A/N - So hey guys. I decided to try writing something new.

Brief explanation of Tweek's given name:

In the South Park universe I have crafted with my good friend Jess, Tweek Tweak is just kind of a silly name to give someone, and it's hardly what anyone would call realistic. So, of course, a real name for him had to be thought up. So why 'Trevor'.

Jess has this cat. This orange tabby cat, who is on the fritz 99 percent of the time. To put it to you plain, I lived in the same house as this cat for 2 months and it only let me pick it up one time. And when he did he'd cuddle for about a minute and then look at you like he just realized you were a Kong zombie and leap out of your arms like he was being chased by fiendfyre. So. We dubbed Tweek 'Trevor' and in any story where I use Tweek, this is what I will call him.

Trevor Tweak is the complete creation of Jess and Trevor the Cat, and I give due credit.

So. Here we go. Hope you dig.

Chapter Track: Huggy Bear - Carn't Kiss

Craig Tucker is looking at me like maybe he wants to kill me, maybe fuck me in the mouth, maybe gurgle up my insides through a straw. I can't say I blame him either, with the two of us standing so dangerously close to one another, sopping with the chemical foam from the fire extinguisher and what I understand to be the down feathers from Token's mother's most prized uncomfortable armchair.

The thunk of the extinguisher hitting the marble floor doesn't shock me as much as it would have under normal circumstances, nor does the squeal of surprise from the half-naked girl across the room. And as much as I would love to turn tail and run like Wally West from Zoom in Infinite Crisis, something tells me that Craig Tucker would chase me, and then beat me into pulp for ever thinking I could run faster than the guy who's been the North Park High Varsity Track MVP since we were fourteen. Forgoing that option, I decide to whimper like a wounded animal instead, hoping that perhaps Craig will take pity on me and only beat me into chunky chicken soup (much more manageable than pulp, if you ask me). The girl in the corner scoffs, and I'm inclined to flip her the bird but I'm too wrecked to actually move at all.

"What the fuck."

Craig's voice is different than before, I think, and then I want to punch myself in the eye because of course he sounds different from the last time you spoke on the playground, you complete and utter buffoon.

You did hear him laugh at a joke once, two years ago. Or maybe it was Clyde laughing. But Craig was there. Did his voice sound different then? My brain supplies this information to me with the casual attitude one might save for wringing out a wet dish sponge.

I groan and press my fingers into my scalp, digging my nails in until I can feel blood bubbling up underneath of them. The gesture is soothing, and gives me the good sense to at least look away from those intense violet lasers that are currently charading as the eyeballs inside of Craig Tucker's pretty head.

"Dude, do you have a fucking boner?"

This probably could get worse, but in the hopes that it can't possibly I jam my palms into my eyes and say 'Low point' under my breath like it's some kind of mantra.

"Craig, what the fuck?"

That's the girl. Her voice is shrill and high-pitched and glosses over my ears with the delicate nature of a rabid badger. I wince, whimpering a second time and backing into the wall. This doesn't do much to hide my boner, but I figure since Craig's sporting a tent as well that I don't have to feel so bad.

Craig looks at the girl and holds up a hand, just as she's about to repeat her question. Her lips come back together like buttons and I catch myself thinking that Craig Tucker has got to be the ultimate Captain of Cool. The Sultan of Swish. The Emperor of Ease. I picture him drinking Dos Equis on a yacht with a harem of half-naked Arabian girls and go a bit red in the face.

"Dude. What the fuck?"

Craig repeats this to me, his eyes narrowed like an overripe house cat. I half expect him to roll onto his back and take a swipe at my ankle, and even though I know that's ridiculous I inch towards the door.

"Craig—"

"Annie, shut the fuck up," he's snapping at the girl now, and then his cat eyes are back on me and they're all smoldering like a goddamn LA fire and he asks again, "Dude, what the fuck was that?"

And all I can think to say is:

"It was a fucking kiss."

Before I bolt straight out the door.

Cut to earlier that same morning, and I'm just getting out of bed. The clock says that its forty-six minutes after six am, but I know it's only twenty after five. The power outage last month really fucked my shit up but I can't bring myself to reset it to the correct time. This may be some profound attempt at neo-anarchism (fuck the system), or it could just be me being lazy. I think it's more than likely that I'm just a dud with a capital D, but it gives me something to tell my dad when he makes a fucking comment.

I guess I should explain from the getgo that my parents are really nice people. They don't beat me, or drink too much, or drink too little—they're pretty middle of the road. They're just very narrow in their views and opinions and often they are of the view/opinion that I am a high-functioning psycho. It was only two years ago that my mom stopped taking me to see doctors, and I'll never forget the episode it took to ensure that little nugget. My mother had cried for three weeks afterwards—not pretty.

But I can't say I regret it, especially as I drag on my favorite pair of slim fit jeans which, two years ago, I was hiding under my bed to keep my mom from tossing in the garbage. They were a pair of skinnies once, I think, but they've been worn, torn, patched, splattered in bleach, and washed with red towels. They've been lost, found, sewn up, sewn down, cuffed, shared, and studded. They are the inanimate embodiment of my transition from ugly and awkward to—well. Less ugly, and more awkward. And that is really something I hold dear to my heart. The sweater I tug over my head is green, knit, and unraveling a bit at the collar. It's kind of small, but I kind of like my clothes that way. Clingy. It makes me feel held in, like maybe if I wear my clothes close to my skin I'll spare myself the angsty backlash that is me totally falling apart.

The kitchen is still dimly lit when I come down the stairs, and I feel a rare moment of affection for my mother, who has set our coffee pot to brew at precisely 5:30 every morning so that there is a fresh cup waiting for me the second I'm ready for it. I like that. Perfect timing. It always makes me feel like some kind of wizard. Like some kind of freaky timelord, and fuck yeah, timelords. I dump the pot into a thermos, fill it with some half and half, and grab my messenger bag off the kitchen table. I slip on a beat up pair of Toms on my way out the door, because, fuck shoelaces, and step out into the morning. It's still dark, but I've always kind of liked walking to school when it's still dark. I fish my cigarettes out of my back pocket and light a match.

My house is on an awkward edge of town, where I'm perpendicular to just about everything that matters, and to get anywhere I've got to walk about a mile in the wrong direction so I can make a right turn. Sometimes, when I'm feeling particularly raw about it, I hop my neighbor's fences—but I don't risk it today. Today I take the long way, and listen to my iPod. My iPod isn't really an iPod—it's some kind of lesser brand MP3 player that does the same exact job for half the fucking price. It's kind of sleek and black and has glitter glue on the back that says 'tunes', courtesy of Jenny (In case anyone wasn't sure what sort of paraphernalia one keeps on their iPod-Not-iPod). I drag off my cigarette and set the thing to shuffle.

I guess you could say I've changed a lot since middle school. Or maybe just grown taller. Got some nicer clothes. I still throw tantrums like I'm five when things don't go my way and I still eat otterpops when I'm bumming hard. But I feel like I've grown into this sense of purpose, the sort that I didn't really have before when I was just that tweaked out kid who was afraid of panty gnomes. People even call me by my first name these days—the people who know me well, anyways. The people who aren't total dicks.

The people who are willing to forget the weirdass shit from preschool and get a goddamn grip.

My mind flicks without permission to my old posse, and I wonder to myself if Clyde Donavon still cries if he doesn't get what he wants for Christmas.

Pussy.

"Hey, faggot."

I look up when I hear my nickname. The watch I keep around my left ankle says it's twenty-three after eight but I know it's only a quarter after seven. Emily Bright is stalking towards me with her school bag slipping down her ass. You gotta admire girls like Emily, who can make 5'2" look as daunting as 6'5". She's an ultimately intimidating lipstick les, with her feet nestled in these lita boots with spiked studs on the heel, and her tiny frame is drowning in this oversized Black Flag tee-shirt that she's cut and made into a really short dress. I think about telling her she looks good, but I don't, at the risk of being punched in the mouth.

"Hey Ems."

"Trevor," she says my name as though we're long-standing business partners. I smirk as she goes on to roll her eyes and say, "I hate those fucking pants."

I flash her my most winning smile, not surprised to find that she has a cigarette in her mouth like it's always been there. I blink as she lights it, fishing my own out of my pocket.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be fucking sorry. God, you're a wuss. Tell me to fuck off," Emily snaps, and thwacks my head like I've just said something really insolent. And maybe I did.

"Fuck off," I say flatly, and 'oof' as she thwacks my head again.

"Don't talk to a fucking lady like that. Who the fuck do you think you are?"

"Liberace."

"Oh, fuck, I hate you. Scoot over."

I scoot.

We smoke and I listen to Emily's morning rant about the heteropatriarchy and how someone's gotta smash it. This reminds me of Mario, and I kind of drift off until it's time for class.

Emily and I became friends when I was fourteen and confused. We sat next to each other in Chemistry and she used to throw wadded up pieces of notebook paper at my head. It wasn't until Christmastime that it occurred to me to check inside for notes. Turns out she wanted to talk, so talk we did. We haven't really stopped talking ever since—not even when she got with Lola and they started doing coupley shit like going to the movies. I guess that's how I know that Em loves me. Because she texts me pictures of her in her bra at six in the morning and calls me faggot with affection.

Lola is not so different from how she's always been. She still hangs around with the likes of Wendy Testaberger and Bebe Stevens, and goes shopping after class and talks about hair and makeup and cuticles. A totally different animal from the girl who wears lingerie in front of an audience and shouts into a mic like she's Cherie Currie on the weekends. Lola is an enigma to me, but she's what makes Emily happy, and the band wouldn't be the same without her.

The band is called Junk, and we're all about feminism. The riot grrrl scene around Park County was deader than disco until about a year ago, when Jenny Simon heard me strumming Wonderwall at some party I didn't want to be at and asked me if I'd ever wanted to be in a band. Jenny has always been about the music, and is also incredibly persuasive. I found myself at a rehearsal despite my better judgment (and complete social anxiety. I fucking hate when people look at me), and before long, I had Emily on the drums. With Jenny on bass and me on guitar, the last thing we really needed was a singer.

It was Jenny's idea to ask Lola. There's some awkward history between the two of them, probably some residual tension from when Jenny used to be one of the populars. Things are different after that whole Eavesdropper incident, and nowadays Jenny's got a full sleeve of tattoos and a septum piercing.

The girls and I practice every other school day and twice on the weekends; it pretty much runs my life but that's the way I like things. I guess it sounds pretty fucking out there, a skinny gay dude playing guitar in a feminist riot grrrl band—but I think that of all the boy feminists out there, I'm probably the one with the most pristine skills on the guitar. Not to toot my own horn or anything, but when you give a kid with a lot of nervous energy something to focus on? Magic happens. Magic of the idiot savant variety, but I think I've learned to accept that.

Guitar is the only thing I'm good at.

That, and smashing the heteropatriarchy with my fists.

Someone's gotta do it, I guess. And in typical hipster fashion, who better than someone who absolutely no one listens to?

I recognize the mortality of my opinion.

"God, you're a bitch, Lola. Can you change your tampon or something? Fuck me, freddy."

I sigh. Jenny and Lola have been arguing for what feels like an eternity, and I am sitting on the sofa in Emily's garage. Emily's garage is the type of space that parents give their kids when they actually like them. It's warm, comfortable, and virtually sound proof. We can smoke cigarettes with the door open and sneak in beers on Fridays. It's a haven, until Jenny and Lola get into it. Emily sighs and flops down beside me, and I know she's thinking the same thing.

"Misogynistic cunt," Lola growls, and I have to roll my eyes because for girls who love women they certainly know how to talk to eachother like shit. I drag off my cigarette.

"You guys better knock this shit off before the party tonight, or I'm gonna go totally apeshit," Emily chimes in, and Lola immediately backs down. Oh, to be young and whipped like a goddamn vanilla sundae. Emily can turn down Lola's aggro in about four seconds flat, which is both miraculous and beautiful at the same time. Jenny, however, is more difficult to put off the hunt when she knows she smells blood. I don't try to intervene—it never has done me any good.

So instead of trying to be reasonable, I say "What party?" because no one's felt the need to mention this to me yet and it's half past five in the afternoon.

"Well if fucking Lola would stop being a total feminazi, maybe we could play some fucking tunes," Jenny snaps, ignoring me. Emily snaps something about how Jenny's being immature, and Lola rolls her eyes. Nobody feels the need to answer me and I am annoyed.

Being the only boy feminist in a group of lady feminists can sometimes have its pitfalls. More often than not, my opinions about things are ignored, swept aside, or dismissed quicker than Bill Clinton from the White House after he got downtown from Condoleezza.

I clear my throat, and try again. Once more, with feeling, and all that shit.

"Hey, guys. What fucking party?"

Lola looks at me like I've perhaps grown a second head, and Jenny scoffs.

"Token Black's party tonight, dipshit. God, you're like a Martian," Lola says, and Jenny nods her head in agreement. I guess I should have learned by now that the best way to shut them up is to guide their attention to something they hate even more than each other—that something being me and my Johnson and my Johnson's Marxist ideology.

"We're going to support the band," Emily says, reaching out a hand to ruffle my hair like I'm five and she's my mischievous elder brother, "Christophe will be there."

Christophe DeLorne is not my boyfriend, but sometimes we fuck. Sometimes we even do coupley things, like seeing movies and holding hands and drinking coffee and shit. He plays the synth in this post-punk art rock group called Banana Ghost. He is eighteen and a Scorpio and likes it when you touch behind his knees. Sometimes, I am the one who touches him behind his knees. We both listen to S.C.U.M. and like Butterscotch flavored Frozen Yogurt. It's practically written in the stars.

"Ngh—I fucking hate parties," I groan, slipping backwards off the arm of the couch and flopping dejectedly onto the cushion. I knock a few ashes from my cigarette onto my face before I sit up, looking bored. "I don't want to go."

"Oh okay, don't worry about it, then," Jenny says, smiling. I smile back hesitantly.

"You mean it?"

It's nine o'clock and I am at Token Black's party. I'm wearing a pair of black skinny jeans with a gray tee shirt that has tinkerbell on the front, and a faded denim blazer. I have had four rum and cokes and a few shots of whisky, and swallowed four innocuous tablets from Tammy Nelson's stash. This is how Lola finds me, with her long brown hair in a headband that isn't holding any of her hair back. I reach up and touch her bangs with my fingers, it having just occurred to me that her hair has looked exactly the same since we were in elementary school.

"How fucked up are you?" she asks me, shouting over the music so that I can hear. I shrug a shoulder, leaning harder back against the wall.

"Pretty fucked up," I reply. Lola doesn't look very impressed, and she opens her mouth like she might say something motherly and scolding. "I have to pee," I say, and I'm inside the bathroom before she can argue with me.

This always happens to me at parties, which is why I don't go to them. I come, I get fucked up, I get bored, I get anti-social, and I sit in the fucking bathroom by myself, like I'm fucking Kip Drordy or something. Lola bangs on the door for like a second, and then she's gone.

I appreciate that she cares for like a second, but then that's gone, too and I'm just basking in how shitfaced I am.

I don't remember when I stopped worrying about shit like ODing, or alcohol poisoning, or getting sick—but somewhere in between middle school and the tenth grade I kind of stopped caring about dying or getting into trouble. My worries and anxieties have become much more legitimate (I'd like to think) and now things like getting drunk and popping some hallucinogens seems like collateral to the scene that keeps my paranoid psychoses in check.

I sigh, looking at the watch around my ankle. It's seventeen after eleven, which means that it's five after ten and I've been in the bathroom for almost an hour. I drag my ass off the toilet seat, feeling kind of sort of more sober than I did when Lola tried to give me the third degree. My stomach still lurches when I try to walk, and I know I'll feel like my insides are on fire when I wake up in the morning. The throng of inebriated teens between me and anywhere I could go that doesn't have a bunch of people around is massive, and I try to push between them for the porch. Maybe I can smoke there in peace.

I spot Christophe on the stairs, and feel a little less claustrophobic. I'd forgotten about his promised presence at this shindig, and just seeing him makes the whole thing worth it. If I am being honest with myself, I've always kind of hoped that eventually he and I would be real boyfriends, because sometimes when he talks I get butterflies. This may or may not imply that I am in love with him. It is yet to be decided.

Perhaps I could decide tonight, after we fuck I think and push my way towards him. There is a cigarette dangling from his lips and his eyes are closed and I think he must be as drunk as I am because he's kind of shaking. Or maybe he's not shaking, and I'm just way fucking slammed. I stagger between two girls making out and drop my cell phone.

How my cellphone ended up in my drunkass hands is a mystery even to me, and I hope I haven't sent anyone any text messages as I stumble towards the ground to pick it up. Someone steps on my fingers and I yelp, looking up just in time to see my boyfriend-not-boyfriend shoot a load into some random's mouth. That random turns out not to be so random as I realize it's Greg, Christophe's one time love interest (evil ex boyfriend) and upperclass douchebag extraordinaire. For some reason this really pisses me off. I mean, I know Christophe and I are only sometimes fucking, and sometimes doing coupley things like going to the movies—but what the fuck?

I guess he assumed I wouldn't be here.

I'd just as soon rather not be.

I scoff, or what drunk!me thinks is a scoff and shove my way up the stairs, past the happy couple and towards Token Black's bedroom, where I remember there is a balcony. I maintain small hope that there's no one up there, since most of the party is downstairs, and drag myself up the million and a half steps rather desperately.

I need a cigarette. And to sober up.

And once those two things happen, I am making like a goddamn tree.

First things first though—where the fuck is Token's room?

I have grossly underestimated the sheer size of the Black's estate and now that I am standing at the top of the grand staircase I have no idea where to go. I take a sweet guess and stagger towards a room at the end of the long hallway, where light is spilling out onto the carpet from beneath the door. It takes me like a fucking year to get there, and when I do I'm pretty winded. I grab the knob and throw the thing open rather haphazardly, not bothering to cover my eyes. Whatever might be going down in there is nothing I haven't seen before in porn and I really couldn't care less if—

I blink rather stupidly, frozen to the spot.

The room is, indeed, occupied, and the occupant is a boy in black jockeys who is rubbing at a sizable erection with his palm. I swallow, leaning against the doorframe, too drunk to turn tail. He looks up after a moment, and my heart literally stops fucking beating.

Craig Tucker is gazing at me with his crazy ass eyes and I want to turn into dust and blow out the fucking window.

Craig and I have history, I guess. We were friends, once upon a time. Or rather, he tolerated my presence for most of elementary school and when middle school came around and I started having wet dreams about his naked body I stopped forcing him to do so. Craig is probably the best looking guy I've ever known, and about as approachable as a tiger shark. His eyes alone could turn an unsuspecting victim to stone, I'm pretty sure. Like Medusa, or some shit.

Craig sits up from the bed, and I glance with heavily lidded eyes at the bulge in his underwear. He's not glaring, exactly—it's tentative. I step forward and he raises an eyebrow. I step again and he doesn't say a fucking word. He just pulls a cigarette out of a box on the bedside table and lights it with a candle.

I'm so drunk, and he's so pretty, and I'm so upset about Christophe, and it seems like a good idea in the moment that I do it. I walk about ten steps forward and place my hands on his naked shoulders. The second my lips connect with his, though, I know I've made a mistake. A warm, smokey, tingling mistake that I can feel all the way down in my fucking toes. And oh my god, god, god, god I used to dream about doing this and oh my god, god, god I've got to be fucking dreaming right now and oh my god, god, god this can't be fucking real life because in real life I'm a fucking pussy and Craig Tucker is not gay.

A door opens somewhere, but my drunken mind can't register it fast enough to pull away. So what breaks us up instead is a girl's voice that I don't quite recognize, and it's screaming, "What the fuck?" at such an incredible decibel that I am forced away from Craig Tucker's mouth by instinct alone. My hands clamp over my ears, and I close my eyes, staggering back until I hit the edge of this really decorated armchair near the window. Somehow Craig's cigarette is in my hand, and the realization of what I've just done hits me like a stack of bricks in the face. I grimace, turning my body in an attempt to bolt to the door. The maneuver knocks over a bottle of Everclear that had been tucked into the chair's cushion, and in my haste to snatch it before it tips I drop Craig's cigarette. The sudden burst of flames doesn't scare me the way it would have if I were at all sober.

Before I can think to ask for help, Craig is beside me with a fire extinguisher. Panicking, I grab the pillow off the chair and begin to beat it against the floor. Craig seems surprised by this, and in his surprise he drops the nozzle of the extinguisher. At the same time, the pillow I'm rather shamelessly beating into the marble floor decides to explode into a cloud of down feathers, and I drop it like a hot potato.

The extinguisher hits the ground with a thunk and I am so sober that I could probably do a cartwheel on a balance beam.

I'm sitting in my car for nearly twenty minutes before I relent that the fucking piece of shit isn't going to start. I suppose it's a good time to admit that I was right. Things could get worse, and low and behold they have. I groan and smash my forehead into the steering wheel. Did I really kiss Craig Tucker?

Even drunken jealousy cannot excuse that level of blatant disregard for my personal well-being. Tucker is definitely not the runt of the bunch. The guy's a fucking amazon, and he may be thin as a rail but I know for a fact that he can throw a fucking punch. I've seen him do it. And if not him, then one of his hip posse—

I imagine Token Black and Clyde Donavon tag teaming me and I want to die. And if I could turn on my goddamn car, I might just park it in Token's driveway and let the carbon monoxide take me to Valhalla, or Valencia, or wherever it is idiotic gay hipster douchebags go when they off themselves for the greater good.

A tap on my window nearly sends me through the roof. I look up in exasperation, prepared to tell whatever asshole had the nerve to touch my wagon that they need to go fuck themselves, but I stop myself as I realize it's Craig Tucker himself whose got the nerve. And me? I've got nothing.

I swallow the lump in my throat and pump the window crank.

I may as well face it like a man.

No use delaying the inevitable.

"Look, can you be quick? I'm fucking drunk. I'm drunk and I'm cold and I want to go home," I say without looking up, and it takes me a minute to realize that I'm actually whining at the guy like some over-pampered school girl.

I wait with bated breath for the connection of Craig's massive spider-like fist with the side of my skull, but it doesn't happen. And when I look up out of sheer morbid curiosity it's to him leaning against my car and puffing on a cigarette with all the casual flair of a real lady killer. Which I've heard he is.

"You kissed me. I don't even know you. Who the fuck does that?" he asks, taking a hit on his cigarette and then looking over his shoulder at me. I grip my steering wheel until my knuckles turn white.

"I was drunk," I snap, suddenly feeling defensive. Only Craig Tucker could make kissing someone who had their fucking hand in their underwear sound like some kind of sacrilege.

"I thought you were still drunk. So which is it?"

I shrug like a five year old and toss my blonde hair out of my eyes. My fingers grip the tips of my fringe, running all the way back to the close-cut hair on the back of my head. I can feel Craig's laser eyes boring into the side of my cheek and I want to drive away.

"So what's this, an '87?"

I look up, and apparently the shock is evident on my face because Craig rolls his eyes and leans his elbows against the ledge of my door.

"I used to have a wagon, asshole. Have you tried giving it gas and jiggling your key? Sometimes it'll make the fucking ignition catch if you jiggle it."

I'm looking at Craig like he is some kind of seven foot tall alien invader from the planet Zerg. I grit my teeth, turning my keys in the ignition and giving them a jiggle with my foot on the gas pedal. My engine rumbles to life and I want to scream. Because things have somehow gotten worse than worse and that is just so fucking unfair I can't stand it. I swallow and roll my eyes, tossing Craig a rather surly look as I put my car in drive.

He steps back, hands going immediately to his jeans pockets.

"No need to thank me, dipshit," he says after a moment of strained silence. I turn redder and stare straight ahead of me.

"Thanks. I guess," I mumble.

We sit there in what has got to be the most tangible silence of all awkward silences, my engine rumbling and Craig's hands shifting uncomfortably in his jeans. I try to think how to end the conversation without seeming like a total dick, and I can't think of anything so I settle on gazing indifferently out my windshield. Craig turns after a minute, crushing his cigarette under his Doc Marten boot and crossing the lawn as though none of this ever happened.

I find myself wishing I could do the same as I rumble down the path to the main road.