𝒉𝒐𝒍𝒅 𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆, 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒆

-1-

The air is cold against my already rosy nose, and I pull at the strings of my parka to tighten the fur-lined hood. Snow crunching under my tattered boots is the only thing I can hear beside my own labored breaths. I check my phone once again, glancing over the directions Craig had sent me the night before over text. I should be getting close to "the spot" now, the trees seemed to be thinning out into a clearing up ahead.

As I approach, I see Craig's borrowed red truck, which technically belongs to his dad, but he drives far more, and it's in such good condition I wonder how he even drove it here through the forest and brush. Walking even closer, I'm hyperaware of where I'm standing, careful not to snap any twigs or crunch on pine needles. It also means that I'm less likely to crack my skull slipping on the snow, mud, and ice covered ground, which is probably a plus knowing me. I hear faint music coming from Craig's truck, the windows slightly fogged, so I sneak over to it and knock on the glass, hoping to jump scare Craig.

The music turns down and the door lock clicks as the passenger side opens, and I have to swerve out of the way to avoid getting hit in the face.

"McCormick."

"Tucker." I try to match his flat way of speaking, but no impression could ever come close to Craig Tucker's voice, the way the cold always makes him sound sick, how his inflection never once changes, no matter what he's feeling. The guys made fun of his tone years ago, they always made fun of people, each other being no exception. Especially Cartman. But even then, I couldn't say anything mean about Craig's voice, I couldn't even agree that it sounded robotic. Maybe it did, but I could listen to that robotic voice for hours on end.

Then came his expressions. Look up "Resting Bitch Face" in the dictionary and all you'll find is a picture of Craig Tucker. Part of it's probably intentional, any small slip-ups in his stoic expression, and believe me, there are plenty if you pay attention, are quickly corrected and his displeased face returns to normal, but his RBF also seems to just be how he is. Call it autism, a general unhappiness with the world, or a difficulty expressing emotion, Craig really needs to feel something in order to truly show it. But these little slip-ups, the moments where you can see that something's affected him, those are my favorite moments. Not to brag or anything, but I think I've gotten quite good at reading Craig Tucker.

So despite the fact that he looks about ready to strangle me, I hop in the car. As the door slams, I'm hit with a wave of warmth, the AC unit blasting hot air directly into my eyes. Without speaking, Craig pushes the vent away from me and turns the music down, he's playing some Gorillaz song, I've always liked Craig's music taste, and this was no exception.

"So," I say, deciding to break the silence. "Why am I here?"

I drop my hood and tousle my hair out of my face to make easier eye contact with Craig, who just stares at me for a moment.

"I don't know, why are you here? Following random directions from a guy you, arguably, barely know. It's a wonder that you're still alive, McCormick."

Little does he know, I've been to hell and back so many times that I can barely be considered alive. I just scoff and reply, "Craigeth." His eye roll is almost audible with its level of dramatics, he hates when I call him that. "I'm offended that you'd reduce us to people who barely know each other. Think about all of the times we cut class or ditch eating lunch with our friends just so we can hang out."

"That's just because we've got nothing better to do."

Before, I was faking offense, but this is starting to hurt. It's times like these where I wish I had as much facial control as Craig does, because I can feel the corners of my mouth droop ever so slightly, and my eyes shift from Craig's face to the blurry world outside of the truck. How foolish of me to think that we were friends, that any of this meant something to Craig. To him, I was just an excuse to leave.

"Woah, Kenny! Dude,  I was just joking!" His voice is still flat, but it sounded rushed, distressed even. I look back at Craig, at his dark blue eyes, and in them, I see pleading. I wanted to hear his thoughts, know his mind, but his eyes could only reveal so much.

"Well duh, of course you were," I say, my years of masking everything about myself coming in clutch for a convincing performance. Outwardly, I seemed fine.

"I mean sure, maybe we don't know a lot about each other, not the stuff that matters at least, but we're not strangers. So for starters, I can't joke. That's something you now know."

I had only just processed that he called me Kenny. Not McCormick, not Kenneth, Kenny. That's rare. Maybe things were going better than I thought, here Craig Tucker, a guy known for being 'unknowable', was, telling me things about himself.

"No wonder Jimmy is the comedian of the group. Before this... introductory game continues, Craig, tell me why we're here. Actually."

His eyes dart across the truck's dashboard, which was so spotless you'd think the truck was new. He first looked at the clock, which read 6:15pm--I hadn't realized how long it took me to get here, or how long I'd been in the car, considering I left around 5-- then the car's outdoor thermostat, 49 degrees, typical weather for a Colorado fall, and finally, his eyes fell to the horizon, just outside the windshield.

He looks at me again then tilts his head back, signaling that it's time to go outside. I savor my last moments of the warmth, turning the hot air towards me as I pull on my hood and step out of the truck, Craig following suit once he turns the truck off.

"This is one of my favorite spots to go for quiet nights. You're actually...the first person I've brought here...ever." His voice is soft, as if even talking too loudly would ruin the scenery, and my cheeks are warm despite the chill that's set in over South Park. The weight of Craig's words quickly sunk in as we walked from the truck's doors where we stood to the hood of the truck, and so we stand, opposite one another and in an unofficial staring contest.

Craig definitely meant something by that comment, why else would he have said anything? All of this sounded awfully romantic, just the two of us, alone in this isolated forest clearing together, staring into each other's eyes as the wind blows past, gently blowing the tufts of overgrown blonde hair that poked out from my old parka hood.

I could see Craig's breath when he exhaled, a cloud of fog in the dim light of the sun, and that's when I whisper, "Craig...I-"

Before I could finish, he simply shook his head then turned away, so of course, I follow his eyes which have returned to watching the horizon. The sun was low-hanging in the sky and the clouds didn't even look real. They were wispy and looked like paint strokes on the sky, the setting sun painting them with an orange-pink tone. The whole scene was beautiful, and it calmed my racing heart with ease.

"Have you ever seen something prettier than this?" Craig's sudden voice at full volume is a sweet surprise, one that delays my brain enough for me to speak without a second thought.

"Actually, I have. You."