kenny would tug his hood off and reach into his backpack for a crumpled pack of cigarettes that he stole from his dad.
Then he started to notice that Craig seemed to operate on a similar schedule at lunch– sometimes coming in late, sometimes leaving halfway through, but never staying for the whole period.
Craig Tucker was never of any particular interest to Kenny. He supposed maybe they could call each other friends, but it would be a bit of a stretch. Acquaintances, maybe. Peers, definitely. Kenny didn’t really know that much about him except that he got detention all the time and that he was gay. And that back in elementary school, they paired up on that stupid field trip where they had to hold hands all day (they didn’t) (it briefly had hurt Kenny’s feelings).
He thought nothing of it for a while. Why did he care if Craig smoked? Kenny didn’t even know for sure that was what he was doing– it wasn’t his business.
But Kenny was curious. So he left a little early, hoping to maybe cross paths with Craig, or something. He didn’t really know what to expect, or what he was looking for.
He didn’t have to look hard. He caught Craig as he was rounding the corner, where there was nothing else at the end of that hallway except the door, and the lingering chill in the air. And the sharp, tell-tale smell of weed.
Craig didn’t mince words, didn’t say much more than what he meant— which sometimes meant saying nothing at all. Hands shoved in his pockets and nose pink from the cold, he gave Kenny a nod, that kind of blank faced chin-jerk that guys do, and then he was gone.
Kenny puzzled over it for weeks, trying to catch Craig’s eye at lunch or in the hallway, searching for any sort of acknowledgment, but none came.
Craig started going out earlier, Kenny noticed, which made them less likely to pass each other. He was deliberately avoiding the simple act of walking past Kenny in the hall at lunch, which hurt his feelings a little.
He didn’t think Craig had any reason to avoid him. Their friend group rivalry, if you could even call it that, had long since mellowed out. As far as Kenny knew, Craig didn’t have any sort of unresolved issues with him or Stan or Kyle (Cartman didn’t count— everyone had unresolved issues with him).
That was just how Craig was, Kenny learned later.
Weeks passed. It got colder, which Kenny didn’t mind in theory, but the dry winter air brought the flu and runny noses and sharp coughs and sore throats. To everyone else, it was an inconvenience at worst and an excuse to skip school at best. To Kenny, even the common cold meant certain death. While everyone’s noses turned pink and dripped with snot, Kenny’s face was warm and his nose was safely covered under his parka.
It was mostly pointless, he had long since learned, but getting sick was his least favorite way to die— it was too slow. At least getting shot or stabbed or impaled ended it quick. It hurt, but then it was over. Succumbing to illness dragged on, and usually ended up costing his family too much money, which he hated.
Getting to smoke felt like cheating death, in a tiny way. He wouldn’t get lung cancer— he’d never live long enough to. He would die a hundred times and come back as a hundred new bodies with a hundred new sets of lungs before any cancer could spread. He smoked just because he could.
He didn’t know where Craig might’ve gotten the weed from, but there was no doubt that he was lighting up every day at lunch.
Why should Craig get to have all the fun? He knew Kenny was going out to smoke, and was doing the most to avoid him. It was starting to get boring, and Kenny hated boring. Worst case scenario he told him to fuck off, best case scenario he let Kenny mooch. So one day, when Craig got up from his lunch table, Kenny followed him out.
He detoured into the bathroom, leaving Kenny to debate whether to stand around in the hallway like a weirdo or follow him in like a pervert. He decided to stay in the hallway and pretended to drink from the water fountain— emphasis on pretend. Mono had taken him out before, and he wasn’t thirsty anyway.
Craig left the bathroom in a mass of blue in Kenny’s peripheral vision. He waited, listening as Craig’s footsteps faded, before following him. He waited until he heard the door slam shut to round the corner and follow out into the cold, bright afternoon.
“Why the fuck are you following me?”
He jumped. Craig stood against the wall with his arms crossed and his chin jutted out, glaring down his nose. Pieces of short black hair peeked out from under his hat.
Kenny fidgeted with the drawstrings of his hood, having reached for them out of habit— something he did whenever he was startled. He wasn’t expecting Craig to catch him so quick.
“Oh, hey Craig, what’s up?” Kenny said, grateful that his parka muffled his voice cracking.
Craig’s face was unchanging as he pushed off the wall. He was taller than Kenny, and didn’t have to raise his chin to look down at him when he stood straight.
Kenny shrunk under his harsh look and stared down at his sneakers. “I wasn’t following you.”
“Really,” Craig said flatly.
“Yeah, really,” Kenny said, lifting his head and nodding profusely, making the furry lining of his hood bob down into his eyes. He made a show of patting his pockets and pulled out his pack of cigarettes— a crumpled box of blue American Spirits, his father’s latest brand of choice. “I need a light.”
Craig narrowed his eyes, studying him intently, and Kenny braced for a middle finger in his face.
“Whatever,” Craig muttered. He reached into one of his jean pockets and procured a lighter, tossing it to Kenny, who cradled it in his mittens like Craig just tossed him a live grenade.
Kenny looked at it, then Craig, then the lighter again. He hadn’t thought this far ahead.
“Are you gonna use it or not, asshole? I need it back.” Craig dug around in his jacket pocket and pulled out a plastic sandwich bag with a half-smoked joint inside.
Kenny nodded and unzipped the high collar of his parka, and the cold air hit the bottom half of his face like an icy brick. It was a little windy today. He tugged off his mittens and shoved them in his pockets, and plucked a cigarette out of the little blue pack and held it between his lips. The lighter in his hand was warm, he noticed, and tried not to think about the fact that it was warm because it had been in Craig’s pants pocket. He shuddered and fumbled with the spark wheel.
The wind kept snuffing out the tiny flame, and Kenny could only bring the lighter so close to his face before he started to worry about his parka catching fire. His thumb started to sting.
“Cheap piece of shit,” Craig grumbled, and cupped his hands around the lighter, one brushing against Kenny’s cupped hand, the other making a little dome over the flame. Kenny’s thumb slipped. Craig’s hands smelled like cheap bathroom hand soap. He flicked the spark wheel again and the flame, safe now under Craig’s hands, held long enough for the cigarette to light.
Kenny focused on taking the first drag and not the smell of soap on Craig’s hands. With a deep inhale, he let the flame click off, and Craig gingerly took the lighter back. Kenny exhaled the smoke into Craig’s face with a grin. “Thanks.”
Craig wrinkled his nose and glared at Kenny. If either of his hands were free he’d have flipped him off. Instead, he focused on lighting his joint. Unsurprisingly, the lighter refused to cooperate. He swore around the joint in his mouth.
Kenny reached to offer the same assistance Craig had given him, only for his hand to be slapped away.
“Woah.” Kenny put his palm on his chest.
“Fuck off,” Craig muttered, words muffled by the joint between his lips. Finally, he managed to get it lit. He took a long drag and blew the smoke at Kenny.
“Smells good,” Kenny said. “Where’d you get it?” He could always steal weed from his parents if he wanted. There was something amusing about imagining Craig buying it off a dealer— maybe even the same one as his parents.
Craig took another hit. “Nowhere.”
Kenny laughed.
Craig squinted at him, regarding him with something akin to curiosity— it was hard to tell.
Kenny took another drag, watching Craig watch him. He blew smoke in Craig’s face. No reaction. He stuck his tongue out at him.
Craig exhaled harshly through his nose, and to Kenny’s surprise, held the joint out to him.
Kenny’s eyes lit up and he grinned at Craig. “Aw, shucks, I couldn’t—”
“Shut the fuck up.”
Kenny plucked the joint from Craig’s fingers and brought it to his mouth. The filter was damp from Craig’s struggle to light it. Kenny took a bigger hit than he should’ve, just to keep the joint in his mouth a second longer.
“Fucking greedy,” Craig said, scowling when Kenny handed it back to him.
Kenny sputtered and coughed, shaking his head. “My bad,” he croaked. He covered his mouth with his arm, hacking until his throat and chest burned. He couldn’t catch his breath.
“Holy shit dude,” Craig said. “Jesus.”
Kenny doubled over, dropping his cigarette and bracing his hand against the wall. He was light headed. Choking to death after hitting the joint too hard was so fucking humiliating, Kenny thought as his vision swam.
—
Kenny woke up. In his bed, in his clothes, as usual. The morning sun streamed through his ragged curtains. He smacked his palms over his face and groaned. How stupid and anticlimactic– not how he wanted that to go at all. Now he’d have to do it all over again.
What would Craig remember? Would he even remember anything?
But what did it matter? Kenny would just follow him out at lunch again anyway.
Still, the notion that Craig might not have any recollection of Kenny going outside at all made his stomach sink. He couldn’t sit still all day until lunch, bouncing his leg furiously under his desk, eyes never leaving the clock as the day dragged on.
He didn’t want to go to the cafeteria at all, but lunch was the only real meal he’d get all day. He scarfed down the shitty chicken sandwich
“Fucking stalker,” Craig said when Kenny joined him outside. “Hope you’re not here for a light.”
“Huh?” Kenny cocked his head.
“I broke it.”
Kenny blinked. “Broke what?”
“My lighter, asshole.” Craig crossed his arms. “So, unless you have one—”
“I have one!” Kenny said in a rush. He unbuttoned the top of his parka. “I have one,” he repeated, mouth uncovered.
“So you’re just here to smoke my weed.”
Kenny scoffed as he pulled off his mittens. “Am not.” He retrieved his lighter and cigarettes from his pockets.
“Whatever, dude.”
Kenny lit his cigarette all on his own this time, and Craig did the same. Kenny took a drag and exhaled slowly. He chewed his lip.
“You gonna make it this time?” Craig asked, pulling Kenny from his thoughts.
“What?”
Craig was holding the joint to Kenny. “Are you going to make it this time?” He said each word slowly, like he was talking to a baby.
“What?” he repeated.
Craig huffed, exasperated. “Are you going to cough your fucking lungs out again?”
Kenny’s eyes bulged. His heart leapt.
“‘Cause I’m not dragging your ass to the nurse again,” he continued.
Kenny’s shoulders sagged and he let out a breathy laugh. He shook his head. “I won’t die this time.” He took the joint from Craig.
“Thanks.”
He took a small, careful hit. The filter was dry this time, which felt— disappointing? He exhaled, and purged the notion from his brain. Weirdo.
Kenny passed the joint back to him. Craig took it. Hit it. Didn’t breathe it in Kenny’s face this time. Passed it back to Kenny.
Back and forth. Kenny to Craig and Craig to Kenny.
“So.” The silence had started to bother Kenny.
Craig gave him a sidelong glance. They both leaned against the wall, almost shoulder to shoulder.
Kenny kept forgetting his cigarette— he didn’t even want it anymore. It was out anyway. He flicked it away.
“So,” Kenny repeated. “How’s it hanging?”
Craig groaned and rolled his eyes. “Really?”
Kenny balked. “Huh?”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“What am I doing?”
Craig scoffed. “Trying to strike up a conversation ‘cause you wanna keep smoking my weed.”
Kenny’s mouth fell open. “What?”
“It’s fine, dude.” Craig offered the joint to him.
Kenny snatched it from him. “That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Sure.”
“Fuck you.” Kenny blew the smoke at Craig. “How do you know that I’m not actually trying to strike up a conversation?”
Craig shrugged. “Just figured.”
“Well, you’re wrong,” Kenny said firmly.
“Whatever you say, man.”
Always back and forth. Kenny kept prying. Got Craig to tell him how it was hanging— “fine.” Asked him how class was going— also “fine.”
For a while, it stayed like that. Kenny followed Craig outside, smoked some of his weed, asked him how he was, how classes were, the weather, the cafeteria food— any bullshit he could think of.
Then Kenny would say thanks, and see you tomorrow, and he’d return to the cafeteria. Nothing more, nothing less.
His friends didn’t notice anything different. He split off from the group all the time, but he always came back— unless he died. In which case he’d be back the next day, like he always did.