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Kenny plops back down into the circle, his face flushed furiously as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. The cup that had held the shot of hot sauce is tossed behind him with careless abandon.
“Alright, done!” blond announces, reaching toward the middle of the circle.
He gives the bottle a dramatic spin. It wobbles and clatters across the wooden floor, spinning wildly before slowing to a stop, pointing straight at Clyde.
Clyde groans. “Again?”
Kenny’s grin stretches wider. There it is, the look that means trouble, blaring alarm sirens in Clyde’s mind. “Truth or dare?” his tormentor asks.
Clyde isn’t falling for that again. He already regretted taking one of Kenny’s dares earlier that night, that video will probably haunt him forever. Even if it costs him one of his two truths for the whole game, he isn’t risking it.
“Truth,” he says from where he’s slouched comfortably between Craig and Token.
Kenny purses his lips, pretending to think hard. “Okay then…” he drawls, fingers tapping against his knee. “I know! If you had to date one of the guys here, who would it be?”
Clyde doesn’t hesitate. “Craig, obviously.”
“Oooooh!” the group choruses.
The friend in question turns his head toward him, one eyebrow raised. “Obviously?”
Clyde grins at the taller boy. “No, like, I’m one hundred percent straight, but if I was gay, it would definitely be for Craig.”
Craig rolls his eyes. “Okay.” His tone is flat, but Clyde catches the slight crinkle at the corners of his eyes, the tell he’s learned after years of friendship that means he’s amused.
“Of course you’d say Craig,” Stan says through a grin. “Boring!”
“No, it isn’t! It’s a matter of principle!” Clyde defends himself, waving his hand for emphasis. A few drops splash from the white plastic cup, making Token shuffle away to avoid being hit with the golden liquid. “Every gay guy’s first crush is either a celebrity or their best friend! It’s, like, the law!”
That earns him another round of laughter and an exaggerated sigh from Craig.
“There’s no way that’s a thing,” Kyle scoffs, Stan nodding along, because of course he is.
“It is! Like—look at you and Stan!”
“Hey, screw you!” Kyle barks, face going red as the others crack up.
“Right back at you, Broflovski.” Craig jumps at the chance, eagerly flipping the ginger off.
Kyle scoffs again but folds back into his place next to Stan anyway, muttering something under his breath that only makes Stan laugh harder.
Clyde laughs too, leaning against his best friend’s shoulder. “Look at you, protecting me already. A bit more and you’ll make me blush.”
Craig shifts under Clyde’s arm, trying half-heartedly to shrug him off. “You’re unbelievable,” he says, though there’s a smirk tugging at his mouth.
Clyde grins wider, wrapping his hands loosely around his friend’s neck. “Come on, Craig. Don’t be like that. Won’t you be gay for me?” He puckers his lips obnoxiously, pressing in closer.
Craig chuckles, actually chuckles, pushing at Clyde’s face. “Get off me, dude.”
SIngle shove turns into a clumsy wrestling match. Clyde tries to drape himself over the taller boy’s body while Craig fends him off, smiling all the while.
“C’mon, kiss your homie!” The stretch of Clyde’s grin ruins the exaggerated kissy face he’s trying to hold.
The bottle rolls lazily behind them.
When they finally break apart, Clyde stays on the floor, breathless and warm, cheek pressed against the edge of Craig’s knee. The light buzz in his head makes the whole room feel softer, fuzzier. Laughter echoes somewhere in the background.
His best friend looks down at him with one of his rare smiles and Clyde feels loved.
.
.
.
In hindsight, it had been obvious.
Bebe never loved him.
Of course she didn’t. Bebe is gorgeous, radiant, sharp-witted and confident. The kind of girl who shines bright in every room she’s in. Beautiful and so much out of his league.
Bebe never loved him.
She liked that he loved her. She liked the attention, the flattery. And those fucking shoes his dad gave her.
He remembers her smile when she put one of them on, bright red heels with straps decorated by small black roses, and wonders if those were the only times she smiled truthfully.
Bebe never loved him.
And his friends told him that so many times. Warned him on countless occasions that she wasn’t serious about him, that she was using him. For a long time, he knew deep down they were right, but still denied it every time. Because Clyde was a fool. An idiot. A stupid, hopeless moron who had blinded himself with something he wanted so badly to be real.
When she breaks up with him, it’s like the world loses its colour. His chest hurts, his throat burns, and for many hours he’s sure nothing will ever feel okay again.
That day easily earns second place among the worst days of his life, right behind the day his mother died.
The day Bebe breaks up with him, Clyde shuts everything out. Locks the door. Draws the curtains. Blocks the outside world that brought him pain.
Inside, Clyde peels off his hoodie, then his shirt, leaving just the white undershirt that clings to his stomach. He toes off his jeans and stands in front of the mirror, the harsh yellow light from the lamp above revealing all of him.
His reflection stares back, and the scene is uncomfortably similar to one from so many years ago, when he was placed on top of that fucking List.
He runs his fingers through his hair. Brown strands fall back into place ungracefully. He looks at the same plain hairstyle he’s had for years and thinks of Token.
Token, always polished, always put together. Well-dressed, well-groomed, tidy. With a rich dark complexion, perfect posture, clothes that fit just right, and carefully chosen accessories that complement his natural handsomeness.
Clyde’s eyes are brown too. Boringly so. The kind of color people call nice because they can’t think of anything else to say. The arch of his eyes tilts slightly downward, making them look unsharp. Those dull brown pupils blink back at him, and he thinks of Butters.
Butters, all that’s sweet and pleasant wrapped in soft skin and adorned with big, kind eyes. Even with that long pale scar running through his left one, his eyes are light blue like a cloudless sky, shining as if they’re hiding real sunrays behind them.
Clyde’s face has stayed round through the years, cheeks still full. He leans closer, catching the faint shadows of old acne scars scattered across his skin, tiny reminders of all the times his body refused to cooperate. He traces one with a fingertip and thinks of Kenny.
Kenny, who can roll out of bed, drag a hand through that blond mess, and somehow still look like a young god in mortal form. Full of smirks and lazy charm, a dangerous glint in his eyes that makes girls, and plenty of guys, swoon on sight.
Clyde tilts his head, studying the slope of his nose, the curve of his lips, searching for anything distinct, anything someone could call unique. He turns his face left, right and, finding nothing, thinks of Tweek.
Tweek, with that lean, pale body and lips flushed pink from constant biting. Wild hair, jittery energy, and those intense green eyes set deep above a dusting of freckles, attracting attention wherever the blond goes.
Clyde’s gaze drifts lower. He pinches the curve of his upper arm, all that hard-earned muscle buried stubbornly under the layer of fluff he’s never managed to lose. Then his stomach, watching the baby fat, if one could still call it that after so many years, he’s never really shaken off. He thinks about Stan.
Stan, who looks like every sports movie’s golden boy. Clean jawline, muscles cutting sharp lines down his arms and torso. The kind of athlete who makes crowds cheer louder just by running across the field.
He turns sideways and stares. At his thighs, his stomach, the way his undershirt rolls slightly at the hem. The way his skin looks under the light. The way he hasn’t changed at all. And he thinks of his best friend.
Craig, who’s changed so much. Taller now, shoulders broader, posture carrying a quiet strength. His face sharpened into its edges, skin warm with the sunlit undertones of his Peruvian roots, bringing out the gold in his eyes. A deeper voice carrying the same dry humor, that cool, unbothered expression always on his handsome face.
Clyde presses his palm against the glass. His reflection mirrors the motion, watching him with pity.
He’s not ugly. He knows that. He’s just… Clyde.
A dumbass. A crybaby. A spare fat kid.
A guy who Bebe had to fake a list for to justify ever dating.
Unlovable.
He feels heavy tears gather in his eyes and watches his round face redden, eyes wrinkling inward, nose scrunching where the snot already starts to leak.
Of course Bebe didn’t love him, he isn’t even a pretty crier.
For hours, he lies motionless in bed. The darkness of his room rests on his skin, the only interruption a light from his phone on the nightstand, notifications from his friends piling up, unread messages and unanswered calls occasionally lighting up his ceiling.
When he hears the demanding knocking at his door, he wants nothing more than to collapse into his quilt and be forgotten by the world.
“Come on, Clyde. You can’t stay in your room forever.” Craig’s voice comes from behind the door, and Clyde knows there’s no escape.
He pulls himself upright, dreading the moment he has to meet that piercing gaze. Because he’s a fool, and Craig was right, like he always is. He dreads the inevitable “told you so,” but when he finally opens the door, none comes.
His best friend takes one look at him, eyeing up and down the pathetic state he’s in, and collects the first pieces of clothing he finds scattered around the room.
“Get dressed. We’re going to Taco Bell,” he announces, throwing the clothes he deems acceptable at Clyde’s face.
When they get there, Token and Jimmy are already waiting at the table. The worried looks in their eyes tell Clyde they already know what happened.
They don’t talk about her that day. Not once. Instead, they eat too much, make dumb jokes, and argue over how long one can keep sauce packets before it’s time to throw them out (Clyde still believes to this day it’s as long as the smell doesn’t make you nauseous).
When they finally end up at Token’s place, his friends let him pick the movie. He puts on some mind-numbing action flick that none of them actually watch. Clyde starts crying halfway through, pressing close against Craig’s shoulder. He waits for his best friend to pull away, like he usually does, but it never comes.
His heart still aches, broken and torn, but he knows that as long as his friends are by his side, he is loved.
.
.
.
Like always, there were clues. They just didn’t know back then that there was a mystery.
Craig wasn’t exactly the talkative type on a good day, but lately, he’d been silent in a different way. It wasn’t his usual silence, the kind that came from being uninterested in the world around. No, lately there was something softer in it. Like his thoughts were somewhere far off, and he didn’t mind the view.
He’d started showing up late to lunch. Sometimes missing it altogether. He took a different route to his locker too, and Clyde was positive Craig had figured out the most efficient way to it from every point in school back in fourth grade. He texted back less than usual, even missing a few of their weekend hangouts.
Clyde didn’t think much of it at first, until the casting for the school play came around. And Craig Tucker, of all people, volunteered as stage crew.
The same guy who barely had interest in any kind of after-school activity, despised every minute of English class, and for whom the only type of “drama” he tolerated was Clyde’s, and even that only barely. Something obviously happened.
They’re at Token’s when the reason comes up. The air is thick with the smell of pizza and good-quality lavender carpet cleaner.
Clyde is lounged on one end of the couch, Craig sitting in the middle, legs crossed, flipping lazily through Token’s impressive library of video games like he didn’t just drop the bomb of the year.
Craig Tucker in love with Tweek Tweak.
“Wait—wait, hold up.” Token’s voice cuts through the hum of the basement TV. “You’re saying you like Tweek?”
Craig doesn’t look up from the box of game cases. “Yeah.”
Jimmy blinks. “A-a-as in… l-l-like-like?”
Craig hums affirmatively.
Token leans back on the couch. “So that means you’re… y’know. Gay?” He asks carefully, flicking his hand to emphasize the word. Clyde would laugh at the gesture if he wasn’t too shocked to breathe.
Craig finally glances over, one eyebrow arched like he finds the question funny. “Apparently.”
Clyde can’t find his voice at first. His mouth hangs open, wordless, his soda can half-raised, fizz gone flat. “Dude—why didn’t you tell me?”
Craig pauses for half a second, then shrugs. “Didn’t really know before.” A quiet smile ghosts across his face. “Guess Tweek made me realize.”
“Tweek did?” Clyde laughs before he can stop himself, and it comes out sharp. “So, like… you never actually liked anyone before? Not even a little?”
Craig shakes his head. “No. This is different. Now I know that.”
Token whistles low. “Damn, man. Didn’t think your first crush would be Tweek of all people. Not that he isn’t great!”
“Y-yeah,” Jimmy nods along. “So, how did it happen? Was it l-love at first s-spaz?”
Craig smirks and playfully shoves Jimmy.
“Yeah, no, that’s—yeah, man, that’s great,” Clyde says, swallowing down the lump gathering in his throat. And tries not to wonder why those words feel like a lie.
.
.
.
They don’t hang out as much these days.
Between classes, practice, and extracurriculars, Token is always busy. Jimmy is performing more and more, preparing for the new season at the Comedy Center. And Craig has his “theater” stuff, staying late to paint sets, carry props, wrestle with cheap technical equipment, or meet with the crew after school. Or with Tweek, more specifically.
It’s not like Clyde blames them. Everyone is doing their own thing, which is good. When one of them can’t hang out, there’s usually someone else who can. And on the rare days when no one can, well… that’s fine too. He can handle a day alone. Or a few.
Clyde doesn’t even realize how much he misses hanging out with Craig until he’s sitting in his best friend’s room on one of those rare, lazy afternoons and feels his whole body exhale with relief.
The afternoon hangs heavy and gray, one of those days where low clouds press down over the town, promising rain that never comes. A perfect day to stay inside and do absolutely nothing.
He lies sprawled on Craig’s bed, lazily tossing a yellow stress ball into the air. He’s never seen it in Craig’s room before, but it isn’t hard to guess how it found its way among Craig’s precious possessions.
Up, down, up again.
He watches the ball stop short of the ceiling, decorated with fading glow-in-the-dark stars, and Clyde listens as Craig recounts the latest events from rehearsal.
The conversation in Token’s basement cracked something open, and now Tweek pours out of Craig like water from a broken dam. What started as small mentions of something the blond said, a text screenshot with some inside joke, quickly turned into full stories about everything Tweek-related.
Not that Clyde minds, it would be hypocritical of him, considering how many hours Craig has spent listening to him ramble about Bebe. It’s just… unusual.
Clyde has seen Craig excited before, of course, ranting about space phenomena or talking about Red Racer lore, but never like this. Never about a person.
He looks… happy. Happier than Clyde can remember seeing him in years. Maybe ever.
At the end of one of those stories, Clyde flicks his wrist, throwing the stress ball higher than before. It hits the ceiling with a soft thud and bounces back down, making Craig glance up from the model kit scattered across the floor.
“You’re gonna drop that on your face,” Craig says.
“Nah, man. Football’s sharpened my reflexes. Nothing gets past me any—” Clyde starts, right before the ball smacks him square in the face.
Craig’s lips twitch into a smirk. “You were saying?”
Clyde groans, rubbing his nose. “Shut up.”
Craig picks up the yellow ball from where it’s rolled to the floor and places it carefully on his desk. It sways faintly in front of his favorite figurine, the one Clyde gifted him back in fifth grade.
Pushing himself up, Clyde grins. “Guess I’ll leave the ball-handling skills to you, then.”
Craig looks up. “I’m not high-fiving you for that.”
“Come on, dude, that was a solid one!”
Craig just stares at him unimpressed. Clyde’s arm drops dramatically. “Wow. No appreciation. None at all.”
Craig rolls his eyes.
“Jimmy would’ve laughed,” Clyde mutters, flopping back onto the bed.
“Jimmy laughs at everything.”
He opens his mouth to argue, but the buzz of Craig’s phone cuts him off.
Craig glances at the screen, and the faint smile that forms on his face. Clyde doesn’t need to ask who it is.
Did Craig ever smile like that when he called?
“Hold on,” Craig says, standing and stepping into the hall to take the call.
Clyde knows he shouldn’t, but something in his chest prickles until he finds himself leaning against the door, listening. Fortunately for him, Craig didn’t go farther than the hall outside his room.
“—Yeah, no, you’re not interrupting anything,” Craig says, and the words sting.
A pause, filled with frantic noise from his phone, followed by Craig's quiet chuckle. “No, I don’t mind. I was heading out soon anyway.”
The line sinks deep in Clyde’s stomach. He swallows hard to not let out any noise.
“I’ll be there in ten,” Craig says. His socks shuffle closer, and Clyde scrambles back to the bed, grabbing a random piece of the model kit like it’s consumed all his attention. The door opens a second later.
“If you break any more parts, you’re buying a new box,” Craig warns, slipping his phone into his pocket.
“That was one time!” Clyde protests, setting the bent plastic down carefully.
“One time too many.”
“Who was it?” Clyde asks, faking innocence as he leans on the desk, misjudging the height and almost slipping.
“Tweek,” Craig admits, rummaging through his closet. He pulls out a soft emerald-green scarf and stuffs it into his jacket pocket. “He’s finishing early today, so I’m picking him up.”
Clyde taps his fingers against the desk, trying not to let disappointment show. “Oh. Cool.”
Craig grabs his car keys. “Your place is closer to the coffee shop anyway. I can drop you off.”
“Yeah. That works.” He nods, because what else can he do?
The drive is quiet, filled with soft music and the hum of the heater. Streetlights flash rhythmically across Craig’s face, carving it into lines of light and shadow. Clyde sits slouched in the passenger seat, tracing shapes in the fogged window, watching his friend’s reflection in the glass.
Craig doesn’t even notice when Clyde stops humming along to the radio.
When they pull up to Tweek Bros Coffee, the shop’s warm glow spills across the dark pavement. Through the window, Tweek is already out of his apron, typing something at the register with quick, twitchy movements.
“Alright, see you later, man,” Craig says, unbuckling his seatbelt. The door shuts with a muffled thud, and Clyde watches him practically skip across the parking lot.
Clyde jumps out after him, shivering under the cold bite of evening air. “Wait, Craig!”
Craig pauses mid-step. “Yeah?”
“So, uh… you still up for hanging out tomorrow?” Clyde rubs the back of his neck. “Maybe we can hit that new burger place?”
Craig hesitates, then shrugs. “We’ll see. Depends how long rehearsal goes.”
“Right. Totally,” Clyde says quickly. “No problem. See you tomorrow!”
He waves as Craig steps into the empty coffee shop, greeted by the bell chiming overhead.
Clyde should go home. But his legs don’t move. He lingers in the parking lot, half-hidden in the shadows.
Through the glass, he sees Tweek look up, his whole face lighting up when he notices Craig. The blonde reaches under the counter and hands over a small paper bag with a proud grin.
Craig pulls out the green scarf and starts wrapping it around Tweek’s neck. He says something Clyde can’t decipher, earning a playful punch to the shoulder. Craig rubs the spot, laughing, really laughing, head tilted back, shoulders jiggling.
Clyde’s fists tighten in his pockets, and he moves quickly away from the door.
When Craig and Tweek finally step out together, shoulders brushing as they talk, Clyde watches from the dark.
He watches, and he knows no one has ever loved him, because no one has ever looked at him the way Craig looks at Tweek.
Unlovable.
.
.
.
They don’t hang out the next day.
But that’s okay. It isn’t their fault. He knows that. None of them remember and he can’t blame them, when he’s the one who avoids talking about it.
It’s okay. He can handle a day alone.
Even if it’s that day.
When he gets home he finds his father sitting on a couch, the evening news droning softly in the background. He asks Clyde about school, about practice, about his friends, all the mundane things he can think of. Janice greets him warmly, serving meatloaf with whatever greens she found at the market.
All the same things they always do on the anniversary of his mother’s death.
None of them even likes meatloaf. His stepmother only makes it that day because she knows his mom never did. She probably thinks it’s a safe choice, something that can’t stir up any happy memories.
But in the end, the dull taste of ground meat just reminds Clyde of every year she’s been gone. Every meatloaf he’s forced down because she isn’t there to grimace at it across the table.
They don’t talk about her while they eat. None of them ever does. In that way, he and his father are similar.
Normally, Clyde would surround himself with friends and distract his mind from any memories. That helps, usually. But this year he doesn’t have that. And the thought of sitting alone in his room, pretending there’s nothing to be said, makes him feel sick.
So he stands from the dinner table, half-eaten meatloaf smudged all around his plate, grabs his jacket, and does something he hasn’t done in a long time.
The cemetery is quiet, making Clyde aware of every sound around. The crunch of gravel under his sneakers. The soft hiss of wind through the grass. The rustle of sport jacket on his back.
The grass is patchy in places, damp from the drizzle earlier that morning, and Clyde’s shoes sink into the earth as he walks between the rows.
He crouches down at his destination. The marble is cool under his fingers, smooth except where the carving forms the letters: Betsy Donovan.
“Hey, Mom,” he says after a moment, clearing his throat. “Uh… yeah. It’s me. Clyde. Obviously.”
He brushes the stone clean, sweeping away scattered leaves and the brittle remains of old flowers, until the gray marble shows. “Sorry I didn’t bring any flowers. I didn’t really plan this. Just kind of… ended up here.”
He sits back on his heels, staring at the bare surface.
“Dad’s okay,” he starts, searching for something worth mentioning. “He took up hiking again. He goes out some weekends, always coming back with, like, a thousand pictures of rocks. I’m not exaggerating. Once I made the mistake of letting him show me all of them. Good thing I had school the next day or he’d still be at it.” A small laugh escapes him. “But yeah, he’s doing good.”
In the faint reflection of the marble, he can make out his own blurred face, smudged features so similar to the face of the mother he remembers. He lets his eyes fall down, fingers tracing the edge of his sneaker. “I’m fine too, I guess. I mean, I’m not bad. Just… weird.”
The wind moves through the trees again, cool against his face.
“Craig’s been…” He trails off, searching for the right words. “Different lately. Happier. Which is good! It’s really good.”
He nods to himself, as if convincing himself.
“He met someone. Well, not met met — it’s Tweek. You remember Tweek, right? The kid who twitched all the time and drank seven cups of coffee before first period.” He lets out a soft laugh. “Guess he doesn’t do that anymore. I think Craig calms him down.”
“He’s just… he’s really happy,” Clyde continues, voice thinning. “He talks about him all the time now. And when he does, he sounds so—” he exhales, “—alive. I don’t think he’s ever been that happy before.”
He plucks a blade of grass between his fingers, twisting it until it tears. “I’m happy for him. Really. I am.”
The silence stretches, the weight of it pressing against his ribs.
“I just…” His voice cracks. “It’s stupid, but it kinda hurts.”
He wipes his nose with his sleeve, eyes fixed on the ground. “Not because he’s gay. That’s fine. He’s still Craig, y’know? It’s just—” he hesitates, the words catching in his throat, “Shouldn’t it have been me?”
He laughs weakly, watery. “I know how that sounds. Dumb. Real dumb. I’m straight, and if he did fall in love with me, it would only make things complicated. But… he’s my best friend. And I’m his.”
He looks up at the gravestone, at her name carved deep and final.
“I’m the one who’s been there the whole time. I’m the one he’s supposed to like spending time with the most. So shouldn’t I have been the one he liked first? Shouldn’t I have been… enough for that?”
He swallows hard. “I keep thinking maybe it means something’s wrong with me. Like, everyone else finds someone they like more. Token, Jimmy, Bebe… and now Craig.”
“It’s just that—” He presses his lips together.
“If Craig loves Tweek, then he’s always been capable of falling in love with a boy.”
Clyde’s hands fall to his lap, curling into fists.
“I just wasn’t worth falling for.”
Unlovable.
“Would you tell me that’s not true?” he asks the stone quietly. He wonders if his mom would laugh at him the way she used to when he got too worked up, brushing his hair out of his eyes and saying everything would be okay.
“Would you call me an overly dramatic teen and tell me it’s gonna be just fine? That I’m still your special boy?”
He swallows the lump in his throat. “I don’t know, Mom. I just… I wish you were here.”
He blinks, the world blurring at the edges.
“I think I’d believe it more if you said it.”
The wind stirs again, scattering the leaves he brushed away earlier. Clyde watches them drift, his eyes glassy with tears he refuses to let fall.
“I’ll bring flowers next time,” he murmurs. “I promise.”
.
.
.
The bass trembles in Clyde’s chest as he leans against the kitchen counter, staring down into a cup of brown, unidentifiable liquid, the result of his mindless attempt at mixology. The smell alone tells him they were unsuccessful.
He stirs it absently, watching bubbles pop on the surface.
Around him, the party is in full swing. It’s Bebe’s party, which means it has to be great. Everyone knows Bebe and Token throw the best ones, both in flair and size. After all, everyone is always invited, even Clyde.
It should be the perfect Friday night. All his friends are here, the house is bursting with life, it’s exactly the kind of night that used to swallow him whole.
Yet here Clyde is, standing alone in the kitchen and talking to people only when they need something from the bar.
Across the room, Jimmy’s surrounded by faces Clyde barely recognizes, firing off jokes that send waves of laughter through the living room.
Token’s not far either, dancing with Nicole in a perfectly pressed lavender golf shirt. Their movements don’t quite match the beat, but she laughs into his shoulder, soft and loving. Clyde looks away.
And then there’s Bebe. The shimmer of her black dress catches the light each time she moves, sequins flickering like tiny stars. He watches her tuck a golden strand of hair behind her ear, leaning over Kenny’s shoulder to grab something. Her perfume mixes with the faint smoke that always clings to the blond. Her red heels click against the floor when she steps back, roses on the straps glinting, and Clyde’s throat goes dry.
He takes a sip from his cup and winces at the taste, his stomach flipping unpleasantly.
“Jesus, that bad, huh?”
Clyde looks up. Stan Marsh is leaning against the fridge, sleeves of his nice, black shirt pushed up over his forearms.
Clyde forces a smile, holding up the drink. “I’m trying a new recipe. Inventing something.”
Stan snorts. “And how’s that going?”
“Great. I think I’ll call it The Taste of Failure.” Clyde takes another sip anyway. It’s just as awful.
Stan nods toward the living room. “If you’re free, wanna join my team? Kyle and I were gonna do beer pong, but he doesn’t wanna drink, so I need someone to help me destroy Kenny. You in?”
Clyde glances down at his drink, then at the party, his friends scattered through the crowd, having fun without him. He exhales through his nose and tosses back the whole cup in one go. The burn scorches his throat raw.
“Yeah,” he rasps, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’m in.”
The beer pong table sits in the middle of the living room, red cups lined neatly in pyramids. A crowd has already gathered, which is to be expected when two popular guys are about to go head-to-head.
Music thuds loudly accompanied with the noise of laughter and people making bets.
On the far side, Kenny grins mischievously, one arm slung around Butters, who fidgets with the hem of his sleeve and smiles nervously.
Stan blinks at the sight. “Dude. You picked Butters as your teammate?”
Kenny gives him a sly look. “Don’t underestimate my boy. He’s a prodigy.”
Butters flushes pink. “Aw, jeez, Ken, I don’t know about all that…”
“Trust me,” Kenny says, squeezing his shoulders. “We’re gonna destroy them.”
“We’ll see about that,” Stan shoots back, smirking at Clyde. “Let’s end this quickly.”
Clyde lifts his chin, trying to match his confidence. “Yeah, let’s do it.”
Within minutes, they’re losing spectacularly. Butters, against everyone’s expectations but Kenny’s, turns out to possess the precision of a sniper, sinking shot after shot. The crowd erupts each time the ball lands with a small splash.
“Ha! Told ya!” Kenny whoops, spinning Butters around in triumph. “My man’s a beer pong god!”
Butters giggles, dizzy and blushing, while Stan groans beside Clyde.
Clyde grabs another cup and downs it in two swallows. The cheap beer burns going down, and he coughs into his hand before passing the ball back to Stan.
From the sidelines, Kyle’s voice cuts, loud and clear even in the roar of the party. “Stan, you’re dropping your elbow again! That’s why you keep missing! Keep your wrist steady!”
Stan turns, exasperated. “Kyle, it’s beer pong, not archery!”
“Then stop missing!”
“If you know so much, you should’ve played!” Stan sighs, but adjusts his grip anyway. The ball arcs cleanly through the air, hits the rim, and drops into a cup.
The crowd cheers. Laughing, Stan turns and grabs Kyle by the shoulders, shaking him. “Dude, it worked! You’re a genius!”
“You’re welcome, Stan.” Kyle smiles smugly, but his eyes are soft.
Clyde stands beside them, surrounded by cheers and laughter, feeling like none of it reaches him. The empty cup in his hand crumples under his grip. He glances around the room, scanning the crowd for anyone looking his way. Anybody who might be standing in the crowd to cheer him on.
He searches and finds no one.
Kenny lands the next shot, and before Stan can stop him, Clyde brings the cup to his lips.
“Hey, man—”
The golden liquid slides down his throat, slow and punishing. This time he doesn’t even flinch.
The next hour bleeds together into one blur. Each drink goes down easier than the last. The warmth spreads through him, heavy and dizzy, softening every edge until even his thoughts are out of focus.
Soon he’s moving through the crowd, laughing at jokes he barely hears, spinning to whatever song pulses through the speakers. Someone pulls him into a dance, someone else presses another cup into his hand. He lets it happen.
Because if he stops, the thoughts will catch up. So he keeps moving. Bumping shoulders. Clinking cups. Spilling beer on his shoes.
Everything spins when he turns a corner a bit too fast and stumbles into someone.
“Whoa—sorry—” he mumbles, with an apologetic grin that slips away the second he sees who it is.
Craig and Tweek stand close together by the wall, faces inches apart. Craig’s hand rests near Tweek’s waist, the blond’s eyes wide and startled.
“Jesus, Clyde,” Craig mutters, catching him when he sways. “How much have you had?”
It’s the second time Clyde’s seen him tonight. And Craig looks good. Black jeans, fitted shirt that wraps neatly around his arms. Even with his sluggish mind Clyde knows he’s never seen that shirt before; it must be new.
Craig never used to care about clothes. Not until now.
Clyde laughs, slurring. “I dunno, man. Enough?” He throws his arms in a sloppy attempt at a hug. “It’s a party! I’m just having fun.”
“Fun?” Craig’s tone sharpens. “You can barely stand.”
“I can stand!” Clyde declares and promptly stumbles forward.
Craig sighs, catching him by the arm. “Christ, Clyde…”
Tweek stammers something, stepping aside and looking at Clyde with eyes so full of worry, it makes his chest burn. Because Clyde wants to hate him. He wants to so badly.
It would be easier to just hate him. Hate him for finding the way to make Craig smile so easily. For being what Craig wanted, for he was searching for. For being so damn lovable when Clyde isn’t.
Unlovable.
His stomach lurches and he barely has time to turn before he is throwing up, the sound of it sharp and sickly wet.
“Fuck, Clyde!” Craig jumps back, nose wrinkling at the mess near his boots. “Okay, that’s it. You’re done. You’re going home.” He looks over his shoulder, raising his voice. “Token! Hey, can you—?”
But Token’s gone, his spot in the crowd long empty.
Craig mutters a curse under his breath.
“I’ll just—stay here,” Clyde slurs, waving him off weakly. “I’m fine. Seriously. You go—” He gestures vaguely toward Tweek, who twists his sleeve between shaking fingers.
Tweek shakes his head. “It’s fine,” he says softly, placing a hand on Craig’s shoulder. “Just go, Craig. Take him home.”
Craig hesitates, jaw tight. Then he sighs. “Alright. Come on, dumbass. But you better not throw up in my car.”
He slips an arm around Clyde’s shoulders, steering him through the crowd and out the door. Clyde leans into the touch, the steady weight of it grounding him in the haze.
The night air is cold, their breath visible in the dark. The hum of the party fades behind them.
Clyde shivers, but he feels warm. Because Craig is here, letting him lean against his shoulder, steady and close. Craig is here when he could be with Tweek.
He smiles stupidly all the way to the car.
And he’s still smiling when Craig half-carries, half-drags Clyde to his room.
.
.
.
“You’re such an idiot,” Craig mutters, kicking the door shut behind them. The sound echoes through the quiet house. “You seriously don’t know when to stop sometimes, do you?”
Clyde laughs, collapsing immediately onto the soft covers of his bed. “Don’t be mad just ’cause I know how to have some fun.”
Craig shakes his head with a long sigh. “Yeah, puking your guts out on Bebe’s floor. Real fun.”
He helps Clyde shrug off his jacket, tossing it carelessly over the chair. “You’re lucky Tweek’s too nice to let me leave your dumb ass behind.”
Despite his words, Craig crouches, tugging at Clyde’s sneakers until they thud against the carpet, then nudges him to pull the quilt over his body. When Clyde is finally settled, Craig grabs the trash can and sets it within reach.
He stands, surveying the scene. Clearly satisfied with the results, he pulls out his phone, thumb swiping across the screen.
“Alright. Bucket’s here if you need to puke again. Your dad’s home, so if you die, someone’ll hear you scream.” Craig’s fingers work on his phone and he starts to step toward the door.
“Wait—” Clyde croaks, throat raw. His stomach twists and pushes himself upright, grabbing Craig’s wrist. “Don’t leave.”
Craig rolls his eyes, trying to tug free. “Clyde, don’t be a baby. You’ll be fine. Just go to sleep.”
Clyde tightens his grip, weak hands burning, desperate. Because he knows that if he lets go now, Craig will leave. Craig will leave and there will be nothing Clyde can do to stop it.
“Please,” he begs, pulse hammering in his throat. “Don’t go to him.”
Craig freezes. “To him?” His voice is quieter now, a warning under the confusion. “Clyde, what the hell are you talking about?”
Clyde tries to speak, but his throat feels thick, salt, the sour tang of beer and vomit coating his tongue. “Please.” he manages.
Craig will leave and it won’t be Clyde who Craig is excited to see when he comes to school. It won’t be Clyde who Craig texts first when something good happens. It won’t be Clyde who knows best how to bring out that rare smile. It won’t be Clyde who is always there, standing at Craig’s side.
He tugs at Craig’s hand, clumsy, pulling him closer until he stumbles forward and lands on the edge of the bed. Clyde presses his face to Craig’s chest, drinking in as much of him as Craig will allow.
Craig stiffens. “Clyde, stop—”
“Please,” Clyde whispers and he knows he sounds pathetic. “Please… choose me.”
Craig stares, wide-eyed, silent.
“Nobody chooses me anymore,” Clyde chokes out and feels his tears begin to fall.
For a long moment, neither of them moves. Clyde’s breath hitches and breaks in uneven gasps, tears soaking slowly through the fabric of Craig’s shirt. He braces himself for the inevitable moment when Craig pushes him away and leaves.
But then, instead, Craig’s hand rises, resting on Clyde’s back.
“Okay,” he says softly. “Okay. I’ll stay.”
Clyde’s sobs come in waves after that, shaking him until his whole body trembles. Craig doesn’t speak again, one arm braced against the mattress, the other moving in slow, soothing strokes across his back.
.
.
.
Morning creeps in, silent and unrushed.
When Clyde wakes, the curtains are half-drawn, gray light pooling across the sheets. The room is quiet except for the faint hum of traffic outside. His vision is fuzzy, head heavy, and he feels warmth against his side.
When his senses fully awaken, he realizes Craig’s arm is still draped over his shoulders, their legs tangled, his chest rising and falling steadily beneath Clyde’s cheek, the same way he was when Clyde fell asleep.
He stayed.
Memories come in waves, and with them shame seeps in. Not only did Clyde force Craig to leave the party, to leave Tweek when they might have been about to kiss for the first time, but he made his best friend pet him better for it while he cried himself to sleep. Way to go, Clyde.
Careful not to wake him, Clyde eases himself free, sitting up on unsteady hands. He winces at the stain of dried tears, snot, and drool smeared where his face had been pressed against Craig’s shirt. His good shirt.
He should go. Fuck the fact that this is his room and his house. He has to leave before Craig wakes. Before he has to see the mess Clyde made of everything.
But when he stands, bare feet sinking into the carpet, a hand catches his wrist.
“Oh, no,” Craig’s voice comes from behind him, rough with sleep but steady. “You’re not going anywhere until you tell me what the fuck that was about.”
Clyde doesn’t turn. “What was what about?”
Craig’s grip tightens, firm and non-negotiable. “Don’t. You know exactly what I’m talking about, so cut the bullshit.”
“Since when do you want to talk about feelings?!” Clyde snaps, hating the pathetic, weak sound of his own voice.
“Since when do you avoid talking about feelings?!” Craig shoots back.
The words hang heavy in the still air. Clyde’s shoulders sag, his throat tight. His eyes sting again, and he wants to curse himself for it. Hasn’t he cried enough?
“I just—” He swallows hard, turning halfway toward him. “You’re my best friend, Craig. You know that, right?”
Craig’s voice softens. “Yeah. I know.”
“And you love Tweek.”
“I do.” Craig nods with no hesitation.
“More than anyone in the world.”
“I do.”
Clyde laughs weakly, the sound catching in his throat.
“Clyde?”
“I’m sorry.” He looks down at their hands, Craig’s still wrapped around his wrist. “I’m sorry…”
“Clyde,” Craig says quietly, stepping closer until they’re face to face. He grips Clyde’s shoulders, almost like he is afraid to let him slip away. “Look at me.”
Clyde does.
Craig’s eyes are the way they always are. Steady. Focused. Unflinchingly honest.
“You’re my best friend,” he says, every word deliberate. “And I love you.”
And the words surprise Clyde. Because Craig never lies. Not to his friends. Not to his… best friend. But that means those words are true.
Clyde realizes this and then he finds himself hugged.
He finds himself hugged, and his heart breaks.
Clyde nods, unsuccessfully trying to blink away the sting in his eyes, and lets out a shaky breath. “Okay.”
Craig’s hands fall away, but the warmth lingers.
“Will you stay…” Clyde asks, voice small, “for breakfast?”
Craig gives him one of those rare smiles, gently and free, nodding. “I’ll stay.”
Morning rises and fades.
Breakfast ends, as all things do, and when Clyde sits alone in his room, he lets his hand rest on the dent in the bedsheet where his best friend had been.
In the end, Craig does leave.
The spaceship model with one missing part and the stain on the shirt are all that’s left.
Clyde is loved.