Hey Man, It's Okay to Cry Over Animals.

*

A knock sounded upon Stan's door. Attempting to wipe his face of any evidence of his past crying, he swung his legs over the side of his bed. Loneliness seemed like the best option at the moment, however he sluggishly made his way towards the knocking. Did it kill not to bother him? He'd already made it clear to his friends that he was fine, he didn't need anybody to baby him at the moment. All he truly needed was his bed and the lukewarm alcohol sitting on his bedside table. For a moment, he contemplated taking a swig. The knocking became more urgent as he neglected to answer.

"Goddamnit," he barked to whoever was at the other side, "I'm coming!"

Throwing on a pair of pajama pants hanging upon his computer chair, he swung the door open in retaliation to whoever felt the need to disturb him. Low and behold, a lanky figure stood before him - a figure belonging to Craig Tucker. He felt a flicker of nostalgia as he gazed at the noirette. Despite being rough on the edges as a child he had grown to be well kept. His height had also seemed to double - at least, he had a few inches on Stan.

"What do you want?"

Without a word, Craig pushed past him into his apartment. Kicking aside a stray can, he went to admire the few photographs Stan kept around the admittedly messy space he called home. There were a few of him and Kyle, a graduation photo, and many other family photos. Despite growing to resent his family, Stan supposed he still felt a bit of sentimentality for them. Craig seemed engrossed in those photos in particular, making a point to trace his finger along the things he found interesting. Weird. Regardless, Stan began to grow impatient.

"Are you gonna answer me," he spat, "or are you just gonna go through my shit?"

Craig smirked slightly, however he backed away from Stan's possessions. Instead, he hoisted himself up onto his bed before making eye contact with him.

"Heard about what happened."

Stan eyed him back with a sneer. What happened? He acted as if it was an event, like something that had shown up in the newspaper. Even then, how had it even made rounds? Sure, South Park was close knit, however Stan hadn't even breathed a word about it on social media, or even to anybody other than his close inner circle. Regardless, his personal life wasn't something to ogle at.

"What, with Sparky?"

Biting the inside of his cheek, Craig nodded.

"Yeah."

It didn't seem like something that warranted a visit. The death of somebody's grandma warranted a visit. Stan shrugged halfheartedly.

"It's whatever, like... it's the circle of life, you know?"

He blinked back a few tears. It was just a dog, right? Who cared? Why was Craig Tucker out of all people at his house trying to converse with him about it?

"It's fine if you want to cry," Craig offered, "or just...talk about it."

Sighing at his awful delivery, he shifted a bit. Stan simply tugged at the collar of his shirt, allowing his gaze to shift to the floor.

"Why do you even care? It's just a dog."

Craig shrugged once more.

"Dunno. To me, pets are like family."

Before Stan could reply, he continued.

"Like, when I had Stripe, he was like an extension of me and Tweek. I guess you could call him our son."

He let out a nervous chuckle before allowing his face to return to a look of deadpan. Stan felt a familiar stirring in his gut as his eyes began to well with tears once more. No. What was the point of crying? Especially in front of Craig Tucker, who he hadn't even communicated with directly in years? And yet, he made his way towards the bed, taking a seat next to him. for some reason, despite pushing everybody away, it was like he needed to talk to somebody.

"Sparky was like my best friend, dude," he started, finally allowing his tears to spill. He felt an unfamiliar, yet comforting, hand on his shoulder.

"Other than Kyle?"

Stan snorted at the comment.

"Yeah."

More tears stained his complexion as he leaned into Craig's warmth. He spelled vaguely of cologne, and possibly tobacco. At this point, his nose was becoming practically useless.

"I just - I can't believe he's gone. I avoided it, and now it's hitting me right in the fucking face."

Stan hiccuped and hid his face in his palms. The boy next to him started rubbing his back in circles, feeling his breathing start to quicken.

"A-and," Stan's lips quaked as he spoke, "now he's out in the dump somewhere, because dad saw fit for him to be thrown in the fucking trash! I didn't even get to fucking bury him!"

He allowed a sob to escape him, his breathing becoming even more erratic and shallow. He sighed shakily into his hands, every noise he made gurgling in the back of his throat. Fat tears and snot pooled in his palms, Craig still comforting him as he broke down.

"I understand," Craig breathed into Stan's locks, "my dad made me throw away Stripe like he was some sort of garbage."

"It's bullshit," Stan replied almost immediately.

"Yeah."

The two sat there for a second, Stan wiping his palms onto his pants. Admittedly, it was pretty disgusting, however Craig didn't mind much given the situation.

"I know it's difficult. All of this shit is."

Stan nodded.

"You think it'll go away if you just pretend it isn't there - but it doesn't. And it hurts."

He further leaned into Craig's embrace, allowing him to comb his fingers through his hair. Once more, they sat in silence, Craig's focus on Stan's steadying breaths. There were so many things stirring in Stan's head - anger, sorrow, fear - yet, he chose to zero in on Craig's heartbeat, his eyes fluttering shut as their body heat meshed. Maybe it wasn't the best way to cope, and it wasn't - not by a long shot. However, in the moment, the warmth was what he craved, what he needed. And that was okay.