It's nine pm, and you're staring at Kenny McKormick's grave.

It's pretty dark outside, and fucking freezing, but you don't care. All you care about is how Kenny dying so often is slowly ripping you apart.

And then, he runs up. He's shirtless for some reason, but your heart gives a little when you see he's mostly okay.

You turn away from him. Say, "Why don't you have a shirt on."

He says, "I came straight here."

"Why."

"I knew you'd be here, Craig. It's freezing out. Let's go home." He grabs your shoulder from where you're sitting on the frozen ground in front of Kenny's gravestone.

"No."

"Craig, come on. You're mad, I know, but I'm cold. Let's talk later." Kenny crosses his arms tight, trying to preserve body heat. You don't move.

You don't talk.

A minute, two, four, seven minutes pass, and Kenny sighs. His breath floats up towards heaven, and you watch it until you can't tell it from the night sky. Kenny sits next to you, his legs pulled up to his chest and his arms around his kneecaps.

"You have a great nose," he says.

You reply, "Quit fucking dying, Kenny."

"And nice cheekbones. Strong. Prominent. What the fuck ever. They're magical."

"Fucking I have to come and sit where your goddamn body should be buried, and you just walk up behind me like, 'hey, it's just a normal Tuesday night, I fucking die all the time,' because you fucking do. I can't remember one whole goddamn day where you were alive long enough to drive to fucking Tom Thumb to fill up your own fucking gas tank." Your heart aches and you think you shouldn't have said some of those things, but he replies easily.

"You filled up my gas tank? Thanks, doll."

"Areyoueven listening tome, fucking McKormick, you asshole?" You're mad, broken, and Kenny knows it.

"I always listen to you. I love you." He leans towards you, pauses, then throws his bare arms around you and buries his head in the crook of your shoulder.

He's crying, you can tell because of how your shoulder's getting kind of wet. You hadn't noticed because you refused to look at him.

Your arms circle him and squeeze, and he gives a sad little laugh and kisses your neck.

"I'm sorry I die a lot. I don't mean it." You can barely understand him, because your skin muffles his words. Your fingers trace innumerable scars that clutter his back, and his pull at your hair.

"I'm sorry I was a dick about it," you say, and you really are sorry.

A few minutes pass, and you say, "Let's go home."

Kenny says, "Okay."

Twenty-five minutes later, you're both laying down in bed, and you say, "Kenny?"

"Huh."

"You know I love you, too, right?"

He turns and smiles at you, and that smile makes up for every tear that either of you has shed tonight. You smile back.

He says, "Of course, doll."