Chapter Text
Kyle dragged his feverish ass through the front doors of South Park High like a zombie who’d forgotten how to give up. His backpack felt like it weighed forty pounds, his throat was on fire, and every step made his head throb in time with his heartbeat. But he kept walking.
Because Craig was probably already in the hallway.
He didn’t even try to lie to himself anymore. The only reason he hadn’t stayed home curled under three blankets with DayQuil and self-loathing was the tiny, stupid, nuclear hope that he’d catch one glimpse of that stupid blue chullo hat and those long-lashed blue eyes that never looked back at him the way he wanted.
He turned the corner toward the lockers and immediately spotted the usual cluster.
Cartman was leaning against someone’s locker yelling something about how “Tolkien’s new kicks look like they were designed by a blind Ethiopian warlord,” while Tolkien just rolled his eyes and kept scrolling on his phone. Kenny was there too, muffled as always, hoodie up, probably laughing behind the parka. Butters was nervously trying to mediate whatever fresh bullshit Cartman was starting.
And then—there.
Craig Tucker stood maybe fifteen feet away, slouched against the wall with her usual dead-eyed expression, one hand in her pocket, the other lazily flipping off the ceiling for no reason anyone could figure out. Her dark hair stuck out from under the chullo in that unfairly perfect messy way. Long fingers. Pale wrists. Kyle’s brain short-circuited for the three hundredth time this month.
God fucking damn it.
She’s so pretty it should be illegal.
Kyle’s fever spiked just looking at her. His face felt hotter than it had any right to, and not just from the sickness.
“Dude, you look like shit,” Stan said, appearing at his side out of nowhere and immediately pressing the back of his hand to Kyle’s forehead. “Jesus, you’re burning up. Why the hell are you even here?”
“’m fine,” Kyle croaked, batting Stan’s hand away. His voice sounded like gravel. “Just… gotta… turn in that history thing.”
Stan gave him the classic Stan side-eye. “You’re so full of shit. Go home, man.”
“I said I’m fine.”
Across the hall, Craig suddenly straightened up a little. Tweek had just rounded the corner at mach five, twitching harder than usual, coffee cup sloshing dangerously.
“Craig! Craig! Oh god, did you see—did you see the new vending machine has that striped one—the—the striped licorice one again?! I thought they discontinued it! I thought we’d never have it again! AGH!”
Craig didn’t even blink. “Calm your tits, Tweek. It’s just candy.”
“But it’s STRIPED!”
Craig sighed the longest, most exhausted sigh in the history of sighs and reached over to pat Tweek once on the head like he was a caffeinated golden retriever. “Yeah. I saw. Go buy ten and hide them in your locker before Cartman smells sugar and commits a war crime.”
Kyle watched the whole exchange like a starving man staring through a bakery window.
The way Craig’s voice dropped when she talked to Tweek—low, patient, almost soft in a way she never was with anyone else. The way her fingers lingered for half a second on Tweek’s messy blond hair before dropping away. The tiny almost-smile that flickered and died so fast you’d miss it if you weren’t obsessively staring.
Kyle’s chest squeezed so hard he almost coughed.
He wanted that.
He wanted her to look at him like that. Just once. Just—fuck—even for two seconds.
Instead she turned her head slightly, eyes sliding across the hallway like she was scanning for threats, and for one horrible heartbeat their gazes almost lined up.
Kyle panicked and immediately looked straight down at his own shoes like they’d personally betrayed him.
Heart slamming. Face on fire. Dick traitorously twitching in his jeans even though he felt like death. Great. Perfect. 10/10 Tuesday.
“Dude,” Stan muttered beside him. “You’re literally staring holes into Tucker again.”
“Shut up.”
“You’re not subtle.”
“I said shut up.”
Stan snorted. “You’ve been doing this for like… four months now. Just talk to her.”
Kyle gave a weak, feverish laugh that sounded more like a death rattle. “Yeah. Sure. Hey Craig, I know you think I’m an annoying Jew who argues too much, but I’ve actually been jerking off to the thought of your hands on my throat since Halloween, wanna hang out?”
Stan winced. “Okay maybe not that.”
“Exactly.”
Down the hall, Craig pushed off the wall, slung her bag higher on one shoulder, and started walking—straight toward them.
Kyle froze like a deer in headlights.
She wasn’t even looking at him. She was looking past him, probably heading for the science wing or the bathroom or literally anywhere else. But she was getting closer. Close enough that he could smell the faint cedar-and-laundry smell that always clung to her jacket.
His knees almost buckled.
She passed within three feet.
Didn’t even glance his way.
Just kept walking, flipping off Cartman on pure autopilot as she went by.
Kyle exhaled like he’d been punched in the diaphragm.
Stan watched him suffer in silence for a few seconds.
“You’re pathetic,” he finally said, almost fondly.
“I know,” Kyle whispered.
He swayed on his feet. The hallway tilted.
Stan caught his elbow. “Okay, seriously. Nurse’s office. Now. Before you pass out and everyone finds out you’re dying of terminal lesbian thirst.”
Kyle didn’t even have the energy to argue.
He just let Stan drag him away—still stealing one last glance over his shoulder at the retreating back of the girl who had no fucking clue she owned him body and soul.