Soundtrack: Whatever You Like (Cover) – Joan as Police Woman
It is the single most preposterous and disastrous realization that Craig Tucker has ever had the misfortune of striking him in the middle of a high school cafeteria. It is not a revelation about the suspicious origins of today's meatloaf, and nor is it that one of Tweek's doomsday prophecies has come true.
It is much, much worse than that.
for Kenny McCormick.
It must have happened someplace between the mental observation that Kenny has a nice jaw, and the day last weekend when they camped out in Clyde's old treehouse with their sisters. It had been surreal, like it couldn't have possibly been happening, but it did. They talked together until the sun came up and slept until the afternoon, waking up to Karen and Ruby with their sleeping bags mashed together, whispering softly behind their hands.
When Craig glanced over to Kenny, he was staring right into Craig's eyes. It made his mouth dry and his head thick, but he'd shaken himself out of it. He didn't worry about it.
How could this have happened so suddenly? he wonders to himself, stricken and frozen solid with a foam lunch tray in his hands, half of his lunch on the linoleum floor, and several pairs of curious eyes fixed on him.
"You all right there, buddy?" asks Gary.
Craig snarls out, "Fuck off, Joseph Smith." He tosses the remains of his lunch in the nearest trash can, no longer feeling hungry. He slides into place at the table in between Tweek and Kevin Stoley, abruptly hyperaware of Kenny sitting at the table beside theirs, laughing about something that Kyle said, something that Craig bets he wouldn't find even remotely funny if he'd heard it.
"Are you feeling sick?" Tweek demands, pinching the fabric of Craig's navy blue hoodie sleeve between his thumb and forefinger and lifting his arm as though inspecting Craig, "Feverish? Dizzy? I don't want whatever killer virus you have, man, sit next to Token or something."
"Craig doesn't have a disease, Tweek," Token says soothingly.
Tweek rolls his eyes in disbelief, but drops Craig's arm and the subject.
Craig opts for silence during the rest of the lunch period, fearing that if he opens his mouth he'll say something to give himself away if he does. Christ, he's never even had a crush before, let alone legitimate feelings. But that's what they have to be. He's convinced – and even if he wasn't, who would he ask about it? This is fucking apocalyptic. An image can be ruined in a fraction of a second, with one word, one rumor, one whisper. He's seen it go down before, and Craig will be damned if he has to be anything other than Craig Tucker: That boy that you probably shouldn't talk to. He's quiet, succinct, reclusive. No place in that portfolio of his personality does it read that there's room for something as re-goddamned-diculous as feelings for another person.
And Kenny, of all of the ones it could be.
Everybody has feelings for Kenny McCormick.
It's practically a rite of passage at South Park High School fall head over heels for him. Who wouldn't? He's tall, blond, well-shaped, and the most charming fucker on the face of the earth. Sexuality seldom carries any consequence in relation to McCormick. With him, suddenly there are no rules where the rules were solid before.
And the fucker gets off on all this. He knows. He likes rubbing it in people's faces. He likes intentionally turning people on. He gives them smirks and bedroom eyes in entirely inappropriate places.
The bell rings and Craig silently plucks his backpack from the floor, slinging it over his shoulder and heading toward his locker without another word.
Craig's head snaps up. Clyde sprints to catch up with him. He puts a hand on Craig's shoulder and smiles, "Man, seriously though, are you okay? I didn't want to ask in front of the other guys – but you look kind of spooked, dude."
Craig shrugs and replies, "I'm fine. Just fucking tired as hell. I woke up to pee at like three in the morning and couldn't fall asleep so I spent the next three hours on Memebase." This is true, but Craig also made himself an enormous mug of coffee when he emerged to catch the bus, and the caffeine crash hasn't hit yet.
"You gonna crash when you get home or something?" asks Clyde.
"Probably," Craig says, "I've got Chem homework, though. I'll see you after class, man."
Craig does, however, have the misfortune of sharing his next class with Kenny. He heaves a weary sigh as he collects his English textbook from the top shelf of his locker, tucking it under his arm. His class isn't far, only a few doors down. He slumps into his desk, ready for this whole day to be over. Regrettably, he still has a veritable buffet of classes to power through, beginning with this gem.
Kenny walks in just as the bell rings, grinning. He greets, "Hey dude." Craig slumps down in his seat. He knows that Kenny will read him like a book no matter how hard he tries to mask his thoughts. He isn't sure how, exactly, McCormick manages to know everything that runs through Craig's head, but somehow, he does.
"How's your sister?" Kenny asks casually, scooting his desk a little closer to Craig's and leaning uncomfortably close.
"Um, good?" Craig says, unsurely. He and Ruby don't hang out often, but they tend to come together when their parents fight – the Tuckers don't argue often; they're a passive-aggressive bunch – so when it does happen, the fire comes out at full force. Craig and Ruby sneak out while their parents are still seething and hide in Clyde's treehouse until it's safe to come out. That's how the treehouse incident with Kenny happened in the first place – Kenny and Karen were already in the house.
Kenny leans in closer with mischievous eyes and breathes out, "And how are you?" He smells like spearmint gum and cigarette smoke, a scent that makes Craig keenly aware, the ends of his nerves jittering.
Craig swallows the lump in his throat and says, "Fuck off, man. It's none of your business."
Kenny cocks a brow and says, "Stick up your butt, much? I was just asking how you are." The look in his eyes says differently, or maybe Craig is overthinking this. He's never been prone to overthinking, not like Clyde or Craig's sister, but he's also never been prone to romantic feelings, either. It's like an illness, like he can't be sure of his own mind anymore. He's questioning every goddamn thought that crosses his mind.
"Fine," snaps Craig.
Their English teacher clears his throat and cocks a brow at Craig. It's enough to make Craig turn pink and sink down lower in his chair. In elementary and junior high he admits to causing a lot of trouble (most of it the harmless overuse of his middle finger), but when he hit high school, he swore to leave it behind in the name of not getting expelled. He wants to go to film school in New York, and that shit doesn't happen if you don't work hard to get there.
Craig's typical tactic is to shut his mouth and reassure himself that whatever pisses him off will someday pass.
And that's it – though it doesn't feel as though it will now, he'll move this infatuation with Kenny McCormick someday. Maybe not today, or next week, or even next month. But someday.
This sentiment is ruined in one sweeping moment, when Kenny leans back over against Craig's desk and murmurs, "I wonder what's up with you today. Your parents fight? You fail a test? I don't think it's any of those. I think you like somebody, Craig."
Craig is red up to his ears. He's never been in this situation before, and he doesn't know what to say. A thousand things run through his head before he manages to stammer out, "No! I don't."
"You do," Kenny teases, grin growing wider, "You like somebody. Is it Tweek?"
"What? No," Craig bites out defensively.
Kenny pauses for a moment, mulling over this new information, "…Is it me?" he finally asks.
"Would you just fuck off?" Craig harshly whispers back, panicked again.
"It is, isn't it?" Kenny chuckles, prodding Craig's arm and winking, "You like me."
And Craig goes off like a firecracker. He shoots up in his seat with so much force that he moves his desk forward and shouts, "I said fuck off, Kenny. What the hell is your problem? Fuck." Craig gathers his belongings without another word, but announces at the classroom door to Kenny, "You know, sometimes you can be a grade-A fuckhole, you know that?" With those parting words, Craig marches off down the hallway, too riled up to stomach school anymore.
He can't believe that he just did that.
Craig hasn't had an outburst like that in school since Red wouldn't stop taking his hat in sixth grade math class – and even that had been mild compared to what he just did. He doesn't usually care, but apparently when he does, he turns into a mass of sensitivity, ready to explode at the slightest provocation. It isn't as though Kenny teasing him is a new thing.
But it feels new.
In this context, it feels different, and it puts him on edge. An edge that Craig is strikingly unfamiliar with.
He walks out of the school without a word, digging around in his pocket for the cigarette that he stowed there. He doesn't smoke as much as he wishes he could, mainly because his mother is prone to flushing his cigarettes, and in a town where everybody knows everybody, fake IDs don't fool anyone. Any cigarettes that Craig attains comes from Kenny, who gets them from his brother.
Craig lights it as he makes a swift escape from the grounds, taking in a drag and holding it in, imagining the smoke is choking his thoughts and lifting Craig off someplace far, far away. He doesn't walk home right away, just wanders to the pond and through the woods, stomping out his cigarette in the dirt. He sinks down against a pine, holding his knees to his chest and breathing quietly.
And feeling stupid.
Craig is beginning to understand why Clyde acts so dumb around girls he likes. He never understood why Clyde couldn't just be himself, but he's starting to see it now. Craig wants to be himself, but when just fucking there like that, his thoughts get all jumbled and the words that he wants to say come out wrong, heavy on his tongue and slow in his brain.
It's so fucking stupid.
He is so fucking, incredibly stupid.
After an hour of sitting by himself and playing absently on his phone while he sulks, Craig finally gets up and wanders home. His parents are both out at work, and so the house is still and quiet. He dumps his backpack onto the front room floor and kicks off his sneakers, padding into the kitchen and opening the fridge. Clyde says that food always makes him feel better, but when Craig surveys the contents of the refrigerator, his stomach makes an unpleasant twist of protest, and he closes it with a sigh.
A pile of dirty dishes towers in the sink behind him. The sight actually relieves Craig. It's something to do, something mindless to occupy him. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and sticks his headphones in his ears, playing something loud with a heavy beat and no lyrics, because inevitably he would connect lyrics to Kenny no matter what they were. As he scrubs and rinses and dries, he starts to feel the knot of stress in his chest loosen, bringing him down from his terrible high. Craig's faith in himself is slightly restored when he sees the sink cleared of clutter and the dishes all put back in their proper places. He's still himself. He still calms down when he does something hypnotic and repetitive.
Which is why he moves onto the laundry.
As Craig hauls down his laundry hamper to the washing machine and plucks up the pair of jeans on top of the pile, he finds a magenta pamphlet with cartoon zombies printed on it, declaring proudly that tonight is Fright Night at the drive-in movie theatre in the next town over.
"That's perfect," he finds himself saying out loud. Craig loves old horror movies, and he loves driving down to attend Fright Night whenever he gets the chance. Tonight's movies are The Wolf Man and Attack of the Puppet People, both of which sound like promising distractions from his tangled thoughts and feelings.
Craig finishes his laundry and ends up in his bedroom, absently switching between working on homework and browsing eBay for interesting DVDs and old comics. He buys a couple cheap ones. They aren't in very good condition, but he takes care of his comics meticulously – and also merely wants a 1947 issue of Amazing Stories, whether or not there's heavy chipping around the edges and a small hole next to the title.
He feels much better by the time that he hears the garage door opening and the heavy footsteps of his father. Craig rolls off of his bed and pokes his head out of his bedroom door, peering downstairs. His father is unloading a couple of boxes from a plastic grocery bag into their pantry. His head jerks around when he hears the creak of Craig's footsteps on the stairs, and he jumps. As soon as he sees his son, his face falls into a flat, grumpy line and he complains, "You scared the living shit out of me. What the hell are you doing home this early?"
"I skipped class," Craig shrugs, figuring his clean track record up until this moment gives him a little leeway, "Can you call me in?"
His dad stares at the grocery bag in his hand before looking back at Craig and grumbles, "Only if you don't tell your mother I forgot to use the reusable grocery bags again."
"Deal," Craig says.
Though he and his dad aren't any semblance of close to each other, he and Craig have always seemed to have an alliance when it comes to keeping each other out of trouble. Other than that, they both think that the other has utter shit taste in film, hobbies, and clothing.
But sometimes they fish together.
And it is kind of nice.
Craig spends another hour watching television before his mom and sister get home, whereupon Craig makes a hasty retreat to his bedroom and half-heartedly watches porn until he realizes that he intentionally searched for videos featuring blond guys, and can't manage to get himself off when he feels as stupid as he does. Perhaps it's for the best – because his mother shouts up the stairs that dinner is ready and Craig calls back that he'll be down in a moment, fastening his jeans back up.
"How was your day, Craig?" his mom asks, "You went up to your room before I had a chance to ask."
Craig shrugs and dishes himself a side of Hamburger Helper. He decides to employ one of his favorite tactics: If there's food in his mouth, nobody can make him talk. During his silence he tries to devise a way to convince his dad to let him borrow the car so he can drive down to attend Fright Night.
The plan ends up being quietly approaching his dad after dinner, while he's on the couch and watching some Discovery Channel show with a half-interested look on his face. Craig removes the cap of the beer bottle in his hand and clears his throat, holding it to his father.
His dad takes it, but cocks a suspicious brow. He says, "Thanks…what do you want?"
"I want to drive the car to the drive-in theatre," Craig says, "I'll be back by midnight."
Thomas eyes his son for a long moment before heaving a sigh and running a large hand through his thinning ginger hair. He agrees reluctantly, "Fine. But not a minute after midnight, you hear me?"
Craig grins and claps his dad on the shoulder, saying nothing before he powers his way up the stairs to throw his hoodie and hat back on after running a quick brush through his hair. His dad's car is an older car, a tiny thing from the 1990's. It has a hell of a lot of miles on it, but his dad takes good care of it – buying parts and fixing it himself. It doesn't run like a dream, exactly, but Craig feels comfortable in it. It smells like freshly cut wood (something that Thomas Tucker smells like constantly due to his logging job), cheap cologne, and cigarettes secretly smoked out of the sight of Craig's mother. Craig knows his dad smokes from time to time but has never caught him at it, and wonders how he manages to be so covert.
It's a little under an hour to the drive-in, but Craig gets there just in time to see the opening credits of The Wolf Man running on the screen. He parks in the back despite that there aren't that many people. He sees a sullen-looking couple that he doesn't recognize, and the goth kids smoking in Henrietta's car near the front.
He slips out of the car and locks it to slog over to the concession stand, where he buys an overpriced bag of hot popcorn and a huge Sprite. He climbs up on top of the hood on the car and relaxes back with the bag of popcorn in his lap. While the last seconds of the credits roll, he absently checks his phone, making a note to answer Clyde's text asking if he's okay between the movies.
It's cold out, and Craig only manages to suffer through about fifteen minutes before he sets down his popcorn and walks around to the trunk to pull out the itchy wool blanket folded up in the back. It's warm, though, and he feels much better after pulling his hood up over his hat and wrapping the blanket around his shoulders. He realizes that it's more likely that anybody from South Park would be less likely to recognize him all bundled up like this, and with that starts feeling much, much better.
The Wolf Man is good – he likes the way that old movies, even horror, were made with charm, and a little bit of innocence. It may not be true to reality, but Craig has always felt that movies are meant to be an escape. It isn't as though realistic film doesn't appeal to him, because it does, but when he wants to relax, he likes to fall back into something fantastic, something that he knows would never truly happen, but that he likes to imagine could. The lead actor isn't incredible, or even good, but the essence of the film is still eerie and endearing.
When it ends, Craig is smiling and unconcerned. He feels like himself. He checks his phone and sends to Clyde, im okay i just needed to cool down by myself.
And it's true, until he hears an amused voice beside him.
"Craig Tucker, that you in there?"
And disastrously, the owner of that voice is lean and blond, zipped into an orange hoodie with an easy, teasing grin on his face.
Craig feels instantly stupid again. He mutters, "Can't you just leave me alone?"
Kenny frowns and says, "Well. My brother left me here with no way to get back into town, and you're the only one I know here other than the goth kids – and they're kind of a downer to hang out with, you know."
"I'm less of a downer to you than the goth kids? Look at them, they're having a field day here," Craig says, vaguely gesturing.
"Look, dude," Kenny says, holding up his hands, "I'm not sure what I did to piss you off, but I think I have a guess."
Craig shakes his head and says, "You wouldn't get it."
"No, I do, man," Kenny says, "Is it because I'm a guy? Like, you're not comfortable about having a thing for a guy. I can understand that, but I can also tell you that I am fantastic at sucking dick, just for the record."
"Wha – what?" exclaims Craig, "You – you're serious?"
"Yeah, I'm serious," Kenny responds, "It's not your fault I could tell you wanted my dick, dude. I just know that stuff. Like how Stan is pining after Gary. So is that it? That I'm a guy?"
"No! I don't give a shit about that stuff," Craig says, "I just don't…I don't know how the fuck to handle this kind of bullshit. I don't like people, so why the fuck do I have to like you?"
Kenny shrugs his shoulders and answers cheekily, "Because I'm devastatingly handsome?"
Craig flips him off.
Kenny goes on, this time taking a few steps forward. He climbs up on top of the hood beside Craig, saying, "But really…I dunno, man. I think, like. We get each other. With the whole treehouse thing. And the poor thing. I mean. And the not giving a shit about what gender we're attracted to."
"What the hell are you on about?" asks Craig, irritated and nervous. His hands are shaking and his breath is coming faster. He can smell Kenny, the gum and the cigarettes.
Kenny leans in. He's so close that his breath ghosts across Craig's lips, warm and damp. He mumbles, "This, I guess," before he presses forward. He pushes his lips up against Craig's, gentle at first, before he reaches up and grips Craig's arm, pulling him harder into it. He licks along Craig's lower lip and licks into his mouth. He tastes perfect and Craig makes a humiliating noise of need, only an instant before Kenny draws away.
Craig tears his eyes away from Kenny's gaze and scowls as soon as it hits him: Kenny is still teasing him.
"Seriously, fuck off," Craig says lowly, "I don't like being jerked around with this shit. I – you – you always tease people like that, but I don't like it. Stop."
Kenny laughs. He says, "Dude, are you for real? I don't just go around kissing people for sport. Well – okay, I kind of do, but not with people that genuinely care about me. When I kiss those people, I mean it, you dumb fucker. I don't get anything out of pulling shit like that. It's…cruel, man. I'd never do that." He cups Craig's face in one of his hands and pulls him into another kiss, this one soothing. He says more quietly, "Craig, man. You think that I don't care, but I do. You like the same movies as me and you always treat me like – I dunno, man. Like I matter. And we smoke the same cigarettes. It's destiny."
"We smoke the same cigarettes because I buy them from you," Craig says pointedly.
"You're missing the point, Tucker," Kenny insists, "We," – he pauses, making a circular motion with his hands, "We work together, you and me. Fuck, I don't think you'd ever gotten pissed at me today, even though I've done plenty to deserve it before. I love my friends, don't get me wrong, but being with you is different. It's calm. Like, I know nothing bad can happen to me if I'm with you."
Craig's lips part. He wets them with the tip of his tongue, meaning to speak but not able to find the right words fast enough. When he speaks, he laughs nervously and tugs on the braided strings of his hat. He says, "Kenny, you're fucking nuts," is what comes out first, but he adds, "and it's great."
They kiss again. Attack of the Puppet People has started on screen, but Craig doesn't even care. The wool blanket falls away from his shoulders as he leans to wrap his arms around Kenny while they kiss, exploring and tasting. It's everything that Craig imagined it would be, earthy and ashy and not exactly wonderful but still perfect.
Everything is hot. Craig's skin is on fire and it feels as though he cannot cool down with his clothing still on. He disconnects his mouth from Kenny's and pants out, "Maybe we should, uh, take this to the backseat."
Kenny's brows crunch together and he asks, "How far have you ever gone with another person?"
"I haven't," Craig says back, coloring, "I haven't gone anywhere with another person."
"Are you sure you're ready for that, dude?" Kenny questions. He rests a hand on Craig's knee and looks at him, eyes open and honest. His words aren't patronizing. Kenny genuinely cares.
And that's what makes Craig smile toothily and answer, "Yeah. With you, yeah."
Kenny half-smiles and pecks a quick kiss to Craig's lips before sliding off the hood of the car. Craig unlocks the back door and they slide in together. It's cramped, something he realizes as Kenny shifts to lay Craig against the seat and sit on top of him, kissing hotly.
Kenny's hand snakes up Craig's shirt, stroking his chest with cold fingers. It's all Craig needs to start getting hard as soon as Kenny's fingers skate across his nipples, scraping in feather-light touches. He asks Craig, smiling, "Feel good?"
"You know it does, you asshole," Craig clips. Kenny just laughs, easing Craig's shirt off of his head casting it toward the front of the car. He dips down and presses a long kiss to Craig's neck. Craig's eyes shutter closed, and he lifts his hands to tangle them in Kenny's blond hair as he kisses down from Craig's neck to his collarbone, down his chest. Craig's eyes fly open when he feels Kenny's hand close over his erection through his jeans.
"You're really hard," Kenny remarks, pushing their mouths together. Craig whines and nods. Kenny kisses along Craig's jaw and asks as he skates his fingers over Craig's erection, "What do you want? I could touch you, or I could suck you, or…"
"Or what?" Craig breathes out.
Kenny's breath ghosts across Craig's lips and he whispers, "You could fuck me. Or I could fuck you. Whatever you want, just tell me, and I'll make it good."
Craig is overwhelmed. He clutches Kenny to him and says, "Does it – hurt – if I let you…you know?"
"Yeah," Kenny softly says, "But we don't have to do it that way. Or if that's what you want, I can go slow."
His heart is pumping blood faster than he knew that it could. He says slowly, "I want to do that. But. Uh. Like, be careful and stuff." He's sure his face is bright red, but at least it shouldn't be noticeable in the dim light of the movie.
Above him, Kenny gives a slow nod. He leans down and brushes his lips against Craig's cheek, lingering there. It makes Craig melt into his arms. Everything is confused and wonderful and hazy. Craig only finds enough brain power to dip his hands underneath the layers of Kenny's hoodie and t-shirt and stroke his skin. Kenny shudders at the touch and rips down his zipper, tugging off his sweatshirt and the layers underneath in a flurry of movement.
Kenny leans down, eyes hooded with lust. He strokes back a piece of Craig's dark hair before kissing him chastely on the lips and drawing back up. He pulls the zipper on Craig's jeans down at a painfully slow pace, opening it up tooth by tooth and laughing when Craig rubs up against his hand and mutters, "Just touch me, you fucker." He runs his knuckles over the outline of Craig's cock before dipping into his underwear, closing a fist over him and pumping lightly.
Craig chokes out a moan and reaches up to dig his nails into Kenny's shoulder. He mumbles, "So fucking good," and Kenny grins, running his tongue over his teeth.
But then Kenny lets go.
Craig protests, "What'd you do that for?"
"I can't have you coming right away, dumbass, that spoils the fun of it," Kenny smirks.
Craig sighs out, "Fucking tease."
"Only for you," Kenny responds. He backs off of Craig, enough to work his jeans off of his legs, dispensing of his underwear quickly after, leaving Craig more exposed than he's ever been in the presence of another person. He makes a move to cover himself up, some last-minute modesty that's making him hot and itchy, not sure that he shouldn't be doing this.
Kenny catches his hand by the wrist and says, "You don't have to do this if you don't want."
Craig's throat is dry, but it doesn't help when he swallows. He says, "I've just never…never anything. I want it. I do."
"You don't have to be nervous with me," Kenny whispers. He strokes a hand through Craig's hair and kisses him in long, tender kisses meant to soothe. He's good – Craig will give him that. He feels his body relaxing again, even though his veins are thick with adrenaline and his brain insists that they're going to get caught. Kenny digs around in the pocket of his oversized jeans. Craig can't see what he pulls out – it's too dark.
"What is that?" asks Craig.
"Lube," Kenny says back, "And condoms. Never know when you might need them."
Craig rolls his eyes, but he reaches for Kenny's hand when he hears him pop open the bottle of lube. Kenny takes his fingers and squeezes them. He assures Craig, "It'll be okay. I'll take care of you, dude." He waits for Craig to nod before lifting his legs up, resting them on his skinny shoulders. Craig keeps holding onto Kenny's hand, and he feels childish, but anchored.
When he feels Kenny's fingers brush up against him, he jumps.
"It's cold," Craig mutters.
Kenny just smiles. He slides one finger inside Craig. It feels strange but good, and even better when Kenny's massaging finger finds something that sets Craig off like a firecracker, making him thrust up against Kenny's hand and whine. Kenny hushes him with a kiss, but keeps his focus on that spot inside Craig, making him writhe and groan into Kenny's mouth.
It's only when Craig feels a twinge of discomfort does he realize that Kenny has two fingers inside of him, working intently while he presses their damp foreheads together. Kenny says something about how good Craig looks when he's lost control, but Craig can't find it in him do much more than moan.
But when Kenny's fingers are gone, Craig whines out another, louder complaint, wanting him back, feeling empty and cold and needy.
Kenny hastily undoes his own jeans with clumsy hands, shoving them down his legs and struggling. He bangs his head against the roof of the car and swears, rubbing his head as he peels away his baggy jeans and worn boxers. He tears open the condom packet and rolls it over himself, a ritual that Craig watches in fascination. He slicks lube over himself and spares a glance at Craig before rearranging them. He tucks his hoodie underneath Craig's back, propping him up, and says, "It's gonna hurt at first, okay? Tell me if you want to stop."
He's right. It does hurt. Craig grips Kenny's hand and squeezes his eyes closed. Each inch stretches him more, but he wants it, God, he does. He doesn't realize that he'd been holding his breath until he lets it all out when Kenny stops moving. Craig peeks. Kenny is biting hard on his lower lip, hard enough that a thin trickle of blood rolls down his chin before he stops.
He says to Craig, "Tell me when it's okay to move."
For a long moment, Craig just holds Kenny in place, and Kenny doesn't make a single move except to press kisses to Craig's chest and neck.
"Okay," Craig finally says.
Kenny keeps it slow, each movement careful and calculated, but perfect. Craig sighs and holds onto Kenny's shoulders, closing his eyes and letting himself fall into the rhythm. Kenny strokes his hair and reassures him in soft whispers that he's doing great, that he feels nice. It makes Craig's chest heavy, burning with feeling. Kenny's hand wraps around Craig's cock and matches the movement of their bodies.
It takes Craig all of a few seconds to come, crying out and pulling Kenny close. He follows soon after Craig, thrusting firmly into him and kissing Craig through his orgasm, before he collapses on top of him, untangling their bodies enough to pull himself out of Craig.
They lie like that for several minutes, but it feels longer. It's Kenny that shifts first, pulling off the condom and rolling down the window to toss it out onto the lot. He picks his t-shirt up off of the car floor, but instead of putting it back on, he uses it to mop the come off of Craig's chest.
"You're not gonna put that on, are you?" Craig asks, eyeing the ball of fabric.
"Nah," Kenny says, "I wanna stay like this for a while."
He lies back down, moving Craig so that he's spooned with Kenny's chest against his back, all sticky and warm, and perfect. He strokes Craig's hair and kisses the back of his neck, saying, "I don't know what the hell this is, man, but I love being this way with you. God – you're just – yeah."
"You too," Craig says.
He has no idea what it means either, but he's glad that they have it.
Happy Birthday Charlotte!