Soundtrack: Where Is My Mind? – Pixies

When Kenny slips out to the back of the 7-Eleven for a quick, five-minute smoke break, Craig is already there, shivering in his gaudy blue jacket, half through a cigarette of his own. Kenny plops onto the cold sidewalk beside him and lights up, inhaling nicotine like he's been waiting to do for the past three, agonizing hours. They probably shouldn't both be back here. As employees, it's irresponsible. Kenny finds that he doesn't care.

It's been one of those days, for him. The coffee machines were fucked up and he ended up having to fiddle with them by himself because the closest repair guy lives in Buena Vista, forty five minutes out of South Park – and a bunch of grumpy assholes needed their coffee or there'd be a town-wide morning shitstorm.

"Bebe says your new place is nice," Craig remarks, sliding a glance over to Kenny, "I didn't know that you had a new place."

"I've only been there for a couple of days," Kenny responds.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Craig asks, sounding bored. Kenny knows better. They've become weirdly closer in the past few years. Mostly everybody's off to college, but not them. They stayed behind. Kenny stayed behind because even if he'd wanted to go to college (he didn't), he wouldn't have had the money to pay for it. Craig just doesn't care. He's content as long as he's got a place to crash and a guinea pig or two. Maybe as a survival mechanism, they became a strange, fucked up kind of friends. Kenny still doesn't even know that he'd call what they have friendship. Yeah, they drink and smoke and talk together, but they also fuck together, and by default, that makes the relationship between them a little off-kilter.

Kenny shrugs, "I dunno. Guess I forgot, or something." Actually, Kenny had been mulling over whether or not he should tell Craig. His new, albeit crappy, apartment had already become his new sanctuary. He's only let Karen and the cable guy in.

He guesses…he wouldn't mind Craig being there, too. Craig's been here for him. In an awkward, we-care-about-each-other-but-we-don't kind of way. When Kenny's dad died in June because of his bum liver, and Kenny was upset about it but didn't know why, Craig gave him the rest of the day off from work and brought him cheap whiskey later that night to drown his feelings in.

"You forgot."

"Maybe."

"You're a prick."

"You can come over after work, if you want," Kenny offers, exhaling a cloud of smoke. It's one of those freak freezing October days. It's sunny, but cold as fuck. Kenny can already feel the tips of his fingers beginning to go numb.

Craig glances over at Kenny. He looks as though he wants to say something, but instead, just tosses his cigarette butt onto the pavement, crushing it underneath one of his beaten sneakers.

"Fine," Craig replies, voice soft, "You want me to bring some beer?"

"As if we could tolerate each other sober," Kenny chuckles.

Craig rolls his eyes, "I'll meet you out front when my shift's over."

"Don't forget the beer," Kenny tacks on, thinking that maybe he can't deal with Craig in his new apartment when they're not fucked to hell.

Craig scoffs back, "We can't tolerate each other sober, remember?"

The rest of Kenny's shift passes by without consequence. They don't get many customers this far up into the mountains, typically truckers stopping on their way to bigger and better places, or sometimes the folks that live scattered out around the area – in the middle of nowhere. Most of them are quirky people that like the solitude of being nowhere near other people, others are like him, white trash that like the cheap real estate.

Kenny has time for a quick coffee at Tweak Bros (Tweek, coincidentally, is another kid that ended up staying behind in South Park, though Kenny suspects it's because Tweek is afraid of going off to college and being alone – he got the grades to leave, to be sure. He's a smart kid. He's merely also terrified of just about everything), where he also enjoys a cigarette outside with Tweek. Tweek prefers clove cigarettes for whatever reason. Kenny favors his cheap-ass Marlboros.

He swings back by the 7-Eleven a couple hours later, about fifteen minutes before Craig can take off. Craig is sitting behind the counter, the very embodiment of the fuck-all attitude, feet up and nose deep in a porno rag. Kenny dumps a few items onto the counter just to make Craig do some actual work – a box of doughnuts, a bottle of Coke, Hot Cheetos and a bag of gummy worms. He doesn't need any of it, really, but he does enjoy annoying Craig, and annoy Craig, this shall.

"You're a dick," Craig mutters, setting aside his Hustler magazine to ring Kenny up.

"Is that always how you treat you customers?" asks Kenny, "I might have to report your ass to the boss."

"I am your boss," deadpans Craig, tossing Kenny's items into a couple of bags.

"Now who's a dick?" teases Kenny.

They leave the store after Craig buys the promised beer, loading the hoard into Kenny's backseat, which is torn up and littered with duct tape repairs. Craig, as usual, fucks around with the radio station until Kenny slaps his hand away and turns the damned stereo off.

The drive isn't long. It can't be, not in a town as tiny as theirs is. Kenny, to his dismay, had few housing options unless he wanted to move out to Buena Vista or beyond, and so he lives dismally close to his childhood home, in the graffitied mini-slum at the edge of South Park. He's renting out the upstairs of an older lady's townhouse. It's cheap. That's about all that motivated him to sign the lease agreement.

There's a lopsided game of hopscotch on the ground in chalk that wasn't there when Kenny left this morning. He didn't even know that there were kids in the neighborhood – must be fairly quiet.

"Wow, what a shithole," remarks Craig. His breath forms a cloud around his mouth. Kenny can't believe that it's getting this cold already.

"Nobody asked you, Craig," Kenny snaps back, picking up the lightest bags from the back of his car. He doesn't bother to mention that Craig barely managed to cover up the fact that he might have been just a little bit hurt over the fact that Kenny hadn't told him about his move. Craig would probably punch him if he brought it up.

"Why am I carrying the heaviest bags, you asshole," Craig grunts from behind Kenny, as they start up the stairs.

Kenny shoots back, "Cry me a river."

His apartment isn't anything special. There's his bedroom, a bathroom, a second bedroom that was renovated to be a kitchen, and a teeny tiny little living space, in which he shoved his television, a couch he found at the side of the road, and his Game Sphere.

Craig comments, "Huh. It's already a dump."

"Quit being a twat. You wanted to come over and you know it," Kenny says, "Pass me a beer, asshat. We're playing some Nazi Zombies."

Craig tosses Kenny a bottle, which he catches one-handed and cracks open with the bottle opener on his key chain.

They spend the entirety of the game being mostly lazy and ending up with their brains being eaten, but really, they both know that the purpose of this get-together wasn't to play games and shoot the shit.

It's a territory thing, Kenny thinks. Craig, in his own weird Tucker way, wants to know that he's still welcome in Kenny's territory. His space. His home. It's a way of saying that they're friends without actually saying it, because if they admit to friendship, this whole thing will start to feel strange. Who knows what they are? They've been this way forever. When Kenny couldn't go to Stan and Kyle, he'd end up with Craig. When Craig couldn't go to Clyde and Token, he'd end up with Kenny. It happened more and more often.

And, being that they were almost always drunk or high together, they tended to end up horny and on top of each other. It was, and it remains, a nice set up. Kenny doesn't have to worry about commitment or feelings getting in the way – and with all the experience under his belt, he knows that feelings are something that everybody cooks up, regardless of gender. Too many people demand to settle down too early. Kenny wants to enjoy the hell out of his life before he does fucking anything as reckless as that. It's rare to get somebody like Craig, somebody who is afraid of the exact same things he is. Feelings. Settling. Actually needing somebody.

Neither of them wants that. It's the need that's the worst.

Kenny wants Craig around sometimes, but he's far from needing the fucker.

Right?

"This is boring," Craig complains.

"You like boring."

"Not this boring," he goes on. He's on his third beer and appears to be unaffected. Kenny is on his fifth and is feeling the buzz.

"How's your sister?" Kenny finds himself asking, and he can't put his finger on why.

"Why are you asking me about Ruby?" asks Craig, giving Kenny an alien expression.

Kenny shrugs.

"She's fine, I guess," Craig grudgingly says, "Better than me, anyway."

"What are you talking about? You're fine," says Kenny. Craig's got a great gig, being a manager at the 7-Eleven. He gets pretty decent pay, is saving up to get out of his parents' place, and does essentially whatever he wants. It's not a bad life to be living.

Craig takes a pull off of his beer and shrugs, "I just, I dunno, dude. There's got to be more to life than this everyday bullshit, you know?"

"Ooh, Craig Tucker: Manager of middle-of-nowhere 7-Elven and Philosopher Extraordinaire," Kenny teases, his speech slurring slightly as he laughs.

Craig scowls and flips him off, "Fuck you, dude. I'm just so fucking tired of this bullshit."

It's his tone of voice that catches Kenny's attention. He sounds genuine. Kenny nudges Craig with his shoulder and lets out an uneasy chuckle, "Don't be like that, man. We've got it good, here. At least we're not stuck in some asshole's lecture on proper grammar or some shit, like the rest of the dumbasses who left this town."

Craig chugs down more beer and says, "Dude, it's just that – fuck it. Nevermind."

"C'mon, what were you gonna say?" Kenny grins, trying to keep this conversation light, but it isn't light. It's heavy talk and they can both feel it. He adds cheekily, "Don't make me fuck it out of you."

Craig makes an exaggerated gagging noise and responds, "Ugh. Suck dick, Kenny. It's not important."

"You're making a big deal out of it, so I'm assuming it is," Kenny prods.

"Fuck. Fine. I just feel like South Park's resident failure. Like, I don't want to do anything else, but I don't want to be that 'one guy' that never did anything with his life, either," Craig says.

Kenny's face falls in sync with his gut. He replies carefully, "Um, I was born that kid. So. No worries there."

"What do you mean by that?" Craig eyes him.

Kenny shrugs his shoulders, getting up to locate his cigarettes. He lights, and explains, "I was born the fuck-up. Nobody expected more of me, you know?"

Craig nurses his beer and lifts a brow, "That is the most retarded thing I've ever heard come out of your mouth, Kenny."

"What? Surely I've said stupider."

"No, I mean – nobody expected anything out of you, and so you proved them right? That's fucking dumb, is all I'm saying," Craig defends, "And it's not like you. You think you're God's gift to the fucking planet, so what's all this 'Boo-hoo I'm a fuck-up' bullshit?"

"I am God's gift to the planet," Kenny says, affronted, because he can't think of a real response to Craig's claim. When Craig Tucker starts making sense, shit is wrong in the world. He feels weirdly uncomfortable, and this is after five and half beers. By now, he's usually loose and ready to go for any sort of ridiculous shit they decide to do, not chit chats about life and being those kids that stayed behind in South Park.

"Kenny –"

"Dude, this is getting weird," Kenny holds up a hand.

Craig turns his eyes away from Kenny's and mutters, "Yeah," like he doesn't actually mean what he's saying.

Kenny finishes his sixth beer and sets the empty bottle beside its brothers on the floor, next to the couch. He inclines his head at his bedroom door and says, "You wanna fuck?"

For a moment, Craig looks like he's going to tell Kenny to get bent, but sighs instead, and agrees, "Yeah."

"I call top," Craig says, which is essentially useless, because he always insists upon being on top. Personally, Kenny finds being able to take a dick a mark of honor.

"Kay," he agrees anyway, because he's not in the mood to debate. Craig stares at him for moment. Typically they argue about this for a solid few minutes before doing the deed – Craig tends to win because Kenny will only bicker until he decides he just wants to fuck, instead. And the only time that Kenny tops (and this took years of convincing, mind you), really, is when he's in a foul mood and needs to blow off some steam. It's difficult to truly piss Kenny off, and thus it's a rare occurrence.

Kenny's room is still a mess from moving. Flattened cardboard boxes are stacked up against the wall on one side of his bed. Most of his clothes are out in sloppily folded stacks. The only thing that he has set up is his crappy desk in the corner with his ancient computer hooked up. Thing is slow as shit.

Kenny stands awkwardly in the doorway, waiting for some sort of instruction, debating if he should welcome Craig to the jungle or something, until Craig says, "Don't just stand there. Take off your clothes, or something."

"Aren't you romantic," Kenny sarcastically complains, but he tugs his coat off and throws it to the floor.

Craig pulls his own coat off and tosses it among the rest of the clothing that Kenny still hasn't, and will possibly never, put away. Craig looks like he might be bored, or maybe he's just deep in thought, but still, Kenny says, "Do you need me to seduce you today? Craig, baby, show me that scrumptious –"

"Scrumptious?" questions Craig.

"You're ruining my seduction technique, shitbag," Kenny snips, "Where was I? Ah. Show me that scrumptious dick, baby, I need it."

Craig gives him a look.

"Frigid bitch," Kenny accuses.

The conversation dwindles as the clothing begins to disappear. Neither of them will admit it, but they both find the other attractive as hell – otherwise they wouldn't make each other as hard as they do with as little effort as it takes.

Kenny is the first to relinquish his annoyance. He tends to be, mostly because he wants to get laid and feel good about it. While Craig is midway through discarding his jeans, Kenny ducks forward and kisses him hard. Craig groans, opening his mouth and letting Kenny push back his tongue. Kissing like this is a battle. They fight to get into each other's mouths, to make the other one moan, to make the other prove that they're not made of stone first. Kenny is loud in bed – he always loses this part.

And like that, he groans into Craig's mouth, melting against his chest. Kenny can feel Craig smirk into the kiss, so he bites him, nipping down hard on his lower lip.

Kenny guides Craig to sit on the edge of his mattress, on which he still had not bothered to put sheets. He dispenses of Craig's underwear – a nerdy set of boxer briefs with the Red Racer logo across the ass. Kenny has teased him for it before, but over time, he's become kind of fond of the things. So Craig is a loser that still watches children's television shows – it's endearing, really. It might even turn Kenny on.

Breaking his lips away from Craig's, Kenny licks a long line down his neck, pressing wet kisses all the way down Craig's neck. Craig isn't like Kenny in this. He's quiet, always has been. But, Kenny can tell when he's gotten something right, because Craig pants like a dog in heat when he's turned on.

"Are you going to –" Craig starts, but can't manage to finish when Kenny sinks down to his knees and takes Craig's cock into his mouth.

Normally, Kenny wouldn't bother doing this for Craig. He's definitely an asshole and mostly doesn't deserve any special sexual treatment, but if the guy's getting into his own head far enough to consider believing that he's some sort of failure, a blow job is need for certain. And Kenny will blow Craig's mind to bits. He's good at this, and they both know it. He hums happily and bobs his head.

Craig's breath shakes and he bucks up into Kenny's mouth. It's surprising. He hits the back of Kenny's throat and Kenny tries to take it in stride. He can deep throat just as well as anyone, but he's not always prepared for surprises. Still, he doesn't want to give Craig the satisfaction. He takes Craig in deeper, circling with his tongue, humming lightly. Craig clutches at Kenny's long hair with shaking hands.

"Jesus, McCormick," he lets out a trembling laugh. He pulls a little on Kenny's hair, which makes Kenny whine around his dick, only working harder to get it done, and get it done right.

He won't let Craig come, not yet. He lets off of Craig's cock with pop and lifts his brows. He would let Craig come, but Kenny's starting to feel more than antsy with the need to be fucked, and he also doesn't sit back and swallow like a lady – he spits it out on the carpet, which he would be sure to regret later.

He's so hard that it almost hurts.

Craig yanks Kenny back onto the mattress, herding him back with his lips half-quirked up with irritation. He reaches over into the drawer of his bedside table. A few of the only things Kenny has managed to put away are there – his sex things. He has more than a drawer full, of course, but he wanted to make sure he had the minimum on hand. Maybe he was expecting to invite Craig over, after all. Maybe he'd just been pretending to consider not letting Craig in on the new place. Kenny doesn't have much sex with anybody besides Craig, these days, except for sometimes Bebe when she's back for the holidays.

Craig pushes Kenny back into his pillow and asks, "What is with you today? You're weird as fuck."

"You always think I'm weird," Kenny reminds him, watching Craig tear a condom packet off of one of the strips he'd tucked into the drawer. Craig digs around and finds the lube, half-used already. Kenny feels like he just bought that thing, and wonders exactly how much he sleeps with Craig. Kenny finds that he doesn't know the answer, or at least, he's too drunk to bother to do the math.

He leans up and gives Craig a sloppy kiss, clutching his arms to pull him down into it. Craig tugs himself back with a grunt, to lather his fingers in lube. He teases Kenny at first, because he knows that it will annoy him, running a single slippery finger along the crack of his ass without pushing far. Kenny is sweating, looking up at Craig with a pleading look in his eyes. He reaches down to give his neglected hard-on a few reassuring pumps, but Craig knocks his hand away and turns Kenny over onto him stomach.

He kisses the back of Kenny's neck. It's a new thing they do – the kissing. They weren't much into it before, because the intimacy felt like too much. Kenny waited patiently until Craig didn't give a shit about that intimacy, and now, here they are. Craig kisses along Kenny's bony shoulder blade, licking along the bone in between brief presses of his lips.

Craig smirks lightly and pushes inside him. Kenny won't admit it, but he prefers this part to be gentle. He's never said anything to let Craig know this preference, of course. That would be too much talking for them. The reason that Craig knows is because they've been watching each other while they do this for years, through every fuck, using every different technique, every new touch, or lick, or kiss. Kenny likes being worked over. He'll never admit to it. It's a matter of stubborn, misplaced pride. And Craig will probably be the only one that can get him off like this, because Craig's the only one that's this fucking observant during bedroom activities.

Kenny's eyes slip closed as Craig's fingers work inside him, gentle, but sure. He moans unabashedly, tugging at his own hair, and reaching for his dick again, which feels painfully neglected. Craig pushes his hand away a second time.

"You like that, don't you," Craig whispers.

"Fuck off," mumbles Kenny, without opening his eyes.

Craig kisses up Kenny's spine as he thrusts in a third finger, less gentle now that he's more desperate. Kenny wonders if the sort-of-blowjob was the wrong move to make, because Craig is so tense with want that his movements are becoming jerky. His fingernails sting, and Kenny voices his displeasure by saying loudly into the pillow, "You ever heard of a nail clipper, fuck face?"

"Picky bitch," Craig sniffs back, working him harder. Kenny rubs himself back into Craig's hand, whining low in his throat. Shit, he needs this. He has needed it. They've both been so tense lately. Why have they been so ill at ease?

Kenny decides that he doesn't fucking care.

Craig withdraws his hand, and Kenny feels painfully empty, even as he hears the familiar sound of a foil packet being opened, and Craig's grunt to himself as he rolls a condom over his dick.

Craig kisses Kenny's shoulder, sucking messily as he positions himself. He slams into Kenny, obviously done with his stint of niceness. Kenny cries out. To prevent from touching himself, Kenny wraps his arms around his pillow and hugs it to his chest as Craig begins to work behind him, thrusting in confident strokes. He holds one of his hands against the headboard, and lowers the other to wrap around Kenny's cock, clumsily pumping. This is the sign that Craig is as far gone as Kenny is – his hands are, for the most part, steady and sure of themselves. He is quaking and only able to run his hand along Kenny's dick in jerking motions. That's okay. It does the trick, just the same.

They breathe hard together. Craig is sweating onto Kenny's back. It's cold sweat, and a little uncomfortable, but Craig has always been a sweaty guy and Kenny's become accustomed to it after all these years. Kenny gasps and squeezes his eyes shut. Every movement feels like almost too much – he doesn't know why it feels so good today, but he's going to enjoy every last fucking second – pun intended.

He knows Craig is about to come when his thrusts forward become shorter. Craig is the type to hold out until his partner's already finished, and so Kenny does him the courtesy of coming directly onto his mattress, groaning into his pillow and praying that the old lady downstairs can't hear him.

Craig balls his fists in Kenny's hair and tugs him back, coming a few short minutes later. Panting, he withdraws. Craig sits up, straddling the back of Kenny's legs, and removes the condom, knotting it up and tossing it onto Kenny's carpet.

Kenny flips and glares up at him. He says, "Clean that up, dude. I've only lived here for a few fucking days."

"Cool your guns," Craig murmurs. He rolls onto his back and mentions, "I could go for a fucking bowl, man."

"Yeah?" Kenny says, "I got some stuff in the kitchen."

"Mm, yeah. Can you go get that?"

Kenny can't help but smile at how placid Craig is, all sprawled out on the bare mattress and heavy-lidded. He grins as he stands, plucking the discarded condom and tossing it in the kitchen trashcan. During his move in, he'd hastily hidden his stash from his mother (who had been the only person other than his sister who volunteered to help him cart his things to the new place) in the drawer next to the fridge, along with his small pipe collection. He takes out the one he thinks is cleanest – a bigger, rainbow colored bit of glass, and take the paraphernalia back to Craig, who is still stretched out, naked, with his hands resting behind his head.

Kenny scoots onto the mattress and packs a bowl while Craig looks up at him. They're back to being comfortable, he supposes, instead of having awkward conversations about things that scratch more than the surface of who they are. Kenny lights up, and holds in. His eyes water, but instead of exhaling, he leans over and kisses Craig.

Craig kisses back, coughing a little as he exhales wispy smoke.

Kenny scrunches up his face in a grin. They pass the pipe back and forth, trading smoky kisses and hazy chuckles. Kenny's buzzed and far gone. Still, he doesn't think that this what friends do. The fucking, and the shotgunning – and well, they just don't function like normal folks.

Kenny decides not to feel weird about it.

Not anymore.

Story based on a beautiful piece of art by the lovely Yaahoooo