Work Text:
Craig got a summer job in Denver expressly to escape his redneck classmates from South Park, and when his manager introduces him to his valet stand co-worker, he has to fight to keep his expression neutral. It's Kenny McCormick, taller than he was when he left South Park after their sophomore year of high school, smiling like an asshole and wearing sunglasses on top of his head, his blond bangs sticking up behind them.
"Good to meet you," Kenny says, and he shakes Craig's hand. "Where are you from?"
Craig stares back, loathing him. Their manager is watching.
"South Park," Craig says, pronouncing the words hatefully.
"Never heard of it," Kenny says, and his grin widens, but he isn't fooling Craig. Kenny assumed he'd escaped from South Park, too, and now here it is, staring him in the face. They're trapped with each other. The manager wishes them a good day and leaves them at the narrow valet stand, behind which sits two skinny stools that are way too close together.
"So," Kenny says, perching on one of them. "Is this your first real job?"
"No," Craig says, though his only previous experience was babysitting his little sister.
"Kind of a funny coincidence," Kenny says.
"I don't think it's that funny."
"Are you going to sit down?" Kenny gestures to the stool. It's basically sitting between his legs. Craig deeply resents that Kenny is taller than him. He's put on weight, too. He looks like an actual man.
"I'll stand, thanks," Craig says.
"All day?"
"Maybe."
"All summer?"
"We'll see."
"You're going to be super fun to work with," Kenny says. He's still smiling, but just a little, his eyes narrowing.
"It's not my job to be super fun," Craig says. "It's my job to park cars."
"I'll tell you something about the last guy who worked here," Kenny says. He braces his hands on the seat of the stool, between his thighs, and leans forward. "He quit because I fucked his girlfriend."
Craig stares for awhile, wishing someone would drive up and ask to have their car parked.
"Okay," he says.
"So I think they went out of their way to hire someone who looked like he didn't have a girlfriend worth stealing," Kenny says. "Which would be you, I guess."
Craig is unaffected. He knows he's good-looking. A woman once stopped him on the street and asked if he was interested in doing catalog modeling. He was not.
"I broke up with my girlfriend at the end of high school," Craig said. His girlfriend was Tweek. That shit was only going to hold his attention for so long. He's going to Colorado State in the fall, and Tweek is going on some kind of soul searching trip to India and Thailand. Craig was invited, and he emphatically declined. He'd rather search for steady income than his soul. He knows where is soul is. Somewhere close to his stomach, bored and occasionally treacherous. He doesn't want to poke at it or get to know it better.
"So, South Park," Kenny says when Craig has consented to sit on the stool after five hours of standing. They've both got their elbows on the valet stand, and they're staring out at the driveway in front of the building, watching cars pass on the street. "How are things there?" Kenny asks when Craig says nothing.
"The same," Craig says.
"I figured."
They pass the next two hours of their shift in silence. Craig walks to his car at the cheap lot across the street, and he can see Kenny on the other side of the lot, getting into a piece of shit Ford truck. It looks about twenty years old, and like it spent ten of those years rusting at the bottom of a lake. Craig starts his car - his mother's old Maxima, admittedly nothing special - and blasts the air conditioning. Kenny cuts him off as he's pulling out, smirking. He's got the windows of his truck rolled down, an unlit cigarette dangling between his lips. Something twists in Craig's stomach. He hates that fucking smirk of Kenny's, always has.
Most days, they don't talk except to make comments on the cars that pull up, but sometimes, randomly, Kenny seems to need conversation.
"Our sisters were friends," Kenny says one day. Craig shrugs.
"I guess." He remembers seeing Karen McCormick over at the house. She had a falling out with Craig's sister when Rachel accused her of stealing her iPod.
"You ever hang out with Stan and them?" Kenny asks, as if this is a related subject. He's picking at something on his arm when he asks. A scab.
"Not really," Craig said. He should withhold the follow-up question or risk further conversation, but he's curious. "You?"
"Nah," Kenny says, squinting out at the blistering afternoon that's roasting the asphalt. He always keeps his sunglasses on top of his head, never on his face. "After I left school. You know."
"Not really," Craig says, because he's never dropped out of school before. "Why did you quit?" he asks. Kenny was hardly the stupidest person there, not even the laziest.
"Needed money, man," Kenny says. "That was the joke, right? That everyone told? After I left?"
"Nobody told me any jokes," Craig says.
"That's 'cause you never laugh," Kenny says. He's smiling, but he seems a little shaky. After dislodging the scab and throwing the remains over the side of the valet stand, he starts gnawing on his nails.
"How tall are you?" Craig asks. This incessant fidgeting is starting to remind him of Tweek.
"Six four," Kenny says.
"Jesus." Craig is barely six feet. "Well." He pauses, wondering if he should say this. Probably not, but he's bored. "You would have been the tallest."
"The tallest?"
"In our class, senior year. We had to measure in gym class. You'd think they were measuring our fucking dicks, how much some guys fucking gloated. Eric Cartman was the tallest. Six three. Then Token, Stan, Clyde." That had really burned Craig's ass, the fact that Clyde ended up taller than him.
"Who was the shortest?" Kenny asks. He's looking at Craig now, his attention fully focused on this minutia.
"Tweek, of course," Craig says. There's a pang somewhere in his soul region. "Then Butters, Jimmy, and Kyle was down toward the bottom, too."
"Kyle," Kenny says, vaguely. He chews on his thumbnail. "I guess he was probably, like. Valedictorian?"
"No," Craig says. "Cartman was."
"What?"
"He did it just to piss Wendy and Kyle off. Probably cheated, but no one could prove it. Nothing sticks to that asshole."
"Except cellulite," Kenny says. Craig considers smiling, then decides against it.
After a couple of weeks, a car that seems to rarefy the air around it starts pulling up on a regular basis. Craig has never seen a Bentley in real life, and he didn't expect to be impressed, but he fights Kenny over who gets to park it every time it shows up. The interior smells like sex, not the dirty kind that actually takes place between two bodies but like an invitation to pleasure, haughty and cool to the touch. Everything is black, polished, leather. The guy who drives it is nothing special, not even a good tipper, but the car makes Craig's skin prickle with goosebumps. He always spreads his thighs a little wider than necessary when he parks it.
"Look at you, all smug," Kenny says one afternoon when Craig is walking back after parking the Bentley. "You think you're gonna own a car like that someday?"
"No," Craig says, climbing up onto his stool. "Do you?"
"Sure, man. I just gotta save up my tips."
"Where do you live?" Craig asks, cause he's been wondering. "In the city?"
"Yeah, right around the corner, in that alley, in a cardboard box." Kenny grins at the half-second that Craig fears he's telling the truth. "I've got an apartment," Kenny says. "With a couple of other guys. It's pretty rad."
"I'm sure," Craig says, imagining an unclean bathroom, crusted dishes on the kitchen counters, mice.
"You can't come over," Kenny says. "No college boys allowed."
"Darn," Craig says, as flatly as he can, and Kenny laughs.
June begins and ends. Kenny develops a habit of elbowing Craig that is obnoxious, but since that's Kenny's intention Craig says nothing, not wanting Kenny to know that he's succeeding in annoying him. Sometimes the elbowing is in conjunction with shouldering, which makes Craig miss sex, because it's hot out and he can feel the fog of Kenny's sweat through the sleeve of his polo shirt. He calls Tweek, who won't leave for India until August, and hangs up before he can answer. He turns his phone off, annoyed with himself. The next day, Tweek shows up in Denver, at the valet stand.
"Can we help you, sir?" Kenny says, pretending not to recognize him. He's sitting too close, but in the presence of Tweek it's an advantage, so Craig stays behind the stand, his shoulder just barely touching Kenny's.
"You called me," Tweek says, doing his chihuahua shake, looking from Kenny to Craig and back again. "Is - is that - are you Kenny McCormick?"
"No, I'm Craig Tucker," Kenny says. "Are you Clyde Donovan?"
"What?" Tweek shrieks, panicked. Craig covers his face to hide his smile.
"I didn't mean to call you," Craig says. "I sat on my phone and it hit your number. Sorry. I'll take you off speed dial."
"Can I talk to you?" Tweek asks, shouting.
"He's not allowed to leave the stand," Kenny says.
"But -"
"Sorry," Kenny says. "I'm his supervisor."
"He's not my supervisor," Craig says, but he doesn't get up. Tweek makes a frustrated noise and wanders off.
"That guy wants to bone you," Kenny says.
"No, he doesn't," Craig says, because Tweek wants to be boned by him, like the good old days, but that whole relationship was so dysfunctional, so South Park. "Did you sleep with anyone?" Craig asks. "Back then? At home?"
"First of all, home?" Kenny says. He flicks his sunglasses down over his eyes for the first time all summer. "I don't think so. Wouldn't call it that. Also, yes. Of course I did."
"Gonna tell me who?"
Kenny thinks about it for a moment, inscrutable behind his sunglasses.
"Only if you admit that you totally let that kid blow you when you were drunk," Kenny says, pointing in the direction that Tweek exited.
"Yes," Craig says, his face heating, because it was more like he took that kid to the movies every Friday and held his hand when no one was looking. Blow jobs were also involved.
"Ha!" Kenny claps, then shoulders him. "I knew it."
"Yeah. Good call. So? Who did you get with from - town?"
"Hmm, let's see." Kenny pushes his sunglasses up and rubs his chin. "The list." Craig snorts.
"Like it's really that long," he says. "Like you really have to think about it." All of Craig's lists begin and end with Tweek. Even the kissing list.
"Are we talking strictly fucking or, like, heavy fooling around?"
"Both," Craig says. This conversation is making his heart beat faster. Kenny's deodorant always kicks in around noon, when they both really start to sweat. It's five til noon, and Kenny smells like that thing in his deodorant that can't quite conceal the real smell of him, which isn't dirty so much as slippery.
"Well, there was Butters, of course," Kenny says. Craig chokes on his spit.
"The - you -"
"Yeah, I got burned out on boobs pretty early on," Kenny says. "Too much porn at too young an age. Desensitized me, I think? So I was left with guys." He wiggles his eyebrows. "Does that shock you?"
"The Butters part does."
"Well, see, he was my transitional period. 'Cause he'd dress up for me. And he had cute little boy tits."
"Jesus Christ."
"It was pretty great, but he was always grounded, so I had to settle for letting Kyle pretend I was Stan -"
"Kyle Broflovski?"
"Yeah. Are you really that surprised? Dude, he had a boner for Stan before his balls dropped. I thought everyone knew that." Kenny looks down at the valet stand, picking at a paint bubble with his thumbnail. "You can't tell anyone about this, okay?" he says.
"Wait," Craig says. "You said before - the guy before me, you said you fucked his girlfriend."
"Oh, well." Kenny grins. "I actually fucked him. The guy. And then it was awkward, I guess, so he quit."
Craig looks away, glad when he sees a car coming into the driveway, until he realizes that it's the Bentley. He can't handle the sex mobile right now.
"Dibs!" Kenny shouts. He whacks Craig's shoulder. "Man, you didn't even try."
Craig lets Kenny park the car, remaining at the valet stand with his mouth hanging open. He thought he was hardcore, sneaking around with Tweek. Maybe Kenny left South Park because his sex life was getting too intense, too. When he comes back from the garage he's smiling, looking taller than ever.
"I got something to confess," Kenny says as he slides back onto his stool. He bumps Craig's shoulder with his and leans over to whisper: "I just beat off in the sex mobile."
"You're lying," Craig says, flushing so hard that he's afraid the stifling afternoon heat will do permanent damage.
"I'm lying? Okay, want to smell my hand?"
"No! God, you're disgusting."
Now Kenny has succeeded in actually getting Craig worked up, and he's obviously enjoying it. Craig moves away from him, but Kenny follows, the sleeves of their matching polo shirts brushing.
"Hey, don't get all embarrassed just 'cause you let Tweek blow you once," Kenny says. "I mean, who didn't he blow? I had him a couple times."
"What?" Enraged, Craig jumps off of his stool and whirls on Kenny, who's smiling slowly, shaking his head.
"I fucking knew it," Kenny says. "'I'll take you off my speed dial?' Tweek was your regular Saturday night thing."
"Fuck you," Craig says, spitting the words out. "You - you don't know -"
"Hey, I was joking about the blow job!" Kenny holds up his hands. "As far as I knew back then, Tweek was a trembling virgin. Get it, trembling? Guess not, though. I just thought it was funny, the other day -"
"Go fuck yourself," Craig says. He grabs a time card from the stack they keep under the stand.
"Where are you going?" Kenny calls when he starts to walk off.
"Lunch," Craig shouts back, though Kenny doesn't deserve an explanation, and really, where the fuck else would he be going at noon?
Craig is only able to choke down half a Quizno's sandwich, glowering at the condensation on his cup of soda as it pools onto the table. Kenny has some goddamn nerve. Saying that about Tweek. Spreading rumors. What if he'd been wrong? What if Craig was just some jackass who believed him? Tweek was an innocent snowflake before Craig. His blow jobs weren't perfunctory, they were - exquisite, lubricious little masterpieces. Craig thinks of calling him, but he can't. Does he really want to deal with Tweek for the rest of his life? Does he want to bring him home and suffer through a dinner where his parents stare the entire time and ask Craig what the fuck is wrong with that kid afterward? No, of course not. Instead of calling him, he scrolls through old pictures on his phone. He has a bunch of Tweek sleeping. He looks really cute when he sleeps, his little fist curled over his mouth. Smallest kid in their grade, always.
When he gets back to the valet stand, Kenny is having a drum session, one hand slapping against his thigh and the other banging a pen against the stand. Craig keeps his sunglasses over his face and his mouth in a straight line. He moves the stool away from Kenny before sitting on it.
"Man," Kenny says after a few moments of quiet. "You should try beating off in that car. It's hot. I came like a rocket."
"Stop talking," Craig says.
"Make me," Kenny says, but he doesn't say anything else for the rest of the day. He moves his stool closer to Craig's, and Craig allows it just for the sake of ignoring him.
That night, in bed, Craig tries beating off to Tweek. He thinks about the weekend that Tweek spent at his house, when Craig's parents went to Texas for one of Rachel's miscellaneous sporting events. They had a little notepad next to the bed, and Craig added a tally mark to it every time Tweek came. That was supposed to be the number of times Craig would spank him at the end of the weekend, but by the time Craig was writing the twenty-first mark it was Sunday night and the garage door was opening for his parents' mini-van.
Beating off to these memories isn't working at all, so Craig thinks about Kenny in the driver's seat of the Bentley, his hand down the front of his khaki shorts, eyes closed, legs spread wide. Biting his lip, the sunglasses up on top of his head. He's probably got a huge dick. Craig thinks about Kenny fucking Butters with it and comes in his hand, moaning under his breath. He pants up at the ceiling and wonders what they talked about afterward. Butters was different after sophomore year, quieter, and Craig never thought it had anything to do with Kenny. Kyle and Stan were different, too. Maybe everybody was, and maybe they would have been, anyway, even if Kenny had stayed.
At work the next day, Kenny is jumpy and irritable. He drops keys, parks recklessly, and puts his shoulder against Craig's like he's testing him. Craig lets him do it, imagining how boring this job would be if he wasn't here.
"I'm hungover," Kenny announces before lunch. "Partied kind of hard last night."
"Don't call it partying," Craig says, and Kenny laughs.
"Yeah," he says, like Craig has made a good point. Craig goes to Quizno's and comes back with two sandwiches. They eat them together at the stand, though they're not supposed to have food here.
"You can't tell anyone what I said about Kyle," Kenny says, his mouth full of turkey and cheese on toasted white bread. "Or Butters," he adds, less vehemently.
"Who am I going to tell?" Craig asks. "I don't talk to any of those assholes anymore."
"Which assholes?"
"People from South Park."
"Seriously? Already? Why not?"
"I don't know." Craig balls up his sandwich wrapper. "Why don't you?"
Kenny scoffs. "Because they let me leave," he says.
Craig opens his mouth to ask, What were we supposed to do?, then shuts it. Kenny watches him, sucking soda through a straw.
"Thanks for the sandwich," Kenny says, kind of angrily, like the sandwich was a metaphor and Kenny is fully aware that it was intended to insult him. For Craig it was just a sandwich. He shrugs.
"You owe me five dollars," he says, jokingly. Kenny digs out his wallet and gives it to him sort of frantically, like Craig has a gun to his head.
"Well, if you did talk to them," Kenny says, maybe an hour later. "I wouldn't want you talking about me."
"What the hell would I tell them?" Craig asks. "I don't know anything about you."
"You know I don't live in a cardboard box," Kenny says. "You know I'm not dead."
"So?"
"So I don't want them to know that," Kenny says, muttering. The sunglasses slide down over his eyes. He would be a terrible poker player, but Craig thinks he probably knows that and doesn't care. Kenny never really had anything to wager, no reputation to lose.
The following week, the Bentley is back. Craig wants to park it, because he wants to sit in the seat where Kenny jacked off, and he hurries to get the keys from the owner. The guy is never smiling, always in a hurry, an ugly old man.
"I haven't got all fucking day," he says when Craig struggles to pull a ticket free from the roll under the stand. He can feel Kenny watching the guy with a rebellious slant, and he hopes he won't say anything.
"Wait up," Kenny says when Craig walks around to get in the driver's seat. Kenny slides off his stool and goes to the passenger side.
"What are you doing?" Craig asks.
"Joy ride," Kenny says.
"Fuck no," Craig says. His heart slams. This is the kind of thing Tweek would never do.
"Fine," Kenny says. He walks around to the driver's side, smirking, towering over Craig. He takes the keys. Craig makes no attempt to stop him. "I'll drive, then."
The car feels different outside of the garage, on the streets of the city, washed in sun and speeding fast. It's less like the promise of sex and more like actually having it, fucking too fast and hard and not giving a shit. Craig has a grin on his face that he can't get rid of, buckled into the passenger seat while Kenny races around corners, laughing and turning up the radio. It's pop music, embarrassingly happy, but Craig's foot bounces anyway. His heart is beating so fast. They leave the city and break onto the highway like animals escaping the zoo. Craig is half hard just from the way Kenny is driving, like nothing matters, like this car is his and always has been.
"I can't believe we're doing this," Craig says. He's holding onto the passenger seat with both hands, his knees pressed together.
"I can't believe it took us this long," Kenny says, and that's when Craig knows that they're going to park the car somewhere and climb into the back. "Tell me you don't want to suck my dick while I'm driving this car," Kenny says. Craig shakes his head.
"I don't want to," he says. He does, wants Kenny to hold him down and make him take it deeper, then tear him off and flip him over, fuck him until he's drooling on the leather. All the things that Tweek would never do for him. All the things he would never want Tweek to know that he wants.
"We're gonna get fired," Craig says when Kenny parks the car somewhere in Aurora, in a field behind a shopping mall, dirt rising around the windows.
"Who cares?" Kenny says. "You're leaving for college and I'm a fuck-up." He's not wearing a seatbelt; of course he isn't. He crawls over to unbuckle Craig's, holding his gaze. "Right?"
"You seem okay," Craig says. He wasn't sure he wanted this to be real until Kenny got close, but now he can smell him, his melted deodorant and grown-up sweat, tobacco and salt. Kenny grabs the front of Craig's polo and drags him forward to kiss him, sighing into his mouth. When he pulls back he's grinning, his eyes lidded.
"I thought about you," Kenny says. "When I beat off in here. What it'd be like to fuck you in this car."
"Do you have a condom?" Craig asks, because Kenny is more out of control than he realized, and Craig always wears a seatbelt. Kenny digs into his pocket and pulls out a condom, a pack of cigarettes, and a little bottle of lube.
"Came prepared," he says. He throws the cigarettes onto the dash. "Those are for later."
"No fucking way are you smoking in here," Craig says, and Kenny laughs.
"You can come in my mouth," he says, pulling Craig into the backseat. "If you're so worried about messing up the car." He pushes Craig down onto his back and leans over him, putting his lips to Craig's ear. "And I'll come in your ass, if that's okay," he says, his breath as hot as scorched asphalt.
"Yes," Craig says, moaning the word out. He pants, watching Kenny crawl down his body and tear open the front of his khakis. All of this seems to be happening to somebody else, but then Kenny's mouth is sweltering and soft around his cock, and Craig is here, doing this, for real.
Kenny doesn't ask if he's a virgin, but he treats him like one, fingering him until he's relaxed, moaning, sweating onto the leather. The car is still running, air conditioning blasting, the radio playing commercials while Kenny slides his cock into Craig, Craig's legs pushed up onto his shoulders.
"Shit," Kenny says, staring down at him. His eyes are dark now, guarded, though the sunglasses are still in the front seat. "You – ah – fuck. Always wanted to fuck you. Fucking pretty boy."
"Kenny," Craig says, begging, and he wonders how many guys in South Park have said Kenny's name that way, asking to be coddled after getting what they thought they wanted. Craig is split open, terrified, his body screaming for mercy and more. Kenny lets Craig's legs slide down and leans down onto him, until they're breathing against each other, Kenny's stomach pressed to Craig's. Kenny is all the way in now, and Craig doesn't know his own body anymore, doesn't know how he'll keep breathing when he's this full. Kenny whispers shhhh and kisses his jaw, his cheek, his mouth.
"Want it out?" Kenny asks.
"Fuck no," Craig says, though he's nowhere near that sure. He wraps his arms around Kenny's neck and holds him in place. He likes it better like this, wants Kenny even closer.
"Jesus, you're pretty," Kenny says, and he looks earnestly amazed, touching Craig's face. "Lemme see," Kenny says, holding one of Craig's eyes open. It makes Craig gasp and clench, like Kenny is pulling his fucking soul open, too. "Gray," Kenny says. He lets Craig's eye blink shut and kisses his trembling eyelid. "I always wondered."
Kenny fucks him on his back for awhile, slow, then pulls Craig up into his lap and lets him ride at his own pace, which is quickly too fast, but he can't stop himself, feels good, slams himself down until Kenny seems to need to be in control again. Craig is glad for this, and grabs the front seats to brace himself while Kenny holds him between them, his hands spread across Craig's back as he fucks into him. Kenny is starting to make low, possessive noises that shake through Craig's chest, too, traveling from Kenny's body into his. He cries when Kenny pulls out, and comes in his mouth almost as soon as it's there, arched backward over the divider between the seats, sobbing and holding Kenny's head down over his dick as he drinks from it. Before he can catch his breath he's being lifted, turned, made to hold the backseat while Kenny kneels behind him and shoves back in. Craig moans and spreads his legs wider, surrendering completely. This is what he's wanted, what he's needed: to be the one who is shaking and crying and just taking it, taking it so hard.
Kenny comes inside him as promised, holding Craig against his sweat-slick chest while he fills him. They both pant for awhile, the radio going to commercial again. Craig can't say what songs played while they fucked, couldn't hear anything but Kenny's grunts. Kenny licks the back of his neck a few times and then pulls out, carefully, holding Craig's crumpled boxer shorts under his dripping hole. Craig lets go of the seat and braces his forehead against it, whimpering while Kenny cleans him.
"Fuck," Kenny says. He's pulling off the condom, buttoning his shorts, refastening his belt. "I need a fucking smoke."
He gets out of the car, shirtless, and flings the tied-off condom into the dirt lot like it's offended him. Kenny's chest is still heaving as he lights up and sucks on his cigarette. Craig dresses, limbs shaking. They've been gone for an hour. It feels like three days. He climbs out of the car, wanting fresh air, but the air here is hot and stale, dirt-choked. Kenny puts an arm around him and drags him closer.
"What are you going to college for?" Kenny asks.
"Accounting," Craig says, too blown apart to pretend otherwise. He tucks his arm across Kenny's waist and leans onto him, pressing his face to Kenny's chest, so close to the source of that deodorant smell that he feels like he'll drown in it.
"So someday you'll work in this tall office building," Kenny says. "In Denver or wherever. And someday I'll pull up when you're getting off work, and I'll be driving this car, this exact same fucking car, and you'll get in and I'll drive you way the fuck out of town, take off your suit, and, you know. Have you."
Craig opens his eyes and lifts his head to Kenny's shoulder. He's tired. He wants to go home, get under the blankets in his room and close the blinds, sleep this off.
"If you ever actually own this car, you can have me," Craig says, because it's never going to happen. He lets go of Kenny and rubs at his eyes. He didn't really cry, there weren't actual tears.
"I'll keep that in mind," Kenny says. He takes a long drag on the cigarette before throwing it down and kicking dirt over it. The sight depresses Craig. He can feel lube leaking out of him, and he remembers watching his come slide down Tweek's leg as he walked to the shower, feeling proud of himself.
"Let's go back," Craig says. He wishes Kenny would put a fucking shirt on already. He steps in front of Craig and leans down until their bodies are snugly pressed together, the car searing hot against Craig's back, even through his shirt.
"Go back?" Kenny says. "Never."
But he must be talking about South Park, because they drive back to work and park the Bentley in the garage. The owner is there an hour later, and if there's any indication that the teenage valets just fucked in the backseat, he doesn't come squealing back to accuse them of it. They sit out the rest of their shift, sweating under their clothes and waiting for the manager to appear and chew them out for taking their lunch break together, but he doesn't. At the end of the day, they walk to the lot across the street together in silence. Kenny lights a cigarette.
"Well," he says, breathing smoke while Craig stands staring at him, not sure what happens now. "You're the best South Park-bred lay I've ever had. And I'm not just saying that."
Craig isn't sure if Kenny is being defensive or just stupid. It would help if he knew what Kenny wanted, but he doesn't, which probably makes him a pretty excellent poker player after all. Craig says nothing, no longer capable of bluffing. He gets in his car and drives home to shower.
He quits the next morning, early, leaving a message on his manager's voice mail. He can't imagine Kenny will be surprised, but he does think about him while he lies awake in bed that morning, picturing him alone at the valet stand, wearing his sunglasses.
Around noon, Craig gets dressed and drives over to Tweek's house. He pulls open the door after peeking at Craig through the living room windows. His eyes are wide and not particularly hopeful, as if he thinks Craig came here to fuck with him.
"Hey," Craig says.
"What – what are you doing here?" Tweek asks. The house is quiet and dark behind him. Craig wants to sleep away the rest of the day with Tweek in his arms, his rapid-fire breath slowing gradually, pushing back against Craig's chest.
"I don't know," Craig says. He scratches the back of his neck, afraid he might look different. He's sore, and has a hickey on the inside of his left thigh. "I miss you," he says, because Tweek looks terrible, exhausted, and because it's true.
"You fuckhead!" Tweek says, his hands curling into two little fists. "I – you can't just – I mean – you broke up with me!"
"I don't want to go to India," Craig says. "I think you should come to school with me."
"Ah! What?" Tweek says. "But – I already have my tickets, and I – I won't be able to get a refund –"
"Okay, whatever. Can I come in? It's hot out here."
Tweek's parents are at the coffee shop. He takes Craig up to his room, shaking and talking about how much money he spent on his plane ticket, which means he's probably already decided to cancel the trip. Craig doesn't say much, just undresses him and fucks him bareback, breathing his relief into Tweek's hair every time he slides in. It's like home, so fucking good. Tweek is crying, clutching at him, begging him not to leave.
"I'm right here," Craig says, on top of him, his legs clamped around Tweek's considerably smaller body. "I'm not going anywhere."
Tweek isn't, either; he cancels the trip and spends most of August apartment hunting near Colorado State with Craig. Before they move away from South Park, they go to a party at Bebe's house, a kind of final farewell. It's the sort of thing Craig would usually skip, but he wants to show everybody that they were right about him and Tweek, so he holds his hand as they slide through the crowded rooms. The guys tell each other that they told each other so, and the girls seem relieved, because they're off the hook for why Craig didn't want them. Craig only stays for an hour, and he pulls Stan Marsh aside before leaving.
"Kenny's working at Republic Plaza," Craig says. "Parking cars. You should go see him. You and Kyle."
Stan stares at Craig for a moment, holding a beer and looking confused. He's pretty drunk, but not too drunk to forget this. Craig starts to walk off, back to Tweek, who's waiting near the front door.
"Wait," Stan says. He closes his eyes and frowns, shakes his head. "Kenny – Kenny McCormick? Our Kenny?"
"Yeah, dumb ass," Craig says. He's embarrassed, done with this. Kenny won't tell Stan about him, because Craig knows about Kyle. "Your Kenny."
He leaves the party with Tweek, and leaves town with Tweek three days later, their stuff packed into Craig's Maxima. It's a pretty modest car, but Craig took Tweek's virginity in the backseat, and he's sentimental about it for that reason. Craig lost his virginity to someone else, in another car, and he's kind of wistful about that, too, but not so much that he'd actually get in if Kenny ever pulled up in a Bentley and opened the door. A bet's a bet, but Craig is done with poker, done with South Park, and he doesn't owe the people he left behind anything. Kenny taught him that.